Now that I have fortified myself with a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin (I think I felt my kidneys twitch in horror at watching me buy a bottle of 300 pills), I am ready to tackle the task of writing once again. Although I think I might be just a little out of form, since after rereading that last sentence it makes it appear as though I've consumed a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin, rather than having purchased it. In fact, I haven't even had one Excedrin today, which is a major success. It had not occurred to me that I should go see a doctor about all these migraines, until so many of you kindly mentioned it. I suppose I should. If I go I'd love to find out if I could get an MRI, not because I think I need it, but because seriously, how cool would that be to see a picture of inside my head? If I could get a copy of it, you know I would absolutely find a way to work that photo into one of my classroom lectures in the fall because that's the kind of crazy teacher I am.
Waking up without the familiar ache behind my left eye was so refreshing. Before I was fully awake, I listened as Jason helped the girls with breakfast, heard the running of the bath water, smiled to myself when Jules screamed "Bath!" the moment she realized she heard the tub filling. I stretched and got ready to get up, but not before I heard Sydney ask, "Where's my dress?"
Where's my dress? It's what she says nearly every morning, and by some amazing parenting magic, I almost always know which dress she's talking about. There's no trick to it really: it's just whatever dress she wore the day before. And unless the dress had an unfortunate meeting with yesterday's lunch, it will still be good to wear another day. Up until Sunday, there were only two choices--the heart dress, or the spinny dress. Don't let the labels deceive you. They're both spinny dresses. And now, thank heavens, we finally have added another spinny dress--dubbed "my new dress"--to the mix.
I have a child who loves to wear dresses that twirl. Loves them beyond measure. She will tell you, "I have a closet full of dresses! Full!" She holds up both her hands to show you just how many dresses she has. But ask her what dresses she'll wear? "Only the spinny ones. If it doesn't spin..." here she shakes her head sadly, "then I just. can't. wear. it." Oh honey. You don't need to explain to me how much drama a wardrobe can inspire. I have been known--in a fit of post-pregnancy angst--to ruthlessly donate nearly everything in my closet, so much so that I literally don't have a week's worth of clothes left to wear.
I will confess to you that I am thrilled to have a daughter who is all about dresses, and princesses, and pink, and ballet slippers. Although I would have been happy no matter what her favorite color, I was a bit nervous that I'd have a daughter who would more closely resemble my sister. Now, before my sister gets all up in arms about this statement, let me insist that I love my sister. However, I think she and I can agree that we didn't have much in common growing up. She was a definite tomboy who hated dresses, favored the color blue (she was excused from pink since she had red hair), and was much more in her element playing sports and actually being friends with guys instead of--like her older sister--flirting endlessly with them. She was cool, but she was different from me. And it wasn't until she went to college that we figured out we liked being around each other. And then in a twist of fate (mostly related to her living and working in SoCal), it ends up that she fixes her hair more often than I do, and has a wardrobe that has more skirts and bikini swimsuits than mine. It's so unfair.
Even though I'm by no means a CoverGirl--I wear minimal make-up and if my hair is long enough to be in a ponytail that's how I'll wear it all the time--I'm still a big fan of dressing up and wearing heels. I knew I'd love Sydney no matter what, but there was a part of me hoping we'd be able to share a bond over dresses, and twirling, and teacups, and dolls, and fairies with pink and purple wings. Suffice to say, her love of dresses probably outpaces mine. Certainly her love of having her nails painted definitely outpaces mine. She and her cousin Clover were treated by Great-Grandma to their very first professional manicure last week, and boy oh boy, it was something else.
Sparkles! Pinks! Purples! It was like a little tiny piece of heaven had fallen into a display case, centered between a poster of toes in the sand and a poster of an exotic location in Thailand. Sydney picked out a lovely shade of purple for my pedicure (and, oh, I do love pedicures), and she and Clover jointly picked out the sparkly shake of pink that all of us were getting on our nails.
By the way, that dress she is wearing is the spinny dress. Important to know that.
Of course, for all my wishes of sugar and spice, I always wished for a girl who would be just as interested in puppy dog tails. If not puppy dog tails, then at least tadpoles and crawdads. Right after she got her nails done, she promptly headed down to the creek and got down to the business of playing.
Because if you're going to be living at the Farm, you can't be a pansy about getting dirty (although I can be a bit weak-willed about tolerating dirt).
Go on, Jules. All the girls are playing in the sand. You can do it too.
That's the beauty of my little girl. One moment she's spinning in a salon, singing a made-up song about having beautiful nails--to the tune of Sound of Music's "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" naturally--and the next moment she's digging in the sand, building a house for all the little periwinkles that crawl along the shore.
My girl. Already an expert at twirling.
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