As we sat in church a few weeks ago, Lauren sat on my lap. She was leaning with her side up against me thoughtfully playing with a mole that I have on the inside of my left arm. I've been self-conscious about that ugly little mole ever since I was in second grade when I wore a sleeveless shirt to school and some girls mercilessly teased me about it.
After a few minutes, she looked up at me with those big beautiful blue eyes of her and said, "Mom, I really love this."
"What do you love?" I asked, thinking she was going to say something profound by the look in her eyes.
"Your mole. It's just so big, and juicy... and fat," she said as she lay her head against my chest, sighing with all the admiration a four year old could muster.
I guess one person's curse is another person's envy.
About a week ago I was cutting Luke's hair in my bathroom. He was staring at his reflection in the mirror when suddenly his eyes filled up with big crocodile tears and he said, "Mom, I wish I were normal."
"Normal? What are you talking about, sweetheart?"
"It's my eyes and my eyelashes," he said. "I'm so sick and tired of people always telling me how big and beautiful they are! I just wish they were small like everyone else's and that people would leave me alone."
I was shocked! His eyes are mesmerizing and startling- his most stunning feature. Ever since he was a tiny baby, people would stop us everywhere we went to oooh and aaah over his eyes. I realize as his mother I'm biased, but I think I can safely say that that boy is absolutely gorgeous. But apparently he sees those "ojotes" (as the Mexican women call them) as a freakish mutation.
I tried to explain to him that when people commented on his eyes, that they were trying to be kind and pay him a compliment.
"I don't care," he said. "I just wish people would stop telling me how handsome I am!"
Again, another person's curse is another person's envy.
A few weeks ago on a Saturday morning as we were doing household chores and laundry, we heard a loud thump, thump, thump coming from the stairs, followed by Lauren's howling and crying.
We ran to see what was the matter, only to find out that she after we had sent her upstairs to put her clothes away, she then tried to ride the laundry basket down the stairs like a sled. It didn't quite work out as she had planned as the laundry basket turned head over end with her in it, throwing her out. In the process she sustained a small buckle fracture in her left wrist.
After many tears, a visit to Quick Care, the orthopedic doctor's office, x-rays, a splint, and a hefty medical bill, she has since thankfully recovered.
This morning as I set the laundry baskets out to do laundry, I saw her heading upstairs, dragging the empty laundry basket behind her.
"Where are you going with that?" I asked.
"Well, my arm is feeling all better, so I thought I'd try riding the laundry basket down the stairs again," she said.
Are you kidding me?!?
After a stern lecture, she agreed to not try her little stunt again, but tried to slip past me several times with the laundry basket towards the stairs.
That little woman!!! Who would have thought that my biggest daredevil would be my sweet little girl? She is going to be the death of me!
For this next little anecdote, I am completely to blame and I take full responsibility. My three youngest were born delightfully chubby and squishy. I've squeezed and squished them all until they've reached an age when their baby fat has sadly melted off and they give me a heart-to-heart telling me that I need to knock if off. But until then, I squish away.
Calista is my last squisher left, but to my dismay my annoying habits are starting to peeve her too. She'll hold out her little hands and furrow her eyesbrows and say,"No, no, no more squishing me!"
For the most part I've backed off, but in a gesture of retaliation, her and Lauren have taken up squishing me now that I'm the one with the excess squishiness. Lauren will often come up behind me and grab two large handfuls of bum cheeks and say, "Squishy, squishy, Mommy!" and then run away giggling.
When Calista is sitting on my lap, she'll reach out and squish the closest, squishiest things her little hands can grab. And wouldn't you know it, there are two of them... right on my chest, right at grab-level.
It serves me right, I guess.
Several months ago, Calista was extremely irritated with me for some reason, although I can't remember why. She huffed and puffed and yelled something at me before stomping out the door. But that wasn't enough, apparently, and she came back into my room several times to let me have a piece of her mind. And I couldn't understand a word she was saying. Somewhere in the middle of all of her frustration, she had gotten a bad case of the hiccups. Everytime she came into my room to shake her little finger at me, I had to try harder and harder not to laugh. It sounded like I was getting chewed out by a cute little rubber ducky... with a lisp.