I think I’ve mentioned before that I oftentimes let my daughter pluck my eyebrows.  What can I say?  It’s much easier to lay on the bed and let her do it than for me to peer into the mirror and do it myself.  Anyway, we’re enjoying some sweet quality time.  I’m relaxed and happy, eyes closed just soaking in the closeness.  And then…

“You have holes on your nose.”  A thougtful pause, then “They’re filled with dirt.”

Excellent.  Just what I’ve always wanted.  Dirty pores.

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend.  And you should probably all buy some stock in Biore.  I’m off to buy a case of pore strips….

…over at the Soapbox Queens today.  (It was my week to pull double duty.)  Click on over and tell me what commercial bugs you the most.  I’ve shared mine. 

Because I know that your day won’t be complete without listening to me complain about yet another thing. 

I’m intuitive that way.

Dear Time,

     Where did you go?  Twelve years ago today my sweet baby girl was born.  I still remember the fat rolls bulging out from between the doctor’s fingers when he held my little girl up the minute she was born, that blood-curdling cry and all that hair.  Jet black and thick and so unruly strangers would later tell me I could make it “lay down” with a little bit of baby oil.

     Er…no.  Her hair had character.  (And still does.)

     I still remember the smell of baby lotion and Desitin ointment and her gummy smile.  The way she would spit out a pacifier and plug her fingers into her mouth instead.  I remember her sitting in the floor, twirling her feet in circles and laughing at her big brother.  I remember snuggling her close, taking her to the park to feed the ducks only to realize that she’d crammed the stale bread into her mouth instead of sharing with the birds.  I remember her sweet laugh and the way she loved her johnny-jump-up.  I remember her sleepy smile and baby kisses, dimpled knees and little feet.

     :::sniff, sniff:::

    And now she’s twelve.  A whole dozen.  She’s wearing a bra and little bit of make-up and spends most of her time on the phone.  But she’s still–and will always be–my sweet baby girl.  And that, dear Time, you will never be able to take away from me.

     ~Rhonda

PS–Happy Birthday, my sweet girl.  I love you.

This morning my kids were arguing over who was going to get to hold their new cousin first–when she arrives, which could be any day now–and here’s how I decided to handle the solution.  Both kids have guessed the baby’s birth weight and whoever is closer to the actual weight wins the honor.

“I think the baby is going to weigh 7 pounds 4 ounces because Aunt Brooke is HUGE,” my daughter says. (Lessons in tact are clearly in order.)

“I’m guessing 6 pounds 2 ounces,” says my son.  “She’s not that big.  She’s pregnant, idiot.  She’s supposed to be big.”  (I just love how they call eachother names.  It warms a mother’s heart, I can tell you.) ”And if you go over, then you lose.”

“That’s not how we’re playing.  It’s whoever is closer, remember?”

Son puffs up and shoots me a look in which I know my intellect is being called into question.  “Well, that’s not how they do it on The Price is Right.  If you go over, then you LOSE.”

Alrighty then.  That’s good to know.

I’m ranting at the Soapbox Queens today.  Come share a pet peeve with me.

…which no doubt died of dehydration…but I AM SO SICK OF THIS HEAT!!!!!

Seriously, I know that it’s August and that I live in Alabama–my darling kids point this out every time I whine about being hot–but I honestly don’t know how much more I can take.  No rain, 10 straight days of 100+ degree heat.  My flowers are dying, despite the water I’ve been pouring over them.  The grass is brittle and brown.  The unit is running non-stop and it doesn’t actually cool off in here until around midnight.  Sweet Lord, how I dread our power bill.  We could probably take a small vacation for what that baby is going to be this month.

I wonder if they’re still doing that homestead thing in Alaska.  Cooler climate, Northern Lights…it’s an option.

Hope everyone has a great weekend!

Our church finished Revival last night and I have thoroughly enjoyed it–particularly the music by This Hope–however at one point during the proceedings I happened to notice a little old lady sitting in front of me whose head barely peeked above the back of the pew.

And then I thought she looked like ET, from the back, when he’d been dressed up like a woman by Gertie.

And then I was immediately sorry.

I try to be good.  Really, I do.  But sometimes it’s just so very hard.

In which I share my dirty laundry.  Literally.  I have captioned this picture

“How To Break My Spirit”

     

 In happier news, I am chatting today at eHarlequin at 11:00 Eastern if you’d like to drop by and say hello.

Here’s the link.

Simply login under your eHarlequin username when prompted and the password is BROWNBAG. 

(Because it’s a Take An Author To Lunch chat.   ) 

…to the Soapbox Queens!  I’m blogging today and giving away a copy of my first Men Out of Uniform–The Player–on audio.   It’s in a CD format and can be yours with a simple “Queen Me!” in the comment tail.

I am nothing if not generous.

In a couple of weeks my daughter will turn twelve so, naturally, the only thing which has occupied her thoughts for the past month is her birthday.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone get so excited about it and she does this EVERY year.  She’s planning, thinking, looking at pictures of cake on the internet, figuring out what she wants, what she wants to have for her special dinner, where she wants to go out to eat after church the following Sunday because it’s the one Sunday of the year which she can choose.

In short, she’s just about driven me crazy with it.

We finally settled on a murder mystery party–age appropriate, of course–and she’s got seven little girls coming over in costume to figure out the crime.  It’s set in the 1800’s, so we’ve done up the invitations, complete with the wax seal and have them ready to go today.  (Probably should have thought about the 100+ degree weather before that little stroke o’ genius, but…  ) 

“Okay,” I said, once the last invitation was ready.  “We’re not going to talk about your birthday anymore until it’s here.”

“But what about my–”

“We’re not going to talk about it.”

Pitful, whining, miserable face.  “But it’s my birthday!”

“Not. Yet.”

Yes, I am an evil mother.