The first birthday.
Amazing, right? How fast the year went, that her dad and I haven’t caused irrevocable harm, blah, blah, blah.
Sure it’s cool for her, but it’s super awesome for me. I get to scour pinterest, craft, decorate, repeat. Two full weeks spent shopping for the perfect skirt to match her homemade onesie. Late nights tangled in twine prepping the high chair banner. Bleeding fingers cropping her school pictures for party favors.
Then Jonas dumped two feet of snow on all our fun. My heart broke.
She pounded on her balloon, shoved cake in her face and didn’t give a shit.
Here’s how the bi-weekly conversation goes:
Me: I just, I just don’t know what to do (This is where I throw my hands up). It’s, I just, ugh, (dramatic pause) I don’t know (Bring down the hands, cue the slumped shoulders).
Him: You can’t stop working for 7 years. That’s the deal (the deal used to be 5, but whatever).
Me: I know, I know! I don’t even want to necessarily not work, I just want something else (fuming because he doesn’t understand anything at all…).
Authors Note: My current “something else” ideas in no particular order: co-owner omelette restaurant (my husband has the cooking prowess, I’d be the idea woman/designer/greeter); author children’s picture book; owner baby goods store; sommelier/owner wine and dessert restaurant; professional crafter on etsy.
Him (turning from the TV): You’ve got a freaking blog. What else do you want?
Me (thinking): You mother —. You’re supposed to be telling me how you believe in me. You support my dreams, will travel with me through the unknown. Push me to be my best, etc, etc.
And suddenly, in the middle of my silent rant, a beam of golden sunshine backlit my husband’s big bean. He had cut through my bullshit once again.
Oh F. He’s right. I did what Acuff taught me to do. I started.
And much quicker than he was anticipating, my oft blunt husband was off the hook.
Remember these guys?
These handsome fellas comprised the rap sensation Kris Kross that bounded onto the scene in the early 90s. Besides cranking out monster hits, their claim to fame was backward attire.
Though their star has since faded, I hold a warm place in my heart for these two. However, I tend to subconsciously channel my inner Daddy Mac at the worst times – like last week, at Jazzercise.
Per usual, I arrived late to class. I dashed into the gym, flung off my coat and started sashaying and lunging. I don’t know if it was the fact that the neck of my t-shirt was slowly strangling me, or if it was the tag smacking me in the face, but suddenly I was keenly aware that my shirt was on backwards. Little lettering spelled my name just under my chin and a huge graphic was plastered across my back.
My face got hot. What to do? Hop out to the bathroom to fix it? Rock it like I meant it? Ignore? Is this how Daddy Mac felt when a little old lady crossing the street noticed a zipper up his butt?
In the end, I popped my arms in, furiously twisted the shirt, and popped both arms back out. Right in the middle of a step jump. My classmates went right on dancing. They must be Kris Kross fans.