Little girls are supposed to dream about their weddings, kids, a home and white picket fence, and the smart, funny, gorgeous husband who will chase his girl to the ends of the earth.
Then there’s me.
Growing up, I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be an actress. Or a rock star. Or a TV star. Or the lady who runs Wall Street. Oh, what about a lawyer? Could I be a pilot, too?
I settled for the most glamorous option: newspaper reporter. I know, you’re jealous. That Michael Keaton movie made everyone want to be a reporter. No? Hmm…that’s weird.
Dating? That was a nice pastime, but never a dedicated endeavor. I left a few and a couple left me, until I went to work at a daily newspaper in Northeast Texas, where I found “the one,” in the form of a 21-year-old man. And me, a 33-year-old woman. Huh.
We got married, bought a small weekly newspaper in Southeast Texas and plunged into a roller coaster ride, deciding to wait on kids. Apparently babies can take up a lot of time. Somebody should totally write a book about that.
Then I was 38 and there was knocking on my uterine wall. Loudly. I went off the pill and found out your heart can break in more pieces than you even knew existed. A diagnosis of diminished ovarian reserve, then Clomid, IUI and IVF. And then one day, there was a beautiful baby girl, two weeks shy of my 41st birthday.
Thinking that was it for us, we basked in the glow of parenthood. At my six month follow-up, I got the very interesting news that I was pregnant. Spontaneously. Weird.
In a flourish, we sold our business, sold our house, moved in with my dad until we could find a new place, bought our new house, moved, and had beautiful baby girl number two,
three months after my 42nd birthday.
And my how the time flies. Birthdays get logged, Christmases get celebrated, milestones get reached, and here I am, the mother of a 2½ year old and a 14 month old. The most beautiful daughters I could have hoped for, with a whole lot of precocious to go around.
Annie – the whirling dervish. At 2½, Annie could probably run our household. She knows where the food is, how to get water out of the refrigerator, how the washer and dryer works, where the vacuum is kept, and where all the clothes are contained. She also knows how to find mischief wherever she goes, including hiding in clothes racks, behind the slide at the park and in her sister’s closet.
She can make you laugh and make you cry, and then tell you, “No thank you, Mommy,” when you ask if she needs to go potty. She can recite her ABCs and count to 20, but she doesn’t really like to wear clothes if she can help it, but she loves to walk around the house in mommy’s heels.
Leelou – the little gremlin. Don’t let this 1 year old fool you; Leelou can work an iPad and cell phone, identify all her family members in a picture, and shake her head “no” vigorously if you try to offer her a cracker when what she really wants is a cookie. She knows when she’s done something a little naughty, because she clasps her hands behind her back and smiles a glorious smile, and you can’t help laughing.
Leelou is very certain about what she likes and doesn’t like. She likes her blanket, but she doesn’t like wearing diapers. She likes noisy toys, but she doesn’t really like to share them. She loves to eat, but she’ll still pick up specks of food off the floor 10 seconds after she’s been taken out of her high chair.
Our home is covered in blocks, cars, stuffed animals, toys that look like medical implements, books, beads, two castles, puzzles, crayons, chalk and more. I’m not exactly certain where mommy and daddy’s influence leaves off and where theirs begins.
I’m so excited about the True Tales from the Pink and Blue Trenches series, and I look forward to fun tales about the differences and similarities of girls and boys each month, as Jodi tells it like it is at The Noise of Boys and I hold down the fort at Home on Deranged.