Last night at bedtime Miss A was clutching a costume jewelry pearl necklace and of course refused to hand it over. Being a mother of weak fortitude and one that would probably let her kids sleep with a pet monkey if it meant they would sleep soundly all night, I shrugged it off and told her I’d be right back. I had a nagging feeling about her holding the necklace as I’d seen her put it in her mouth, but I went down the hall to check on Miss C.

“Right back” turned into about 5 minutes and of course my wild girl was awake and out of bed when I opened her bedroom door. She scampered across the room and scrambled on to her bed, an impish grin plastered on her face, and I saw she was still gripping the necklace, only I could tell it was broken and some of the fake pearls had spilled on her rug.

Day-um.

“Miss A, you didn’t eat one of those beads did you?”

“Um…yes.”

“How many did you eat?”

“Um, one, two, three, four!” She wiggles her fingers as she counts aloud, clearly amused with herself.

The inquisition begins.

“Are you kidding mommy? How many did you eat? One…two?” My voice reaches a new level of pitch with each question.

“Yes. One! Two! Three! Four!”

Miss A responds with pride as if she’s just eaten brussels sprouts.

I assume she was just feeding off of what I was asking, but I don’t doubt that she swallowed at least one pearl.

I gave her a stern talk about not putting things in her mouth because she could choke.

“I could CHOKE?”

“Yes baby. You could choke and DIE.”

Her eyes got big as saucers.

Hey, you don’t mess around when it comes to ingesting foreign objects. I’ve never had to perform the Heimlich and I don’t want to start with my own children.

Then I feel bad and soften it with, “Oh but you’re just fine. You’re just fine. It’s in your tummy and you’re going to poop it out. But it might hurt.”

Her eyes grow wide again.

OK, so I am a sadist. I don’t want this to happen again. I mean business!

“Oh, it will be fine. Just fine. Just don’t EVER do that again. We only eat food, OK?”

“OK…not gum?”

“No, just food.”

I spoke to the nurse at our pediatrician’s office and we’ve launched Operation Poop the Pearl. She laughed and assured me that kids eat weird things all the time.

But Southern ladies in training should wear their pearls, not eat them.

Miss C: I’m Daisy!

Miss A: I’m Minnie!

Who’s mommy?

Miss C: Goofy!

——————-

A commercial for a wrinkle cream, one of those miraculous before and after results types, comes on TV.

Miss C: “Mommy you need that!”

I do? Where do I have wrinkles?

Miss C: All over!

——————-

Finally, if you’re needing a Baptism by fire experience in humbling, just take your 5-year-old daughter with you to try on bathing suits. You’ll both end up either laughing or crying (either way, tears will be shed.)

It’s official. My boobs have fallen and they can’t get up.

I also don’t recommend choosing the dressing room next to the 90 pound tan teenage girl because you’ll be tempted to crawl under the dividing wall and strangle her when she talks about something not fitting right. I really think effective birth control for teenage girls would be to have them watch moms trying on bathing suits via hidden camera. That would pretty much stave off the desire to have sex or eat for a while.

My mom and I are collaborating on a yard sale later this month.

I have given away arm loads of outgrown baby rompers, tiny shoes, and board books, but I’m hoping to making a little cash from some of our larger items.

There’s the once versatile jogging stroller that is collecting dust since Miss A would rather run or cruise in our more spacious convertible bike trailer, the red Dora potty seat she no longer uses, and the musical table toy that I helped Miss C unwrap on her first birthday.

Although these are just material things and I am more than happy to move clutter out of our home, I occasionally get a wistful twinge of time remembered when I see something that belongs to another era of parenting.

Now the girls are sharing most of their toys, although sometimes begrudgingly, and I no longer need a diaper bag of gear for a short trip out. The mish mash of squeaky baby toys and bag of Cheerios stashed in my purse have been replaced with hair accessories and plastic bracelets, and hot pink Hello Kitty sandals, not soft-soled baby moccasins, adorn the girls’ feet.

While I am happily reclaiming my purse, the girls are gaining independence and confidence and their own collection of purses. I work to achieve the balance between bystander and nurturer, between friend and parent. My daughters no longer need me to stand beside them and hold their hands as they find their footing; they need me to stand at a safe distance and watch them run, arms wide open, toward whatever life has to offer.

I’m thinking of starting an exclusive club called Hot Moms With Shnozes (HMWS.)

Jen at Get in the Car met Bossy on her grand Saturn tour across America and Jen mentioned Bossy commenting on her nose being cute. Jen declared that Bossy would be receiving her rhinoplasty fund as she’s apparently always thought her nose is a little on the well-endowed side.

Miss C has told me more than once lately that she does not like her nose. Now Miss C has a “perfect” little straight nose in my opinion. Miss A does, too. So far it looks like they’ve inherited their noses from their Daddy. Miss C wants my nose genes, however, which are inherited from my own Daddy.

“Mommy I want a crooked nose like yours!”

The girl wants a crooked nose.

(Smacks self on the forehead and wonders how to deal with that one.)

“Miss C you have a beautiful nose! It’s like Cinderella’s nose. People want a nose like yours.”

“I don’t like it. It’s stupid and, and…it’s too straight!”

(Smacks self on the forehead again.)

And then I explain to my daughter that I haven’t always liked my nose. That, in fact, I sometimes wish I had a cute little straight nose just like hers.

In those hormone-riddled years of high school and junior high, especially, I obsessed over the imperfectness of my nose and wondered what ever happened to my cute little straight nose from elementary school days. Now I realize how silly and superficial that was. Oh the unnecessary crooked nose angst!

Go forth and celebrate your crooked nose, admire your freckles, love your love handles, cherish your chubby cheeks, covet your curly hair…whatever unique physical features that make you you. Because someone may truly long for what you see in your self as physical imperfection, and that someone may be your own child.

Do you ever look at your little girl (or little boy, I should add) and have your breath nearly taken away by suddenly seeing them as a teenager?

Nah, me neither.

This was taken a few weeks ago when Miss C had strep throat (I wish I looked this pretty when I was sick) after we had stopped for a treat at a great local toy store. She picked out a pair of five dollar tiny butterfly earrings that fasten with a magnet and paid for them from money she’d earned by doing chores around the house. They give her that sense of being more grown up without the commitment of actual pierced ears.

I know the pierced ears request is just one of many that will pave the way to adolescence. It’s a simple desire to be a little bit more grown up, but signals the beginning of many more complex issues to come.

Right now I’m just hoping I can make it through her kindergarten award ceremony in a few weeks without crying.

Don’t let the sweet smocking fool you!

Potty training by 3 was apparently divine intervention–God’s way of preventing me from going ballistic when Miss A started demonstrating behavior of a most sassy like nature. We seemed to bypass the Terrible Twos with Miss A, but she’s now making up for that. While I fully encourage to be an overachiever, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.

For some insane reason, I thought it would be fun to have a girls’ morning at church Sunday and sit together, rather than send them to the kids’ program far, far away in another section of the church while I listened intently to the sermon zoned out and rested my weary brain under the guise of church. The hubby stayed home sick with a bad sinus infection was smart enough to stay home with the dogs.

I knew it was probably not ideal to let Miss C talk me into sitting on the 8th row at church, even though we sat at the end of the row. Oh foolish mommy! Our church is a fairly large rock star Jesus type assembly, so I was wishfully thinking that the girls would sing and clap and then sit peacefully through the sermon as I’d packed enough distractions for an entire bus load of children. Besides, I had secured the most awesome of bribes–girly booty of magnaminous proportions–Barbie fruit snacks (before the Botox edition.)

Unfortunately about 40 minutes into the service Miss C snatched Miss A’s pastel green sunglasses from the goody bag I’d packed and put them on, while Miss A declared “Those are MINE! Take them off!” and proceeded to play tug of war with the glasses while they were still on Miss C’s head. I threatened Miss A in my loudest screaming “you are so going to get it” mommy whisper. We had made it this far without incident, but I was starting to sweat bullets freak the hell out as the preacher closed the sermon. Could we make it? The proverbial last straw was when Miss A laid down in her seat backwards and stuck her feet up in the air. Suddenly I morphed into that token mother. The one practically dragging her child kicking through church and to the parking lot and threatening to spank her while people either smiled in empathy or looked on like I was the worse mother on the planet and they were about to speed dial Super Nanny. The real clincher was the fact that the pastor’s message was on the treasures of parenting. No, I am not kidding.

And on the 8th day? God created children’s church, and it was good and all the frazzled parents shouted “Amen!” and didn’t long for a drink at high noon on Sunday in a county that doesn’t even sell beer until that time.

How Does Your Garden Grow, originally uploaded by blondemom.