Thursday, February 21, 2013
Stuck Like Glue
Imitation is the highest form of flattery ... especially when it comes in the form of tiny, blonde sprite.
Hello, my name is Lil' Dude's Mama and my five-year-old is in love with me.
And I'm the happiest girl on the planet.
The Dad and I were away last weekend and Kid Rock was left in the care of her grandparents for three delicious days. When we came home, I had a tiny barnacle stuck to me and we're still going strong all these days later. Since she and I were both off Monday, we trekked to our fave coffee shop. We quickly realized the combination of President's Day and local students and lunch time meant "our" spot was taken. We settled in at the counter to wait for $21 of coffee shop ridiculous awesomeness.
Mama, this isn't working. I can't see you this way. We need a booth. I will watch for people to leave, she told me, scanning the crowd. I assumed she meant she needed her space to set out Monopoly, the Star Wars version, of course, or a puzzle or Go Fish. Our standard routine.
No. What she needed was her Mama, front in center.
She found us a booth and we resettled into our space where we went on to have a killer conversation for a few hours, completely devoid of distractions other than hamming it up for the camera, lipgloss applying, and whipped cream stealing. We just sat and visited like little chatty birds, woman-to-woman, big to little.
Days like Monday leaving me shaking my head in disbelief; she's only five? I have known her forever, she's woven into my soul and pumps through my veins. She's my purpose and retribution and focus and flight. She's literally ... me.
Tuesday morning we rocked matching infinity scarves and stunner shades. She told me she'd tried wearing her scarf all day like I do, even though she doesn't understand why I'd want to.
She loved it, all day long.
Warm neck + fashion = For the win. Teach 'em young!
Yesterday, I came out in long-sleeved and short-sleeved layered tees, busted up jeans, a belt, and boots. So did she. We even had to perfect her front-tuck like Mama. Hashtag, trend.
She sings my songs. And I sing hers. She steals my glitter and feathers and buttons and pearls. I tell her she's capable and brave and hilarious and a rockstar.
We're women; we spar. I tried to reason and so does she. We're cut from the same cloth and come from a long line of headstrong women who make no excuses or apologies for the way they are. I try to remember she is literally watching every move I make right this second. I try to remember this as I love myself. As I exhibit politeness on the street. As I judge humanity. How I talk about how lucky we are to have what we have. As I eat vegetables, take vitamins, send thank you's and count my blessings.
She walks on her tip-toes in her Uggs; emulating the way I walk in my heeled boots.
She reminds me to cross my legs when we're sitting.
Just like my Mom or Grandma would.
She races to read my Bible, People, before I even do.
That's dangerous ground, girl ...
She looks for her favorite actress, Amanda Seyfried, and we discuss her style.
A+ - always, AND, she has a dog she never is without.
Amanda, babe, you have the tiniest, fiercest fan out here in the Midwest.
Because she's watching you like she's watching me and that's the most important thing ever.
In the history of ever.