My Child My Heart

Brianna, my youngest daughter, is bursting forth with life. Literally. She's almost six months pregnant and shows no signs of changing her mind about the whole thing.

Every day brings about a new and amazing change to her body, it seems. At the alarming rate her bust is increasing, she'll soon be able to offer nourishment to starving infants all over the world. Bri is now in an F cup and it's conceivable that she won't stop until she hits every letter of the alphabet.

And not just her body. Her emotions, driven to the brink of insanity by hormones and reality, are in constant flux. Everything is changing. Life is happening within her and without. It's amazing stuff.

I love this woman-child who is my daughter. And I know her. She is becoming. She is discovering herself. She is assuming a new role and a new responsibility. And she is scared. She looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself anymore. She's not quite ready to fully embrace the reality of what is about to happen to her. She needs to find her way, but she's not sure how to do that.

So she clings a little more tightly to me, using whines and complaints to mask the fears. "I can't find a bra that fits. Will you please go shopping with me?" "I have heartburn. Mom, how can I get rid of it?" "Mom, I can't see my toes. Is there anything below my stomach that I should be aware of?" "Mommy, I need some money to support my craving for poptarts smothered in hot sauce?" "Mom, can you..." "Mom, will you..." "Mom, what do you think..."

And then there are the questions she only whispers. "Will I be a good mother?" "Will he stay with me after the baby is born?" "Will I ever feel beautiful again?" "How will we afford day care and diapers and doctor bills?" "Are you ashamed of me?"

And I ache for her, this child of my body and my heart. She is my own precious daughter. How can I explain the inexplicable? That her life will no longer be hers? That she's embarking on a journey that will forever change her; body, soul, and spirit. And how do I prepare her for the beauty, joy, and pain that will teach her lessons she can't begin to imagine right now?

I can't.

So I do what I can. I go shopping. I scratch her back. I answer her questions as best I can. I hold her. I dry her tears. I reassure. I encourage. I pray. I love.

My child. My heart. With awe, I wait. With hope, I anticipate. With gratitude, I accept the continuing cycle of life.

Eventide

A sky-filled benediction
Proclaims that day is done.
As whispered vesper glories
Are painted by the sun.

What was to be has happened.
What is to be will come.
Memories of the waning day
Speak hope and joy to some.

To others a reminder
In soft and dappled hues
That time slips by unmindful
Of all that’s left to do.

With brilliant hallelujahs
The sun will rise again.
The promise of a new day
To ask our Why’s and When’s.

But in the glow of twilight
We hear a call to peace.
The fading sun a comfort.
Let fear and struggle cease.

Beauty...It's a Beast!

You know, there are just some inequities in this world that make me mutter under my breath and shake my head in disgust. One that always gets my panties in a twist is the inequity between how men and women approach self-beautification. Oh, sure. It may be society’s fault that women are held to a different standard. It may even be our own fault for buying into that standard, but it’s still a major harrumph in my life. Until men suffer from having ANYTHING waxed in an effort to look more attractive, I don't want to hear them complain about the burdens THEY carry in this area.

I recently took stock of some of my self-improvement rituals, and I've decided that the time has come to confront a few of these beasts of burden and see JUST how critical they are to me. The Critical Rating Scale ranges from 1-10; 1 being the least critical and 10 being a ritual that allows me to leave my bedroom every day.

• Alignment Issues: No matter how many times you see a man reach down to "adjust" himself, I'm still more than half convinced that they actually enjoy those special moments. I, on the other hand, have decided that I should invest in a laser level to help me get The Girls (lovingly named after those madcap gals, Lavern and Shirley) aligned every morning after they've been safely holstered. There's nothing worse than looking in a mirror at the end of the day only to realize that Lavern has been in a perky mood all day, while Shirley has been a little down, so to speak.
  Critical Rating: 5
  Critical Rating on a Cold Day: 10
  
  
• Brush Strokes: Makeup is a powerful force in a woman's life. We are lured by promises of pearlesque skin, lips that beg to be kissed, and eyes that say "Come hither" with absolutely no shame. While I understand the temptation, I've had too many close calls with evil mascara wands that want to poke my eyes out, and lipstick that ends up on my teeth without my knowledge, so I've just about given up the battle. The sad truth is that no amount of foundation is going to disguise the fact that I'm a 43 year old woman who still suffers from the teenage indignity of occasional blemishes. No artistic application of eye shadow will make my eyes anything other than a gloriously average brown. And no amount of lipstick is going to make my lips whisper an inviting "kiss me" while I continue to enjoy garlic as a condiment in my life.
  Critical Rating: 3
  Critical Rating on "Add a New Picture to My Profile Day": 10
  
  
• Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow: When I was a young lady, I could confine my hair removal to the usual areas: legs, armpits, and eyebrows. As I age, I've noticed that the scope of work and time commitment involved has increased exponentially. I now do a daily once over to check legs, armpits, eyebrows, upper lip, and chin. I think it's a cosmic conspiracy, frankly. Some poor man no sooner loses his hair than it immediately finds its way to a woman somewhere in the universe. It's a sad thing. And it's getting sadder. The other day I actually heard myself mumbling, "I wonder if they make nose hair trimmers for women?" That's just wrong on so many levels. To help in this battle, I have a lovely Vietnamese woman who waxes stuff for me. Her promise is always the same, "I make you look like woman again, Kalen. You see. You be happy with me, Kalen." After the wax and hair has been cruelly RIPPED from my skin, she holds up the removal cloth like a trophy to show me that my $10 was well spent. A necessary evil? Yep. I never want earn the title "Stubbly."
  Critical Rating: 10
  Critical Rating In Low Lighting: 9
  

I could go on and on. Pantyhose, high heels, underwire bras, perfumes that cost more some third-world countries, jewelry and accessories, matching ensembles, tone, texture, style...we have to consider them all! It's not a thing for the feint of heart.

When my husband rolls out of bed in the morning, HE never looks like he should iron his face! He hops in the shower and emerges five seconds later smelling like Safeguard. A swipe of a deodorant stick, five more seconds with the blow dryer, a couple passes with a razor and he’s done. His only remaining decision is which of his 50 gazillion tee shirts he’s going to wear with his jeans. I think I hate him. I really do.

It’s exhausting being a woman in search of beauty. It’s expense. And it’s damn depressing because despite all the hard work, all the expense, all the hopes for success, you know darn well some smart ass teenage Adonis is going to call you “Ma’am” and offer to help you across the street before the day is over.

When he does? Step on his foot “accidentally" and tell him you poked your eye out with a mascara wand and couldn't see well.