Mama’s Girl

My daughter’s at that age where actually being seen in public with dear old Mom isn’t horribly embarrassing and holding my hand won’t leave her scarred for life.  She will, at the tender age of six, still claim me as her Mom and not some stranger who’s stalking her. 

Friday, the first grade classes hosted a Mother’s Day Tea where they serenaded all us camera-toting mommies with a little song about all the things Moms do (no way a kid came up with this, because let’s face it, kids think the laundry cleans itself).  This was followed up with cupcakes they’d decorated and juice cups of raspberry iced tea.  All the while, I’m trying to balance my posterior largesse on a chair designed for one of Snow White’s seven friends. 

My sweetie P made me a swell yarn-wrapped flower vase, a wrist corsage and a nifty Mother’s Day card.  Here are a couple of the card’s highlights:

What ingredients is your mom made of?     Skin and bones (bless her heart, I think this means skinny)
What do you love most about your mom?  She lets me take a bath (ooookaayyy)

If you ask her, she’ll tell you she’s my stars.  If you don’t believe her, she’ll point to the tattoo!  


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