A therapist once told me I shouldn’t label my children because they’ll live up or down to the expectations that go along with it, but to me, she’s still my ‘baby’. She is, today, a seven year old. She wanted to know all the details about that day, but to be frank, I’m lucky I remember her birthweight and name. And to confess that I was ever so grateful to get her the heck outta there just doesn’t seem very…maternal. You may be June Cleaver, but I lean more toward Roseanne. Just sayin’!
She’ll probably never let me live down the fact that I did that Alfalfa from The Little Rascals thing to her hair, but it was either that or the Donald Trump comb-over. Personally, I thought it was rather clever (and my Granmommie was delighted that she had red hair). Alas, this is one of the few pictures I have of her wearing pink. Lord, save me from this tomboy!
I don’t recall the terrible twos or threes, so all this Little Miss Attitude I’m getting now must be payback. Wherever does this child get her sarcastic streak? Dear Hubby says he’ll be forced to offer one of his hot rods as her dowry ’cause she’s so stinkin’ onery no sane man will marry her. I often remind him that she and I are alot alike and that I myself got a great catch in him just by being my sweet self…he does his smirk thing and keeps his mouth shut. Bless his heart.
The hair’s more blonde now than red, but the temper and hard-headedness that supposedly go along with it, remain (she gets that from her Daddy), but to be fair and a tad more positive, she’s the most determined human I’ve ever met and utterly fearless. Just when I think I’m all set to pinch her head off, she throws her arms around me and says ‘You’re the best Mom EV-ER! I love you, Mama’ which makes me ever so grateful I didn’t eat her at birth (sniff).
And so, to my sweet ‘P’ I say remember this: Mama will always love you no matter what (just tell that little schmidt ‘R’ to keep his lips to himself) and that no matter what anyone else may say, Mama thinks you’re the bomb! I love you ‘P’.