The child gets her doctor kit out and she puts on the stethoscope and says, “Ok, time to see if your heart is beating. And guess what? If you’re eating right now you get shot in the leg. So stop eating.” Then she listens to our hearts, confirms that we’re alive, and gets the blood pressure cuff. “Time to see how high you are!” She walks over, straps the cuff onto my wrist and announces, “You weigh 45 bucks.” Mark asked her where in the world she got her medical license and she responds, “You have to listen to me because I’m a doctor grown up.” Now she’s dancing with a flower tiara on and announcing that she’s higher than everyone.
I’m so excited for this new year. I’m not gonna lie, 2010 was super crazy difficult as well as super crazy good. More difficult than good, though, for a long while there. Anyway, all I can say is that I’m pretty damn excited for this new year, in a new city, with my new derby team. Here’s to the new year!
So, we’re currently visiting my mom and dad and various other relatives for the holidays and the other night the monkey child started to puke. And by puke I mean holy crap PUKE. So much puke. SO MUCH PUKE. And I don’t handle puke well. Not at all. So after we’ve cleaned carpets and washed clothes and gave her a shower I pick her up to leave and she pukes again all over both of us. And my reaction is just to stand there, holding the kid and the puke, not moving. Like that vomit is a t-rex and it won’t get me if I don’t move. And it hits me that my grandfather is yelling put her down! put her down! So I do. But it’s outside and it’s about 25 degrees out there and she’s barefoot, so he’s all, no! not outside! And I can only think that if I pick her up again I risk – yet again – getting covered in her vomit. I finally managed to pick her up and move her in the house, just for her to hurl more on my grandparents’ welcome mat, and got us all cleaned off again.*
My point here is this is one terrible way to end the year, and all I can hope is that 2011 is stomach-sickness-free.
*Please note that other people had to help clean up because I was, again, immobile. Shell shocked, I was.
And the child puts down her purple crayon, leans back in her chair, sighs dramatically and says, “I am soooo stwessed.”
I looked at her and said, “You’re so stressed?”
She replies, “Yes, it’s just weediculous.”
It is weediculous, kid, that you think your three year old existence is stressful. Good luck in high school.
Me: “Let’s play with Legos, we haven’t done that in so long, I bet you don’t even remember what a Lego is!”
Her: “Yes, I do. It’s like a sock.”
Me: “It’s not like a sock!”
Her: “It’s those building things you stack together and make stuff with.”
Me: “Yeah! But it’s not like a sock at all! Why’d you say it was like a sock?”
Her: “I don’t know.”
There’s a lot going on in these parts. Good and bad stuff. Scary stressful stuff and some awesomely stressful stuff. I’m pretty damn busy and don’t remember to blog.
Email me. IM me. Text me. All that good stuff. I’m pretty accessible, just not around this part of the Internet.
Tonight my friends and I dyed my child’s hair green, and my friend commented that when my daughter is 16 and trying to be rebellious she’s really going to have to struggle to find something that upsets me. Dying her hair green? Go for it! Tattoos? WHY NOT. Drinking? We all know I’m the mom who will say, if you get drunk, just call me so you’re not driving drunk, or mommy will call you a cab if mommy is too drunk.
So my friends and I had this long conversation, all regarding what it is that my kid could possibly do to rebel against me? Become a Republican? Vote pro-life? Be against gay-marriage?
And it hit us: She’ll be Mormon.
I hope I’m wrong.
And really, look at who I’m raising her around: The absolutely most ridiculously awesome assortment of human beings ever. From my skin head punk roommate with pink and blue hair and a shaved head, to the tattooed derby girls, to the girls who have to fend Sam off of their daiquiri on Friday nights. I have hidden hope that my child will grow up to be open, supportive of all; she’ll be loving and welcoming; she’ll make her own decisions and do what makes *HER* happy.
But now I have a feeling she’ll just decide one day to be a Mormon JUST to piss me off.
Or she’d join Scientology.
Oh sweet tap dancing Charlie Crist on a crutch, I am not sure which is worse: a religion started by an angel named Moroni, or one started by a fiction writer.