That's right, I'm a working girl.
I got a job!
Well, to be clear, it's more of a job-let. But to say that it is an answer to prayers would be a gross understatement. I've been itching for the past year or so to write. And not just on the blog or work on my book, but to write for compensation. To be able to help provide for my family by using the gifts God gave me. Even if that provision is mainly just gas money. I think I was also (secretly) wanting someone not related to me to say, "No, you're not crazy. You can write. You are correct in thinking this is your thing God gave you. Michelle Kwan's is skating. Bradley Cooper's is, well, just look at him. And yours is writing."
While no one has exactly said those specific words to me (did I just compare my writing to Bradley Cooper's hotness?), it has brought me great joy to receive respect and admiration for my writing.
So what is my new job? Well, actually, I sort of have two jobs. But only one of them pays. The first, the non-paying gig, is that since January I've been writing for and editing the Virginia Bethany Christian Services newsletter. In total, it is about 8ish pages each month. May was about honoring mothers, both birth and adoptive moms. June's is about fundraising. Since I've taken over, it seems we've gotten some positive feedback. It used to be just sort of slapped together by some of the pregnancy counselors. And I want you to know I'm saying slapped together not because they were sloppy or unprofessional, just that they a) are not writers, and b) work as social workers for a non-profit (which is to say they work way too much for way too little money). So I asked if I could take it off their hands. They cheered, did little dances, and then handed me the reins. It's been great. And the editing of the articles has prepared me for my second job.
Which is to help another writer with her writing and to get things out the door to agents and publishers and the like. And this one is the one where God just pointed at laughed at me. Literally, on Friday, I received an email that said (I'm loosely paraphrasing)--Hey, Elizabeth. I think you are awesome and I would like to pay you to sit around in your PJs and Toms and write for me. Also, at some point there will be Margaritas. I'm not kidding about the margaritas. Margaritas have been promised to me.
The most difficult things about both of these jobs are time management and voice. Time management because I'm committed to being a stay at home Mom, committed to my kid's memories of me being about Legos and dance parties, not shows on the DVR while Mommy types in the dining room. Right now I'm typing while Henry is at school. Grace fell asleep in the car while running errands and I'm just letting her take her afternoon nap two hours early.
And as to voice? I am finding it difficult, in both the newsletter and the joblet, to be true to the original author's voice. I have to squash the part of my writing self that says, "Oh, I would've said it this way" or "this would be funnier here". Sometimes I do this when just reading books for pleasure. To the point that at my last book club meeting I said, "This book was okay. My main problem with it is that I didn't write it. It would've been funnier if I wrote it." Sorry, Shauna Niequist. Apparently you didn't get the memo that Cold Tangerines was really my story.
So if I'm blogging less or just putting up photos it is because I'm going to try to limit my blogging time to 30 minutes. This post has taken roughly 20. But some of them, like the three without typos, I spend hours on.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
7 hours
Tomorrow morning I am waking up at 4am to pray. Why 4am? Because half-way across the world, in a time zone of 7 hours difference, there are two little boys who are waiting for their Mommy to take grainy pics of them on her lap while she waits for her car to get fixed. Right now she is waiting for their papers to be filed at the US Embassy. Her sons are waiting in a orphanage in Ethiopia, wearing clothes that are hand me downs from Henry and other soon to be best friends here in Virginia. Waiting to come play with their brother and sisters they met for the first time last month. Waiting for their Mommy and Daddy to hop on a plane as soon as they get the call that their papers have arrived at the Embassy. Which they are supposed to be doing tomorrow around midday.
Their Mommy mentioned she was waking up to fast and pray. Um, I won't be fasting. I'll be drinking Diet Coke. But I will be praying. Fervantly. Expectantly. Confident that God will show up.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Why I do NOT use cloth diapers
A friend of mine recently ran a series on her blog about why she uses cloth diapers. For starters, if you have an infant, or are pregnant, or just want to learn a lot from a really neat lady, you should go read this. Now. I’ll wait.
Didn’t you love it? Didn’t it make you want to move to Taiwan, have your kids play on a playground made out of brightly colored rubber tires, and use cloth diapers? That’s what it did for me. I mentioned that I wanted to make the switch to Sloan. He replied, “You can think your friend is cool without switching to cloth. Using cloth diapers to be like someone else is lame.”
And it is lame.
Didn’t you love it? Didn’t it make you want to move to Taiwan, have your kids play on a playground made out of brightly colored rubber tires, and use cloth diapers? That’s what it did for me. I mentioned that I wanted to make the switch to Sloan. He replied, “You can think your friend is cool without switching to cloth. Using cloth diapers to be like someone else is lame.”
And it is lame.
But so is not giving any thought about your parenting decisions.
Now let me say that it’s none of my darned business what you put on your kids’ bum so long as you never ask me to wipe said bum. I also don’t think using cloth diapers makes you a better parent (nor does my buddy Kristie) and I resent all of you peeps who make me feel guilty about using disposable diapers. (I also want you to stop judging me for every single time I forget to take my own bags to the grocery store. I own them. Loads of them. I just only remember them a third of the time. So get off my back already!) But we should make informed decisions. And I feel like Kristie’s posts on cloth diapering informed me a lot about cloth diapers other than what I already knew which was merely that with a ribbon sewn on the bottom, cloth diapers make a great burp cloth.
That said, in response, I want to tell you why I do NOT use cloth diapers. (Please note that while Kristie’s post are serious, well thought out, and informative—my main goals here are to say why I don’t use them and also to make you laugh.)
1. I don’t care (that much) about chemicals.
I began asking for an epidural just minutes after Henry’s zygote was injected into me with a turkey baster and I had to take various pharmaceuticals just to keep in my womb. My daughter was born addicted to methadone, cocain, and heroin. So the LAST thing I’m worried about is disposable diapers causing some sort of bum-fungus.
2. I am not a hippie.
Now, to be clear, some of my best friends are hippies. My friend M tells me that when I say hippie I really mean outdoorsy or from the west coast. You may say the phrase crunchy, granola, outdoorsy, earthy, health-concious. But this is Elizabethtown, and I like the phrase “hippy-dippy”. It makes me think of my Chocos and adults in pigtails; two things I ADORE.
So, to let you know what I DO mean by hippie, in Elizabethtown, here is MY definition of hippie. If two or more of the following statements are true about you, you are a hippie:
1. You have hair to your waist and are not Crystal Gale, a middle school girl, or a stripper. (Bonus hippie points if you part your hair in the middle.)
2. Shop exclusively at Whole Foods or another boutique grocery store where they don’t even HAVE plastic grocery bags.
3. Grow all of your own produce using homemade compost as fertilizer.
4. Own chickens. (My sister has chickens. Because, you know, having 8 kids doesn’t make her life hectic enough. I feel like everyone is getting chickens. My friend A said, “Is this what we’re doing now? Getting chickens?” No A. This is NOT what WE are doing. Also, because chickens poo EVERYWHERE!!!!!)
5. Use cloth diapers.
6. Wear your baby in a homemade sling everywhere, at all times, until they are in seventh grade and you tell people who are wearing their child in a Baby Bjorn that they are going to give their child hip dysplasia like some aged Golden Retriever. (Not that a woman in the Post Office ever said anything like that to me or anything.)
7. Are over 25 and wear any of the following on a REGULAR basis: hemp jewelry, anklets with jingle bells, toe rings, wooden beads, and long flowy skirts. (Bonus hippie points if all worn at the same time to a Phish concert.)
Do NOT confuse my beloved hippies with the DIRTY HIPPIE. The dirty hippie is anyone for whom ANY of the following statements are true:
1. Are a white person with chunky, ratty dreadlocks. Seriously. You look ridiculous. People with kinky coiled hair can have dreds and still look put together and clean. That is because it is a natural protective style not requiring bucket loads of wax, pomade, and back-combing to achieve for persons with that hair texture. So please, take out all of you hair earrings and shave your head already.
2. Use your body hair as a means of protest. Really? Is that armpit hair really "sticking it to the man"? At least change out of your tube top and oh, by the way, a crystal doesn’t work that well as deodorant.
3. Have EVER, and I mean EVER, EVER,EVER used patchouli. I don’t care if it comes from the mint family. It does NOT smell minty.
(If you find that YOU are a DIRTY HIPPIE, please stop reading this now and take a shower.)
3. I like to throw crap away.
Remember how I never take my bags to the grocery store? I use those plastic baggies to put my poopy disposable diapers in. Then they get tossed on my front porch. And then, usually once I’m embarrassed about there being 3 (or 8?) bags of poop on my porch do I get around to yelling at Sloan to take taking them out to the trash can. (So you heard it here first, neighborhood kids, should you want to set a bag of poo on fire on my front porch, just bring matches. The poo is already there.)
Also, I can not envision a world where I have a bag full of dirty nappies across my shoulder. Seriously. I’ve been known to leave a milk-filled sippy cup in my car until the offending milk becomes a hard blue puck, so there’s no way I could always remember to empty my diaper bag of poo and pee laden nappies. And I don’t care if after the initial investment of cloth diapers is paid off and cloth diapering makes it cheaper in the long run, you would have to pay me large sums of money to tote poo.
4. Speaking of money, my time is worth money.
I’m already drowning in a sea of laundry. Sometimes it literally makes me cry. If I had to dump out poo from my purse into my washing machine, I would need some type of prescription. And I think if you have to take Xanax to follow through with a parenting decision, you’ve probably made the wrong one.
5. To save the environment, carpool.
This one gets me riled up. Sure, I’m putting diapers in a landfill. But to wash all those cloth diapers requires detergent, oodles of drying time, water, and electricity. Seriously. Most of the cloth diapers suggest washing and drying them 6 times before using them to obtain maximum absorbency. So to all the Hollywood elite who spout off about carbon-footprints, how many of you carpooled to the Oscars? Yeah, thought so. That’s what I call an Inconvenient Truth.
In the end, my friend Kristie chose cloth because she likes it. It suits her lifestyle. She began cloth diapering with her first child and I’m certain after her third kid that she has saved hundreds of dollars. I don’t doubt that. She also suggests that cloth diapers are cuter. To that I say, really? Cuter than this?
And this?
Yeah. I didn't think so.
Monday, May 16, 2011
So You Think Henry Can Dance...
It's a long video. But well worth it, I believe. Even if to merely dispel any thoughts you may have had about me NOT sounding like a redneck. Good grief!
But here is Henry, in his Raymond Rabids Wii dancing debut. Warning: you should empty your bladder before watching...
But here is Henry, in his Raymond Rabids Wii dancing debut. Warning: you should empty your bladder before watching...
Thursday, May 12, 2011
High threshold for pain, Low threshold for discomfort
This morning my son had a meltdown. We're talking Chernobyl. The reason? There was only one Nutrigrain Bar left and I was forcing him to choose between sharing it with his sister or having none at all.
Me: There's only one left. You'll have to share it.
Henry (through immediate uncontrollable sobs) But I want to eat all of it!
Me: Do you think Gracie likes Nutrigrain bars?
Henry: (gasping for breath) Yes.
Me: Do you think it would make her sad to see you eating the bar if she couldn't have any of it?
Henry: (literally falling out of his chair onto the floor he is so distraught) Yes.
Me: (choking back laughter) And do you want to make her sad?
Henry: (Attempting to climb back into his chair while writhing in agony) No, I don't want to make her sad. BUT I WANT TO EAT ALL OF IT! I DON'T WANT TO SHARE IT!
Me: (Putting offending nutrigrain bar back in the pantry and making a mental note to get more at the store.) Ahhh, and there's the rub, Henry. You being selfish makes her sad. And that's not loving her very well, is it?
Henry: (Head on kitchen island, covered with crossed arms) I WANT TO LOVE HER BUT I WANT IT FOR MYSELF!
Me: (convicted for hearing my own sin in my son's words, suddenly NOT so funny). Loving well is hard. It IS. But you CAN do it. Jesus gave us everything he had in order to love us, so I think you can give Gracie half of your Nutrigrain bar.
Henry: (Pops his head up, face splotchy, not crying, but still gasping for breath.) How 'bout we just give her a little bit of it? Is that loving her enough?
Me: (laughing, once again hearing my own voice in my son's.) You want to share the Nutrigain bar?
Henry: Yes. But not all of it. Not all of it, Mommy.
This transaction ended much better than the Banana splitting episode of yesterday (because he just can't eat an entire banana), the turn off the TV showdown of pretty much everyday (because why would you be okay with one show if you think you should be able to watch two?), or the uber-earth shattering meltdown of going to a new Sunday School class from Mother's Day.
So, could someone please explain to me why it is that this very same boy does NOT freak out at his 4 year well visit when it was time for his shots? He was sitting all cuddled up in my lap so the nurse could stab his thigh once and his arm twice. I told him the nurse was going to give him some medicine in his arm and leg.
Upon the shot in his thigh...
Henry: (deadpan) Ooh. That hurts. That medicine is giving me a boo boo.
Upon the first shot in his arm....
Henry: That pinches.
And the second...
Henry: I'm sorry, Nurse, I don't think I like this.
And as she donned his superhero band-aids...
Henry: Thank you for the medicine, Nurse Johnston. Sorry I not like it.
I'm sorry? I don't think I like this? Thank you?
And yet at the prospect of only getting half of a Nutrigrain bar he melts down. I suppose my son is more like me than I realized...high threshold for pain, low threshold for discomfort.
Heaven help us all...
Me: There's only one left. You'll have to share it.
Henry (through immediate uncontrollable sobs) But I want to eat all of it!
Me: Do you think Gracie likes Nutrigrain bars?
Henry: (gasping for breath) Yes.
Me: Do you think it would make her sad to see you eating the bar if she couldn't have any of it?
Henry: (literally falling out of his chair onto the floor he is so distraught) Yes.
Me: (choking back laughter) And do you want to make her sad?
Henry: (Attempting to climb back into his chair while writhing in agony) No, I don't want to make her sad. BUT I WANT TO EAT ALL OF IT! I DON'T WANT TO SHARE IT!
Me: (Putting offending nutrigrain bar back in the pantry and making a mental note to get more at the store.) Ahhh, and there's the rub, Henry. You being selfish makes her sad. And that's not loving her very well, is it?
Henry: (Head on kitchen island, covered with crossed arms) I WANT TO LOVE HER BUT I WANT IT FOR MYSELF!
Me: (convicted for hearing my own sin in my son's words, suddenly NOT so funny). Loving well is hard. It IS. But you CAN do it. Jesus gave us everything he had in order to love us, so I think you can give Gracie half of your Nutrigrain bar.
Henry: (Pops his head up, face splotchy, not crying, but still gasping for breath.) How 'bout we just give her a little bit of it? Is that loving her enough?
Me: (laughing, once again hearing my own voice in my son's.) You want to share the Nutrigain bar?
Henry: Yes. But not all of it. Not all of it, Mommy.
This transaction ended much better than the Banana splitting episode of yesterday (because he just can't eat an entire banana), the turn off the TV showdown of pretty much everyday (because why would you be okay with one show if you think you should be able to watch two?), or the uber-earth shattering meltdown of going to a new Sunday School class from Mother's Day.
So, could someone please explain to me why it is that this very same boy does NOT freak out at his 4 year well visit when it was time for his shots? He was sitting all cuddled up in my lap so the nurse could stab his thigh once and his arm twice. I told him the nurse was going to give him some medicine in his arm and leg.
Upon the shot in his thigh...
Henry: (deadpan) Ooh. That hurts. That medicine is giving me a boo boo.
Upon the first shot in his arm....
Henry: That pinches.
And the second...
Henry: I'm sorry, Nurse, I don't think I like this.
And as she donned his superhero band-aids...
Henry: Thank you for the medicine, Nurse Johnston. Sorry I not like it.
I'm sorry? I don't think I like this? Thank you?
And yet at the prospect of only getting half of a Nutrigrain bar he melts down. I suppose my son is more like me than I realized...high threshold for pain, low threshold for discomfort.
Heaven help us all...
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
If everything is so great, why am I such a jerk?
Apparently travelling a lot has me out of sorts. I'm just not doing so well with re-entry. Henry has been out of sorts because of it as well and his whining is interfering with my own need to whine.
I find myself staring into the distance a lot. Well, that part is not so strange for me, but my mind is racing a mile a minute trying to process all the wonderful things going on in my life--like the awesome things Bethany is doing around the globe, a magazine interested in me doing some freelance writing about adoption, an opportunity to tutor some kids interested in writing (let's all laugh now), and just the general blessedness that is my life--while simultaneously processing the crappy things going on in the lives of those I love dearly. Our kitchen island is littered with post-it notes of blog ideas, article themes, curriculum choices, witty zingers I'd like to say to some people, and prayers of confession that I just have to write down frantically before I can continue to refill Henry's bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Truthfully, the helplessness I feel at being unable to fight back and advocate for my beloved has left me pretty raw and in what Sloan calls "primed to the pissed off position." If I weren't bound by my Creator and Lord to see every person as created in His image, I'd totally go all ape on some people for the sake of the one I love.
In short, I'm a real peach to be around.
And if I'm not angry, I'm just sort of...drifting? Distant? Not all there? (Once again, my mind and heart are in process...)
For example, this afternoon I went upstairs to get Grace from her nap. As usual, I climbed the stairs with my arms full of things to be put away in her room--clean clothes, hair bows from around the house, abandoned shoes, etc. I entered her room, turned on the light, turned off her music and ceiling fan and removed her passie. Then, while she as still in the crib, set to putting away the items and also refilling her basket with diapers.
Fast forward fifteen minutes and I'm downstairs helping Henry and his cousin Isabel play Candyland. I wonder where Grace has gotten to and oh, is that her crying somewhere in the distance?
Yep.
I'd left her in the crib.
Basically, I'd just woken her up, taken away her passie, and then left her there in her room to go find more laundry and hairbows.
Mother. Of. The. Year.
Please pray for me and my family. We need to see more of Jesus.
Also, we could use some more wine.
I find myself staring into the distance a lot. Well, that part is not so strange for me, but my mind is racing a mile a minute trying to process all the wonderful things going on in my life--like the awesome things Bethany is doing around the globe, a magazine interested in me doing some freelance writing about adoption, an opportunity to tutor some kids interested in writing (let's all laugh now), and just the general blessedness that is my life--while simultaneously processing the crappy things going on in the lives of those I love dearly. Our kitchen island is littered with post-it notes of blog ideas, article themes, curriculum choices, witty zingers I'd like to say to some people, and prayers of confession that I just have to write down frantically before I can continue to refill Henry's bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Truthfully, the helplessness I feel at being unable to fight back and advocate for my beloved has left me pretty raw and in what Sloan calls "primed to the pissed off position." If I weren't bound by my Creator and Lord to see every person as created in His image, I'd totally go all ape on some people for the sake of the one I love.
In short, I'm a real peach to be around.
And if I'm not angry, I'm just sort of...drifting? Distant? Not all there? (Once again, my mind and heart are in process...)
For example, this afternoon I went upstairs to get Grace from her nap. As usual, I climbed the stairs with my arms full of things to be put away in her room--clean clothes, hair bows from around the house, abandoned shoes, etc. I entered her room, turned on the light, turned off her music and ceiling fan and removed her passie. Then, while she as still in the crib, set to putting away the items and also refilling her basket with diapers.
Fast forward fifteen minutes and I'm downstairs helping Henry and his cousin Isabel play Candyland. I wonder where Grace has gotten to and oh, is that her crying somewhere in the distance?
Yep.
I'd left her in the crib.
Basically, I'd just woken her up, taken away her passie, and then left her there in her room to go find more laundry and hairbows.
Mother. Of. The. Year.
Please pray for me and my family. We need to see more of Jesus.
Also, we could use some more wine.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
At least I won't be wearing head gear
Please forgive me for typos. I'm blogging on my Ipad.
At present, I'm in Michigan for a leadership conference for Bethany Christian Services. Tonight I went to a meeting where the following phrases were bandied about--percentages, overhead, federally funded grants, budgets, legislation, inter country adoption, and synergy. Individually, I understand what those words mean. When used together in sentences by people with titles like CFO, COO, and President, I find myself completely lost in an Adam Sandburg skit wanting to shout "Like a Boss!" at really inappropriate times.
I knew this coming in. That I would be the artsy adoptive Mommy in a sea of corporate workers, a foreign exchange student to brighten everyone's experience. So I packed appropriately: black pants, snappy heels, subtle make-up, FABULOUS jewelry not purchased at Target. To represent stay at home Moms as a whole. To show up and say, "We're here. We're snazzy. Get used to it."
Ummmmm....
Instead, after the aforementioned meeting, I finally got to go up to my hotel room and unpack. And I forgot my friggin' toiletries bag. Say it with me---- Mother Effer!! And all my make up and cute Ann Taylor and Stella and Dot jewelry is with it, hanging in my bathroom in VA.
I asked if there was a CVS nearby. No, however, the front desk lady assured me she had everything I needed. She handed me a razor, a fine tooth comb, deodorant, toothpaste, and a circa 1950s toothbrush. Jokingly, I said, "Um, do you have any Ambien?" She did not laugh.
Winning.
So now, instead of being fantasy Elizabeth--snazzy and smart--I'll be 7th grade Elizabeth. Frizzy and zitty and in the back row.
Augh, crap. I guess this is just how I roll...
At present, I'm in Michigan for a leadership conference for Bethany Christian Services. Tonight I went to a meeting where the following phrases were bandied about--percentages, overhead, federally funded grants, budgets, legislation, inter country adoption, and synergy. Individually, I understand what those words mean. When used together in sentences by people with titles like CFO, COO, and President, I find myself completely lost in an Adam Sandburg skit wanting to shout "Like a Boss!" at really inappropriate times.
I knew this coming in. That I would be the artsy adoptive Mommy in a sea of corporate workers, a foreign exchange student to brighten everyone's experience. So I packed appropriately: black pants, snappy heels, subtle make-up, FABULOUS jewelry not purchased at Target. To represent stay at home Moms as a whole. To show up and say, "We're here. We're snazzy. Get used to it."
Ummmmm....
Instead, after the aforementioned meeting, I finally got to go up to my hotel room and unpack. And I forgot my friggin' toiletries bag. Say it with me---- Mother Effer!! And all my make up and cute Ann Taylor and Stella and Dot jewelry is with it, hanging in my bathroom in VA.
I asked if there was a CVS nearby. No, however, the front desk lady assured me she had everything I needed. She handed me a razor, a fine tooth comb, deodorant, toothpaste, and a circa 1950s toothbrush. Jokingly, I said, "Um, do you have any Ambien?" She did not laugh.
Winning.
So now, instead of being fantasy Elizabeth--snazzy and smart--I'll be 7th grade Elizabeth. Frizzy and zitty and in the back row.
Augh, crap. I guess this is just how I roll...
Monday, May 2, 2011
Old friends are the best friends
This past weekend was girls weekend for me and eight of my sorority sisters from college. We all lived in the house our senior year and became life long friends. Approximately once a year since we graduated we have gotten together--for weddings, baby showers, opportunities to see the Sex and the City movies, but this was the first time we ever had a "destination" girls weekend. Which means, basically, this is the first time that husbands and kids have been left behind completely.
Now let me say that those of us who are married with kids love our families. And our husbands all get along famously and have mancrushes on one another. And our kids get along. It's just when we all get together with our husbands and our kids, it is loud. And not so welcoming to the girls who don't have husbands and instant birth control for those without kids. 9 kids under the age of 5 is really freakin' loud. Particularly when they are mainly girls. And, as I've noted before, little girls when they get together click clack around in plastic princess high heels and shriek.
So when C suggested a destination weekend, we all jumped at the chance. I offered up my parents' 2 beach condos in Litchfield, SC and all but two of the group signed on for the weekend. At first, I was a little sad to be leaving my crew. I'm not one of those women who jumps at the chance to get away with the girls. Sloan is my best friend. I like him better than anyone else on the planet by a long shot. (No offense, friends.)
But....there's just something different about a weekend with the girls with no husbands and no kids. Skinny girl margaritas can flow in the afternoon. You can watch the royal wedding in its entirety. You can totally make fun of that hat Posh Spice wore on her forehead with the same girls you used to shake your groove thing with in Cancun to the Spice Girls' "If You Wanna Be My Lover." A zigga zigga aaaahhhh. You can loll about in your pjs, eat cheetos for lunch, and just chat and drink and eat. And laugh until you pee in your pants. More than once. We had two pregnant girls with us, so there really was no hope for them.
In some ways, it was just like old times--we packed up a cooler and headed for the beach. Just this time, we filled the cooler with fruit and bottled water and dug holes for the pregnant ladies bellies rather than to hold our beers. We hit a great resteraunt for happy hour, appetizers, and dinner. We just arrived at 4:45 and the waitress asked us if we were wanting to order lunch. (Um, no. We're just wired to have lunch at 11:30 so dinner HAS to come around 5:30). And of course, there was a raging after dinner party. It just ended around 11.
Laughing until you snort and pee is just good for the soul. It reminds you that you are fun. That you don't always have to eat your vegetables. That 3pm isn't too early for a peach daiquiri with fresh slices of strawberries stirred in. That you have another name besides Mommy. And that old friends are just the best. The remember when you ran down North street naked and love you anyways. They knew you when you were your skinniest and think you are more lovely now.
Now let me say that those of us who are married with kids love our families. And our husbands all get along famously and have mancrushes on one another. And our kids get along. It's just when we all get together with our husbands and our kids, it is loud. And not so welcoming to the girls who don't have husbands and instant birth control for those without kids. 9 kids under the age of 5 is really freakin' loud. Particularly when they are mainly girls. And, as I've noted before, little girls when they get together click clack around in plastic princess high heels and shriek.
So when C suggested a destination weekend, we all jumped at the chance. I offered up my parents' 2 beach condos in Litchfield, SC and all but two of the group signed on for the weekend. At first, I was a little sad to be leaving my crew. I'm not one of those women who jumps at the chance to get away with the girls. Sloan is my best friend. I like him better than anyone else on the planet by a long shot. (No offense, friends.)
But....there's just something different about a weekend with the girls with no husbands and no kids. Skinny girl margaritas can flow in the afternoon. You can watch the royal wedding in its entirety. You can totally make fun of that hat Posh Spice wore on her forehead with the same girls you used to shake your groove thing with in Cancun to the Spice Girls' "If You Wanna Be My Lover." A zigga zigga aaaahhhh. You can loll about in your pjs, eat cheetos for lunch, and just chat and drink and eat. And laugh until you pee in your pants. More than once. We had two pregnant girls with us, so there really was no hope for them.
In some ways, it was just like old times--we packed up a cooler and headed for the beach. Just this time, we filled the cooler with fruit and bottled water and dug holes for the pregnant ladies bellies rather than to hold our beers. We hit a great resteraunt for happy hour, appetizers, and dinner. We just arrived at 4:45 and the waitress asked us if we were wanting to order lunch. (Um, no. We're just wired to have lunch at 11:30 so dinner HAS to come around 5:30). And of course, there was a raging after dinner party. It just ended around 11.
Laughing until you snort and pee is just good for the soul. It reminds you that you are fun. That you don't always have to eat your vegetables. That 3pm isn't too early for a peach daiquiri with fresh slices of strawberries stirred in. That you have another name besides Mommy. And that old friends are just the best. The remember when you ran down North street naked and love you anyways. They knew you when you were your skinniest and think you are more lovely now.
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