Yesterday morning was going very well. She got dressed (clothes that I had picked out, so they actually matched! even bigger score) without too much fuss and then stood still very nicely while I brushed out her hair and put it into several pigtails. I’m not really sure why I take the time to do this, because by the time I pick her up from the sitter’s, she looks like she’s spent the day with hobos. ANYWAY, after she was all done, I kissed her on the head and said, “Thank you for cooperating. That was so nice.”

On the way out of her room, she asked me to carry a giant Care Bear and a toy lunchbox for her, as her arms were full with a second giant Care Bear. I picked up the items, but I wasn’t holding them exactly how she wanted me to. “No, Mama, like this!” Grabbing the lunchbox by the handle (as instructed), I scooped everything up and continued down the hall. And Lokie said, “Thank you for co-wap-pee-ating, Mama!” And what else could I say but “You’re welcome.”

So, what’s new? Last week my mom paid us a short visit and brought with her a gigantic stinky 30 year old bag full of tiny stinky 30 year old dresses and hats and shoes. My stinky dresses and hats and shoes. When I was a wee little Leta, I hated dresses. Haaaaaated. Words cannot adequately express the contempt and revulsion that I held solely for dresses, lace (shudder) and bows. How was I supposed to run around and climb trees and kick boys with a stupid dress on?!?!! I think some of them are cute now, but I still wouldn’t want to wear many of them.

the worst one of the bunch

My oldest shares my disdain for dresses and I rarely force her to wear one, because I remember the UNFAIRNESS! and ITCHINESS! and lots of other horrible things that I associated with wearing them. Even though her dresses (that she never wears) are all adorable and itch-free. My youngest, however, is currently way way into all things princessy and frilly and dove headfirst into the laundry basket of ancient fabrics, begging to try on one after another. This surprised me. “Huh. I guess I should put her in a dress every now and then.” They ARE different children, not reincarnations of the same child.

All that being said, I do love vintage. Books and glasses and yes, even some clothes. And I might have plans for a picture of the girls in matching smocked vintage dresses. I smell a Mother’s Day gift for grandma in the making.

Since my own risk is now higher, I have already had my first mammogram at the ripe old age of 34. And it was a piece of cake. Seriously, people, it was nothing. A tad uncomfortable for a few seconds, and that was it. I’m sure this isn’t the case for everyone, but even if it hurts like hell, get it done anyway. Do not wait. If you are suspicious, get yourself checked out. If you have a wife, girlfriend, mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, best friend encourage them to JUST DO IT ALREADY.

I injured my left knee in college in a skiing accident. After walking on crutches for several weeks and wearing a knee brace, I was too chicken to play anymore, afraid I might get hurt, afraid my knees would be shot and I’d be limping my way into old age. And after I was finally healed, things just…happened. A boyfriend became a husband, babies were born, and the next thing I knew it had been years since I had worn my cleats.

And then one day I signed up to play for a co-ed team at work. I didn’t even really think about it. Of course I would play. Knee? Shmee. I’ve had two kids, I wasn’t afraid of a little knee pain. Plus, I have insurance now. hahaha So last Thursday found me shopping for cleats and batting gloves, and being ridiculously nervous about a game that didn’t matter. Except that it kind of did, to me. I was out to prove something to myself, to my kids, to my husband who had never seen me play. And so I played. I caught, I pitched, I got two hits, I struck out a cocky dude twice, and by the end of the night I was hurting. A lot. But I did it. And I’ll do it again this week and next week and the week after that.

I remembered who I once was, who I thought I would become. I showed my girls, girls can play with boys, don’t be afraid of the ball, Mommy can do it and so can you, if you want to. It felt good.

Lokie: “I want burr.”

Me: “There’s your bear right there.”

Lokie: “I want burr.”

Me: “You want your bear?”

Lokie: “No, I want buuuurrd.”

Me: “You want bed?”

Lokie: “No, I want BUUUURRRRDDD.”

Me: “You want bread?”

Lokie: “Yeah, bread!”

I hand her a mini bagel.

Lokie: “Is dat bread?”

Me: smacks own forehead. “Yes, its bread.”

Lokie: “Oh.” Runs off to watch Dora.

TWENTY YEARS?!?!?!!!!!! Where did the time go? When did we get to be so old?

My 15-year-old self will drift to sleep with a lighter heart tonight.

His grandma: “He’s just swinging you around out there like a little rag doll.”

My actual response: Smile and murmur something about my shoes hurting my feet.

I should have responded: “That’s because he’s drunk.”