I’m a blogger who is a Mom, but I am not a Mommy blogger. Although my kids are shining examples of what every young person in the universe should aspire to be, I try not to beat my readers over the head with it. Not everyone can push perfection out their who-ha twice in a lifetime and I don’t want you to envy my baby maker so much that you begin to hate me.
I want you to hate me because I’m beautiful.
Having said that, I am now going to ignore everything I just said and talk excessively about my kids. It's Mother's Day. I'm a Mother. You do the math.
In a nutshell, my twenty-two year old daughter Kitten (spelled E-l-i-z-a-b-e-t-h) is the single most gorgeous female ever to walk the Earth (and smart and funny and an amazing singer). She is oodles of perfection packed into a tiny, little package and if your daughter is not her, I'm sorry for you.
She's been amazing since birth and each day she becomes even more so.
When Kitten was about three, she went through a Mary phase. Not a "call me Mary" kind of thing, but rather a wear a long, white curtain on her head and demand she be addressed as the Mother of Jesus kind of thing.
The ugly little baby whom she had previously named Tellulah Belle had both her name and her sex changed so that Mary would have something small to put in the shoebox/manger that sat in a place of honor in our living room surrounded by worshipping, stuffed animals.
By six, my precious daughter had graduated from playing pretend to becoming a full-fledged mobster. She would secretly sneak into my room to heist my belongings, take them to her room (aka "store") and force me to buy them back from her if I ever wanted to see them again.
She never took something I didn't care about either. Typically it would be one of my favorite shoes or my wedding ring or my make-up. Had I needed medication to survive back then, I'm pretty sure she'd be a wealthy woman today.
The Big Dog (not his legal name) is nearly thirteen and roughly nine feet tall. He towers over me, in fact. He is crazy smart and gets fabulous grades and loves Algebra. If I hadn't been wide awake when he was born because of all the screaming I was doing, I'd swear he wasn't mine.
He's your basic perfect son. Although he periodically attempts to be a smart mouth and speak to his Mother as if she's the dumbest woman to have ever lived, even that is rare. Most of the time he's quite simply a good boy and I can't believe how lucky I am.
Coming up on the end of his seventh grade career, he's truly coming into himself. This year, the Dog became a full-fledged track star. He's a long distance runner and when I watch him out there smoking past the competition at every meet, I am a long distance runner, too.
I have never once been able to sit down and watch him run because I have to help him. I pace, I run my hands through my hair, I scream and when he crosses that finish line, I do a little woo-hoo dance.
After every meet he always tells me he can hear me above everyone else in the crowd and that it keeps him going. I never tell him that watching him run will probably be the thing that finally kills me.
Knowing your speed may bring on your Mom's death could potentially cause you to slow down.
Or speed up, depending on how you're feeling about her.
With the big 13 only days away now, my son has begun to behave like a cheating husband. His little red phone is never more than 2.5 inches from his hand and the second it makes even a slight chirp or buzz, he's silencing it and looking at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I noticed.
Oh, I noticed.
The whole "girl" thing is awful for the mother of a son. No one is ever going to be good enough for my boy and unless I get myself some professional help before he winds up married someday, my daughter-in-law can pretty much count on my being an absolute terror.
As you might have guessed, I love my kids so, so much it makes my heart feel all fluttery and my eyes are watery.
On this Mother's Day, I need to give them a big old thank you. They make my job easy.
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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