So an apology for taking so long to post....YLM is off in her land of joy and work (!) and I have been wailing away as another birthday passed making my days with a Botox appointment seem closer. Seriously, while Botox is not something I would actually consider (Why are we supposed to believe that the poison just dissipates --- dissipates WHERE?), it is hard to face another birthday.
I asked the rabbit how old she thought I was, and she said; "OLD, Mama. You're old." This on top of The Prince pointing out that Ashley Olsen (I think it was her...) had "porked out." Nice. Now I have to strive to remain as anorexic as a 3rd grader.
I know I should be happy just being healthy and alive and all that. But somehow I never thought I would be rethinking those proud statements I used to toss around like a casual throw: "Plastic Surgery? I love the idea of having wrinkles. They'll show I've lived!" (and lived, and lived...) Or my favorite: "I can't wait to have long gray hair! It'll be beautiful." (That was until The Rabbit told me she had blonde hair and I had gray hair...And my father announced during an afternoon lunch that, '"Wow. You're really gray." I have an appointment with the colorist next week....really.)
So how old am I? I will say that while I am south of 40, I am north of 30. And if I forget the actual number, that's fine with me. Some of you will glare at that and say I am a whiner. Fine. That's fine. I just know that I've reached the point where having a little memory loss is, in the words of Martha Stewart, a good thing.
I asked the rabbit how old she thought I was, and she said; "OLD, Mama. You're old." This on top of The Prince pointing out that Ashley Olsen (I think it was her...) had "porked out." Nice. Now I have to strive to remain as anorexic as a 3rd grader.
I know I should be happy just being healthy and alive and all that. But somehow I never thought I would be rethinking those proud statements I used to toss around like a casual throw: "Plastic Surgery? I love the idea of having wrinkles. They'll show I've lived!" (and lived, and lived...) Or my favorite: "I can't wait to have long gray hair! It'll be beautiful." (That was until The Rabbit told me she had blonde hair and I had gray hair...And my father announced during an afternoon lunch that, '"Wow. You're really gray." I have an appointment with the colorist next week....really.)
So how old am I? I will say that while I am south of 40, I am north of 30. And if I forget the actual number, that's fine with me. Some of you will glare at that and say I am a whiner. Fine. That's fine. I just know that I've reached the point where having a little memory loss is, in the words of Martha Stewart, a good thing.
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My kids have no idea how old I am. They know the number, cold (I'm their parent -- they know every snipette of trivia that I've ever mentioned to them . . .and I know the same stuff about my parents, weird that). But what does it mean? Sometimes they think I'm young, and sometimes very very old. They certainly don't understand back pain (despite my kvetching) or why I want them to quit hanging on my gdam leg all the time (ouch!). Or why I can't jump and run with them this weekend (old men daddys shouldn't play basketball and turn their ankles wrong). At least gray haired mommies don't Lose Their Hair Entirely, so let's not go there (sigh), this is a mommy-blog and my problems are outside the scope.
Anyway, I still think pollyanna is the way to go: it's good to be alive and kicking . . . I even remember that fact periodically, which is a good thing. A deepy breath and a look into the eye of the sky.
As for pollyanna -- Tried that once. Didn't fit. Get rid of the (s)mothers and we can talk.....
well, bollocks! within three months of son #2's arrival, my auburn hair turned nearly all gray and i thought to hell with it, gimme the dye. and i've never looked back. people who abstain from coloring deserve kudos for their balls (or ovaries?), but i'm too wimpy and vain.