Eighteen months ago, I became a mother.
And suddenly, I understand. That I will not ever be left alone in the restroom again. Ever. Unless Weeble is asleep or out of the house.
Honestly, peeing alone and getting to eat a hot lunch are sometimes the only motivation I have to get up and go to work in the morning. Especially Monday mornings. When I would be more than happy to walk in to my supervisor's office and let him know that I will not be returning--with proper notice and respect, of course--as the women who told me "It gets easier" were either trying to spare my feelings or just happy that they, too, could eat their food at the correct temperature.
Even now, when the four of us are all home together and Mom disappears, we hunt her down instinctively. Just to make sure we know where she is. At least we don't stick our fingers under the door anymore.
Mom, thank you. I finally understand all you gave up for us.
And hopefully, I can be as gracious about it as you are.
Even when my adult child knocks on the door, just to make sure I am not misplaced. And to ask for a _______, which is where it has been for the last 45 years.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Monday, March 19, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Call Me...
So, Weeble made a request last night.
While wearing her pink fairy wings and green and pink pettiskirt--over thermal leggings and shirt covered in remnants of her pizza lunch, of course--she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Call me 'Honey.'"
And she was serious. I know the look--I've seen it from my own mother several times.
Better Half and I just looked at each other.
We spent months coming up with her name.
And changed the front runner no less than three times. It's a name that we believe will grow with her, that she can take into a classroom or a board room or a research lab, or... You get the picture.
Over the last week or so, she has been referring to herself as Honey. Asking for us to sing "Rockabye Honey" instead of "Rockabye Baby" and requesting items for "Honey." We didn't realize how much she truly likes the pet name.
We checked to make sure she still identifies herself by her given name. She looked at us as if we had horns when we asked, and pointed to herself.
Hmmmm.
It could be worse. Better Half's sister wanted to be re-named Crystal.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
While wearing her pink fairy wings and green and pink pettiskirt--over thermal leggings and shirt covered in remnants of her pizza lunch, of course--she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Call me 'Honey.'"
And she was serious. I know the look--I've seen it from my own mother several times.
Better Half and I just looked at each other.
We spent months coming up with her name.
And changed the front runner no less than three times. It's a name that we believe will grow with her, that she can take into a classroom or a board room or a research lab, or... You get the picture.
Over the last week or so, she has been referring to herself as Honey. Asking for us to sing "Rockabye Honey" instead of "Rockabye Baby" and requesting items for "Honey." We didn't realize how much she truly likes the pet name.
We checked to make sure she still identifies herself by her given name. She looked at us as if we had horns when we asked, and pointed to herself.
Hmmmm.
It could be worse. Better Half's sister wanted to be re-named Crystal.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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