The Littlest Mommy

I crawled up into the attic of my childhood home, wiping away cob webs as searched for a treasure from my past. There it was, in the corner. My beloved dolly named Elizabeth. She's the size of a newborn, maybe even a bit bigger, with eyes that open and close when you lay her down. I pulled her gently toward me and dusted her off. Once she was clean, I presented her to my little 14 month old girl. I was watched her as she squealed in delight, showing me the baby's eyes, nose, hair, and mouth. And thus Elizabeth was adopted right away.

Charlotte brings Elizabeth everywhere with her. In the car, for a walk in the stroller, at the table. I watched her as she lovingly fed her dolly (baybay, as she calls her), sharing her blueberries with her and spoon feeding her cereal. I saw her smother her baby with kisses and give her hugs. I saw her pat the baby on the back, and pretend to talk on the phone, then pass the phone to her baybay so she could have a go. She sat cuddling her baby as she watched her little cartoon.

Of course, I was chuffed. I mean, everything she was doing with her baby she had learned from me. Reading her books, the cuddles, dressing her, changing her diaper, feeding her, bathing her, tickling her toes, giving her raspberries on the tummy, and even brushing her teeth were being acted out by my little copy cat before my eyes. And I was proud.

But I should have known better. Pride always comes before the fall.

The other day Charlotte was busy taking very good care of her baby. She had her little sippy cup in the baby's mouth and was helping her drink. But then out of the blue she turned on her, like a dog who's playing one minute and then chomping on your leg the next. I watched in fascinated horror as she started shaking her little finger at the baybay and telling her off in baby gibberish. She then promptly threw the dolly to the floor and stomped on her. Oh my. I always knew my daughter had a dramatic flare, but this was above and beyond my wildest imagination.

For the record, I have NEVER thrown my baby to the floor, nor do I stomp on her. I do scold her though, and she does get time outs in her bed from time to time. Apparently, in my daughter's eyes, it's the same thing. My little drama queen, the same little girl who has mega temper tantrums by flinging herself to the floor, is just imitating life as she sees it. And if she sees and feels things this big now, I can only imagine what it will be like when she's a teenager.

Heaven help me!

Thunder, Dribble, and Bay Watch

Sweat poured down my face as I tried to catch up to the rest of the people running their hearts out. Boot camp. "So this is what I signed up for", I thought as I struggled to breathe. "Minute by minute torture. What was I thinking?". Squats, dumb bells that were too heavy for me, push ups, and running up and down hills were on the menu. I think by the 5th minute I was done and ready to be served on a platter, (I even puked!) but somehow willed myself to keep going even though I was last every single time. And this for the last 3 weeks.

I'm not sure what's more painful about boot camp. Is it the fact that my lungs feel like they had been set on fire? Is it the old back and knee injuries that flared up the second I started running, making me look like quasi modo as I run? Or is it that darn rubber tire around my waist that seems to weave and wobble , throwing me off balance ? Or maybe it's the blisters from my thighs rubbing as we pound down the track. Or my boobs hitting my chin during the jumping jacks. Or the fact that my body starts to feel like rubber and trembles with each exercise until it finally craps out on me. I'm not quite sure what it is, but I hate.every.single.second. of boot camp.

I think that Monday was the most embarrassing to date. It was a night (yes, I switched classes, because 5:30 am was just too much for this sleep loving princess) filled with an awful lot of bouncing, bobbing, and jumping. And then I realized that I have another little problem. I leak. If you have had children naturally, you know what I'm talking about. That little bit of dribble that seems to squeeze out despite your best efforts. And with that, I was officially over boot camp.

Funny thing, though. As much as I hate going, there is something inside of me that is actually starting to like it. Not the boot camp per say, but more the feeling afterwards. The physical tiredness. The blood pumping. The muscles relaxing after working so hard. My body honestly hasn't changed that much, except that I have a lot more energy, and I do find that my outlook is a little brighter. If you don't exercise, get cracking. It hurts, you look ridiculous, and you will dribble. But my, will you feel good afterward. It makes it all worth it. For those of you who do exercise, well, I'm starting to get it.

So with these thoughts I leave you. I need to go buy some Depends for the next class.