This kid must excrete a gallon of drool a day!

By the world’s standards, I am well aware that my thighs are too big, my chest too small; my lashes are too short, my skirts too long; my hips are too full, my lips too thin; my roots are too dark, my skin too pale . . . but I am grateful for a precious little boy who loves to stare at me with the sweetest, most adoring gazes.  I know that to him (and him alone), I am the most beautiful woman in the world.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Studies indicate that these first few years will be the most formative ones of Tad’s life.  I sincerely hope that the hours spent playing “princess dress-up” with his sisters don’t have long-term negative effects.

While heating up micro-tweeze wax in the microwave so that I can rip off some of the catepillar-like unibrow I have crawling across my forehead, I glanced at my grocery shopping list.  Smack dab in the middle of the list was “lingerie.” How the heck did THAT get there? No, I can guarantee that it was NOT a Freudian slip. (Ha! no pun intended).  

I did a double take.  

Oooh! Linguine. Pasta. Noodles.

In addition to tending to my facial hair needs, I think that a fresh pair of contacts is in order.

Vivi is the most girly girl I know, and I LOVE it!  She loves getting her hair done, especially if it involves a bow of some kind. She parades around the house in dress up most of the day and refers to me as “Queen Mother.”  So, when BT called me outside and suggested that I bring my camera, I didn’t expect to be taking pictures of my little princess holding a slimy grub worm.  On the bright side, perhaps I can cancel my $pest control contract$ and turn the task over to Miss Vivi.  

Thankfully, I have all week to try and reverse the crash course tomboy training that BT likes to inflict upon my sweet Vivi each Saturday as they work side-by-side in the backyard.

These are the words she uttered, even in the very moment that her head dropped and her eyes closed at the dinner table tonight.  One o’clock church is tough for a little two-year-old who still desperately needs her daily nap.

As I handed Vivi each utensil and bowl used to make our magic cookie bars and homemade vanilla ice cream tonight, I was reminded of a sweet story my dad once told me about how his mom would generously dip the spoon into the cake batter before handing it to him to lick.

That’s the kind of story I want told of me to my grandkids.

If you happened to be in the vicinity of Cristina’s Mexican Restaurant last night at 7:00 p.m. or so and thought that you saw someone resembling me (bags under my eyes, red/chapped nose from a cold, hair that needed to be cut/colored months ago) sitting alone in the bar area, don’t be alarmed.  I haven’t fallen off the wagon.  I wasn’t stepping out on BT, waiting for Don Juan to come and whisper “dulce nadas” in my ear.  I was just enjoying the peace, solitude and anonymity of my weekly “momma’s night out,” sipping my ice water (with a slice of lemon, of course), dining on brisket tacos, and watching American Idol on the t.v. for first time ever (closed-caption probably isn’t how the program was meant to be experienced).

Cristina’s isn’t my usual hang out.  In fact, I try to mix things up to make it harder for my family to track me down. One week it may be The Cheesecake Factory . . . another, Outback Steak House, Corner Bakery, or even McDonald’s drive-through if I spend too much time at the mall and all the other more palatable options are closed. But although the venue changes each time, one thing doesn’t change.  I am always by myself . . . alone . . . solo.  Unlike right now, as I try to type and hold a screaming baby at the same time while attempting to keep Vivi from stepping in the big mound of baby lotion that she just squeezed out on the carpet.

Guess I’d better go clean up the lotion . . . and change a poopy diaper . . . and stop Vivi from eating the entire box of crackers that she just pulled from the pantry . . . and dream about where my next Momma’s Night Out adventure may take me. 😉

By their ecstatic reaction when we told the kids that they could sleep on the hide-a-bed on Friday night, you’d have thought that we’d just announced that we were taking them on an all-expense-paid trip to the American Girl store or something.  The cutest thing was when they exclaimed, “Oh! The HEIDI bed! We slept there with Aunt Heidi when she came to visit!” 

And so this is how the hide-a-bed came to be affectionately known as the “Heidi Bed” in the Tolbert household.

As my two youngest kids gasped and wheezed through RSV-infected lungs Saturday night, I wished that I could breathe for them.  As any mother would, I longed to take away the pain and discomfort of my little children.  

And then my thoughts were turned to Someone who undoubtedly knew exactly how I felt . . . who loved ME enough to suffer unexplicable pain on my behalf. And as this thought came to my mind, peace came to my heart, and I was comforted to know that even in the dark of that frightening night, I was not alone.