When you wake up before the sun it can really only mean one of two things. It could mean that the wind is blowing that tree just outside my window, and the branches are scratching just light enough to cause we to wonder what monsters are hiding in my closet. On the other hand, it could also mean that today is one of a number of official, I get a present, holidays.
Today was Valentine's day, and although that is not one of the big three gift getting holidays in a kid's life, it is big enough to wake up early for. I made sure my mommy and daddy were clear that I was expecting a present before I went to sleep last night. So, first thing this morning, mommy is head to toe soaking wet from the shower, and I am up and out of bed asking if we could go downstairs to look for a gift.
It was like magic, the whole day. My parents co-authored a hand made card, they are so cute when they work together. They placed my card next to some magical candy hearts, magical because they have little words on them, and I can actually read some of the words. Also, they got me a great big stuffed doggie with a pink bow. My mommy laughed and told me that this dog wouldn't eat my candy hearts the way my real dog Jenny had! Mommy is so funny...she really doesn't get enough credit for being silly...I love her. *elbow-pinch
The morning was great, but don't tell mommy and daddy, the real magic was at school. We all wore red shirts, which, let me just say, was kind of amazing, because usually we all wear blue shirts. Then, Mrs. Mo, had us each hand out our gifts to one another. I was so proud to hand mine out. Joseph said he was going to try on his valentine's glasses as soon as he got home. On the way home, I told my daddy, "Today wasn't a good day, it was Brilliant!" I got toys and cards and I made a crown.
It doesn't seem to always please my parents when I wake up before the sun, but on a day like today, I have to be honest, it was such magic, I wouldn't want to miss a moment of it sleeping.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Monday, February 13, 2017
We Don't Need a Day
Happy Valentine's Day Mommy.
It seems funny that we need a special day on the calendar to remind us of what we already know. Today is filled with red hearts on display, reminding us that we once shared one heartbeat. I know that is one of your favorite stories, daddy says that every time you talk about it, your eyes fill with tears, that day you first heard my heartbeat: I figure that you were crying because it was the first time you realized that I was developing my own heartbeat instead of sharing yours, but don't worry mommy, my heart will always be connected with yours.
Now that I am thinking about it, this life must be so hard for you, I mean, watching me grow up. To you I must seem like just a baby, but I am really so big now. I am five years old. I am reading everywhere I look, picking out letters and trying on sounds. I have memorized far more song lyrics than you probably even realize: I can more or less sing the entire Trolls Soundtrack. And, as hard as this will be for daddy to hear...I'm getting married. Please, let me break the news to daddy, but I have decided, Hudson is definitely the one, there is no use putting it off any longer, we will be married in kindergarten. I figure the marriage thing makes sense, because once you have mastered the monkey bars, and once you are able to dress yourself for church, what else is there to hold you back?
Ok, maybe the getting dressed thing needs some work. I get it, you asked me to put on an appropriate outfit for church last Sunday and I came downstairs in a bright yellow shirt with a printed logo proclaiming my love of the beach and sporting my favorite grey and pink yoga pants. In my defense, I have been memorizing some of the bible versus that they teach in Sunday school at the Crossing, and I am pretty sure God loves kids who express confidence and happiness...both of which come shining through when you couple a yellow t-shirt with pink yoga pants! So, I'll work on the getting dressed thing, but you must admit, I am starting to get bigger and I know that must be tough on you.
Sometimes, when we are driving in the car, I catch you staring at me in the rear view mirror, or taking my picture when I am wearing doing something just right. I know you are watching me grow up, but I can tell, as much as I grow, you still see me as your little baby, and I want you to know, that is ok with me: I will always be yours. I want you to know just one thing: you aren't only watching me - I'm watching you. It is because of you that I know what it will mean to be a woman. Some day, just like you, I will be somebody worth listening to, I will have strong opinions about those who lead and how they should lead. I know, because of you, that women have every opportunity that a man has and that I will be who I am because of who I am not because of anyone's opinion but mine. I know that princesses are kind and work hard and that although they serve, they belong to no one.. I know that I will one day grow up to be a woman like you.
Happy Valentine's Day Mommy - our hearts will always be in rhythm.
It seems funny that we need a special day on the calendar to remind us of what we already know. Today is filled with red hearts on display, reminding us that we once shared one heartbeat. I know that is one of your favorite stories, daddy says that every time you talk about it, your eyes fill with tears, that day you first heard my heartbeat: I figure that you were crying because it was the first time you realized that I was developing my own heartbeat instead of sharing yours, but don't worry mommy, my heart will always be connected with yours.
Now that I am thinking about it, this life must be so hard for you, I mean, watching me grow up. To you I must seem like just a baby, but I am really so big now. I am five years old. I am reading everywhere I look, picking out letters and trying on sounds. I have memorized far more song lyrics than you probably even realize: I can more or less sing the entire Trolls Soundtrack. And, as hard as this will be for daddy to hear...I'm getting married. Please, let me break the news to daddy, but I have decided, Hudson is definitely the one, there is no use putting it off any longer, we will be married in kindergarten. I figure the marriage thing makes sense, because once you have mastered the monkey bars, and once you are able to dress yourself for church, what else is there to hold you back?
Ok, maybe the getting dressed thing needs some work. I get it, you asked me to put on an appropriate outfit for church last Sunday and I came downstairs in a bright yellow shirt with a printed logo proclaiming my love of the beach and sporting my favorite grey and pink yoga pants. In my defense, I have been memorizing some of the bible versus that they teach in Sunday school at the Crossing, and I am pretty sure God loves kids who express confidence and happiness...both of which come shining through when you couple a yellow t-shirt with pink yoga pants! So, I'll work on the getting dressed thing, but you must admit, I am starting to get bigger and I know that must be tough on you.
Sometimes, when we are driving in the car, I catch you staring at me in the rear view mirror, or taking my picture when I am wearing doing something just right. I know you are watching me grow up, but I can tell, as much as I grow, you still see me as your little baby, and I want you to know, that is ok with me: I will always be yours. I want you to know just one thing: you aren't only watching me - I'm watching you. It is because of you that I know what it will mean to be a woman. Some day, just like you, I will be somebody worth listening to, I will have strong opinions about those who lead and how they should lead. I know, because of you, that women have every opportunity that a man has and that I will be who I am because of who I am not because of anyone's opinion but mine. I know that princesses are kind and work hard and that although they serve, they belong to no one.. I know that I will one day grow up to be a woman like you.
Happy Valentine's Day Mommy - our hearts will always be in rhythm.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
My Voice
It has been four and one half years since the hardest day of my mom's life that she will never remember. They say something strange happens to a mommy's memory after the day her daughter is born. I hurt my knee last week, scraped it on the curb in front of UC Davis, I cried hard, but today it is fine...it must be about the same thing.
My mommy loves me. She doesn't think she loves me enough. She doesn't think she does enough. Me? I know different. I look back over these past four and one half years and I recognize the love that is poured into every worry, into every event planned, outing scheduled, every doctor's appointment, every birthday party; I see the pain in her eyes when we part in the morning, I see the love when when she picks me up. My mommy, she is so funny, she doesn't realize it, but just being in the same room with her is enough, its more than enough, it is what fills my heart.
When people hear me talk, they have the strangest reaction. Some people think I'll become a singer because I have a little scratch to my voice...I think I get that from my Daddy, he has a scratch in his voice too...it matches his face. Other passers by comment on the words I choose. My mom says I say the darnedest things - I'm not sure what that means, but I know she holds back the giggles every time I make "Air Quotes" with my fingers and say things like, "Well, it is a possibility..." or, "On the other hand..."
I don't think people are used to such sophisticated words coming out of such a small, albeit scratchy, voice. The thing is, and I get this from both my parents, I am always thinking. Sometimes I am playing, but even when I am playing, my mind is organizing armies of dolls to attend an event, meticulously planned, or I am climbing a wall, just to count the steps. My mind organizes and counts and calculates and processes all sorts of information, all the time. Every conversation within earshot is a map for me to follow to some newly discovered imagination destination. Truth be know, it creates a little anxiety for me sometimes, arriving at the end of an imaginary road initiated by some loose lipped hair dresser discussing the effects of over chlorinated pools on pretty blonde hair. Never the less, I am always processing. So, by the time the words tumble from my mouth, unveiling a long pondered thought, they mean something, they represent precision - my sentences are more often laser-beams than flood lights and I think that catches some adults off guard.
Today is Mother's Day. Whether the words come out playfully; or the phrase seems over-used; if I mumble it with a mouth filled with Norwegian waffle; or scream it amongst tears to steal her attention from Daddy; the words are meant with the utmost forethought, with the full weight of a deeply sophisticated purpose; sometimes the gravity of this thought is passed off as courtesy, but I don't dole out pleasantries for platitudes; when I say these words, they come from four and one half years of research. I love you Mommy. While my voice may be small, these words are the very foundation upon which my entire life is built.
Happy Mother's Day
My mommy loves me. She doesn't think she loves me enough. She doesn't think she does enough. Me? I know different. I look back over these past four and one half years and I recognize the love that is poured into every worry, into every event planned, outing scheduled, every doctor's appointment, every birthday party; I see the pain in her eyes when we part in the morning, I see the love when when she picks me up. My mommy, she is so funny, she doesn't realize it, but just being in the same room with her is enough, its more than enough, it is what fills my heart.
When people hear me talk, they have the strangest reaction. Some people think I'll become a singer because I have a little scratch to my voice...I think I get that from my Daddy, he has a scratch in his voice too...it matches his face. Other passers by comment on the words I choose. My mom says I say the darnedest things - I'm not sure what that means, but I know she holds back the giggles every time I make "Air Quotes" with my fingers and say things like, "Well, it is a possibility..." or, "On the other hand..."
I don't think people are used to such sophisticated words coming out of such a small, albeit scratchy, voice. The thing is, and I get this from both my parents, I am always thinking. Sometimes I am playing, but even when I am playing, my mind is organizing armies of dolls to attend an event, meticulously planned, or I am climbing a wall, just to count the steps. My mind organizes and counts and calculates and processes all sorts of information, all the time. Every conversation within earshot is a map for me to follow to some newly discovered imagination destination. Truth be know, it creates a little anxiety for me sometimes, arriving at the end of an imaginary road initiated by some loose lipped hair dresser discussing the effects of over chlorinated pools on pretty blonde hair. Never the less, I am always processing. So, by the time the words tumble from my mouth, unveiling a long pondered thought, they mean something, they represent precision - my sentences are more often laser-beams than flood lights and I think that catches some adults off guard.
Today is Mother's Day. Whether the words come out playfully; or the phrase seems over-used; if I mumble it with a mouth filled with Norwegian waffle; or scream it amongst tears to steal her attention from Daddy; the words are meant with the utmost forethought, with the full weight of a deeply sophisticated purpose; sometimes the gravity of this thought is passed off as courtesy, but I don't dole out pleasantries for platitudes; when I say these words, they come from four and one half years of research. I love you Mommy. While my voice may be small, these words are the very foundation upon which my entire life is built.
Happy Mother's Day
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Sun Glasses and Tappin Toes
I'm 3 1/2 years old, and although I couldn't tell you which end of an allen wrench hooks into a hexagon hitch, I can tell you that sun glasses go well with bluesy tunes and tapping toes.
I was sitting at the dinner table tonight sorting through my collection of treasures. I'm what you might call a collector. I'm not sure if I get this from my pack rat father or from my mother who has a love of fine things she can't afford, but either way, I take great pride and pleasure in accumulating things that peak my interest.
I put things in boxes, or baskets, I slip cherished items into cupboards and I squirrel away gems into the backs of drawers. Then, when the time is just right, I uncover these stashes just to relive the magic of their first conception.
Tonight is was a cloth double handled bag, light blue, with some company's logo imprinted on the front. No doubt this bag was handed to one of my parents, filled with edu-shwag, as they leashed themselves up with a lanyard bearing a name badge as they entered into a conference about education. It must have been sunny when I hid this stash of treasures, because, as the rain poured down outside the kitchen window, I pulled from the satchel summer toys and bubbles, sun screen, a floppy hat and a pair of turtle shell Rayban knockoff sunglasses mom must have picked up at Old Navy for two bucks.
The timing couldn't have been better. My dad was in the kitchen doing what my dad does. He loves the kitchen. It is partly his center stage so everyone in the front of the house can catch his extroverted exploits, and part protection from having to roll up his sleeves and tangle with my brother's homework or the dog chewing on my shoes: from his perch behind the island sink, he can claim wet hands and never have to cross over into the living room which is the domain of my mother.
There was my dad, cooking my favorite meal, corn flake chicken, when, as he often does, he broke the, awkward only to him, silence. "Another Saturday Night" by Cat Stevens came belting from his belly like he was a Thursday night auditioner in a Chicago blues bar. Cat is a folk singer, but coming from my dad's gravely pipes, everything sounds a little bluesy.
I had just slipped on my shades as my dad rolled up the first verse. I was instantly transported into my own music video. I could feel the camera frame tight on my face, the glare from the window glinting off my shades, I couldn't help cocking my head just a bit to the side and waggling my free right hand in the air to the assumed back beat of the song. I was on autopilot, at the mercy of the music and the shades working together to tap my toes and wiggle my shoes to the sound of the song. Without thinking, I swung down to my belly, rolled off the chair like it was a choreographed move in the musical that is my life, and I hit the kitchen tile floor with both socked feet sliding to the beat.
It may have been the song, or it could have been the magic of the shades, regardless of the driving force, the outcome was worth the effort. I love to dance, and my dad loves to sing, but the joy we share isn't just the intertwining of our artistic extroversions, it is the pure joy that is my mommy's face when my daddy and I get caught up in the moment. Thank you mommy for loving us for being us.
I was sitting at the dinner table tonight sorting through my collection of treasures. I'm what you might call a collector. I'm not sure if I get this from my pack rat father or from my mother who has a love of fine things she can't afford, but either way, I take great pride and pleasure in accumulating things that peak my interest.
I put things in boxes, or baskets, I slip cherished items into cupboards and I squirrel away gems into the backs of drawers. Then, when the time is just right, I uncover these stashes just to relive the magic of their first conception.
Tonight is was a cloth double handled bag, light blue, with some company's logo imprinted on the front. No doubt this bag was handed to one of my parents, filled with edu-shwag, as they leashed themselves up with a lanyard bearing a name badge as they entered into a conference about education. It must have been sunny when I hid this stash of treasures, because, as the rain poured down outside the kitchen window, I pulled from the satchel summer toys and bubbles, sun screen, a floppy hat and a pair of turtle shell Rayban knockoff sunglasses mom must have picked up at Old Navy for two bucks.
The timing couldn't have been better. My dad was in the kitchen doing what my dad does. He loves the kitchen. It is partly his center stage so everyone in the front of the house can catch his extroverted exploits, and part protection from having to roll up his sleeves and tangle with my brother's homework or the dog chewing on my shoes: from his perch behind the island sink, he can claim wet hands and never have to cross over into the living room which is the domain of my mother.
There was my dad, cooking my favorite meal, corn flake chicken, when, as he often does, he broke the, awkward only to him, silence. "Another Saturday Night" by Cat Stevens came belting from his belly like he was a Thursday night auditioner in a Chicago blues bar. Cat is a folk singer, but coming from my dad's gravely pipes, everything sounds a little bluesy.
I had just slipped on my shades as my dad rolled up the first verse. I was instantly transported into my own music video. I could feel the camera frame tight on my face, the glare from the window glinting off my shades, I couldn't help cocking my head just a bit to the side and waggling my free right hand in the air to the assumed back beat of the song. I was on autopilot, at the mercy of the music and the shades working together to tap my toes and wiggle my shoes to the sound of the song. Without thinking, I swung down to my belly, rolled off the chair like it was a choreographed move in the musical that is my life, and I hit the kitchen tile floor with both socked feet sliding to the beat.
It may have been the song, or it could have been the magic of the shades, regardless of the driving force, the outcome was worth the effort. I love to dance, and my dad loves to sing, but the joy we share isn't just the intertwining of our artistic extroversions, it is the pure joy that is my mommy's face when my daddy and I get caught up in the moment. Thank you mommy for loving us for being us.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
A Quirky Set of Drums
Everyone has got something...
My dad has a bad hip that locks up from too many years of standing sideways riding on boards; my mom was issued a bad set of bulbs that can't tune into anything far away without the help of curved glass; my papa can't hear everything I say out of one ear even though I'm as loud as my dad; my brother Johnny has a straight smile with crooked teeth and my brother Tyler has a crooked smile with straight teeth. We've all got something...
Me? I was dealt a bad set of drums. It seems like every week one of these darn things is acting up and getting infected. Truth is, my dad spent half his childhood waking up in the middle of the night with an ear-ache, so I guess I can lay this on him. I have the routine down pretty good now: I tug at it for a bit. Then I do some tossing and turning for a night or two. Then, around day three, I don't tell anyone I am in pain, but I do begin to demand the irrational at the top of my voluble register. I just want what I want at this point and I am not afraid to ask for it.
By the the end of the third day, I have to admit, I can be a little challenging to deal with. I start to lose it for the tiniest of reasons, but the thing that really sets me off, the thing that flips my switch after three days of a growing ear infection, the thing I just can not stand for, it is just one little word, the second smallest word in the English language: no.
Truth is, I won't stand for it. You go three days with your ear drum swelling to the point of near bursting and then you ask for a chocolate chip cookie only to hear that it is just before dinner. I can't tell time, I don't know it is before dinner. I just want a cookie. If this happened to you, you might be inclined to throw a crayon as well.
My dad has a bad hip that locks up from too many years of standing sideways riding on boards; my mom was issued a bad set of bulbs that can't tune into anything far away without the help of curved glass; my papa can't hear everything I say out of one ear even though I'm as loud as my dad; my brother Johnny has a straight smile with crooked teeth and my brother Tyler has a crooked smile with straight teeth. We've all got something...
Me? I was dealt a bad set of drums. It seems like every week one of these darn things is acting up and getting infected. Truth is, my dad spent half his childhood waking up in the middle of the night with an ear-ache, so I guess I can lay this on him. I have the routine down pretty good now: I tug at it for a bit. Then I do some tossing and turning for a night or two. Then, around day three, I don't tell anyone I am in pain, but I do begin to demand the irrational at the top of my voluble register. I just want what I want at this point and I am not afraid to ask for it.
Usually what I want is the same thing I always want when balance is not present in the universe: Mommy. Ah, the cure all, go to in a pinch, never let you down, bottle of the good stuff - mommy.
Oh, I just can't stand to hear that word on a sore ear.
Truth is, I won't stand for it. You go three days with your ear drum swelling to the point of near bursting and then you ask for a chocolate chip cookie only to hear that it is just before dinner. I can't tell time, I don't know it is before dinner. I just want a cookie. If this happened to you, you might be inclined to throw a crayon as well.
By the time my parents catch on to the ear thing, it is usually around midnight. I wait until everyone finally settles in, right when that REM state starts to flicker and everyone is taking in long deep breaths of well deserved sleep, then: BLAMO!
I typically start with the scream. Then I start the "don't touch me" routine, followed by the "please hold me," then some, "wait, don't touch me, now hold me," followed by the "why aren't you listening to me" arm & leg-full-flail-tantrum. When it is clear that I have every one's attention, I start the run in place while screaming, followed by the you chase me around the house while I shout "Walk away," which leads to my parents walking away, and then I chase them. During this tug of war, I'll sometimes throw in a minor injury when I run so quickly from or to my parents that I smash into a coffee table in the dark, which does make my ear feel better for a moment while throbbing pain shoots through whichever body part crushed against the offending furniture. At this point I throw in a scream and begin the routine again from run in place.
Eventually, after some Tylenol and some long calm down conversations, my mommy gets me to sleep. The next day, one of my parents explains to their boss why they can't be at work again, they call my school and let them know to make one less art project supply kit, and we head off to see Dr. Sarah.
I'm sure this nice lady has a last name, and after as many years as she spent becoming a doctor, you would think she deserves her last name to be attempted, but she chose pediatrics and a husband with 13 consonants in his last name so she is stuck with Dr. Sarah. She is a very nice lady, it is the same routine every time, she pokes a little, and lets me play with her heart listener, and then she pokes a pointy flashlight in my ear and prescribes the meds.
Look, it could be worse. A lot worse. The truth is we have all got something. I don't know many adults who still have quirky drums: it seems to be something you grow out of, so truth be known, I'll take what I got over what some people got, because the truth is - we've all got something.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
The Elbow
Let's just start by stating the obvious - not everything makes sense. You can't explain God, but you know He is there. You know ice cream is bad for you, but in that intangible and unexplainable moment, you know the benefits of 71 grams of sugar on your tongue out rank the counterbalancing 90 minutes on the treadmill to reach equilibrium. Life doesn't always have to make sense. We are given five senses, and some would argue a sixth, and it is our job to keep the whole juggling act together using the gifts we've got. If a long jog in the morning puts you together, good for you, but if you think the gal down the street is silly for meditating through needle point, or the guy at your work plays too many video games, or if you think that the guy who needs two seats on the airplane should maybe pass the Cinnabon stand on his way to the boarding gate, don't judge, everyone is juggling their own senses to meet their own given situations: Me? I've got my mommy's elbow.
Look, I am not asking anyone to understand, I don't even fully get it myself, but there is something about the safety of that angular body part that just puts my feet on the ground. Since I took that first breath of life in that hospital room in Roseville, this world has thrown me some curve balls. Who knew a soy allergy undetected for 14 months months would keep my little tummy in painful knots? And what is the deal with all the other babies getting full and luxurious nights of uninterrupted sleep, while I have felt the need to wake-up screaming every 45 minutes since birth? And don't even get me started on the whole grocery store old lady walk-up commenting on what a cute little boy my mommy has when I am so clearly 100% angelic-little-girl-princess material! So, when the going get's rough, my mommy draws me in tight for an: only the way mommy can, make it all better, heart to heart, head on shoulder, hug...and that's when, without hesitation nor fail, I reach out and get a grip on mommy's elbow.
I can't really paint you a picture, but I assume that for the athlete it must be that moment she steps on the court and everything becomes balanced in the universe, or the painter who picks up the soft bristled brush on her way to the magic of a blank canvas, and to the pastor on the pulpit it is his right hand on the book. I reach out, eyes closed, salty with tears, and find that one patch of skin on my mommy that isn't as baby soft as my own little bottom, the one angle on her torso without a gentle curve, and I latch on with my little baby grip. My mommy can feel my entire body relax once I find that grip, as if I have docked and can now receive the comfort mommy is dispatching. My daddy, from across the room, can see my body relax and give way to mommy's love, he can hear my cries turn from scream to whimper, all because I have found my grip on life that just puts me together.
Don't judge: you may have your Zoomba, the guy down the street may listen to golf on the radio, for someone else Facebook may be the place they dock to gain peace, for me - I have my mommy's elbow.
Look, I am not asking anyone to understand, I don't even fully get it myself, but there is something about the safety of that angular body part that just puts my feet on the ground. Since I took that first breath of life in that hospital room in Roseville, this world has thrown me some curve balls. Who knew a soy allergy undetected for 14 months months would keep my little tummy in painful knots? And what is the deal with all the other babies getting full and luxurious nights of uninterrupted sleep, while I have felt the need to wake-up screaming every 45 minutes since birth? And don't even get me started on the whole grocery store old lady walk-up commenting on what a cute little boy my mommy has when I am so clearly 100% angelic-little-girl-princess material! So, when the going get's rough, my mommy draws me in tight for an: only the way mommy can, make it all better, heart to heart, head on shoulder, hug...and that's when, without hesitation nor fail, I reach out and get a grip on mommy's elbow.
I can't really paint you a picture, but I assume that for the athlete it must be that moment she steps on the court and everything becomes balanced in the universe, or the painter who picks up the soft bristled brush on her way to the magic of a blank canvas, and to the pastor on the pulpit it is his right hand on the book. I reach out, eyes closed, salty with tears, and find that one patch of skin on my mommy that isn't as baby soft as my own little bottom, the one angle on her torso without a gentle curve, and I latch on with my little baby grip. My mommy can feel my entire body relax once I find that grip, as if I have docked and can now receive the comfort mommy is dispatching. My daddy, from across the room, can see my body relax and give way to mommy's love, he can hear my cries turn from scream to whimper, all because I have found my grip on life that just puts me together.
Don't judge: you may have your Zoomba, the guy down the street may listen to golf on the radio, for someone else Facebook may be the place they dock to gain peace, for me - I have my mommy's elbow.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
We Want What We Can't Have
I suppose poor people want to be rich and rich people want to be free and the free want to be married and the happily married with kids just seem to want a little peace and quiet, well, this is all according to my dad - he says we want what we can't have.
Me? I just want a blue cookie.
Honestly, I am not even sure where I got the idea, but the blue cookie has been the apple of my eye for as long as I have been able to talk. Granted, I was an early talker, but I have to tell you, I have been eye balling that golden ticket for a long time.
I have a soy and dairy allergy. If you are reading these words for the first time, they may not have the impact that they should, so I will say it again: if there is dairy or soy inside something I can not eat it. You may be a little annoyed by having been told the same thing twice, if that's you, you might want to stop reading now. No soy. No dairy.
Cheese, ice cream, sandwich meat, mac n' cheese, pizza, any sliced bread that doesn't taste like feet, any meat from a restaurant, every seasoning package for every tasty stew, every soup in every can, everything that has nuts is also processed in a factory that processes soy, every cookie, cake, ding dong, Twinkie, and sugar filled kids party treat of any kind, if it comes in a package that makes a crinkly noise - the universal calling card for junk food sound - it has soy in it, I can't eat it. If it says yum yum, sweetness, or "kid approved" it has dairy in it - I can't eat it. More or less, if it comes off the aisle that every mom tries to avoid in the grocery store, it is a no go.
Have you ever been to a no soy no dairy kids birthday party? Yeah. Me neither. They don't make 'em. So my mom has to cringe and follow me around at every little kid gig to make sure some 3 year old smuggler doesn't slip me a Cheeto when nobody is looking. At my pre-school they have my mugshot on the wall above the lunch cart like a post office wanted sign to heads-up any substitute teacher not to offer me milk and graham crackers - one is dairy the other has soy.
Apparently, if it comes in a box to make life easy for a chef on the go, it is filled with soy so the guy who made the box can earn an extra buck. So, in my house, everything is made from scratch. That may sound gourmet, but I'm not going to lie: my dad does all the cooking, and he only knows how to cook 4 meals, so it is leftovers 3 nights a week and no variety 365. I love the man, but I am buying him a cookbook for his birthday this October, then I am going to give him two months to figure out how to whip up a soy free dairy free blue cookie by Christmas.
A girl can dream.
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