Fragments, from the last twenty-four hours.
Addie woke up howling last night, which she hasn't done much of since recovering from her surgery. It was my turn to get up and soothe her, so I went into her room and crawled into her bed. "What's wrong, Addie?" I asked, smoothing her hair back, holding her hand.
"I miss Burley, mama."
I wasn't even sure she had noticed he was gone, really, so this answer took me by surprise. We talked again about how Burley was in a happy new place, and how he was getting to go on walks every day, and how we should be glad that he had a nice new family. We talked about how someday we might get another dog.
Addie was quiet for a few minutes, running her hand over my fingers. She is getting more and more affectionate and loving all the time now, rubbing our backs and hugging and kissing us, telling us she loves us.
"You have beautiful fingers."
"Addie. Thank you. So do you."
Why does this kill me so much? Because it's proof that she sees me as separate from her, and yet she still feels so much like part of me? Because I remember loving my own beautiful mom so much? Because I'm proud of my sweet, sweet girl, and the innocence of this comment is too much? It doesn't matter, I guess.
We got the kids in the car this morning and headed out to look at neighborhoods we might want to move to once this house sells. We explained to Addie that we were going to look at houses because soon we might be moving. This wasn't the first time we've had a conversation about moving, but it was the first time we were actually going to check out neighborhoods, and the words "buying a new house" must have circulated one time too many.
The kids were real troopers about all the driving. We were out for around two hours--Nolie slept most of the time, and Addie talked to us, or ate her snacks and looked out the window. Finally, we felt like we'd had enough and started to head home.
This led to incredible wails of protest from the backseat. "I waaaaaant to liiiiiive in our neeeeeewwwww hooooouuuuuusee!!!!!!" Let me tell you, when Addie has a fit, it is no small thing. It is a screeching, throw the hands in the air, cry the eyes out, end of the world sort of drama. It's something to behold. I have to work some serious mama mojo to calm her down when these tantrums happen, breathing with her, or getting her to "count elephants" with me. But even these things fail sometimes, and then we just have to leave her to work it out. She'll usually come to us minutes later, beaming. "Mama! I'm not sad anymore!"
But this is a good example of the dozens of little failures of communication that happen between us and her throughout the day. We are trying to explain more and more complex concepts to her (giving away Burley, moving to a new house, what it means to be "patient"--which I still don't understand, personally) and she is grasping them in her own ways. It's just that her ways of grasping them and our ways don't always match up. And this leads to much frustration for her. I can empathize.
Can someone tell me why Target can't sell a decent bra? Who is this Gilligan O'Malley, anyway?
Addie and I headed to the "big red balls," as she calls Target, to get me some new undershirts and underwear. Eric doesn't give one whistle what sort of underclothes I have on, but I was starting to get pretty sick of my cotton underwear from last year, all pilled and stretchy, so I decided to make the trek. I also finally tossed my nursing and pregnancy bras and felt like I probably couldn't fit in my pre-having-kids bras because of the droopage factor, so off we went.
(Aside: I hate buying bras. I always have. My parents like to tell the story of me going to buy my first training bra and wadding it up, throwing it in a corner, and sobbing, "It's little and stinky and I won't wear it!" But I still feel like doing that. I feel the same way about having to get my hair cut. It is just one of those details in life that I would be happy never taking care of again. I think this is because I'm really picky about what I like in these areas, and yet hate spending money on them).
We must have spent 45 minutes circling the underwear section there. I kept muttering, "They have got to have a decent bra here. There are thousands of bras here. Why can't I find one I like? What's wrong with this place? What's wrong with me?" And, really? There were no bras there I liked. Most of the padded ones were seriously padded--they seemed almost bullet-proof. The unpadded ones provided no support for the droopy girls, or had weird cross-hatching that would show through a shirt, or cut weird and gave me hubba-dubba boob. I was disgusted. I left the changing room wanting to cry, and it was only by dint of an extended conversation with Addie about why the lady gave us a card with a "5" on it (to note how many items we took in) that I didn't totally sink into despair.
The good news is that I got home and dug out all my pre-pregnancy bras and, lo and behold, they fit after all. So, I'm happy, my boobs are happy, and I don't have to deal with the trauma of bra shopping for another year. At least.