So, Sue Me

How many times have you heard someone say, "So, sue me," in sarcasm? The first time I heard it I was just a kid, and I had no idea what it really even meant. It took me a few times to understand that it was sarcasm, and that people didn't *really* sue each other for silly reasons.
And those were the good old days.

The first really crazy law suit I was ever aware of was the infamous McDonald's coffee-in-the-lap law suit. I think that one really started the snowball rolling with people being awarded money over the most RIDICULOUS things.

There was a time in life when rational people would hear about one of these law suits and think, "No judge in America is going to take that seriously. He/she will be laughed out of court!"

But these days, rational people are forced to think, "Shoot. I hope my neighbor doesn't sue me over my dog pooping in his yard."

We don't talk about law suits around the house. It's not something we even say in jest, really, but Chloe has picked it up. I don't think she even understands what it means, but I had to laugh as she suggested it to me the other day.

We were shopping, and I was browsing the baby section. I was still looking for a "coming home" outfit for bebe, but not having a lot of luck.

"Ugh," I sighed. Everything cute and frilly is 0-3. Why can't they make them in newborn, too? The way things are looking, this won't be a very big baby," I said, more to myself than anyone. Then a little irritated voice chimed in.

"Ya really! Why dontcha just sue dem, mom?"

"Sue them?" I asked her.

"Ya. For not making the kind of baby clothes you need!"

And while it was hard to stifle a laugh at her oh-so-serious reaction to my problem, she made a point. Because somewhere in America there is probably a lawyer and a judge who would take time and money from serious business to hear a case of a pregnant lady who couldn't find a dress for her newborn. And somewhere a mad pregnant mama might be awarded enough money to clothe her child for life.

That's the society we live in, unfortunately. Sadly, my five year old is aware of it =/

Butt-Wrinkle

I left my wedding set at the jewelry store a few days back. It's that time of year when it needs to be polished and dipped and cleaned so it looks brand-new again. I love having it done, but I HATE leaving my rings! Because people are nosy (and weird), often they assume if you aren't wearing your rings it means your marriage is in despair (GASP!). So when they're gone, I have a little gold diamond band I wear in their place, just to hold the finger if you will.

As I was washing Chloe's hair last night, she noticed my ring (for the first time since I changed them) and let out a shocked gasp. "Where are your rings?!" she demanded.

I explained the situation to her, and told her I was wearing this one until I got my other ones back.

"Where'd ya get it?" she quizzed.

"Actually my dad gave it to me a long, long time ago," I told her. I didn't want her thinking it was from anyone else, or telling people her mom got a new wedding ring from someone. It's hard telling what she would translate.

"Oh. I see. And so you just wear it when you don't have your rings?" she asked.

"Yeah. I just like to have a ring on that finger," I told her honestly, without explaining the whole thing in-depth. She giggled.

"Is it so boys won't ask you to marry dem?" she concluded.

"Yes," I told her with a smile.

"You'd say no anyway, wouldn't ya? Because you only love Bryan."

"You're right," I told her, then added, "besides, I don't think we'll have to worry about any boys asking me to marry them." More giggles.

"Why not? Is it because you have a butt-wrinkle?" she said, going into a full-out laugh.

"Um. I was thinking because I'm visibly pregnant, but whatever you say," I finished, not sure how to continue the conversation, and not sure I wanted to. There were questions swirling in my mind, (like, DO I have a butt-wrinkle? And if I do, when did she see it? How big is it? And does it really make me THAT unattractive that NO boys would want to marry me?) but they were all questions to which I was positive I didn't want an honest, five-year-old answer.

Just when I think she can't possibly come up with ANYTHING more hilarious or inventive, (or humiliating?)she proves me wrong.

Marks of Love

"Mom, why can't I have macaroni and cheese every day?" Chloe asked me the other evening.

"Well, it's not very good for you," I explained. "It's just a lot of fat and fillers. It's ok now and then, but you don't want to eat it a lot," I told her. She pondered what I had said.

"You don't want me to be chubby like Suzie, do ya?" she concluded.

Stop. I had to stop and contemplate what I would say to her. This was a prime time to discuss body image, and I didn't want to give her the wrong idea. How did I tell her that no, I don't WANT her to be "chubby," as she put it, but that if she IS chubby, she should love herself anyway and not be obsessed with skinny. I have a hard time embracing my own body, how can I teach HER to do it?

"I want you to be healthy, but I don't care what you look like as long as you are healthy," I told her.

"Ahhh!" she said, as if having had a EUREKA moment. "I see. So you let me have mac and cheese SOMETIMES even 'doh it has fat, because I need to grow my curves."

"Huh?"

"Girls shouldn't be straight like a boy. Day need ta grow dere curves so dey will be pretty like a lady," she told me. I smiled.

She was right. I find myself struggling so often with weight and body image, and from the mouth of a five year-old comes a nugget of wisdom. Here I was trying to teach HER a lesson, and she was teaching me one.

But the kicker came just a few nights ago.

Every night after we have both taken a bath, we sit together and put on our lotion. She struggles with eczema, so I have to keep her hydrated, and it's no secret she loves getting her back and belly rubbed every night. She, in turn, likes to put my belly balm on my belly, being sure to get IN my belly button so that the baby can have some, too ;)

As she was putting it on the other night, she asked me why I just put it on my belly.

"To keep it from getting too dry," I replied. "When my skin is dry, it gets really tight, and with the baby growing and pulling my skin, it will stretch easier if it's not so dry," I went on to explain.

"Did you use it wif me?" she asked? I told her I did. She put some more on her little finger and rubbed it just below my belly button.

"Here. Let me put some on your stretch marks. I was a big girl, wasn't I? To make dose."

I was quiet. There are one or two things I'm super-sensitive about, and those scars of motherhood are definitely one of them. "I don't want to talk about those," I told her quietly.

"Why? Dere so beautiful," she said with a smile.

I know she picked up on my tone and my mood. I know she knew it bothered me and was just trying to make me feel better.

"I don't think so," I said.

"Day are. Day make your skin look like it's got pretty lace on it. Like your weddin' dress. See my belly? My skin is just (scrunchy face) all plain and boring. You have a lacey belly. I hope when I have a baby I get a lacey belly," She said with a smile.

And while I KNOW they're not pretty and they DON'T look like lace, the fact that she went to such great lenghts to try and CHANGE my perception amazes me. Now every time I see them, instead of ugly scars, I see wedding lace. And I feel love. And now it's more than just the mark of becoming a mother. It's a mark of love.

The biggest thing I learned? Teaching her about body image may not be as important as SHOWING her how to love your body. A lesson that SHE taught ME.

Dog Whisperer?

We decided to take a family four-wheeler ride last night at sunset and appreciate the cooler weather, greening grass, and animals moving about the field. Our new English Bulldog puppy, Rocky, was outside with the "big dogs" when we decided to take off.


We don't normally leave Rocky unattended, as he is still learning boundaries and is becoming ever-more curious with each passing day. As we drove off, he sat down on the top step and watched as the other two dogs followed us on our journey.

A little worried, I asked Mister what he thought. Would Rocky try to follow us and get into danger, or would he stay put and wait for our return? He assured me Rocky would be ok, but our conversation worried little Chloe.

From between us she started confessing her concerns about Rocky.

"He'll be fine," we reassured her.

She leaned over the side and hollerd back toward Jessie the Cowdog who was right on our tail.

"JESSIE! JESSIE! You go back and baby-sit Rocky, ok? YOU go be in charge of him!" she hollered over the roaring motor and the crunching gravel.

"CHLOE!" I spoke loudly over the noise "Jessie doesn't understand English like that," I explianed.

She shook her head, leaned over toward Jessie again and said, "Woof! Woofwoofwoof! Woof woof!"

Nothing more was said.

But for the record, Jessie didn't go home ;)

The Circle of Life

"What are you doing?" I heard her little voice and immediately jumped.

"Noff-fing" I mumbled, trying to keep my lips closed.

"What. Is in. Your mouff?" she asked. I felt like *I* was the four year old and she was the parent.

"What?" I spewed cake crumbs from my lips. I smiled like a cat caught with a mouse in its mouth. "It's just the top of the cake," I finally confessed.

"What did you do to my cake?!?!" she asked with her eyes wide.

"I had to make the top flat. So I could stack them, see?" I showed her how I'd shaved the rough top off the round cake so I could make a (sort-of) level stack. She was ok with that, but I think she was thinking about how I told her she ABSOLUTELY! COULD! NOT! HAVE! ANY! CAKE! just a few minutes earlier.

"And why are you eating it?" she asked.

Hmmmm....

"You're supposed to. It's part of life. It's good luck," I said, "to eat the top of the cake before you decorate it."
"Dennn, shouldn't *I* have some?" she asked.

I surrendered and split the golden warm goodness with the birffday girl.

Cows eat their placentas, I eat my kid's birthday cake. It's part of the circle of life ;)

Take me out to the ball game...

"You won't need your camera. It's just a first practice," I told myself as I scooted Chloe out the door last night for her first t-ball practice. How I WISH I could've captured the events I'm about to unfold for all to see. No one told me that t-ball practice for four year olds would be such a hoot.

Now, if you know my Chloshmo (or if you know the gene pool from which she emerged), you know she's not so much coordinated athletic. She can't really throw, she can't catch, she can't even pedal for crying out loud. And it's not for lack of trying. It's a combination of her lack of interest, her lack of motivation (she doesn't care if she EVER learns to ride a bike), and her you know, coordination.

However, she loves social activities. She loves being on a team, being in the spotlight, and participating with other kids. When I asked her if she wanted to play t-balll, she sure did! So we signed her up and took her to her practice.

I sat in the stands and watched from afar. She does better when I'm far enough away she can't interact with me at all. Some moms sat very close and shouted instructions to their kids when they didn't listen to the coach, but I wasn't going to interfere. I watched them in the outfield first. They did some hitting and catching practice. Chloe squatted in the grass, picking tiny flowers from the ground, smiling each time she found another one. Balls rolled past her, people called her name, but she was pre-occupied.

She focused a little better when they came to the infield and began practicing "for real." Most of the kids ran to the wrong bases, didn't drop the bat, or commited other "first-timer" infractions. When Chloe grabbed a ball that had been hit and started running for first base two steps ahead of the runner, I was proud. I smiled as she beat him to the base, getting him out.

"Step on the base, Chloe!" the coach yelled. She put her foot on the base.

Then she put her other foot on the base.

Then she did a little dance, swinging her hips and singing a song I couldn't make out. She chatted it up with the base-runner who didn't know he was "out." Chloe didn't know either. She kept dancing. And singing. The coaches kept hollering at her. She kept dancing.

Finally she snapped back to reality and went to hit. She hit the ball right past another little girl sitting in the dirt drawing pictures with her finger. She made it to first safely, and back around to home. Then she joined the little dirt girl drawing pictures.

The coaches had done about all they could do with the short attention spans, and were losing the attention of all the kids. Finally the coach piped up, "OK how about we have a a snack and go home?!"

Chloe's head popped up, she shot to her feet and screamed, "WOOOOOHOOOOO! Snack time!" She hustled over to the coach, emiting so much team spirit. If only she had that zeal on the field :)

Weighing Love

Despite my stony facade or what others' perception (and unnecessary judgments) of my life, I struggle every day with the decisions I make. I'm constantly wondering how everything I say or do is going to affect my daughter. What's going to be that ONE thing she remembers word-for-word that I wish I hadn't said? What "mean" thing did I do that she will torment me over when she's twenty five?  I try to do the right things, and apologize when I know I did or said something to hurt her in any way. I weigh big decisions especially carefully, hoping the positive side always prevails.

So when I went through a separation nearly three years ago, and started the long, painful path to divorce, I struggled daily. I waved back and forth like a thin blade of grass in the wind, unsure which direction would not only benefit ME the most, but what would be good for Chloe as well. It was very hard, and anyone who thinks I did it flippantly or without caution doesn't know me at all.

I put a lot of pressure on myself at that time, and tried to think through all possible scenarios. Would it hurt her more for us to fight it out another five years and rip her apart when she was older? Would I be able to live with myself if I "played pretend" for the better years of my life? Could we live two separate lives but continue to play "happy family" for her sake? How long could she buy it if we did? And even then, would she blame me? Would she be more wounded than ever?

It was awful and difficult. In my heart I knew what was right FOR ME, but I had another person to consider.

Even though I am truly confident I found the person for me and know I am happy and will have a beautiful life with him, there are times I still worry about her. So when she sparks a conversation like this one, it really helps reassure me that even if all my decsions haven't been perfect, I'm doing something right.

"So I'm goin' ta my Dad's this weekend?" she asked from the back seat of the car.

"Yep. You haven't been in TWO WEEKS! I bet he misses ya." I said cheerfully. I try not to press my feelings onto her.

"Ya probably," she said. "I hope we do somethin' fun," she added. She was quiet for a few minutes, something I relish when we're in the car, because I rarely even hear the radio, much less listen to a whole song. Eventually she broke the silence again.

"Ya know, dads are good, but sometimes step-dads are even better!" she said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, encouraging her to elaborate.

"Yeah, 'cuz, like my step-dad, he does a lot more stuff for me and does fun stuff, too," she said, bobbing her head as she used her explanatory voice.

I'm not sure what she'd been thinking about, it could've been anything, but it made me feel good. Then she went on.

"You know, even doh Mister hasn't been a dad before, he's a real good dad," she said. "I fink he is anyway. He doesn't even have any children, but he is a good dad," she confirmed.

My heart smiled. I'm glad that she is lucky enough to have a dad who didn't drop off the face of her Earth, and I'm even more glad that she has such a great guy to fill in all the spaces in between and be there for her, even when he doesn't realize that's what he's doing.

A Note of Love

It's no secret that I'm crazy in love. This guy, my Mister as you know him, came along about two years ago and changed my whole life. I was in the midst of a nasty divorce, and was at the least opportune time in my life to take on a new relationship, but when he came into my life, it was an unstoppable force.

I thought at first that we'd just "talk" and save the dating and the falling in love for later when I was more stable, more secure, less crazy, but sometimes life doesn't let you decide how it's gonna happen. We started talking and we immediately bonded. We were best friends. We could talk about anything, and we did. Every time I was happy or sad, he was the one I needed.

Before our first kiss, he knew more about me than most of my friends. In my mind I didn't see how we meshed. He's younger than I am. He's never been married or had kids. He's a farmer. If you've read my blog The Plan you can easily see how our lives were once very different, and the changes I made to my material life in order to make a life with him.

But I've found that all that exterior stuff doesn't matter. Age doesn't matter. Footwear doesn't matter ;) All that matters is that we work.

I'm an emotional person. I'm driven by my feelings and my reactions to the things of life. I've had a LOT of life experience in a short amount of time. I'm jaded and cynical. I have BAD days. "Headache" days where I can't seem to do much more than make it through the day. I'm insecure, I'm moody, and I'm inconstant. I'm a lot to handle sometimes, and I know it. At that time I was coming out of a very troubled two years, and was no less than a big ol' mess.

But this guy? He's strong. He is in touch with his emotions, but emotionally in control. He's rational. He's steady and constant. And you know what I'd say is the ONE thing that he does that has always kept us close? He refuses to let me run.

When things get to be too complicated, or I start to feel too much, I sometimes back away emotionally. Like a little turtle, I retreat to my shell (SHELL TIME!) and close it up tight. I like that feeling of protection and security. But he's taught me that I can still have that in the outside world. He's proven to me that he's NOT going to leave. He's NOT going to change his feelings about me based on my past, or my baggage, or my bad days.

He's seen me at my worst and loves me anyway. He doesn't "tolerate" my bad days. He works to make them better. He's the only one who truly gets me. He knows when I'm retreating, and he knows how to pull me back in. He talks to me about everything, and he cares about how I feel. He says he's sorry when he's wrong, and sometimes he says it when he isn't ;)

On top of all that, he provides for us. He takes care of my baby girl as if she were his very own. He likes to spend time with us, and most days we're joined at the hip.

I'm not saying we're perfect. We have our little fusses. I get my feelings hurt. Sometimes he's a TOTAL GUY and irritates me to no end. Sometimes he messes with me one too many times and I declare him "SUCH an a-hole!" then storm off rolling my eyes and sighing. He leaves his clothes on the living room floor. Every. Day. But at the end of the day, when the house is quiet and the lights are out, we always find that crazy love again. We know how to let go of the worries of the day, how to talk out our problems and our issues, and how to get back to that place where we are the only thing each other can see.

He's my best friend, and the love of my life. He's everything I'm not, and I love that about him. He makes me want to be a better person, and he's the only person who knows how to help me BE the best me. And today, after all this time and all the things he's seen me through, he's going to marry me. He's going to pledge his life to me, and to my little girl.

 And for the first time, I believe in someone.

When we say our vows today, I know he means it. It's not just words. It's a promise. A promise we'll both keep. Today I become his wife, and there is nothing in this world that would make me happier. Today we become husband and wife, making our bond even stronger and our hearts even closer. So here's to true love.

As a final note, I told Chloe last night, "Chlo, tomorrow it will be official. We will be a REAL family!" She looked at me with a smile and said, "Whaddaya mean we'll be a real family? We already ARE a real family, silly!" And she's right. This just makes us stronger.

Chloe Says the Darndest Things...

Chloe, if you don't know her in person, is quite the Chatty Cathy. On long drives sometimes we have to turn the radio up and tune her out just because she talks non-stop the entire time we are in the car. NON-STOP. This does, however, make for some interesting conversation.

For example, we were driving home from school the other day when she educated me on how scissors can cause suicidal thoughts. Those are my words, not hers. Here's her take:

Chloe: "Mom, didja know daycare kids shouldn't use scissors?"

Me: "Mmm, no, why not?"

Chloe: "Because day don't know how to cut berry good, and day might accidentally cut deir eyball out." She said emphatically, making hand gestures to match.

Me: "Ohh my goodness, that wouldn't be good,"

Chloe: "No, because if day cut deir eyeball out day would hafta get a fake eye, and if day didn't get a fake eye dat would be SO disgustin'! If dat happened to me and I couldn't get a fake eye I would probably just (clicks tongue and rolls eyes as if thinking about what to do) climb one of those electricity poles and just---shock myself dead."

Me: "Whoa! Why would you do that?"

Chloe: "Because, my eye would be so disgustin' and I wouldn't be able to see wif it" (Winking one eye shut looking like a super-cute Popeye.

Me: "Ya, but you'd be able to see out of your other eye..."

Chloe: "Would you show me where to go an' stuff so I wouldn't bump into things?"

Me: "Yes. If you accidentally cut your eye out using scissors improperly in daycare and couldn't get a fake eye I promise I would take care of you for the rest of my life and show you everywhere to go," I said, trying not to laugh.

Chloe: "Hmm. Ok, den. I guess I wouldn't hafta climb that electricity pole..."

And then we pulled in the driveway. And she wanted to know if she could have a bowl of cheeseballs when we got inside.  I don't know about you, but I found the "where do babies come from" talk to be much easier than the stuff she comes up with.

The Case of the Missing Doritos

Chloe isn't what you'd call "sneaky."  She's usually very clear about her intentions, and even when she's trying to pull one over on someone, she often accidentally tells on herself.  For example, a few nights ago she found Bryan's phone in our bedroom. She then announced that she was going to take Bryan his phone and hide it behind her back to surprise him.  He was sitting only feet away in the living room and clearly heard the whole conversation.

She told me a month before Christmas that she was getting me the Perfect Brownie pan.  It was no secret.

If she wants something or needs something, she always asks, even when permission isn't required.

So today, when I left my Doritos bag on the couch to go start our grilled cheese sandwiches, I thought I was losing my mind when it disappeared.  I'm notorious for carrying things around the house.  You might find the remote on the back of the toilet, or in the fridge if I've had it last.  I searched high and low, then went into my bedroom where she was watching a Barbie movie.  She's a good "finder," so I was going to enlist her help.

Then I saw her, chin on her knees, munching on my Doritos.  :)  Little Stinker.

..Seeds.

Those "seeds" combined with a low temperature got Chloe kicked out of school for a day or two. Apparently you can't have poop seeds and stay at school ;) So we're home and hoping to go back to school Friday. I no more than published that post when I got the call. Ah Universe. You crack me up.

To Be (Naive) or Not to Be (Naive)...That is the real question

As a parent I find myself often reflecting on my own experiences and trying to decide if I should do it the way it was done with me, or if I should be more or less conservative. I already know that I'm much more liberal than my own mother, which doesn't make her right or wrong, it just makes us different.

Raising Chloe, I debate often about whether to be reserved with her on somewhat "taboo" topics, or whether to be the one to feed her the honest, gory truth, knowing she's going to find it one way or another.

I could tell you a million embarrassing stories about how naive I was as a child and pre-teen. I won't embarrass myself (or you) too much, but this is something I have been contemplating lately.

I distinctly remember my first high school dance. I was a freshman. I was quite intimidated by the seniors there. I was worried they'd laugh at us or make fun of us. I was wrong. They were absorbed in their own adventures. I looked over during one of the up-beat songs and saw a couple of juniors dirty dancing. As you know, I didn't watch the movie until later on, so I had NEVER seen this before! I stared at them in the dark, and I wondered what had happened to these guys since they left our middle school!

I recall sitting at Lindsey's dining room table with her, trying to get the courage to ask her mom what a certain word (that I won't publish) meant. It wasn't in the dictionary, we'd already checked. When we finally had the nerve to ask her, she told us, without ever changing her tone, exactly what we wanted to know.

In a way I want Chloe to be that girl at the dance. I wouldn't mind if she couldn't figure out why B.J. gets made fun of. I'd be ok if she was one of the few who listened intently as her 6th grade teacher explained the birds and the bees and she'd never heard of such a thing.

What I'm not ok with, though, is her being laughed at for having a squiggle pen that vibrates when it writes, and not knowing why she's the butt of a joke. I'm not ok with her learning street terms and their definitions from the class slut in the 8th grade. I'm not ok with her being pressured and asked if she knows what so-and-so is and then laughed at, only to Google it when she gets home.

For now, I find my approach a little more liberal than my own mom's. Chloe knows the proper terms for male and female anatomy, and she knows where babies come from, although HOW they get in the tummy is still God's doing.

It's scary raising a little girl. I want to impress strong morals and values on her. I want her to make good choices with her life. I want her to avoid compromising situations, but I also want her to be aware. I want her to know the dangers, I want her to hold her own. I want her to "get" the jokes, and then be the one to say, "You guys are disgusting. Get a life."

Allergy Eyes

If I wrote a blog about every hilarious thing that my daughter says, I would be online all the time. Every day I send Mom an e-mail about something cute or funny Chloe said the night before. Among the e-mail worth quotes are, "Mom, I look fabulous," "You're so precious, Mudder," (I'm still trying to twhart the "mother" comments), and "Gimme a oochie hug!"

Last night, however, she picked up a conversation Mom and I had and tried to use it for her own benefit.

Mom's been having trouble with her eyes, and was telling me she went to the doctor and he gave her some stuff for her allergies and some drops for her eyes. That's really all the conversation entailed. We talked about other things, watched Beauty and the Beast (non-scary parts only) with Chlo, and then Chlo and I went home to get ready for baths and bed.

After her drink, her second trip to the potty, and her fourteenth "oochie" hug, she was quiet for a while. Just as I had turned off my light and was about to lie down, she came tip-toe-ing into my room.

"What is it, Chloe?" I asked her.
"I can't sleep," she complained.
"Why not?" I asked, expecting the thunder or "bad dream" excuse.
"I have a- a- allergy in my eye."
"You have a what?" I asked, not sure I heard her right.
"A allergy in my eye."

I told her the only way to get an allergy out of your eye is to keep it closed. She went to her room to try it...I didn't hear her again until morning.

Kids really do say the darndest things :)