Is buying suspenders conceding the fight against sag?
Honestly, I hate that draft you get when you sit down and just KNOW your crack is showing. I’ve never been the type to brazen it out. You know, the type that buys a thong with a cute, sequined something-or-other right there where the strings cross above your butt crack? Thereby giving reason to the gap at the back of your britches?
No, I wear a safety shirt at all times. And it’s hot during the summer and clingy during the winter.
And if I don’t wear a safety shirt, I find it necessary to warn people when I sit down not to laugh at my crack. Or I will beat them up.
Okay, I don’t do that second part, but I do do the first part.
Aside: I said “do do” in a post about butt cracks.
Anyway, I warn them. Or I sit against a wall. Walls don’t usually mind if your crack is showing, because they often have a few cracks of their own.
And then there are those rare moments when I - sans safety shirt - am forced to sit in a chair, and as my lower back brushes up against the cool, hard plastic, I find myself wondering how many other lower backs have brushed up against this same cool, hard plastic. And were they clean backs? Were they hairy? Were they clammy from being outside? Clammy from just BEING? Were they accentuated by a tiny, sequined thong? Were they simply the product of some really saggy jeans?
I do my best thinking about suspenders in those moments.
It’s astounding, the sheer volume of advice you carry alongside your newborn infant as you leave the hospital. And as you pack her into the backseat, it’s almost as if that advice will work harder than all the seat belts and airbags in the world do to keep her safe.
At night, when it’s just you and her and your fears that she will never learn to latch on, your eyes sting as you recall the nurse saying, “Avoid cleaning your nipples with soap, because you will erase the scent your baby naturally associates with her mother.”
So, the next time you shower, you DON’T soap your nipples.
And when she spits up in her sleep after she finally learns to latch on, you prop her to that magic angle that will keep her from choking on it.
And when she’s teething, you use those teething tablets that are really awesome. Until the FDA recalls the tablets and sends you into a flurry to find something that works just as well.
And then she’s six months old and she has six teeth and you’re suddenly realizing that you could probably start washing your nipples again if you wanted to.
And you probably DO want to, what with all those teeth.
So, I brushed my teeth this morning, which is awesome, because morning is the first best time for teeth brushing, and this brushing session was particularly exciting. Aside from the satisfaction of warding off cavities, I was high on knowing that my breath would be nice and minty for when I wished my boy a Happy Birthday today.
But, he wasn’t in his bedroom.
I was confused for a second, and then I remembered he’s been “breaking in” the baby’s room. You know, so she won’t be afraid to sleep there when she gets born.
I crooned softly in his ear, “Happy birthday, little boy.”
He woke with the same sleepy-slow smile that’s been charming me for the last seven years of mornings.
And said, “Mama. I was opening packages and packages of soaps. All kinds of soaps,” then rolled over and pressed his face back into his blankets.
I kinda like knowing his dreams are still squeaky clean. I’ll have to remember this when he’s a butt-scratching, grumpy, 17-year-old dreaming of who-knows-what*.
*It’d better still be soap.
It seems odd that I am able to have the slightest idea of what she looks like. She wakes me up at odd hours, presses on my organs in ways that are most uncomfortable, and quakes my insides with her hiccups.
I keep her photos by my bed and thumb through them when it seems she’s being more alien than human.
This is Estella Hart.
So, this Christ of the Ozarks statue…
It’s reputed to be one of the most frequently photographed statues in the world. People come from all over the place to see this thing. It’s treated with all the reverence you would expect a depiction of Christ to be treated. But, it plain gives me the creeps.
Where I would normally find offense at someone making a “zombie” Jesus crack, I didn’t argue with my son when he said, “Ewww, he looks like a zombie. Hey, come throw a frisbee, Mom!”
Christ of the Ozarks’ dead eyes do, indeed, speak to a certain absence of life. As do the crypts containing the corpses of his creators, which are planted at his feet.
I looked in to this guy, Gerald L.K. Smith. It’s really no wonder that his depiction of Christ would leave a body cold. I really wonder if there was a soul in his body at all: http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_L._K._Smith?wasRedirected=true
Last weekend, I spent three nights in the country with my six-year-old boy, Beaux (usually written “Bx” for short, since his name in sign language, as given to him by his grandpa, is a “B” and an “X” signed in quick succession). We arrived after dark and the coyotes were out, but I figured Bx was prepared for them. Well, at least for the lonely and sometimes haunting sound of them.
Living in the city, we don’t hear much from the coyotes. We also don’t see much of the stars that are beyond the reach of our glowing street lamps, either, so it’s always especially hair-raising to arrive at night. The darkness is absolute, but for the twinkling of a million stars, and the coyotes seem to pace just outside of the yellow circle of light provided by the single bulb above the shed.
As we unloaded the car, I heard Bx’s voice coming from the direction of my right elbow, “Mama?” and I was tired and cranky and my hands were full, so I just said, “Huh?”
“Mama?” he said again, and this time his breath was warm in my belly button. He’d worked his body into the tiny space between my gestating self and the now-empty car trunk.
“HUH,” I said, with a little force. More effort than that would have required the use of consonants, and I was just too tired for that nonsense. Aside from that, I still had to shut the trunk. Sheesh.
“Mama-“
“Whadyawant?” I interrupted.
“-will you show me a picture of a coyote?” he asked, and his voice was small and shaky, and I realized he’d just been too scared to formulate his thoughts quickly, like I’d been too tired to put my tongue to the roof of my mouth to form a coherent response.
I sighed with exasperation, more at myself and my own impatience than at his hesitant curiosity. “Oh, honey, of course I will. But, you know, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“There’s not?” he asked, his voice just a little louder than the disembodied howls and yips coming to us from the darkness, which must’ve made the coyotes seem larger than life and innumerable.
“Nope, not at all,” I stated firmly.
Well, when we were finally in our designated bed for the night, I Googled “coyote” on my iPhone (they FINALLY have service out there).
Those handy, dandy iPhones. Always thinking they’re so smart.
The first picture wasn’t so bad. The second one was alright. The third, however, was a picture of a coyote taking down a huge sheep in broad daylight. A sheep easily larger than the boy tucked securely into my armpit.
“We’ll just skip that one,” I said, and turned from the snapping jaws and dripping teeth to a picture of a coyote that had hopped onto a Portland light-rail train and was looking all cuddly for the commute. “That’s really how they look in real life. Isn’t that sweet?” I asked. And on that note, “Now, go to sleep.”
A few minutes later, when Bx said he was having a tough time going to sleep because of the coyotes, I snuggled him a little closer to me instead of suggesting he count sheep. Thataway, I wouldn’t have to account for a decline in their population should he run out of sheep before falling asleep.
…about the way I look. So, I brushed my hair today. At least he won’t be embarrassed to call me mom.
Or when I kiss him on the lips in front of all his potential friends and yell, “Have a beautiful day in first grade, my little snookums!” as he runs away from me.
Twin 1: My daddy has hair under his arms.
Twin 2: And it don’t never come off.
Twin 1: Never.
So, we went out and rubbed sweaty elbows with some folks at Iguana last night. Cornered in Iguana’s lobby by the heat and humidity of the outdoors, I had no choice but to watch the following take place:
Loud Drunk Guy: Seriously! I STILL have my Nine Inch Nails shirt. And I WEAR it! HAAAAAAhahaha! Whoa… sorry about that. But, really, I love your wife SOOOO much.
Husband: Yeah… I love her too.
Loud Drunk Guy: Do you KNOW how much I love her? SOOOO much. I always said she was the NICEST… uh… the nicest… PERSON I ever knew! And she WAS!
Wife: (smiling politely) Why, thank you. And I remember the Nine Inch Nails shirt.
Unhappy Baby: Waaaah!
Loud Drunk Guy: Ohhh my GOODnesssss! Let me hold him! Babies LOVE me! I promise, they LOVE me!
Baby: (Cries harder at sheer loudness of Loud Drunk Guy)
Husband: Oh, he’s okay, just hot and-
LDG: HERE. (shoves beer at husband)
Husband: -tired. Umm’kay.
LDG: (lifts upset baby out of mother’s arms and into the air) See? Oh, my GOODNESS! Babies LOVE me! Watch - SO MUCH - I promise!
Baby: (lets go with a long wail and accompanying string of drool)
LDG: (catches drool in mouth mid-“OMG”) Well, I guess- Yeah, I guess he’s probably tired. But, normally! NORMALLY, babies love me! Here, little guy, here’s your mommy.
Wife: (soothes baby)
LDG: (grabs back beer) But, seriously! (yelling at baby) Do you KNOW how much I LOVE your mommy?!
Today, a friend waited four hours in the ER so her curious 11-month-old baby could receive nine staples to his head. And then she miscarried the baby in her womb.
Yeah.
I find myself being grateful for the child bouncing around my house in his batman underpants, and for the one bruising my innards as I type.
I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I’m glad for my today.
