I still haven’t gotten over the fact that baby shoes can cost upwards of $50.00. I mean, that’s how much I spend on my shoes. Or less. Really, it shouldn’t be a shock. Add the word “baby” to basically any product and it’s free reign to charge X (ridiculous dollar amount) for whatever. Because when people are insanely happy, or insanely tired, or tethered to a screaming toddler they will pay X (ridiculous dollar amount) for whatever.
That being said, small people seem to grow out of shoes in ten minutes. We had a whole load of shoes that fit Peanut perfectly before the move. Actually, most of them were too big. Mid-July arrived, and away the shoes went. Into a box. When I unpacked them last week I was semi-horrified to find that very few were still suitable (this was after several minutes of attempting to shove a miniature converse on her foot). I thought I was all prepped for fall, and everything. Not so.
Now, Peanut does have wide feet. Wide. Every time we go to try on shoes the sales person makes sure to tell me, “whoah! She has really wide feet”. So I’m not really sure if the feet have gotten longer or wider. But that’s neither here nor there. Never underestimate the growth potential of a toddler, I guess.
Anyways. Yesterday morning Peanut found a pair of Sketchers with sparkly rhinestones on the toe. She brought them over, and (with her standard grunt) asked for me to put them on. I knew they were too small. “Peanut, these are too little for you,” I told her. I took the shoes and put them back in the closet. I went to the bathroom to get something, but could hear Peanut sobbing from her bedroom. When I went through to see what was wrong, I caught her holding one shoe in each hand. Tears rolling. Complete devastation.
As a parent, you pick your battles. So I shoved those shoes on with every might of my being. Her little foot pudged out from around the corners.
She smiled, gently touching the rhinestones.
Don’t get between a girl and her shoes.
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So we’re almost organized here. Feels good. And now it’ll be easier to get started on those other parts of my life (the social parts; the life parts; the me parts). It seems to get exponentially harder to move as I get older. I think I just get more set in my ways with respect to general daily living. It’s difficult to find the new Starbucks, dammit! (As a side note, I’m exceptionally lucky to have a Dunkin’ Donuts – my favorite – basically at the end of my street. Oh yeah, and a Trader Joe’s. Generally everything I would ever want or need for comfort and happiness over the remainder of my being).
On the flip side, making friends when you have a child seems to get exponentially easier. And as a stay at home mom, friends are a lifeline. Leaving everything I had built in Boston over the last year was difficult. But kids are handy for all sorts of reasons. They can help you avoid events that you don’t want to attend (“sorry, we can’t make X because Peanut is grumpy! See you next time”). And they make it much easier to build social connections. Somehow, it doesn’t seem weird to approach another mom (who may be a stranger) when you have a 1.5 year old tethered to your arm.
Unfortunately (for her) Peanut has developed this weird type of interaction with other children her age. She’ll approach another kid, hunched over, and stare. For an uncomfortably long period of time. Poor thing. She doesn’t quite get it, yet.
We’ll get there.
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We got caught in some rain yesterday evening. Make that some torrential rain. It was pouring cats and dogs and probably a little old woman (in a shoe) here and there for good measure.
We were on a walk with Peanut. She was in her “car” (plastic contraption with a handle attached to it). Which has absolutely no protection from the elements whatsoever. Of course we continued walking when we heard thunder. Of course we were several blocks from home when the rain deluge began. Of course we didn’t bother to take an umbrella.
We hid under a giant pine tree for a while (it provided excellent coverage, by the way. Next time you are caught in violent rain pick a pine tree. I don’t understand exactly where the rain goes, but that’s neither here nor there). A man in the neighboring house actually came out and invited us in. We declined, but it was heartwarming – I’ve never lived in a place where people would do something like that. Last year, in fact, I think I saw my upstairs neighbors a grand total of three times.
Anyways, we stood there for a while. Thinking it would “let up”. Of course things never “let up” when you really need them to. So eventually we decided it was time to go, rain and all. We made a break for it and ran. The Husband held Peanut and I followed. I could see her laughing at me over his shoulder (it must be great to be a kid – they seem to find humor in every situation that makes adults uncomfortable, including public nudity and farting).
It wasn’t so bad, though. Because I, too, had a smile on my face. Smug, albeit. But a smile.
Because I’m a human being, and couldn’t help myself.
You see, my friends, this walk was the husband’s idea.
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Believe me, I can b***ch about my body with the best of them. Of course, since having a daughter, I’ve tried to become much more conscious of what I’m saying, and how I’m saying it. We’re conditioned, as women, to dislike just about everything about our looks. Aren’t we?
So, In coming up with a part of my body that I love, it was kind of difficult. I’m sure you all had similar issues. And I’m not really sure I’ve even selected what could be considered a body part (or two parts, really). Still, my choices been with me through thick and thin (literally and figuratively). They’ve withstood trends, trimmings, and pluckings. Despite it all, they’ve maintained their shape, their class, and their elegance.
My eyebrows.
I think I first realized I had a good thing going when I received a compliment from a guy in a college bar. “You’ve got great eyebrows” he said, gazing at my forehead (not well endowed, I rarely had men gazing at ANYTHING. So this was a coup). Now, keep in mind, this was probably around 1996. I’m not sure if style was, in general, terrible at the time. Or if it was just me. Because my brows were plucked into oblivion. On top of that, the comment was perhaps strange (he seemed to be the perceptive artsy type, in his defense). Still, despite having massacred them with tweezers, my eyebrows had retained a somewhat pretty arch. I guess that’s what he noticed. And, this small flattery has stuck with me for 14 years (wait, has it really been that long since college?)
In times of stress I often reached for the tweezers. Only once did I over do things, taking too much off the ends. It was devastating when an esthetician told me, sternly, “they may never re-grow”. I hoped and prayed for six months. They (and God) pulled through. Eventually, my eyebrows came back.
Now I’ve graduated into a more natural look. Although I do fill in my brows each and every morning (thank you, Laura Mercier brow definer), use a touch of hairspray, and reach for the tweezers now and again.
And you know what? I still love my eyebrows. Just as much as I did when that guy told me, back in 1996, that some part of my being was exceptional. It’s just that now, I know they’re special. By my own right.
I think I’ll love them forever.
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