She's just a baby herself (11 months!) and a baby that has never taken a bottle willingly. Yet somehow, she knows how to take a dolly and put the toy baby bottle up to the little fabric smile. Next, she holds the dolly close to her chest and pats the tiny back. Finally, she grabs dolly's arm and shakes the miniature body senseless.
OK, so some instinctive actions are not exactly worthy.
I have never shaken any of my babies. I promise. She didn't get that from me.
Sunday's Lesson:
Pride comes before a fall.
Let's just hope it happens to me next time, not the baby.
Monday's Lesson:
If the doctor asks, "Oh, they just glued [the cut on baby's forehead]?" the correct response is "Yes." Not, "Actually, we fixed it with superglue."
Monday Night's Lesson:
If you're going to be awake all night with vomiting and diarrhea, Cormac McCarthy's novel, The Road, is not a good reading choice.
Tuesday's Lesson:
It doesn't matter if she is pale, weak and has barf-breath, everyone wants mommy. The good news? Playing in mommy's bedroom while she is passed out in her bed is almost as good as having mommy actually take care of you.
I can hardly wait to see what the rest of the week brings!
Through various conversations & readings lately, I've been reminded of the pressure we women place upon ourselves to achieve perfection.
Perfect marriage.
Perfect children.
Perfect home.
Perfect meals.
Perfect body.
Perfect job/hobby/creations...
Perfect spelling.
Perfection is the four-lane highway on the guilt trip of motherhood.
Anyone who's read my stuff before knows that I am not perfect in any of these aspects. Really not perfect. Some days, I'm determined that my imperfections will not keep me from joy. Some days I do allow my imperfections (and those of people around me) to keep me from joy. Some days I forget I'm not perfect, and I actually do something that impresses myself. And then my camera reminds me.
See, I made this perfectly cute turkey shirt for GBaby. Everything about it impressed me: I made it without a real pattern, loosely following an adaptation from one of my mom's sewing patterns from the 70's. I used only scrap materials, left over from other projects. I hand-embroidered parts. I even finished the seams and top-stitched it, people!
It fits perfectly. "Gee, I'm so pleased with myself. I must be perfect. I'll take a picture to show everyone that sometimes I do things right. I can almost be a craft blogger (except for that whole I'm-not-a-Mormon part)."
Then.
I realized.
I dropped my camera two weeks ago. And now it doesn't like to focus. (Anyone want to sell me a lens for cheap?)
Durn.
I was this close to being perfect.
Now I have to pretend my picture is from the 1960's when I was perfect (except for that whole not-being-born-yet part).
Don't tell me that it's all The Awful Worldly World's fault, because it only has as much influence over me as I allow. So, what drives my (ugly) desire for perfection? Insecurity? Pride? Control? Painful Memories? God sees every part of me, the perfect and imperfect. And still, He loves me. Amen. That's enough to be Thankful. With or without a turkey shirt.
Now, as a bonus reminder, go give a good listen to these two songs from a really great artist. And be thankful for your imperfections, because they can showcase the enormity of God's love.
Just so you know that I'm not making this imperfect stuff up: I had a really crappy attitude for about 36 hours. You can pray for me (and my poor little family). Thanks.
I just set a timer, giving myself 15 minutes to chirp out a post, so there will be few edits and hardly any connections between thoughts.
Sometimes a ratty old sweater just makes you feel better. Particularly a cardigan. Why is slovenliness so emotionally comforting? Up early, compliments of GBaby, I have "fixed" my hair & makeup before the household gets going. Because, you know, it is so important to have eyeshadow on before you bake cookies, which is one of my goals for the day. I've been a little Baker Queen this week. Muffins, biscuits, bread that is impersonating a brick... I don't know why I have such a hard time with bread. My dinner rolls are pretty decent. Anyway, despite the sweater dug out the depths of my bottom drawer, I am wearing my hair curled this morning. I think it looks like a mash-up of Farrah Fawcett and Nelly Olson. Really, a great look for 6:45 AAAM. I think that finger slip signifies Early Morning Greatness: Amazing Amplified Ante Meridian. GBaby doesn't have much hair yet, so no curls for her. She sat at my feet and grunted. Pretty sure I know what that means. When the timer goes off I'm on poop duty. Apparently, there is a world-wide shortage of snot (I'm really sorry about that word, but we're not talking "boogers" people, and I don't know the polite substitution for liquid running from your nose; maybe polite people don't talk about it.) and my head is storing it up for the winter. This stuffiness should help with the poop duty. Maybe I should wear a mask while I bake. Tomorrow night we're having a sleepover to celebrate Sambonio's 8th birthday. He doesn't like it when I call him Sambonio, so I won't do that in front of his friends. I am not really excited about it, because a "sleepover" probably means "little boys who will want their moms at 4:00 AM." And not AAAM. So I'm baking a birthday cake too. Shaped like a pirate ship. With candy. Hmmm... I'm hungry.
