Perfect

Most of the conversational topics that The Child brings up range from important world issues and controversial debates like "Why does ice cream taste better in a cone than in a cup?" and "Why did God give penguins wings if he didn't want them to fly?" to "I fink I want to be a twash man when I get big." Which inevitably leads to "Hey Mommy, how comes you're not a twash man?" To which I don't really have a good answer. Especially when I saw what the average salary for a trash technician is. Although it might have something to do with my inability to stay upright while hanging off of the back of a large moving vehicle. But I digress.

I thought that I had fufilled my "wise and comforting" mommy role pretty effectively earlier this week, with our conversations about death and heaven. Like, fulfilled it to the point of not needing to have another one for a long time. My brainz still hurt from that experience.

But after I picked her up from daycare today, we were debating whether we needed a trip to Starbucks, or we needed a trip to Target (the final consensus was that we are gifted multitaskers and could accomplish both without breaking a sweat). As we waited at a red light, Pink's song "Perfect" came on. Not only does my car radio only work sporadically, The Child prefers to use car time to either hold three sided conversations - with herself - or to belt out her own original compositions at alarming volume. So the fact that I could hear the song at all was unusual. I absolutely love this song. It's beautiful, on every level. As MacKenzie chattered in the back, I listened to the bittersweet lyrics and got a little emotional. During one of the final choruses, Pink says "Why do I do that? Why do I do that?" The Child piped up and says, "Why does that lady sound so sad? Why does she do what?" The alarm in the back of my head started screaming - DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. REMEMBER, YOUR CHILD DOES NOT TAKE SIMPLE EXPLANATIONS, AND YOU ARE SADLY LACKING SLEEP.

I've always been a terrible listener.

"Well, babe, the lady is sad because she doesn't like herself. She doesn't see how beautiful she is."

"Why not? Does she need glasses?"

"...kind of."

"Maybe she needs a boot-ful dress."

"Maybe. It's important for her to remember what makes people beautiful. What do you think makes people beautiful?"

"A boot-ful dress. Or a crown."

"...true. But what really makes people beautiful is if they are kind to everyone. If they are happy and smile and make other people happy. It's not always what you wear on the outside, it's who you are on the inside."

"What do you mean, on the inside? You can't see inside people, unless you have an x-ray. You are so silly, Mommy!!"

ABORT MISSION. CUT YOUR LOSSES.
Foolish mommy :).

"If someone has a good heart, and loves themself, and loves everyone, it makes them beautiful."

"I know what's inside your heart, Mommy."

"...okay. What's in my heart?"

"BLOOD!!! It goes boomboomboom out to your hands and then your hands send it back to your heart!"

There are advantages and disadvantages to having a child who wants to know how everything works, as well as advantages and disadvantages to making sure that that knowledge is available to them.

"Okay. That's true. That's true." Scramble scramble scramble.

Okay. Different angle.
"What do you love about yourself, babe?"

"Um...I love everyfing. I am good at puzzles, I am very boot-ful, I tell funny yokes, I sing good songs, I color good pictures..."

"Okay. Good. Good. (This conversation is now obviously completely needless at this point, but my anal retentiveness demands conclusion). It's just always important to remember that Mommy and Daddy think that you are the most amazing person in the world. And it's always important for you to remember how awesome you are. AND it's important to remember that if someone looks different, or dresses differently, or sounds different, it's your job to see how beautiful they are on the inside."

"If someone wears a weird shirt, I think they are silly and I laugh."

"AH HAH!! This is exactly what I mean! Do you like it when people laugh at you?"

"Did I tell a funny yoke?"

"No."

"Then no I don't, Mommy."

"You know how sometimes you get worried to wear your pajamas to Starbucks on Saturday morning because you think people are going to laugh at you?"
(And yes, I realize that I have a Starbucks problem. There are worse problems to have. THERE ARE. Go be judgy somewhere else :-P.)

"Yes."

"Well, number one, no one would ever laugh at you because I would punch them in the face." (And yes, that's another problem for another time. Stay focused.) "But number two, if anyone ever laughed at you, it was because they aren't trying to see how beautiful you are, inside and out. And that's okay. Because you know that you are beautiful. And you are going to keep seeing what makes everyone else beautiful. Even if other people don't do that."

"Phew. Dat's a lot of work."

"It is. But it's important, okay?"

"Otay."

We pull into the Target parking lot and get out. I know that the discussion has, once again, spiralled out of control. And I know that she probably didn't grasp the whole thing, and that we will have to have this conversation again and again over the span of her lifetime. But as she slips her hand in mine and smiles up at me, I am struck by how beautiful she is. It comforts me that she knows how valued, and how valuable, she is. And as the local and national news, and our daily lives, are filled with insecurity and bullying, I am going to continue to reinforce what we talked about today.

But first I have to figure out the whole "penguins not flying" thing.

"The Next Step"

Being a parent means either facing some of your biggest fears, or unapologetically sidestepping them by blatantly lying to your precious child.
"MacKenzie, you may not leave the table until you try everything on your plate. That includes the feta cheese."
"But it looks di-guting. You can have it."
Hell no. Feta cheese is nasty. But do I say that? I do not. I say,"I already ate mine and it was delicious and I'm full."
Or -
"Come on MacKenzie, it's time to go to the dentist!!!"
"I don't like it. The gloves taste di-guting and they are gonna poke me in the teeth with the metal thing and it's gonna hurt."
"No it's not!! It's going to tickle and feel like butterflies in your mouth."
And you couldn't pay me a million dollars to let them to that to me without the involvement of a Xanax.

You may be thinking...what's wrong with you, Meg?? (And you would have to get in the back of a very long line of people pondering that very issue.) You may say, just tell the kid the truth and deal with it.
To you I would say, you know what? You have an excellent point. I thank you for your valuable insight and advice. Now go away.
Do I take the easy way out sometimes? (Ahem, a lot of time?) Yes. Sometimes it's a time issue...little Miss Mini Barbara Walters can ask follow up questions for hours. Sometimes it's to protect her, from pain and reality just a little longer. And sometimes, it's to protect me. From either facing that same reality, or the reality that I just might not have all the answers.


Recently we lost MacKenzie's beautiful great-grandmother Mimi, the epitome of southern grace and hospitality, and a true matriarch. Death has always been something that has illicited flat-out panic attacks in me. I go to church, and have faith in most of what's taught and believed. But I get paralyzed by fear when I think of the unknown and finality of that "next step."
When we knew that Mimi's time was coming closer, I obsessed over what to tell MacKenzie. Do I tell her what I have always been taught, through the church and my parents' unshakable faith? Do I tell her MY truth, that I don't know what happens? Do I talk about it strictly from a biological standpoint? When we went to visit Mimi in the hospital, and against a lot of advice, I took MacKenzie with us. We stood in her doorway, as she lay in a coma, and I told MacKenzie that she could say hello, or good-bye, and that she loved her.
"Hmm. She looks pretty tired."
"She is. But soon she won't be tired or sick anymore. Soon she'll be in a place where she won't be in any pain, and will be happy."
"...is she going to Wal-Mart?"
For the love. "No, baby, she's going to go to heaven."
"Oh. Okay. Bye Mimi, I love you! Have fun!"
And she really seemed okay with everything, and needed no further explanations. Maybe this wasn't going to be so hard.

And then this week, we faced the loss of MacKenzie's amazing great-grandfather Papa; he was full of love, intelligence, dry humor, and constantly had his signature smile. The service is tomorrow, and is graveside, and once again I am facing my paralyzing panic. This time, though, there was no sidestepping. I came up with several scenarios and different conversations, but wasn't happy with how any of them progressed in my head. I decided to step out of my comfort zone and just wing it.
Poor poor decision.
"MacKenzie. Remember how Papa was really sick? Well, yesterday he died, and went to heaven, like Mimi did. So we are going to Lynchburg, to a special place, to say goodbye to him."
"Hmm. How long will he be there?"
"Forever. Once you move to heaven, that's where you live forever."
"How did he get there? That's pretty high up."
Shit. "An angel took him."
"...no. I don't fink so. Papa was pretty big."
"Angels are really strong."
"No, I don't fink so. What do they do if the angel's not strong enough to carry him?"
"...well, then...they use the...heaven car." Shitshitshit.
"Is it a big car? So when you and me go to heaven we can ride together?"
Oh my baby girl. "God's not going to want us up there for quite a while. He has stuff for us to do here, on Earth. He'd rather mostly take people that are older, or really sick, to help them feel better, and to help him watch over all of us. But the awesome thing about heaven is if you ever want to talk to anyone up there, all you have to do is talk, and wherever you are they will hear you."
"Do they talk back?"
"They do, but most of the time the clouds get in the way."(mini shit)."But they will always listen, and will watch over you, and love you."
"Maybe we should get a special telephone, so we don't talk to the wrong heaven people. I bet Taw-get has one."
".......................you know what? Yes. We will go to Target - or the Salvation Army - and buy a special heaven phone." And Mommy several bottles of wine."Now. About the special place in Lynchburg. Even though people are happy that Papa is in heaven now, they're also sad because they won't get to see him anymore. So people may be crying, and that's okay."
"It's okay, Mommy. I will tell the crying people that he is happy now, and is watching dem. Maybe I will let dem use my telephone."
*waterworks*
"Hey Mommy, if I see people crying, I will cheer dem up with my funny yokes. Maybe I will tell dem the one about da elephant and da naked guy."
SHIIIIT. "Umm...that's one idea. Maybe you could just give them a hug and say you love them."
"No. I tell dem my knockknock yokes too."
Okay. That's...an idea.

Tomorrow we say goodbye to an amazing man. And though our conversation had highs and lows (I think we'd all agree that the heaven car was a low), my child is comforted, and comfortable, with Papa taking "the next step." Also, in facing her unwavering certainty and faith, I find myself rising up to meet her, and re-examining what I had previously categorized as truths and sidesteps. Maybe in sidestepping, we actually find the most direct route to our fears, and the power to face them.

Do You Know The Muffin Man? ('Cause if he's anything like the Ice Cream Man, he's a jerk).

We bought our first house and moved to our current neighborhood in August of 2007, when I was about 6 months pregnant (so many things wrong with that sentence). One hot summer evening as I sat on our newly purchased stoop, swollen and miserable, sweaty and generally overwhelmed, I heard the far-off tinny strains of "Turkey in The Straw". In our last neighborhood, the only thing that would be left of the ice cream truck after one round would be the windshield wipers; everything else would have been stripped and sold. So I held my breath and waited, and sure enough, like a frosty beacon of hope, a white van emblazoned with pictures of snowcones and fudgesicles turned the corner. As a group of shrieking, giggling children formed a line, waving their dollar bills in the air, my eyes filled with tears at the purity, and nostalgia, of the scene. One day, this unborn child and I would hear the same schmaltzy music, and run for the truck together. After all, The Child and Ice Cream were destined for long and beautiful friendship. By the time she was six months along, her blood was pretty much composed of 33% Frosty, 33% Mint Oreo Blizzard, 33% Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby, and 1%....boring biological stuff.

Which brings us to today. We've had a tough time nailing down the ice cream truck's schedule. We either hear the truck and can't locate it, or we see it pass and then can't make it stop. I hated seeing her little crestfallen face when she realized each time that she wasn't getting a neon yellow Spongebob popsicle with bubblegum eyes yet again(I know, I know, gross and nutritionally appalling...but, it's the experience that counts, right? RIGHT?? Well...no one asked you :-P.). Failure is no longer an option. Tonight, we are finding that truck, and you and me, kid....we're getting you that ice cream!! *cue "Eye of The Tiger", neon warmup suits, Mr. Miyagi, etc etc.*

And then....it happened. It was like kismet. Like providence. Like...God just wanted us to eat ice cream.


It was 7 PM, and we were making delicious play-doh burgers with bright purple french fries. At the first few notes of "Turkey in the Straw", The Child and I froze, all senses on alert. As the notes became louder, we inched, slowly and deliberately towards the door, like a pride of lions stalking a delicious brightly colored frozen zebra. (Okay, at a grand total of two, we would be a pretty pathetic pride, but roll with it.) When I carefully opened the door and saw the ice cream truck parked off to the side, it was on. "GO MACKENZIE GO!!!!" The Child held the screen door open, as I shoved The Dog back with one hand and grabbed my purse with the other. There was a brief struggle as the door handle tried to claim my purse, but I was victorious. Unfortunately, that quick battle cost us valuable time. Once I got detangled and to the bottom of the steps, I was met with teary eyes and a quivery bottom lip. "He did not wait, Mommy. No ice cweam tonight." Sure enough, the truck had moved on. As The Child slowly came back up the steps, Mommy Lion came alive. Oh. Hells. No. "Come on, MacKenzie. We're getting ice cream." She looked up. "But I don't even hear da music." We. Are. Getting. Ice. Cream.

I grabbed her hand, and started stomping down the sidewalk, looking left and right, searching for any sign of the truck. We covered blocks in seconds. Then....victory. In front of us, a couple of streets away, sat the elusive ice cream truck. Tonight was going to be the night. It was our time!!! But all of the sudden - the truck suddenly started, and the music began playing again. Is it leaving?? There is no way that I am chasing this damn truck all over the neighborhood. It is now or never. And I was off.

What I neglected to remember in my determination and focus was that I really initially intended to just run to the truck, grab an ice cream, and run back to the house. So I was wearing terry cloth booty shorts a couple of sizes too big, a spaghetti sauce splattered white t-shirt, and no shoes. Unfortunately, in my awesome warp speed, I began to lose my shorts...so I yanked them back up with the hand not holding my precious child. Again, unfortunately, I was a little enthusiastic with my yanking up, so I just as quickly began tugging them back down again before the neighborhood watch started tucking dollar bills in my waistband. So basically, anyone out for a quiet post-dinner stroll either stared in fascination or ducked for cover at the barefoot, sloppy frizzball who couldn't figure out if her shorts were on or off, hauling a maniacally giggling toddler tucked under one arm, all the while hollering "YOU BETTER NOT GO ANYWHERE, ICE CREAM PERSON, SO HELP ME GOD!!!!!"

Yup. Putting the class into classy. That's us.

Needless to say, the ice cream man's attention was grabbed, and the truck turned back off. As we skidded to a stop in front of the pass out window, I was torn between a sense of superhero triumph and absolute and abject mortification. Meanwhile, The Child struggled out from beneath my arm and shot the man a beautific smile. "Hi dere. I'm MacKenzie. I like yo' car's music. I fink that's my jam." The ice cream man was struck speechless, and seemed torn on which of us to be more concerned about. Yeah, we get that a lot. All that matters is that we made it. The fact that he didn't have Spongebob didn't even phase The Child...apparently Tweety Bird made a more than acceptable substitute.

And so we sat there on the curb, licking our hard won, well-deserved, and rapidly melting treats. I glanced over, and watched a sunbeam bounce off of my daughter's curly head, as she turned and grinned sloppily at me. "I sure love ice cream, Mommy." So do I, baby girl. And this moment was everything that I had hoped it would be on that hot evening a few years ago. <3

Anti-Breakfast of Champions

Sleep is not a term I'm terribly familiar with. Sometimes because of work - either of the clickety-clackety variety, or of the "OMFG THERE'S NO WAY THREE PEOPLE CAN ACCUMULATE THIS MANY DISHES" as the dog-hair tumbleweeds amble by" variety. Sometimes by choice, because the house is so very quiet and peaceful when everyone is sleeping, and I can catch up on email and the latest episodes of award-winning television like "America's Best Dance Crew" or "Ice Loves Coco" in peace (Don't you judge me. That's some good stuff right there.) . And sometimes because The Child - regardless of how deeply ensconced she is in a Daddy's Girl phase - feels the need to ask ME burning questions at 3 AM like "Where does air goes when the fan blows it?" or "Do you fink I can wear a dress later?" or "Is the sun behind the moon at nighttime?" I am also the go-to gal for nightmares, any illness, monsters chasing, and the 6 AM pancake request. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't have it any other way. But I do forget what 4 consecutive hours of sleep feels like.

Sunday was one such morning. Due to customers taking "endless coffee refills" to a whole new level, I got home from waitressing around 11:30 Saturday night. I took care of a couple of things, chitty-chattied with the hubby for a few minutes, and probably went to bed around 1 AM. Around 3 AM, I heard little shuffling footsteps, followed by "Mommy? I got bad dreams." Aww, baby, what's wrong? "Dere's spikes falling on my head, and fishies jumping out of da water to eat me." ....even at 3 AM I can recognize the Water World level of old school Super Mario Brother's 3. No more Nintendo for you. "I'm just gonna sleep wif you." Come on in. For approximately every 15 minutes after that, she shifted, rolled, starfished, ninja-ed away my pillow, snatched the covers, and in one unfortunate personal decision, suggested I move to her bed so she and Daddy had more room. I finally moved to the couch for my own sanity. Imagine my dismay when a half an hour later, I opened my eyes and was staring into two little white eyesballs an inch from mine. "Hey Mommy. Is you lonely??" It was almost a relief when we got up at 6:15.

Unfortunately, I was a complete zombie. When she announced she was hungry, I pointed wordlessly to the kitchen table and then got out a box of cereal. "Hey Mommy, how about panc...." - a single Mommy glare quelled that request before it could even come to full fruition. I poured her a bowl, sliced in some bananas, tripped over the dog, splashed in (and around) some milk, and then stumbled to the table. I set down the cereal bowl, said "Eat", and collapsed in my own chair. When I didn't hear the scraping of the spoon on a bowl, or the crunchcrunch of delicious Rice Crispies, I blearily looked up to see what the problem was. There, in my daughter's booster seat, properly belted in and smiling vacantly, cloth arms open in welcome, was a Cabbage Patch Kid doll. I paused, trying to get a grasp on the situation. Hallucinating? I hope not. I looked around, but The Child was nowhere to be seen. "Uhh...MacKenzie?" No answer. I poked the doll with the spoon, half-expecting it to yell "Ow!" or "Surprise!!!" Luckily, there was no answer.

Before I could really panic, MacKenzie wandered into the kitchen. "I had to go potty." Awesome. Thank you for making me question my sanity before 7 AM. Eat your cereal. I waited to make sure she was actually going to start eating, and put my head back down. Then a high, squeaky voice said "I sure am hungry." I lifted my head and met her angelic expression. "Mommy. I fink my baby is hungry." Path of least resistance. I got up, poured cereal into a ramekin, put one piece of banana and a tablespoon of milk in, found a baby spoon at the back of the drawer, and set it out in front of the doll. I almost dislocated my arm mentally patting myself on the back...surely this makes me eligible for some sort of parenting award. I had just settled back in with my eyes closed, when the high squeaky voice said "I wish someone would feed me some ceweal." You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. I didn't even look up. "MacKenzie my love, YOU are the mommy. When you were a baby, I fed you, because I was the mommy. Since this is your baby, it is your job to make sure she is happy and fed. I...am the baby's grandma."

Blessed, beautiful silence.

"I wish Grandma would feed me some ceweal. She is da best Grandma ever."

I opened my mouth, to yell, to scream, to plead for help, but all that came out were waves of helpless giggles. Soon MacKenzie joined in, as the dog ran around us barking, and the baby doll smiled on benevolently.

Just another Sunday morning. :)

Lessons in Tantrums

To say that The Child has a temper would be like qualifying the Civil War as a tiff.

The sheer magnitude of some things is not easily conveyed by a word.

Temper and tantrums are to be expected in toddlers – apparently it’s their way of asserting independence, of discovering and pushing boundaries, and of expressing emotions and feelings that they haven’t begun to be able to yet identify. (I say apparently because I did experience a motivational period of being a better educated, better informed parent and went to Barnes and Noble to tear through their Parenting and Behavioral Sciences sections, but I only made it as far as reading the summaries on the back covers. I believe that I had the best intentions to purchase the tools to follow through with my enlightment, but was distracted, and my enlightment purchases turned into a latte and a scone. Stupid in-store Starbucks.)

The Child is (in my unbiased opinion, of course) naturally beautiful, frighteningly smart, hysterically funny, and alarmingly charismatic. She is also uncompromisingly stubborn, willful, and mulish. After witnessing The Tantrum, family, friends, even strangers assure me that her… independence is promising, and that this too shall pass. But even as they try to convince me, I can see the dregs of horror still in their eyes from what they’ve just experienced, and the unmitigated gratitude that they don’t have to take her with them.

The main problem with The Child’s tantrums is that there is no segue, no warning sign. One moment she is joyous, and then the next, furious. She doesn’t need to hear “No, you can’t,” or “No, you need to”. She doesn’t even need to hear the letter “n” being formed by your tongue on the roof of your mouth. She sees the intention of admonition in your eyes, and at the inhalation of oxygen to even being the sentence, she throws herself down on the floor. In the space of a second, she seems to have been transformed into some sort of mythical beast, with multiple appendages and a harpy-like shriek of agony.

After several months of Tantruming, I have come to the following conclusions:

1) Although tantrums do happen at home, they will most likely happen in public. Generally at a time when you cannot easily remove yourself from the situation – in a toilet stall (added bonus for the acoustics of a public bathroom), in line at the grocery store with all of your purchases already on the conveyor belt, in the doctor’s waiting room (again, added bonus if the tantrum is paused for the expelling of some bodily fluid and then resumed).

2) It is best to have some sort of magazine, Sodoku puzzle, or Rubik’s cube with you at all times. Should Epic Tantruming commence, – the longest tantrum was clocked at 46 minutes, after which The Child proclaimed hoarsely “Mommy, I tired. No more mad.” – it is best to have entertainment. And something to hide behind.

3) Along with The Tantrum comes the Trio of Toddler Superpowers:

- Super Voice: loud and high enough to crack glass

- Bonelessness: The Child dissolves into a Little Person Puddle at the start of all tantrums…regardless of what body part you try to wrangle, they slip through your fingers like water. Do not attempt to pick up Puddle Person. You will only strain some muscle and cause yourself embarrassment.

- Super Human Strength and Speed of Movement: I have combined these because they work in tandem. One second, she is rolling around in the Dry Goods aisle, screaming at the top of her lungs, and then a split second later she is at the other end of the aisle, beating the shit out of a Keebler Cookie Elf cardboard cutout with a can of soup. (Uhh, please note – this only happened once. And I made her apologize to Poor Ernie. He may never have little elves, though.)

Again, after so many months, I have learned to identify and recognize The Stages of Public Tantrum Acceptance. **And I realize that both these stages, and my reactions to them, are situation unique. I’m sure that you handle these circumstances differently, which is fine. Unless your kid doesn’t have tantrums, then good! (And by good, I mean bite me). Or you don’t yet have children, in which case you totally should. (And by should, I mean… you can borrow mine. Like…now.)*** ANYWAY.

The Stages:

1) Shock - What the hell just happened? My child went from toddler to shrieking wildebeest in, like, 1/10^th of a second. I didn’t even get to assert authority, or use my mean voice, she just…collapsed.

2) Panic – Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop. Soembarrassedsoembarrassedsoembarrassed. Whymewhymewhyme. Whynotherfatherwhynotherfatherwhynotherfather?

3) Authority and Firmness – “That’s enough. Enough. I said…...excuse me. You on the floor, causing the chaos and rioting. That’s enough. What did I just say? Stop. Right now. I mean it.” (Please picture a stern face and firm voice.)

And yes, the ineffectiveness is being very accurately conveyed, which leads to…

4) Bribery – “If you calm down, you can have a cookie. A whole cookie. A couple of cookies. The bag of cookies. The cookies will be in the glovebox of a sedan. A convertible. A Porsche. On your way to an all-expense paid trip to Disneyworld. COME ON!”

5) Denial – You know what, that’s probably not even a tantrum. That’s probably not even my kid. Mine is simply yawning extensively and silently, and there’s probably just a couple of misplaced mating hyenas in back. (While you’re in denial, be sure to blame daycare and red dye 40. It is definitely not your fault.)

6) Acceptance – The most peaceful part of the process. Simply block off The Child as much as possible, utilize the aforementioned magazine or Rubik’s cube, and wait it out. Should fellow shoppers catch your eye sympathetically, smile and shrug. Should fellow shoppers make a snotty passing comment about brats and poor parenting, simply smile and remind them that at some point your child will stop tantruming, but they will never be able to reverse the effects of being beaten with a massive Ugly Stick.

Right now, tantrums take up about 30% of our time together. As much as they frustrate me and interrupt my day, they can’t hold a candle to the amazing other 70%. I know that this too shall pass. And to those of you who laugh knowingly and say that age three is worse than two…shut it.

Department Store Lessons

Holidays.
I love them.

I've always adored the celebrations - reasons for themed candy, family meals, big sales. Since having a little girl, I've found yet another new reason - themed outfits in various stages of floofiness. Halloween? Gonna be a bee, with irridescent wings, a black tulle skirt, and little yellow antennae. Christmas? Gonna have to be green velvet, with a little white satin collar, a big white satin sash, and an unfortunately large bow smashed onto the side of a sweet little head. Fourth of July? Red and white striped sailor shirt with little blue capris, and little white sandals. And now Easter. Some sort of pastel poof, with a veritable explosion of ruffles and ribbons, leaving an unsuspecting passerby with a vague impression of narrowly escaping being attacked by a cupcake.

It has to be the perfect dress. So I coralled The Child and drove to our nearest Kohl's. I am blessed/cursed with a child who is unfailingly enthusiastic about...anything. We walked in through the front door, and she stands just inside the door, and gasps "Mommy! It so boot-ful here! I love this store!" As the other shoppers stop to stare, I mutter something about us being more of Wal-Mart people, and steer The Child towards the children's section. As we begin the trek, she announces "I go by myself!" At least, that's what I think she said - I only caught the beginning of the pronouncement as she took off at a dead run. She is luckily blessed with some sort of otherwordly navigational system, allowing her to zoom around obstacles like displays, carts, and, you know, shopping people, all without breaking warp speed. I am not blessed with the same gifts (I blame the heels and flared slacks), so I was left to teeter/trot after her, muttering apologies, and trying to pick up the crap I knocked over while not losing sight of a couple of bobbing pigtails.

God bless whomever in Kohl's management decided to put their small toy section right next to the children's clothing section - it's like a brightly colored Fisher Price kid snare. When I finally caught up with her, she was sitting peacefully in the middle of the aisle, calmly thumbing through a Dr. Seuss book. Luckily, The Grandma ended up meeting us there, so I had an Assistant Wrangler while I immersed myself in all that is girly and right with the world. I collected armfuls of frothy dresses, weighing each option carefully, rating them based on a system I'm not sure even I was 100% understanding. When I finally narrowed it down to three, I brought them over to The Child - who stood considering stuffed animals with a sand bucket on her head - and asked her which pretty dress she would like. She looked at each of them carefully, seriously. My heart swelled with pride and the realization that I had given birth to a future holiday clothingist. She finally pointed to one and announced "I wear boots. And a bucket."

Hmm. Perhaps not.

I debated with The Grandmother instead (the relative NOT wearing digging accessories) and we agreed on one dress. As we made our way to the front, The Child paused in front of a trio of elongated, headless mannequins and stared.
"Mommy. What's dat?"
"Those are mannequins. They make the clothes look pretty so people buy them." I waited for my analytical, inquisitive child to take her gaze to the top, and tried to figure out a reasonable explanation for their missing heads.
"Mommy. They so big!"
"Yes. They are very tall."
"Mommy, they so boot-ful. Hello Tall Person!"
She carefully climbed on the short platform for a closer look. She gently ran her fingers down one shiny plastic leg, and then stopped abruptly at the large screw and rod coming out of one calf, securing it to the platform.
"MOMMY."
"Yes, honey, that's a pole to..."
"No Mommy. Look at her shoes!!! They are so pretty. They my fway-vwit. You go buy them!!!"
I glanced down at the absolutely breathtaking black patent leather open-toed stiletto pumps, and decided that The Force was indeed strong with this one. She can wear a bucket hat all she wants - my child has exquisite taste in footwear :).

We went to stand in the checkout line, and The Child caught a glance of her Easter dress. "Mommy! Is dat my dress? It soooooooo boot-ful! It my fway-vwit too!"

Yes, there will come a time when my little tomboy figures out that she doesn't have to wear the floofiness, and these silly, voluminous dresses will sit in the back of the closet. But for now, my child and I will love her holiday dresses.

At least, I thought as I threw the Easter dress down on the ground, sprinting after my child as she made a run for it and managed to get out the door, we will if I manage to catch her.

HEY PEEPS!

So.
Enough people have inquired, so I'm going to reserve a small corner of the worldwide web for MacKenzie. Or, at least, MacKenzie's popular antics. I will try to update every day, or every other day, or as often as MacKenzie does something odd, or funny, or beyond her years. Which should be about every day. I don't expect a lot of people to read here, but I am excited about sharing without worrying about being fettered by character limits!
Thank you for you being touched and amused (although no one seems to be as exhausted or exasperated) by my silly daughter's self.
Here's to the future!