I keep commiserating with the other moms about the many ways our bodies have changed after giving birth.
On the soccer field, we laugh about nursing and our boobs. At the gym, we talk about baby weight and stomachs and hip spread. When a woman in my gym class asked me how old my baby was, I was able to say 3. With a straight face. But I won’t be able to for much longer. In four days I will have to extricate myself from baby discussions, because Bodacious is turning four. I will have to find the other moms who are talking about pre-school and kindergarten programs and ugh, craft projects. In four days I will be forced to take responsibility for my body and my life and stop blaming “the baby” for sleepless nights and the mess in my floors.
But I’m okay with that. I really like the little person she is turning in to! She looks so much like me and she’s a little pistol. More assertive than her brother, she whips people into shape wherever we go.
An older girl hit Little Son on the bus a few weeks ago. Not once, but twice. I talked to his teacher and principal and climbed onto the bus and chewed on the bus driver. Next, I threatened my son. “If you don’t stand up for yourself, I will put your sister on that bus tomorrow morning and let her take care of this.” He was mortified, but as previously established, he’s a lover not a fighter. Bodacious doesn’t let much slide and there is no way she would tolerate someone hurting her “brudder.”
She can also be very, very sweet. She is such a good mommy to her dolls and our old dogs. She makes sure everyone gets soft hugs and treats. And she’s a cuddler. She loves to sneak into our bed early in the morning. She holds my hand with her soft little fingers while she kicks The Hubs with her giant feet. She loves kisses and tickles and stands by the front door at 3:30 every afternoon, ready to welcome Brudder home. And she’s probably secretly hoping to catch that other little girl out in the open.
Bodacious is also a very sensitive child. “Mommy, the way your hair smells makes my eyes hurt.” And observant. “Mommy, yuk. You have fur under your arms.” And she has very good manners. For example, whenever I ask her to pick up her colors, I get a cheerful, “No thank you.”
My girl also inherited my strong sense of fashion and personal style. She always wants to look her best, and that often includes wearing rain boots, all of her plastic princess jewelry, a mermaid back pack and her pink bear toboggan wherever we’re going. As she slips on her sunglasses, I can hear her saying, “Don’t mess with my style” to the menagerie surrounding her in the back seat. She cracks me up.
This morning, we found her dancing and singing in the den. She was making up her own song with some signature Bodacious dance moves.
The Hubs had a sad little look on his face. “She won’t be doing this for much longer,” he moped.
But I disagree. I suspect she will always be making up her own song and dancing like no one is watching. May God give me the strength to make sure she has that kind of confidence and the kind of strength to endure it.
Happy birthday baby girl!