The Princess and the Pee

**There are a few things you need to know to prepare you for the story below that prepares you for the post below.  1. I was young.  2. I was stupid.  Now you can proceed. **

When you are raised by an absent father and a single mother trying to make it on her own, you are often shuffled around between relatives and family friends. The result is that, on occasion, you are left to your own devices. Which is awesome if you're a wild and free 9-year-old. Not so awesome if you're the cousin of said wild and free 9-year-old.

It began as a simple water fight. And then things got real. And it got ugly. Real ugly. I sprayed water in my cousin's eye. So he dumped a cup of steaming hot water on me. It hurt and I was mad, so I did what most logical 4th graders would do. I peed in a cup and dumped it on him. That'll learn him.

Whoa, whoa. Before you get all grossed out, know I diluted it. It was only like 1/2 pee and 1/2 water. I mean I'm not a monster.

Anyway, pee ratios aside, I got in trouble. A LOT of trouble. My biggest mistake was bragging to my goody two-shoes sister, Desi, who immediately tattled on me. She was always doing the right thing that one. Well, no one seemed to care about the burn marks on my arm from the boiling water bath he gave me (Note to self: pee trumps scalding water. Every. Time). And truth be told, I felt guilty. Super guilty. It was kind of a chump move, regardless of whether he deserved it or not (cause we all know he totally did). I was sure I had emotionally scarred him for life and the "Pee Boy" label would follow him wherever he went.

He pretty much stopped talking to me for, well, forever. And then he moved away. And then we became teenagers. And then we became adults. I was certain that when we saw each other again, he'd have a wealth of potty jokes all lined up to taunt me with (Urine trouble, anyone?). And I'd be pretty deserving of it all and apologize a million more times and inquire about how that single incident shaped his childhood.

And then I saw him 20+ years later. He did not harass me about it. He did not mention it. Because he did not even remember it. Not a single memory of that day. It did not haunt him as I, for years, had believed it had. Such a seemingly important thing had all but been forgotten as life ran its course and other things, more important things, took priority in his memory vault.

People forget. People forgive. People move on, and things, once seemingly important things, no longer matter.

I spend so much time caught up in those little things. The not-gonna-matter-in-20-years things. Most of the time those things are flaws. Minor little flaws. My flaws, your flaws, the flaws of my kids.

I harass myself for my flaws, find fault in you for yours, and nearly lose my mind dealing with the flaws belonging to my 2 small trolls. So my resolution is simple this year: Ignore flaws.

Not forgive them.

Not recognize them.

Not attempt to correct them.

But ignore them. As in overlook them indefinitely.

Because at the end of 2014, I suspect all those little minor things that stress me out and tangle up my thoughts and dictate my moods will seem as insignificant as those of 2013.

There's a book someone wrote along those same lines years ago. Something about "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff," or something equally uplifting.  I'd say I'd refer to that as my motto for 2014, but that book doesn't even mention what to do when someone starts a urine fight with you, so I don't think it's a comprehensive guide at all.

So I'm choosing a nice quote from George Carlin to live my 2014 by:

Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.

Pretty much sums up my New Year's Resolution.

Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.
George Carlin
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_carlin.html#h2uRqbRdzt2I6Blx.99

Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.
George Carlin
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_carlin.html#h2uRqbRdzt2I6Blx.99

Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.
George Carlin
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/g/george_carlin.html#h2uRqbRdzt2I6Blx.99

"Yes, I Will Stay With You"

I have to give a eulogy on Monday. That means someone is dead. And I hate that. I think death is stupid. Yes, stupid. All you lyrical geniuses can put that in your pipe and smoke it. Because stupid is all I've got tonight.

I'm emotionally drained. I've been on the phone trying to sort through the logistical nightmare of last-second travel plans on the second busiest travel weekend of the year.  I've spoken more to distant cousins in the last 4 hours than I have the last 4 years. My phone has been attached to my ear, sweaty and grime covered now. I'm not sure I've said more than annoyed hand gestured to my children in hours, shoeing them out of earshot. MapQuest has been consulted, Travelocity has been overworked and I've texted so much I feel like a 16-year-old girl with a crush. My brain hurts. My eyes hurt. Even my ears hurt. Which is fine because all that masks the fact that my heart hurts.

My grandma died last night, but oddly, and possibly insensitively, I'm not sad about that right now. I miss my father. With every inch of me. Every last memory I have of my grandma is intertwined with a memory of him. Almost 10 years later, when I think of him, that hollowness is hard to shake. It's not fair that he's not here.

He should be the one making these arrangements. That's how it works. He'd book our flights, rent our cars, meet us in Salt Lake to shuttle us to the hotel that he already booked. That's what he did. That was his role. And as I do this, make these calls, book these flights, the fact that he's not here to do it is suffocating. And I miss him. Fiercely.

And I have to get up in front of a congregation and read a eulogy about an incredible woman. A woman who endured more than most should have to. A woman who lived a hard life, but was adored by those who were fortunate enough to know her. I'm pretty sure I got my toughness from her. My stubbornness too thankyouverymuch. I have to read about her place of birth and those she left behind; where she went to school and the very things that made her life matter, relevant. I'm her granddaughter and that's what granddaughters do.

But most granddaughters don't fight back tears not meant for the funeral honoree. And I'm not sure what that says about me.

When my father was killed, I was days away from having Cora. I could not attend his funeral. When his father died 2 years later, I was days away from having Claire. I could not attend his funeral.

This funeral is saying goodbye to the final direct link to my father. This funeral is not what it seems to most and I'm trying to be sad for the right reasons. She deserves that. After all, she raised a son who, 9.5 years later, I still can't seem to get over losing.

You're Gonna Hear Me Roar

We listen to music, loud music, every morning while my daughters are rubbing sleep from their eyes and I'm helping them find arm holes and pull on wayward socks. Claire says it pumps up her day. Exactly.

On this morning's play list was Roar, the latest song by Katy Perry that will certainly sound like nails on a chalkboard momentarily once it's played on continuous rotation on every last radio station in the city. It's what Katy's best at. She sings a catchy song that I like for about half a day and everyone else in the country likes constantly for the next 6 months. But I digress. Because this post isn't about Katy. Well it is, but it isn't. It's about the fact that Katy made me think (stay with me here). Leave it to a Katy Perry song lyric to invoke deep thoughts on a Monday morning. My brain hurts already.

"I stood for nothing, so I fell for everything." That's what Katy sang to at me this morning. And those words just kept on rolling around in my head. Bouncing around. Taking up space. Making me wonder if you knew what I stand for.

Probably not. Because I'm quiet about it on purpose.

I like to appease people. I like everyone to get along. I'm not a pushover by any means, but I can almost always find common ground and diffuse a potentially confrontational or uncomfortable situation. I've always been able to argue both sides of most debates, because I have the uncanny ability to crawl into the perspective of the opposite side. What you believe might not make any sense, but I can often see what drives you to believe that way. What causes you to say what you do. What's at the core of what makes you tick. And I can respect that or not, but I've found a way to pander to it.

I want you to like me. Trust me when I say the people who say they don't care what others think are the ones who care the most. We care. It might not shape what I do or how I dress or what I believe, but who doesn't want people to think they are awesome. So in an effort to keep people happy and to avoid ruffling feathers and to steer clear of conversations on politics/religion/cats, I've kept the core of what I believe to myself.

There are those of you who know me, all of me, and like me in spite of it. But you are few in numbers. I'm vocal and opinionated on certain topics publicly, but lean towards the politically correct option of bottling unpopular opinions. Not today. Katy's driven me to speak. I want you to know what I stand for. What I truly believe.

You can love it. You hate it it. You can be indifferent about it. You can choose never to speak to me again because of it. It won't matter. I'm not trying to start arguments or debates. It's not open for discussion. This is who I am and what I believe:

I'm not religious. I'm spiritual. I believe in God (I think) and I believe in being kind and that's it. I was raised Mormon, and believe wholeheartedly that there is a wealth of amazingness and goodness in that religion. But there are also things taught/preached/supported in the LDS religion that I am vehemently against and I cannot stand for. I am not Mormon. I will never be again. Ever. I do not believe in organized religion.

I believe that love is what matters. Who you love should not. I believe that heterosexual couples long ago made a mockery of the sanctity of marriage that so many are fighting to preserve. The divorce rate and Kim Kardashian proves that. But I also believe that marriage is amazing and everyone and anyone should have the opportunity to experience it. Marriage is what you want it to be. I wanted to take my husband's last name and I wanted to marry a man and I wanted to settle down and make a life together. Marriage is cultural and spiritual and universal. It is a public way of screaming from the rooftops, "I love this person and only this person and I've chosen them." What you do with that marriage after those papers are signed is up to you. Marriage is what you make of it, but I believe you have the right to marry whomever you choose. And I certainly don't think anyone should look down on you or judge you or hate you because of it. Do you love them? Are you willing to work everyday and fight everyday through thick and thin and ugly for your marriage? If you answered yes to both, then you deserve to be husband and wife, or wife and wife, or husband and husband.

In an ironic statement following that last pro same-sex marriage rant, I also love chivalry. I like that my husband is strong and a provider for our family and fiercely protective and opens doors for me and knows how to change a tire and build a fire. I love to be taken care of like that. And you might not, and you might think that's a totally anti-feminist point of view and that it makes me seem weak and dependent. But I don't care. This post isn't about you.

I think politics are stupid. I don't subscribe to a party because I think that somewhere through the years, they've all lost their way. Absolute power corrupts absolutely or something like that and now it's all my dog is bigger than your dog. I feel very disenchanted by every political speech. I think there are so few politicians that actually have my best interest at heart; so few who actually speak truths. I think government sticks their nose where it shouldn't be. We've essentially stripped the American people of the need or desire to fend for or even think for themselves. We are enablers breeding enablers. The end result is sheer catastrophe. I think the entire government needs to be overhauled. We need to start from scratch. I feel helpless because of the direction our country is going some days, but other days I'm content to live in my happy little bubble unaffected by all of it. Pathetic, but otherwise the anxiety can be crippling.

I believe in the death penalty. I didn't used to buy into that eye for an eye thing. Then I had kids. You hurt one hair on their heads and I will end you.

I don't think someone should have the right to tell us what we can and cannot do with or to our bodies unless we are harming someone else. Like go smoke all the pot you want and get fall-off-your-bar-stool drunk, but get behind a wheel and put someone else's life in jeopardy and I think you should pay for it. Big time.

That thought process lends itself to my thoughts on abortion, which won't be popular. If a woman is raped, she should absolutely, no questions asked be allowed to end that pregnancy. Period. And I don't think anyone has a right to judge her. She's been through enough. Now if a woman chooses to make stupid choices that result in pregnancy, that's a different matter. Your choices have resulted in the creation of a life and because of it, some of your choices should be taken away. This is where it gets tricky though because I've carried beautiful healthy babies full-term inside me and felt them kick and felt them alive before their 1st breath. Changes your perspective on everything. I don't like abortion. Hate it in fact, but I think before we allow a woman to get an abortion they should have to sit through a video that shows a baby's life cycle in the womb and then another video about the amazing world of adoption. Then and only then, once they are fully educated about their choices, I think 1st trimester abortions should be allowed because the baby cannot survive outside the womb. (Do you hate me yet?) Never 2nd or 3rd trimester abortions. Ever. See what I said about not popular. I'm not out to make friends today.

Speaking of friends. I have some. Not many close ones and that's on purpose. It's not that I don't think this world is full of amazing people. I just don't have the time or energy or resources to be true friends with many of them. And if I divide those resources on a hundred acquaintances, I'm left spent and without the ability to be a true friend to my true friends. Got it? I have also learned that there are so few genuine people in this life. I'm guilty of that. I'm pretty sure I'm not who you think I am. I'm quite selfish and wildly inappropriate. We all put on shows. It's the human way. No judgement here. But taking the time to get to the guts of who a person truly is usually takes time (a lot of time), and then 9 times out of 10 they aren't who they seem to be and it's all been a waste. The reverse is also true and you waste time digging down to the heart of who I am only to discover I'm not the Amber you thought I was or you wanted or needed me to be. I don't think that limits my happiness or prevents me from getting to know awesome people, I think it allows me to cherish the friends I do have and grow and develop the friendships that are important to me. I am a loyal, solid friend because of that.

So there you have it. All of the convictions and beliefs and opinions I share make me happy. And if they ever stop making me happy, I'd stop believing them. They might not make you happy. They might even make you sad or angry or dumbfounded. All of the jumbled convictions above might make you hate me. But I don't care. That's who I am and you can take it or leave it. It was just important to me that you know where I stand.

If you don't like it, you can take that up with Katy Perry.

The Most Beautiful Day in the World

I was having a "woe is me" day earlier today. Like a full on feel sorry for myself pity party. I woke up to the sound of Claire yelling for breakfast at 6:45; typical day for us around here. And while I stumbled out of bed with anticipation, hoping this day would prove to be extra special, typical is all it aspired to be. No sleeping in. No cards. No breakfast in bed. No gifts. No hot date night or dinner at my favorite restaurant. I cleaned my own house, got the girls breakfast and began breaking up sister fights before I could even begin barking orders for our morning routine.

And that probably would have been just fine, until I logged onto Facebook. You see I know so many cool mothers who are surrounded by so much love this Mom's Day. Post after Facebook post showed gorgeous flower arrangements, delicious looking breakfast in bed, cute/funny/sentimental cards and pretty stellar gifts. Everything I felt my Mother's Day was lacking. And then I stumbled on a post that stopped me in my tracks and put me in my place.

A friend of mine had struggled with infertility for years. She sat childless year after year and watched her friends celebrate Mother's Day. She wanted, more than anything in this world, to be numbered among them. She miraculously became pregnant and few days ago, gave birth to beautiful tiny twin girls, born 10 weeks premature. Because they are so small, they are struggling. They are strong like their mama, and so I'm certain they will grow and thrive and become spunky little babies. But for now a mess of wires and tubes and machines mask their little bodies, as they get comfortable in the NICU, their home for the foreseeable future.

She posted about her first Mother's Day as she hovered close to her preemies, and ended her post with these words:

"It is the most beautiful day in the world.

It is my first mother's day."

I often forget, as I did this morning, that motherhood is a gift, not a right. I have watched more friends struggle with infertility than I'd care to admit. Miscarriages, stillborn babies, horrible pregnancies, premature labor, failed IUI and IVF procedures. Heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak. 

I am a lucky one. I not only have two beautiful daughters, but they are two healthy beautiful daughters. And I get to be their mom. Everyday I get to cuddle them. Everyday I get to sing them to sleep. Everyday I get to shape them and teach them and guide them. They are mine to love. Every. Day. 

I often lie in bed at night, frustrated with how my day played out. I yelled too much, hugged too little. I felt unappreciated, invisible. I accomplished nothing, or accomplished great things at the expense of others. I replay the mistakes made and feel guilty for my choices. I screw up. I fail. And then I get up the next day and repeat it all over again. And sometimes I really think I need a mushy card and gift certificate to a spa day to let me know, despite my shortcomings, I'm doing okay. And okay might not be best, but it's the best I can do.

There are women out there that would give anything to be me on my worst parenting day. They would trade anything to have a muddy, Popsicle-covered child scream "MOOOOOMMMM!" at them. They want what I take for granted constantly.  I lose myself in the daily grind and forget that no amount of  powdered sugar topped french toast or long-stemmed roses could compare to the greatest gift I have ever been given. 

My newly-minted mother friend said it perfectly. It is the most beautiful day in the world. 

Simply because I get to be a mother.

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Blog

*I will resume my Paleo posts tomorrow. But let's just say I didn't exactly follow a Paleo diet during marathon weekend!*

This is Mavis. She is the one responsible for orchestrating my crazy last-second trip to run the Tacoma City Marathon without even a step of training (I haven't run more than 3 miles in 8 months. And the number of times I ran that distance was less than the miles themselves.  Like I said, no training!). Of course in my attempt to blame her for the pain and misery I'm feeling the day after said marathon, she is quick to remind me I'm the one who agreed to do it. Fair enough.

So while Mavis was the mastermind, she's not what this post is about. It's about the kid wearing this pack:

This is Nick. Nick is a 20-yr-old soldier in the army, stationed at Fort Lewis. It was hard to miss a soldier in full uniform toting a massive pack among scantily dressed runners. And while we started together, he left us in his dust from his very first step. That gave us the opportunity to vocalize how cool we thought he was for doing what he was doing, and to speculate as we jogged the first couple of miles about how much his pack weighed, how fast we thought he'd finish, and if he ran these ridiculous races often. When we caught up to him a few miles later, we struck up a conversation and got answers to all of our questions.

His pack was 50lbs, his goal was to finish the marathon in 5 hours, 30 minutes, and although he ran cross-country in high school and track in college, he had never gone more than 12 miles before.

Mavis promptly declared our new goal was to finish with him in 5 hours and 30 minutes. Um, what? I had agreed to walk this crazy race with her only when she assured me we'd be WALKING the entire thing. And not quickly either. Our original goal was to finish in 7 hours. I wasn't doing this marathon for time. I wasn't crazy enough to think my body would tolerate running for 26 miles straight without a lick of training. I suspected that if I was being chased by robbers and feared for my life, the muscle memory from my former running days could probably carry me 13 miles, but never 26. And certainly not at a 12 minute mile pace.

"Um, Mavis. Did you not hear that part about how he ran for a college team? As in, he is such a good runner that they paid him to run for them? And we are totally NOT runners. Have you lost your mind?"

She clearly had, but she had put her mind to it. It was happening and I needed to get on board.

I joked about maybe putting an extra 10 pounds in his pack at each mile marker to slow him down, or lining up cheeseburgers along the route to distract him. I even mentioned the possibility of tripping him so he'd sprain an ankle and then MAYBE I could keep up with him. Clearly I was joking. Clearly the karma Gods don't have a sense of humor.

We fell into a pretty good rhythm. My muscles aren't conditioned to speed walk (if we're being honest, they're not conditioned for much these days), but that's how Mavis preferred to do the race. So I jogged VERY slowly at a consistent pace, while Mavis speed walked & then jogged at a faster pace. Nick chose the slow walk for a bit combined with a full on sprint every few blocks. Oddly enough, as differently as we were proceeding along the course, we always ended up right next to each other time and time again. Our individual paces were consistent until karma came calling.

It was right before mile 10 and the course was winding through a residential neighborhood. On and off sidewalks. Up and down curbs. I took a step wrong coming down off one of those curbs, caught the edge of my shoe, heard a pop and immediately felt pain shoot up my leg. Because I had sprained/broken this particular ankle more times than I have fingers to count on, I was familiar with the pain. I knew it wasn't sprained, but suspected I had just pulled some of the scar tissue that currently holds that ankle together. It was starting to swell a little in my shoe, but not ballooning up like it has in the past. I could put weight on it, but not without feeling like I had nails running through my veins, up my leg.

But I was determined. I was there to finish a marathon and that's what I intended to do. I slowed my pace. So slow in fact that when Mavis finished up her walking leg and started her running leg, I never caught her again. Lucky for me (but unlucky for him) we had befriended that soldier carrying a 50lb pack. And that pack was growing increasingly heavy as the miles dragged on.

Nick was in pain. I was in pain. And the next 10 miles were spent talking about everything and anything to distract us from that pain. We talked about his desire to be deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan instead of his impending deployment to the Philippines. We talked about his little sisters and my daughters and gun control and how to maintain a good marriage. We talked about ducks and alcoholic college freshman and criminal justice careers and roller coasters and everything in between.

And every time I wanted to complain about the pain, I looked over at Nick and his 50lb pack and shut my mouth. Every time I wanted to plop down on the side of the road and refuse to go on, a runner would pass us, pause to shake his hand and thank him for his service, or the spectators lining the streets would start to cheer for him. The inadvertent support fueled me. I never stopped. Not even once.

At mile 20 he stopped to change from one pair of boots to another. Because I was certain my ankle was slowing both of us down, I told him I'd walk at my miserably slow pace up ahead a bit and he should catch me in a few blocks. Well the blocks turned into miles. No sign of him. I was alone with my thoughts and my body began to physically and emotionally fail me.

Every step became progressively harder than the last. The pain in my ankle was getting so severe that I almost hurled my Cliff bar. Without my camo-covered cheerleader, I began to curse every inch of that course. I called my husband and he did his best to pep-talk me from a different state. I hung up resolved to finish, but unsure of how.

Then Nick tapped me on my shoulder. "I finally made it back."

"Bout time," I said. "This race sucks alone." I had never been more happy to see a stranger.

Nick commiserated when I complained, but he didn't really dwell on how much he was hurting. And when I started to, we'd change the subject and the new conversation would almost make me forget how miserable I was. My ankle started giving out when we had 1 mile left and kept buckling under me. So we launched into a one mile tirade about every last food we'd like to devour when we crossed the finish line. Cinnamon rolls. Pasta. Cheeseburgers. Strawberry milkshakes.

And then suddenly, we were crossing that finish line.

I'll probably never see Nick again. After a brief lunch consisting of some of the items on our must-have list from the previous mile, we parted ways. But I'm so grateful to him for what he did for me that day. Not only did he push me to finish that brutal race, he was a reminder that there are great people all around us. Kind people. Courageous people. Exceptional people. I was lucky enough to rub shoulders with one for almost 26.2 miles.

Begin Again

Sometimes your life pauses and another life, an unplanned life, takes over. You live it because you have no choice. Nothing you can do changes your circumstances, so you submit to a temporary life not of your choosing.

And then, you are granted the opportunity to return to your life and begin again. Funny though, that life is not as you left it. Your perspective has shifted and nothing looks the same. Your priorities are different, better. You vow to keep them that way, live a slower more meaningful life.

And all that is fine and good. You've got your mental and emotional state under control. What is not under control is your physical state, because you blinked and your health went to hell. It's a beast like that when unattended to.

This is what I ate for lunch. Guacamole-lined lettuce wraps and an orange. It was delicious and reminded me how much I love real food. So back to the daily grind: Paleo and exercise. Because both make me happy.

But it's hard to reset and undo months worth of damage a sedentary lifestyle full of sugar and crap and sugary crap causes. So I'm making an accountability promise. Not so much for you (although you're welcome to be a fly on my kitchen wall), but for me. I'm going to post a picture of one Paleo meal a day on this here bloggity blog for the next 30 days. That's 30 tasty Paleo meals in all their Kodak glory. Yum.

Here's the disclaimer: I'm no Ansel Adams. Pics will be snapped with my iPhone and unedited and ugly. But they'll be posted nonetheless. I'm also not a Paleo Nazi. I eat bacon, the occasional hard cheese and a legume or two. It works for me and so I roll with it.

30 days. Bring it.

Mirror Image

I was helping Claire try on clothes in a dressing room the other day. She had just taken off her shirt after trying on a pair of shorts she adored that refused to button no matter how much we wrestled with them, when she turned to face herself in the mirror, critically eyeing her reflection. She pointed to her stomach and very matter-of-factly said, "My tummy is really fat."

I froze.

Claire is 6. Claire still likes Dora even though her older sister tells her daily how uncool she is. Claire loves cooking eggs by herself, trying to stick the landing on her recently learned trampoline front flip and painting pictures of colorful flowers for everyone she knows. She is a happy child. She has always marched to the beat of her own drum. She has never cared one smidge about the opinions of others. I wanted to bottle her confidence and pass it around to every insecure person I knew. 

And man have I been grateful for that confidence, because Claire is bigger than almost everyone in her 1st grade class. She's in the 98th percentile for height and the 100th percentile for weight. And while she is proportionate enough to keep her doctor unconcerned, I knew the day would come when she looked around and realized she was different from her itty bitty classmates. I had just hoped it wouldn't be so soon. I had silently begged the world not to poke holes in her belief that she was simply awesome exactly as she was.

My mind was spinning. Was she making a simple observation? Was she regurgitating what a classmate had said to her? Was it a simple remark that should be left alone? Would talking about it unearth something best left unsaid until she was older? Would I say all the wrong things and make her suddenly aware she was different when she had yet to truly realize that?

She repeated herself.

I positioned myself behind her in the mirror and pointed to her eyes. "You see those eyes? Those are the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. Mommy & Daddy love those eyes."

I pinched her cherub cheeks. "See these rosy cheeks. They are the most beautiful cheeks I've ever seen. Mommy and Daddy love those cheeks."

I repeated this over and over. Her golden hair. Her perfectly shaped ears. Her stubby little toes. Again and again and again until I had covered every inch of her body. She was giggling but I couldn't gulp my tears back. I was so afraid that my spunky little tow-headed child might not believe my words.

I turned her around to face me and got down on her level. I cupped her chubby face in my palms and said something along the lines of, "When you were in my tummy, Daddy and I used to guess what you would look like. We wondered if you'd be tall or if you'd look like Cora. We wondered if you'd have long fingers like Mommy or dark hair like Daddy or dimples or crazy eyebrows. But the first time I got to hold you after you were born I knew that you were more perfect than we ever could have imagined. Every little part of you make up the Clairebear that we love. And sometimes you might look in the mirror and wish your belly looked different or your arms were different, but always remember that you are strong and you are smart and you are healthy and we think every last bit of you is awesome."

Claire looked at me like I had lost my mind, giggled again and threw a shirt over that controversial belly. I exhaled, grabbed my purse and, holding Claire's hand, walked out of the store, out into the world. The very world that may someday beat down my child. Crush her self esteem. The very world that may one day make her question every last word spoken in the security of that dressing room filled with Mom praise. Kids can say harsh things. The world can be so cruel.

Were my words enough? Will she remember them when their meaning holds so much more importance? Or will they not matter as she beats herself up for her imperfections?

This is when parenting is the hardest. The unknowns. I don't know how this turns out. All I can do is keep repeating myself so she will know this: that her mom loves every inch of her. Cause I won't stop saying it. Even after she realizes Dora is an annoying, half-pint, I'll say it. And when she starts to long for boy cooties instead of shun them, I'll say it. And when she stops fighting the daily hair-brushing ritual and spends hours locked in the bathroom with a curling iron and some Maybelline, I'll say it. And when she gets her heart broken, I'll say it. And when she doesn't, I'll say it. I'll say it until I'm blue in the face. And then, I'll say it again.

And maybe then it will be enough. Maybe then she'll believe that a fat/thin/round/slim belly doesn't define her. And that every last bit of her is awesome.