Tales From A Most Unfortunate Week

I am hiding from my children.

And eating a whole plate full of noodles with parmesan cheese and butter.  

So I am hiding from my children while I eat carbs.  It’s pretty much a win-win.

It’s been one of those weeks.  I had a corneal transplant in my left eye a few months ago, and the other day my son chose that eye to jab with his elbow.  Four hours and a trip to the emergency room later, I was told it was just going to hurt for a while but there was no permanent damage.

Relieved that the cornea was still intact, I left the ER and started my journey home in the minivan we bought a month ago.  That journey ended with the van in a guardrail and a $5500 repair estimate.

The next morning my husband left me and my sore, aching back for a 24 hour shift at work.  In the middle of this and two screaming toddlers, my dishwasher quit working.

Not only did it quit working, the disgusting drain water actually backfilled into my kitchen sinks where it sat, stagnant and smelling, while I had a complete breakdown on the phone to my husband. (I think I actually suggested that he quit his job right then and come home to fix our plumbing. Of course I was calm and mildmannered when I suggested it, not shrieking like a hysterical crazy woman.)

The eye is healing.
The van will get fixed.
The husband talked me through unplugging the sinks, then came home the next morning and drained the dishwasher so it works again.

And then I discovered that I have to be at the firehouse at 5 AM tomorrow, not 9 like I had previously thought. (Before becoming a firefighter-paramedic, I had no real idea that there even WAS a five in the morning)
My children are running around the living room in their diapers, having shed their pajamas, acting like they have been mainlinging hyper bean coffee for the last six hours.

Thus I am sitting here, in my kitchen, eating carbs.
And waiting for Thing 1 and Thing 2 to find me.

 

 

My daughter’s beauty

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I was recently reading a blog by a person who does not tell her daughter that she is beautiful.  Instead, this author uses the words “strong,” “smart,” “kind.”  All of which are good words, and all of which I tell my daughter(and my son).  

But I also tell them, both, that they are beautiful.  Because they are.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking her worth is based on her physical beauty.  I don’t want her focusing on physical attractiveness to the exclusion of her intelligence and her wit and her strength.  
But my daughter is beautiful, and I want her to know it.

I want her to know that her beauty ranks with sunsets over the lake and spring flowers pushing their way through the dirt.  I tell her that she is innately beautiful, like waterfalls cascading over rocks.  Why do I tell her this, when I don’t want her to focus on it?

Because I want beauty to be a part of her.  I want her to be so confident that she is beautiful that it shines through, whether she is wearing her little cupcake pinafore or her red firefighter gear.  I want her to know that she is beauty, the same beauty that is found in nature, beauty that simply is because that is how it was created to be.  I want her to know that she is beautiful because she was born that way, not because of a dress size or makeup or hair style.

I want her to be so sure of her beauty that it becomes a part of her, not something she does, but something she simply is.

I want beauty to be so present in her that it doesn’t matter whether she is a size ten, like Mommy, or wearing a pink tutu and theater makeup like her aunts, or has soot on her face and a fireman helmet on her head like her Daddy–I want her to know she can be all of this, and beautiful.

So yes.  I tell my little girl every day that she is strong, and smart, and funny–and beautiful.

Because she is.

 

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