It all started a few years ago. A small dab and that was it. She was hooked.
There ought to be a warning label on those tiny tubes of tasty temptation. “Warning: Once you smooth this on your lips, your mouth will never be the same. (Smaller print: Especially dangerous when given to young girls. Has been known to turn some girls into clown faces, pouters and pickpockets.)
I want some lip glohosssss!
Please mommy. Please can I have some lip glass?
Pickpocket
Success!
This is not our first experience with the power of the flavored lip gloss. I’m more than happy to share my stash with her – if I have any left to offer.
I try. I do. I really would not say our house is messy/dirty. There are places where mess accumulates but with that I just have to shut a few doors and – tada – the house is ready for a surprise visitor. There are quite a few things I slack on though.
I should definitely scour our shower more than I do. In fact, I really don’t do it. Andrew does it because I whine about it so much. I’ll clean all the bathtubs – no problem. There’s just something about our shower that defeats me every time.
I have never cleaned inside the oven. I will only dive in there when it’s an absolute must. Like when that runaway fry escapes from the pan and starts burning and junk. Then, I’ll just use some tongs and remove the blackened tato.
I can’t tell you when I last dusted the light fixture hanging above the dining room table that we never use. Come to think of it, that light really never gets used either.
Are you supposed to wash curtains? Just kidding. Ha, ha, ha. Well, I have washed the sheers on the windows – at least once. (By the way, is there an easier way to clean wood slat blinds? I’ve tried dusting them – that takes forever. I’ve tried using the vacuum attachment – that didn’t really work at all. I can’t figure that one out.)
I just feel like I can never get ahead of it all. I have to do all the basics in spells – here and there. If I see dust, I dust. Since I have the dust spray in my hand, I might as well do the upstairs. (I tell myself I’ll do the downstairs later.) If I have the glass cleaner out to clean one mirror that’s bothering me, they’re all going to get cleaned right then and there. It just all feels so scattered. The only time it all gets cleaned at the same time is when guests come to stay. Thankfully, we have guests visiting quite a bit.
I don’t remember a ton about being little. I’m told stories about how I would scream like a madwoman when my mom brushed my waist-long hair. I loved playing Barbies and would get lost for hours in my Barbie world. I collected unicorns and had a beloved Dino Flintstone stuffed animal that my mom would use to wake me up every morning. I hated the Incredible Hulk.
Now, maybe hate is the wrong word. I more, lived in fear of Hulk. My mom says if it came on television, she would frantically change the channel or yell from the other room for the person closest to the television to, “change it, change it!” I remember once at my Grandma Rafiani’s house, I hid under the couch cushions as I waited for someone to rescue me from the growling, green fury with glowing eyes.
It seems my dislike for the green one has been passed down to our little man. I never voiced my fear of Hulk around Nate. His feelings were not influenced by mine and are unique from mine in that he can watch the cartoon and loves to play with his tiny Hulk toy – during the day that is.
At night, this is what happens to the glow-in-the-dark, plastic superhero:
Andrew tried for three nights to catch Nate on the hidden camera. He thinks it’s so funny how Nate doesn’t just place Hulk outside his door, he walks Hulk to the back of the couch and perches him on top, facing the stairs. Catching Nate on camera involved some pretty sneaky work on our part. We had to get Nate to bed without him noticing Hulk in his room. If he noticed, he would say, “Mommy, Hulk.” Andrew left Nate’s bedroom light on for as long as he could as he tucked Nate in, said prayers, gave kisses … Then, Andrew hurried me downstairs as he pressed record. When he finally succeeded in capturing Nate banishing Hulk on camera, Andrew came dancing downstairs, ecstatic about what he was about to see.
I love how Nate is so determined to make Hulk stand on the couch. He’s concentrating so hard – biting his tongue, brow furrowed. Kind of like his daddy was as he carried out his hidden camera plan.
I guess Nate really takes after both of us. (After all, Andrew actually liked watching Hulk.)
It’s a common theme for a love story. Boy meets girl. Boy asks for girl’s phone number. Boy calls girl. Boy and girl don’t speak until girl hands the phone to her dad and says, “I don’t want to talk to him right now. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” Oh yeah, did I mention that boy and girl are only six years old?
So far, Nia has collected the digits of four boys in her class. Only she knows how many boys she graced with her number – likely the lone thing written on a large sheet of copy paper or barely fitting on a piece of ripped notebook paper.
I’m sure this number exchange is happening because many of them have just fully memorized their phone numbers so they are excited about sharing this information with others. I also realize that these boys dig Nia and Nia digs them.
Great.
“Can Nia come over to my house?” This is what “Brian” asks Andrew when he calls. Andrew’s response involved, “I don’t even know who this is or where you live.” Andrew also spoke with Brian’s mom who informed him that Brian had been asking to call Nia all weekend.
When Andrew finally gives the phone to Nia – Brian says nothing to Nia and she says nothing to him. Zip.
This is what makes it all so funny to me. They are handing out their phone numbers left and right but they do not even really know how to talk on the phone – to anyone – properly yet. Another boy left her a voicemail a few weeks ago. It went like this, “Heeey. Is is reeeek. Call me baaaack.”
I’ve reached a point where I’m finding myself comparing what I’ve accomplished in my life to what others have accomplished. It’s not a jealousy or an “I wish I did that” kind of thing. It’s more a – there’s so much I still want to do – thing. I’m also not saying I’m not proud or happy with all that I have attempted, failed at, conquered, laughed at, attempted again – I just have a small list of wants and it goes a little something like this:
I want to learn Italian. Andrew does too. I have one rule after we learn it though – we are never – never – allowed to argue in Italian. Man, I remember my Grandma and Grandpa’s Italian-only arguments. I never knew what they were saying but their complicated-sounding words were always laced with such fire – such anger. It scared me beyond belief. I want this language to only be used to communicate sweet nothings or compliments on a meal or excitement over sports or other such happiness.
Once we’re comfortable with our Italian and the kiddos are older, a trip to Italy will happen. We will visit all the areas our grandparents came from and all the romantic places I’ve read about in books or caught glimpses of in movies.
There will be a book. I can’t promise it will be an awesome book – or even a good book – but it will be written by me. Even if I have to pay to have it published, one of the many ideas I’ve started will eventually become something I can hold in my hands and say, “I wrote this book. Cool.”
We will take the kids to Disney World where they will lose their minds in Princess, Spiderman, Peter Pan and other animated character craziness.
I will sing Karaoke. In front of people. At least once.
I will learn how to dance a sexy dance like Salsa or Tango and I will not feel like a total doof and laugh the entire time. I will feel incredibly sexy, womanly and confident.
Andrew and I will live to our 50th wedding anniversary – plus some. I know, I know. I really can’t control this one. It could happen though … it could.
I know I have more wants but I think this is a good place to start. Will I be happy if none of these ever happen? Sure. (Well, except for the last one that is.) After all, these are all wants – not needs. A girl can dream, right?
Things got you down? Think your life is so hard? Wondering when you’ll get the next break? If things would only turn around soon … Why can’t I just seem to have something go right? … I don’t think I can take much more of this …
Well, a good dose of it’s no so bad – it can always be worse – should have you feeling better in no time.
Works for me!
Every time I start worrying about something I can’t control, stressing about something one of the kids did, dealing with grown-up stuff like work, bills, car troubles – I stop and tell myself – I have Andrew, Nia and Nate and they are healthy and here with me.
The other day I found myself wondering – if Andrew and I don’t buy presents for the kids on Christmas – will they be there anyway? What if we test it? What if the the big guy really does exist but since we take care of the gift buying, the wrapping and the placing under the tree (we even eat the jolly old elf’s cookies that kids made for him), maybe he just doesn’t show up because he’s not needed (and we ate half of his treats)? It could be true right? If you believe?
Yeah, I must be the parent of a six and three year old. Their undoubting belief in Santa is very powerful. Nia reminds me each day that the “Elf on the Shelf” is watching and that he flies messages to Santa. When I took the kids to see Santa at the mall this year, Nate ran up to him and jumped in his lap, wrapping his arms around him. He did it without hesitation. He did it with love in his heart and excitement for the wonder that Santa brings. I stood there with tears in my eyes. Adult strangers waiting in line for their child’s photo stood there with tears in their eyes.
Christmas 2009
Nate’s reaction did more than touch my heart though, it also broke it a little. Because I know – it’s all a lie. This is not the first time I’ve expressed my concerns about telling the tale. Many of us have our cherished memories of believing in Santa but then we also have our nightmare stories about how we all “found out.” We know how old we were. We know where we found out. We still feel the twinge of pain when we think about our terrible discovery. And then, we grow up and do it to our kids!
I suppose it’s because the moments like I just experienced with Nate far outweigh the moment of “finding out.” His happiness and love for the stranger hiding behind a white beard and red velvet suit made me want to believe again. (Plus, he was a really good Santa!) Part of me hopes to find a mysterious present under the tree for me – special delivery from the North Pole.
Are You Zhazha? 
Say what?