Enough Already

When was the last time I wrote?....Well, not that long ago…What?  A year?  No… I meant to write.  I wrote to you all in my head a bunch of times…Okay, it’s been a year.  Well,…A generous year.  How in the world did so much time go by?

The biggest piece of news falls into the category of ancestry.  My middle daughter has determined that she is a “real and true princess”.  There is no dissuading her.  Don’t try logic or genealogy.  She knows.  She is a real princess because of her voice and the fact that she wears dresses all of the time.  (Which is indeed a radical switch from her pants and “adventure shoes" gear of only a year ago.)  In trying to discuss this, Little Middle decided to call me at my own game, thereby dubbing me “Queen of Book-Reading”.  Well, if I get to be the queen...maybe. 

And, to my credit, I have been able to use her princess-hood as leverage, as in “A real princess” would eat all of her vegetables/ try a bit of the meat/ not grumble about her food.”  Manipulative yes, but it works and right now, I’m willing to gamble against future therapy in order to keep her alive long enough to decide she needs it and that it is all my fault.

Miss Seven is turning Eight(teen) in a few days and we are all in the throes of redefining how we interact with one another.  This has been less a planned and rational execution of forethought and more a hostile take-over.   On a moment to moment basis we vacillate between really deep and sophisticated conversations about big, real-world problems, and whining about not being allowed to watch television, or eat candy for breakfast, or the fact that we are breathing in the same room in a way that annoys her.   

I miss my capricious and mischievous younger child.  This territory is a bit scary without a map and frankly, I thought we would be farther into this journey before we hit the stage where I suddenly lost every ounce of cool and became the most ridiculous adult in the world.    

 However, those days are often closely followed by request for me to stay until she falls asleep, scare away the monsters in the dark, or make room in my lap for her.  As hard as she pushes me away, she still wants and needs me.  I’m struggling to make the switch as rapidly as she does throughout the day.  It takes a lot of grown-up talk to myself to be the grown-up and not my wounded Mama Pride.

Meanwhile, the outside world continues to rumble along and the girls have developed an awareness of the social sorting they witness, feel, and possibly take part in during the day.  When I was eight, the worst thing I could imagine was being called stupid.  For my children, fat is the shame-filled word.  And with that has come the realization that their Mama is not skinny.    I am also the oldest Mama in second grade.  (Don’t be jealous, I had that distinction in first grade too, overachiever that I am.)  Miss Eight’s definition of beautiful comes replete with being young, fashionable, having long hair, impeccable (albeit glittery) make-up, a skinny frame, and impossibly high heels.    On a good day, I have time for make-up.  My natural lack of athleticism and coordination precludes heels.  And as for the rest…It remains to be seen. 

And Little One, now eighteen months old.  Walking, talking (a little), and climbing everything in our house as though it was her ordained job.  I recently entered the room, having exited long enough to throw a towel into a hamper in an adjoining room, to find her standing in the middle of the table, with her head haloed by the three lamps of our light fixture.  Although she was not stuck, she didn’t know how to extricate herself and the tug-of-wills-war began with her wanting my help, just not my help off the table.  “Hep?  Hep?..NO Mama!  NO Maamaa…Hep?”  You get the picture.

So until next time, I bid you enough.  Enough love, patience, and gratitude to take each day as it comes.