A hot water bottle dressed in my t-shirt tucked in for the night in Betsy's bed. If that's not a transitional object I don't know what is. One of the ever-shrinking evidences of toddlerhood in a little girl who just discovered Hannah Montana. We had to listen to the Hannah Montana theme song at full volume no fewer than 15 times today while making lasagne. We also had to spend 45 minutes picking out just the right outfit in which to go to the supermarket.
In just the last week, maybe the last 48 hours, Betsy has become aware of her hair, skin-tight jeans, and the word fashionista. That in combination with it being the middle of winter (i.e., my ever-graying hair is so flacid and filled with static I call it seaweed-on-a-rock, my wardrobe consists of a 10 year old down jacket and fleece-lined pants, my skin tone is that of white laser printer paper and just as dry) is making me feel really old and dumpy.
Then Betsy shouted "Stop!" when I started to sing along with Hannah Montana. "You're embarrassing me."
"But no one else is here."
"Cookie's here."
Cookie is our cat and apparently she too thinks I am yesterday's oceanfish and tuna.
It dawned on me that I will be getting grayer and dryer and shorter as Betsy gets taller and smarter and more beautiful. So I kept singing.
"Mommy I'm not going to help you make lasagne if you keep on singing."
Then of course she had to poop and wanted me to wipe her. In the bathroom Betsy had peeled off all her clothes and was sitting naked on the toilet reading an American Girl Doll catalog. I still help her with the tushy part but she's in charge of her vagina. It's a childrearing technique I pulled out of my own arse.
To my budding teenager I said, "You know one day soon you're really going to have to start wiping your own tushy."
"I know," she said.
Until then she'll sample growing up by rocking out to Hannah Montana and sshing the mother with the bucket of wipes.
3 comments:
You are too funny.
I was sad to see parent.com let you go, but now I'm thrilled to learn you're no longer censored. I look forward to the ride.
When our oldest son was 12 and still incapable of staying all night at a sleepover without calling us to fetch him home, he got mad one day and announced that he couldn't *wait* till he was out on his own and away from our rules. I resisted the impulse to say, "Really? And will I still be driving over to pick you up at 10:30 p.m.?"
margaret45, when I told my mother I was going to run away, she said,
clean your room first.
and there I sat... NO WAY.
tonight I sang sang sang as I was cooking dinner. I often chose a song from the 60's to truly torture my children.
and the dog was horrified.
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