You know, the Manual on: Having a Happy Marriage, Surviving Life, Raising Empathetic and Independent Kids, Staying Sane While Being Healthy, and Staying Balanced, Zen, and Positive.
Wait...you don't have a copy either? I guess we're just supposed to like, figure this all out. Geez, it kind of seems like a lot of work, though. Sigh.
So I found myself at Kaiser last week, having four vials of blood drawn. I HATE NEEDLES, so it only took me a year to pony up, and geterdun
"You are going to do a stellar job. I can just tell that you are amazing at this. I won't even feel it," I say to the Lab Tech. She proceeds to nod and smile, as I'm squeezing the hell out of the ball, with the blue tourniquet tightly wrapped around my arm, taking in posters of waterfalls and majestic mountain scenes.
Charlie, had been observing this entire process of blood-letting, which I'm convinced resembled some sort of Mayan ceremony, except that the Mayans had it easy: they didn't have to FAST.
Before I even stood up to leave, she said, "Oh Mama, you were such a BRAVE girl."
It made me kinda wish that Charlie would have been my co-pilot, when I was at Kaiser the day before. The Dermatologist was checking me for any indication, of any suspicious, anything.
The Derm visit is always particularly awkward: there I am standing in my underwear, but wearing shoes, because God knows what it on the hospital floor. And there is some random Derm, sort of poking and prodding. Usually, I'm a very willing participant in this gentle form of torture. But not this time.
As soon as the Derm Doc walked in, "Wellllll, it looks like you have some sun damage..." trail off...judgemental tone.
I politely replied, "I wear sunscreen everyday."
My medicine cabinet has: special Facial Sport sunscreen, Sport spray sunscreen, and lotiony sunscreen with glitter: ALL 50 SPF or higher. I can't make up for slathering baby oil on when I was 17, but I feel pretty good about how I take care of my skin now at age 41.
Derm Doc: "Well, you need to reapply more often. You shouldn't be tan," judgemental tone continued.
In my head, I'm thinking, I'm fucking ITALIAN. How many WHITE Italian's do YOU know? I'm also Cajun/Creole/Native American/Possibly Black French. So yes, I'm BROWN. I can't prove any of that, but it's the Oral Tradition of Genealogy in my family that has been passed down.
Instead, I took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, I'll make sure to do that." Smiley face.
I was really proud of myself for staying calm. Because what I really wanted to say to her was, "Do you realize that YOU have a suspicious looking mole on YOUR face?"
And I'm not kidding, she did. But according to my previous blog, I am old and tired, so I just let her win that round.
The girls and I are participating in an online class together, in which we create art projects for one another. Honestly, I have a lot of anxiety over doing anything artistic.
Ironically, it has been extremely therapeutic. Who knew decoupage held that sort of power over me?
In our first project, we created books for each other. On the first page, you cut out a paper doll of your mom or daughter, and then dress it however you want.
When Bella and I exchanged books, I immediately said, "Oh Bella, I love the dress you chose for me."
Without hesitation, she replied, "Yeah, well, I had to cut it much shorter...you know, to make it look like you."
Touche.
I'm not sure why I think that Midnight is like the BEST time to fold laundry. You know how that insane time sucks you in, right?
Quiet house, peaceful atmosphere, everyone sleeping...no one needing us, asking for anything, no papers to sign, or dinner to be made.
Folding mountains of laundry just seems so much more, manageable - enjoyable, even. Until, 6am the next morning...when there THEY are.
Needing signatures. Wanting breakfast. Expecting clean underwear.
"Yesterday at CCD it was horrible," Cosette explained at the breakfast table, the morning after I had folded laundry at Midnight.
Yawn..."Why baby? What happened?"
"I couldn't even fit our entire family in my picture, so I had to squeeze us altogether," she says, eyes wide, with a can-you-believe-that? expression.
It reminded me of those family stickers people proudly display on their car windows...which we'll never have, for the reason Cozy so eloquently stated earlier :)
"Mama, it's picture day," Cozy then reminded me, pointing to the payment envelope.
About two years prior, we had fallen on extremely hard financial times, and I couldn't purchase school pictures. I felt distraught...something so basic, a school picture, had become a "want", not a "need". I even cried, realizing that for the first time ever, the girls wouldn't have them.
The habit just sort of stuck, and now I just purchase the Class Picture in the Spring. I can find about 1 million other ways to spend $100, than on Bud White portraits.
"Cosette, we're not going to buy pictures right now okay?" I explained. Long pause... "Does that make you feel sad?"
Spot on, she said, "Not at all, Mama. Because every time that flash goes off, I blink. It makes me look hideous."
Finally, something we agree on. Saweet.
