Float On

Rock the Garden, 2015

Rock the Garden is an annual two day outdoor concert event that happens each summer in Minneapolis. It is held at the Walker Art Center on the hill across from the sculpture garden. My husband and I attend each year. This year my sister attended for the first time with her friend Sarah. We staked our claim and made our home at the top of the hill. My sister and Sarah went to explore while I spread out on my ultra-tacky picnic blanket. As I was sitting there I met Kevin. Kevin was a guy in his 30’s who was attending the concert solo and was intrigued by my gaudy blanket. Kevin was a free spirited bloke who joined our group. He came and went throughout the various sets. You would see Kevin blowing up his smuggled-in balloons when he wasn’t standing on his head at random, and somewhat inappropriate times. As day one came to a close we all agreed to meet up at the same general spot on the hill for day two. After having dealt with public transportation for day one of the event, I vowed that regardless of how baldly my Sunday morning kickboxing workout whooped my butt, I was still going to ride my bike the 5 or 6 miles to the concert.

On Sundays I typically do a 2 hour kickboxing workout and this Sunday was no different. After my gym time, I sped home to ice my knees and refuel with a quick lunch. I was feeling pretty relaxed after punching my aggressions out and decided not to rush to the concert. I told myself, today I am going to just let the day unfold however it will. I’m sure my ultra-laid back attitude was a mishmash of not having to worry about kids, as they were with grandparents for the weekend, feeling tuckered out from my morning workout, and all of the THC left in my system from day one of the show. Regardless, starting my day out with this mantra was the best thing I could have done for myself because had I been in another mindset my day would have been ruined.

At least for a while.

Last fall I put the key to my bike lock in a safe place for the winter. Of course, that safe place was a bit too safe as I have yet to locate the damn thing. Because my lock was so expensive, I have not given up hope that I will find the key. In the meantime I bought a cheap lock from Target that broke before I had even opened the package. I decided to stop at the Walgreens down the street to buy another lock on my way to the show. They didn’t have any.

Ok. Small setback.

I decided to go a bit further down the street to a bike shop and pick one up there. Just as I was pulling up to the bike shop and read the sign that said “Closed” I heard POP! What the hell was that? I got off my bike and saw that my back tire now had a big, gaping hole in it. My options now were to walk my bike home or walk my bike to another bike shop to get the tire fixed and buy a new lock. Either way it was going to be about a mile and a half. I opted for the repair shop. I walked my poor bike in the hot sun, with sweat rolling down my back. It was unpleasant but not unbearable. As I waited for my bike repairs to be complete I reminded myself, today is my day and I’m gonna let it roll. As I was looking at the bike locks with an exceptionally friendly salesperson Modest Mouse began playing on the overhead speakers. “I’m going to see these guys tonight,” I told him. One hour and fifty dollars later, I was ready to roll out. I arrived at the concert an hour late but in good spirits.

Alas, I have arrived.

I laid in the sun soaking in the music and energy that was humming all around me. A few hours later Kevin arrived. We asked where he had been and he stated that he “needed to take the day off.” Kevin did not disappoint, however, as he had stolen a bunch of balloons from the K-Mart down Lake Street. We now had all of our contraband in one spot.

Day One: Belle and Sebastian with Kevin’s balloon

As Modest Mouse came on stage we began to blow up the balloons and decorate them. I briefly thought about how to design my first balloon and decided to write FLOAT ON across it. Kevin only had one Sharpie with him so we all took turns. The people around us joined in. I had developed a sort of launching system with them for sending the balloons down the hill. Our pacing for the launch was in conjunction with the copious amounts of weed that we were smoking. Rock the Garden tends to be a family friendly event, so for added discretion we exhaled into the balloons and tied them tightly, before sending them down the hill towards the stage. Once the balloons were all launched Kevin and I stood up to watch the migration while dancing around blithely. At that moment I remember feeling simultaneously grounded and free. As I watched the balloons bounce across the crowd I thought about how my journey to the show had begun and how that journey paralleled with the migration of our weed balloons. It seemed silly to try controlling the direction of the balloons because in attempting to control them you would be unable to appreciate the enigmatic beauty of their journey. Our weed balloons were all going to end up at their destination, regardless of the path they took.

They just floated on.

As the concert came to an end we all parted ways. I never did get Kevin’s contact information. I have a feeling that if I am meant to see him again, I will. The ride home began similarly to how it had started, with me walking my bike along the greenway. Only this time I was walking my bike until I regained confidence in my large motor skills. After a while I was ready to give it a whirl. Here goes. I wonder if anyone has ever gotten a DUI on a bicycle before. I chuckled to myself at the thought of being pulled over by a bicycle cop and imagined how that scenario might play out. As I mounted my bike I knew that one way or another I would get home alright.

Alas, I would arrive.

Juicy Lucy

I have the body of a black woman. A voluptuous black woman. Only I am white. I have always envied black women and their ability to rock the hell out of those big booties. It seems that white women are supposed to be stick thin and petite. I am neither. For years I was convinced that I would never measure up to my peers because I was not the little dainty white girl that I was supposed to be.

Over the past year, I feel like I have been getting a little bit of myself back. Before I met my husband I was very young and very active. I loved to exercise. I am not sure what happened but that went away for several years. During those years I got fat. Very fat. Now, I’m still fat but I am active again. I have stayed committed to my exercise regime. I work hard 5 times a week without fail. I got a sweet vintage bike this summer so in addition to the gym I have been pedaling my ass all over town. I have started to define what I am “supposed to be.” I don’t know why it took me so long to realize that I have a choice in how I view my body. I have completely stopped weighing myself. I have found over the years that when my self-image becomes about numbers everything gets out of whack and I become obsessive. Then the obsession works against me. I don’t fight with myself about food anymore. If I want more cake, then I’m going to have more cake. I have found that when I give myself this permission I am far less likely to abuse it.

I have been consulting with my trainer, Ramon about nutrition and have been learning some of the science behind exercise. During one of our discussions I told him I just wanted to be healthier. Really I just want to be able to chase my kids around without having to carry along an oxygen tank. I have also come to love my big ass. I like that I have curves. I don’t have to hate them. I can choose not to buy into how our culture views beauty. I have said to Ramon several times, “Look, if I lose some more weight I won’t complain, but I am happy with how I look right now. That said, here are my fitness goals: 1. Let’s tone this shit up. We can melt me down here and there, but the big ass stays. That is non-negotiable. And 2, Collar bones. I want them back.”

Life continued going along smoothly until I got my new dress in the mail. It was a new brand for me and I knew the sizing was risky when I ordered it. On the day that it arrived I tried my new dress on with excitement and enthusiasm. All of that excitement slowed to a halt when it was zipper time. It is not without pride when I say, the zipper zipped! I was officially enclosed in this adorable new dress. However, I looked like I had been uncomfortably packed into a sausage skin. One sharp intake of breath and it would all be over. I said to my husband, “This will not do. I will shrink into this dress. You watch.” Figuratively, I shrugged it off. Literally, there was no shrugging off of anything. I writhed and cussed my way out of that dress. When I was finally free from its harsh confines, I was sweaty and pouting. I allowed myself to grieve briefly, because it really was a great dress, and then I moved on.

One day last week, I was having a great day. I had a short day of work, I got acupuncture, I took myself out for dinner, and I spent some time working on a leisure project. While I was in the midst of my great day, my husband was experiencing the opposite. His day was terrible. While I was peacefully sipping a non-fat, decaf, vanilla latte on the patio at Spyhouse Coffee, my husband called me. He ranted and vented about his bad day. I couldn’t help but to laugh as he recounted all of the random shit that had gone wrong for him over the past 12 hours. His was the kind of story where things just piled up, “…I realized I had no diapers after Juneau pooped her pants. Ruby was restless and crying because she had picked off her pinky toe nail while we were waiting for the doctor to come into my appointment. I had to get lab work done but the lab papers weren’t sent in time so we had to wait around with Juneau smelling like shit and fussing. So while we were waiting, Ruby made friends with a transvestite. She [the transvestite] had an extra front tooth. Not a crooked smile, an extra front tooth! Three of them! …Ruby wanted to stay in the waiting room with her new friend and threw a fit when I wouldn’t let her….” The story went on and on.

I took pity on my husband because having been an ‘almost stay at home mom’ for a few years I know those days all too well. I decided I would do something nice for him. When I finished my drink I went over to Matt’s Bar and ordered a couple of Jucy Lucy’s to go. When I finally arrived home I presented my husband with a delicious, greasy burger. My husband asked me why I bought 2, and I replied, “Well, one of them is for me. I gotta keep this big booty juicy.” In the end, I like food. It is more important to me that I enjoy things in life than to worry about being a certain size or to trying to force myself into a mold that doesn’t fit. I embrace my big ass. It wasn’t that I didn’t fit into the dress, the problem was that the dress didn’t fit my big beautiful black lady body.

 

Support System Failure

Being an almost stay at home mom has been getting to me. While my job has been picking up at a slow, tortoise like pace, it has not been enough to ward off this incessant boredom and the overwhelming feeling of being smothered. I feel like a fire that is being extinguished against its will. Despite all of my attempts to burn strong, my kids are a wet blanket that never lets up. The very fact that I just came up with such a metaphor only adds to my point: I need a fucking break.

Despite my efforts, I have not found a real consistent community of other moms (other than a few acquaintances here and there) who are “normal” that I can spend time with on the days that I am home. Other than my kids, I am in isolation. It is oppressive as hell. I don’t know how women in history did it. Those women had 10 kids and made home cooked meals in a 3 bedroom house, for God’s sake. Maybe the difference is that those women had a support system.

I have to look for the little things in life to keep me going. Until last week, that is, when I had an awesome day. I made the girls breakfast, certain that the day would be typical and generally unfulfilling. I sat the girls down at the table and returned to the kitchen to clean up when Ruby yelled, “MOM! There’s something weird in my pampake!” I called from the kitchen, “Is it Jesus?” There was a long pause. “Um, no.”

We were ahead of our usual schedule and were heading out to attend a program at the Minneapolis Central Library called ‘Childish Films.’ It is a presentation of animated shorts for kids. Ruby loves it. It is always very artfully put together, which keeps me from groaning to myself throughout the show.

As we were leaving the event I was still restless. I kept thinking to myself, If I go home and sit around the house with the kids I will lose my fucking mind. I turned on the radio just as they announced that it was National Record Store Day. There were various events going on around town to celebrate. My favorite record store is the Electric Fetus. It just so happened that there was a line up of live music going on in the store all afternoon. Two Harbors, a local band that is fairly popular around town was playing. One of my neighbors is in the band and I have been meaning to see them play for some time but have never gotten around to it. Perfect. That is one problem solved.

As we pulled around the corner I was met with lines and lines of cars. I wasn’t going to walk miles to get into a crowded store. I began thinking about alternate plans when someone pulled out of their premium parking spot, 3 feet from the door. Nice! Ruby said to me, “Look at all those people! Mom, What are you’re doing?” I replied, “I’m just gonna to parallel this thing like a boss.” For the second time that day, she did not find me amusing.

My neighbor’s band was tearing down when we got there, but a great local band called The Premiums was up next. The girls and I hung around for the show. I threw my name in a drawing for something or other. The sign said, MUST BE PRESENT TO WIN. We would be leaving soon but what the hell? I have an extensive history of having my name drawn for stuff. Just as I dropped my name into the jar an employee grabbed batch of names and headed to the microphone. It was then that Ruby looked at me and said, “Mom. I have to go bathroom.” I looked at her and asked, “Can you hold it for a couple of minutes? They are just about to call Mommy’s name.” Ruby thought about it and nodded. She could wait.

Minutes later, my name was called. I had won two tickets to the Basilica Block Party, an outdoor concert that takes place in Minneapolis every year. The tickets came with a pair of cheap, black plastic Basilica Block Party sunglasses. They came in a box with a nice gold bow. Ruby’s eyes got big at the looks of a present and asked, “What is it, mom?!” I replied, “Why, it’s a major award!”

Again, nothing.

The weather that day was beautiful. I was getting hot in my sweater and decided to buy a t shirt. I’m apparently skinny these days because I was down a size, another sign of a good day. After changing we headed outside and I bought the girls lunch from a food truck. The best part is after all of the action and commotion, the kids got home and napped like they had never napped before while I laid in my hammock and read in the sunshine.

Today everything has returned to normal. I awoke to our reckless Juneau falling down the stairs and Ruby demanding more than I could give at any one moment. I have to remind myself to breathe. To stay mentally sane, I continue to make sarcastic comments that only amuse me.

“Mom, what are we are gonna do today?”

“Same thing we do everyday, Ruby. Try and take over the world.”

 

 

Blaissez – Fair

Most people are surprised upon hearing that I am an introvert. There is a misconception that an extrovert = outgoing and friendly and an introvert = shy and uninterested. This is not true. The whole introversion/extraversion thing isn’t about having friends it’s about how people recharge and get their energy. I need quiet, alone time to feel rejuvenated. My husband is quite the opposite, he feels refreshed after any sort of social gathering. I am typically awkward in large social settings.

Ruby takes after me in this area. She plays by herself all of the time, even when there are a bunch of kids around. She can sit and look at books for a long time and be perfectly content. One day post workout I went down to the child care area to pick up the girls. I saw a large group of kids running around playing together. I looked in the crowd for Ruby but she wasn’t there. She was off to the side playing with a doll. Once we got to the car I asked her if she played with any kids while I was working out. She said no. I asked why and she said it was because she likes to play by herself. Then she added, “I don’t know how to talk to my kids. What do I say to them?” I thought to myself, Shit. I haven’t even figured that out…What do I tell her? I lamely said, “I don’t know, Ruby. I think this is a question for Daddy.”

Deflected.

So I am an introvert. If I could be any animal I might choose to be a turtle. That way I could retreat into my shell whenever it suited me. One might think that because I am an ‘almost stay at home mom,’ I get a lot of time to myself. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I have kids climbing on me 24/7. When I am not being climbed on Ruby is talking, non-stop. Usually she is just straight up complaining. Or she asks me questions that have no point of reference. For example, last night I was driving during a nasty snow storm and she asked me, “Mom. What is that purple thing?”

What purple thing, honey?

That purple thing.

Honey, what purple thing are you talking about?

That purple thing!

I don’t know what you are talking about. Where?

THE PURPLE THING!

I don’t understand you.

Ugh! Mom! The purple thing, back there.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!

Mom. Why are you mad at me?

*sigh* I’m not mad at you, Ruby. I just don’t know what you are talking about.

These conversations take place all day. The snow storm was just a bonus at that point.

I feel like I am constantly running from one task to the next all while constantly being interrupted. Over the past year it has gotten worse. There are two kids now. By the time my husband comes home my blood pressure is higher than a Bob Marley enthusiast vacationing in Amsterdam. From time to time a grandparent will take the girls but it is usually only for a couple of hours at a time. Most of the time I am too neurotic to enjoy these hours because I know they will soon be ending. I spend the whole time bracing myself for their return. It is like the night before an important breakfast meeting but you can’t sleep, you just lay there staring at the alarm clock calculating how much sleep you might be able to get all while obsessing about how tired you are going to be in the morning.

…Or is that just me?

I have said to my husband more times than I can count, “I need a fucking break! I could probably recover to a functional state if I had just 3 days of total solitude.” He says this isn’t likely and besides, I get breaks from grandparents. While I’m extremely grateful for those breaks they are not enough for how badly I am depleted. “Let me put it this way,” I told my husband, “you know mud wrestlers?” He eyes me skeptically. “Hear me out. They get all covered in mud and then afterwards it starts to dry up in clumps? I feel like those people. I am covered in fatigue and I need a really good shower to get all of it off of me. That shower is 3 days, alone. But instead, people come up to me with Dixie cups of water. It sort of helps, but in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t do a fucking thing. I NEED A SHOWER!.” He replies, “Huh. I guess I never thought of it that way. I still don’t see how we could make that work…”

Today was the fair for Minneapolis Public Schools. It was held at the Convention Center downtown. I was supposed to go to this because Ruby is starting Kindergarten next year. At the fair I could talk to various school officials and make an informed decision about which schools to choose. My husband was rather insistent that I go since he was working and could not attend himself. I agreed to go but then couldn’t get past the fact that I would have to be fighting a huge crowd of people and make small talk with a bunch of strangers. I dug out my packet of information from last year and began my online research. I selected our top two school choices and submitted our request form without leaving the house, or having to get out of my pajamas.

Ambivalent Jesus

I was talking to a friend about my future book deal and all of the glamour, fame, and fortune that would inevitably come with it. I really don’t know anything about the writing world. She explained to me that apparently the way that book deals are made in this day and age is through blogs that become popular and are “picked up.” I said, “Well, I am kind of a big deal. I have 9, count them, 9 followers. I am practically a cult leader.” I thought about this for a moment and added, “I guess a real cult leader would need to have at least 12 followers though.” She replied, “Yeah. Like Jesus.” I laughed and said that I would let her know when I was on the same playing field as Jesus. “It might take a while…”

Overnight I had 3 new followers to My Doula Oblongata. I promptly sent a message to my friend and told her that Jesus and I are now one in the same. After all, I too have 12 followers. Thus began my God complex. I guess I am more of a hobby god. Nobody really reads my stuff. I am not a well-known blogger to put it mildly. I write as a free way to amuse myself in between trying to clean up after 2 small kids and a husband who works too much and getting my own career up and running.

In Minneapolis there is a church called Love Power Church. It has a mural of a rainbow and Jesus with his arms out that faces the freeway. I know this is supposed to be a “Come all ye who are weary” sort of pose, or perhaps the ever so popular “Jesus loves the little children” picture. However, they don’t quite pull it off. When we drive passed the mural on 35W I will usually point and say, “Ambivalent Jesus!”

Both Ruby and Juneau have had colds for about a week. They cough a lot and poor Juneau has a nose that won’t quit running. Ruby frequently helps me by getting “boogie rags” when I need them for Juneau. She will often announce, “Mooooom! Juneau has boogies!” This is when I swoop in with my boogie rag and wrestle Juneau down so I can wipe her nose.  When things get really bad we have to use “the boogie sucker.” I sometimes call it “the blue ball of pain” because Juneau acts as if she is dying anytime I have to use it. Earlier today I said to Ruby, “Hey Rue, could you get me the boogie rag from the table? Or, if you want to be mean to your sister you could go out onto the porch and get the boogie sucker. Ruby replied, “I want to be mean to her.” and off she went to the porch to get the blue ball of pain. I struck my best Ambivalent Jesus pose, looked at Juneau and said, “Sorry dude, the world is corrupt.”

Pablo

Ruby has an imaginary friend named Pablo. In fact, she has many imaginary friends, Chin and Prince are two others who frequently come around. From time to time there are more friends but it is usually just these three. The therapist in me wants to analyze the hell out of them. Of course, the most obvious go to is Freud’s theory of the Id, Ego, and Superego…which would be Pablo, Chin, and Prince respectively, but who knows. What does it say that they are all male? I haven’t quite cracked that either.

I never had imaginary friends growing up. Are they like you see on T.V.? A real person that only one individual can see? Are they thoughts, like dialogue between Barbies? To what extent do people with imaginary friends really, genuinely believe in their existence? I find the whole thing very interesting.

When Pablo first started coming around (after Tyrone) I embraced Ruby’s transition into this new phase of imaginary friends. Ruby had probably just turned 3 and I would catch her offering part of her lunch to Pablo or at times telling him goodnight.

One day we set out to pick up my husband from work. While walking to the car Ruby politely asked if Pablo could come too. “Yeah. Pablo can come if it is ok with his Mommy.” It was. We were backing out of the driveway and Ruby exclaims, “WAIT! We forgot Pablo!” I hit the breaks in a jolt and said, “Oh no!” I open the passenger side door and yell out of the car, “Pablo! Come on, quick! Get in!” Pablo climbs in through the passenger side door and I instruct him to get in the back seat with Ruby and buckle his seatbelt. Ruby studies me with a sort of bemused look on her face. During the drive to my husband’s work site I can hear Ruby talking to Pablo and scolding him for not buckling his seatbelt. “Mom, Pablo keeps standing up. He won’t put his seatbelt on.” I look in the rearview mirror and say, “Pablo… you need to listen to me. It is not safe to stand up in the car while we are driving. Put your seatbelt on. I mean it!” We continue another few blocks and I volunteer another lecture, “Ruby, is Pablo buckled? Well, that is unacceptable. Pablo, I won’t tell you again, sit down and put your seatbelt on. Now.” Pablo does not comply. “Ok Pablo. If you don’t sit down and buckle up your seatbelt right now, you will have to take the bus home. Do you understand?” Ruby continues to complain about Pablo’s delinquent behavior. At the next red light I lean over and open the passenger side door. “Pablo. Out. You didn’t listen. I told you that you would have to take the bus home if you didn’t listen so now you need to get out.” After a few moments I close the door and tell Ruby that it is always important to listen to Mommy. We have now made it downtown on our journey and are sitting at another traffic light. A city bus passes us in the bus lane. Ruby says, “Mom! Look! A bus!” I look over and said, “And there is Pablo! Wave to Pablo, Ruby!” Ruby and I wave to Pablo on the bus. When we pick up my husband Ruby relays the whole ordeal to him to the best of her 3 year old ability.

Ever since Pablo has been a total jackass. I can’t quite figure out why Ruby keeps him around. What purpose does he hold? As time went on, Pablo began doing naughty things around the house. Breaking things, making faces at us all, and prohibiting Ruby from doing things that she had been told to do such as picking up her toys or retrieving something for me or my husband. This wasn’t allowed in the house. We couldn’t justify letting Ruby off the hook so easily when she was instructed to do something.

Since then, Pablo has become such an antagonist. Ruby is constantly complaining about him. We hear from Ruby several times a day that Pablo has done something mean to her or is trying to get her in trouble. “Mooooom…Pablo is hitting me!” “Pablo said I can’t be his friend!” “MOM! Pablo said ‘butthead’!” Most recently, Pablo has been climbing up Ruby’s bedroom door and coloring on the ceiling. He wants her to get in trouble for it. Bastard.

Earlier today I did a brief interview with Ruby about Pablo. Here are the specifics:
Where does Pablo live?
In a house with his friends.
Who are Pablo’s friends?
I don’t know.
Where are Pablo’s parents?
I don’t know.
How did you meet Pablo?
For a long time.
How does Pablo come over to our house?
Pablo just walks to our house.
What is Pablo like?
He is mean.
How is Pablo mean?
Pablo always colors on the ceiling and doesn’t listen to me. He says mean things to me and doesn’t listen when I say ‘Stop it!’ Pablo scares me all the time. He goes in the hall when I am trying to sleep and scares me by yelling. That is not nice…
How old is Pablo?
Um. He is 5. But he can’t have gum. He is too little.

Pablo drives me and my husband crazy. He is such a little shit! Clearly Ruby finds a use for him or he wouldn’t be coming around so often. But real or imagined, anyone who picks on my baby is going to have unpleasant repercussions, making Pablo take the bus home was only the beginning.

Classical Conditioning

Classical Conditioning

When Ruby turned 6 months old we commenced the early stages of her eating solid foods. We started with rice cereal and progressed eventually to green beans, peas, carrots and so on. They say you are only supposed to introduce one new food per week so that you can identify any food allergies that may arise. Ruby has never been a big eater, even to this day, but she quickly learned that real food trumped the monotony of milk all day every day.

Being the psychology nerd that I am I decided to try an experiment for my own entertainment. I had recently come into the possession of a bunch of old records and listened to them with some frequency. One particular record that I had become fond of was a Canned Heat album. From a very early age, Ruby has taken an interest in music. She would move to the beat of music as a small baby. One day when she was a about a year old she was sitting with books around her “reading.” She had a little toy drum that would play a generic tempo and produced more sounds when interacted with. Ruby never took to actually playing the drum as much as listening to the background tempo. After so many minutes of not being used the drum would shut off temporarily, leaving a small window of time before it shut off for good to save battery life. Ruby knew this. When the tempo would stop and it would go quiet, Ruby would look up from her books and hit the top of the drum with one swift tap, thus starting the tempo all over again. For me this did two things, 1.- It confirmed my suspicions that she was, in fact, a musical little thing and 2.- gave me a glimpse into her future as a teenager. I could just picture her briefly and automatically glancing up from painting her toe nails to hit the play button on her futuristic cassette player.

Rewinding back a bit, little Ruby was 6 months old. At the start of each feeding I would play the song Evil Woman by Canned Heat. The record had an extended intro to the song and I would dance around with a performance to which only Ruby was privy. Each time I would sit down in front of her highchair, with the spoon ready to go on the same note. Ruby became very accustomed to this and began to predict that food was coming by the first couple of notes of the song. Probably she was able to predict that it was time to eat based on the fact that we were generally on a schedule and that she was getting into her highchair BUT by the first few notes of the song Ruby began flapping her arms around in excited anticipation of dinner. By the time my butt hit the chair in front of her she was ready to go. Give me the yams!!!!

Ruby has continued to be interested in music, at her old age of 4. She sings almost constantly. Recently my husband was looking for her in the house and said, “Oh. There you are. I didn’t know what you were up to, you’re usually singing.” Ruby surprises me daily. Just the other day we were in the grocery store and she began matching the notes of the music playing overhead. It is exciting to get to watch little bits of her individuality peek through. I have never been able to carry a note, other than perhaps, say a note to the principal’s office from my mother excusing me from class so that I could go have a plugged sweat gland removed from my foot. I used to say that if I could have any talent that I wanted, I would choose to be able to sing. “If I could sing, would never talk again. I would only sing.” is what I have said in the past. Now I know first hand how constant singing can grate on one’s nerves at times. I have since changed my mind, I think I would pick a more useful talent, like a high metabolism, but we are not talking about me.

Ruby and I went on a date to see a ballet performance through the Fringe Festival last week. She loved it. She’s my little performing arts girl. She wanted to stay for a second dance performance, following the first. After the brief wait we were admitted back into the theater to wait for the performance to start. Ruby chose our seats. First row. At times we were literally only a few feet from the dancers.

While the seats were filling up Ruby would walk in front of the dimmed lights and do her ballet moves from her class and then at random times lip sync to the music, (scrunched eyebrows and all). I didn’t want her to be that kid, the kid that needs an annoying amount of attention from people, so I only let her play around sparingly. The funny part is, knowing her, she wasn’t looking for attention as much as she wanted to pretend to be a ballerina/singer/princess. Still, I can’t fathom how I had such a girlie-girl. I ask my husband all the time, “How did that happen?!”