No Good Girls Here

Late as usual this morning. My feet were dragging as our youngest morphed into a cuckoo clock overnight and made sure we were keenly aware of every passing hour. Gunning it up Central Avenue at 7:30 a.m. I felt the rush of my iced coffee as it crossed my lips. Determined to dredge up energy from somewhere, anywhere, I pop in the "Whip It" soundtrack*. Fingers desperately work the dial until I hit track 9. "Boys Wanna Be Her" is now blaring as best it can on my broke ass speakers. It's as close as this almost thirty-five year old can get to a girl's punk anthem.

"You've got them all, by the balls
causin' waterfalls
Stone walls
Bar brawls
Common stalls that cause 'em all

To you they crawl, body sprawl
Smokin' Pall Malls
Close call, stand tall

Doll, you make them feel so small
AND THEY LOVE IT!

The boys wanna be her
The girls wanna be her
The boys wanna be her
The girls wanna be her
The boys wanna be her

I wanna be her
Yes I do"

As I listen, I imagine myself in menacing roller derby garb, administering black eyes, wild hair, out maneuvering the other team with brute force and speed. "Que Cera, Sarah" would be my nick-name as I'd take down my opponents with reckless abandon...whatever will be will be.

Then the song ends.

And I hit that flippen red light on Fullerton and I realize I'd been speeding. And weaving in and out of traffic. I look sheepishly at the cars around me. Was that man giving me the finger? My girls had been in the back seat this whole time...my three year old singing about having "them by the balls".

And as the light turns green I realize I need more sleep, and , perhaps more importantly, it's time we switch to decaf.

*Whip It - Drew Barrymore, women's roller derby flick, need I say more?

A Little Light Reading...

Reading up on how not to raise a "good girl". Not sure if I'm going to be kicking myself later for this one.

Our Black Swan

The Inmates are Getting Restless

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Once again we found ourselves at the doctor's office yesterday. Those cramped rooms with unforgiving florescent lights; stacks of torn children's books that we've read over and over...and over. We were here after the third day of unrelenting fevers. No other symptoms to speak of. I had diagnosed you with Roseola, a common virus with a typical presentation in 9-12 month olds. I felt pretty confident with my diagnosis, after all, I am a graduate of the internet school of medicine. What I wasn't prepared for was the suspicion of a UTI. How could I have misread the symptoms? Before I knew it your doctor was creating a sterile field and inserting a catheter. My mind tried to keep pace as I started envisioning an upcoming surgery. I held you tight, looking down at your socks. "Mommy's Girl", they read. But I hoped this time it wouldn't be true. You can inherit my crooked eye tooth, my inability to handle stress and simultaneously look for it, but you weren't supposed to inherit my kidney. As we waited in the office for the results we held on tight.
It was just a virus. As i bundled you up and drove us back home I realized how in an instant our world/perspective could change. I was driving home the happy mother of a baby with Roseola and just Roseola.