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Figure 8

January 22, 2012

I need skates to keep up with her as her booty shakes, shimmies and rolls through her life as though every day was a broadway number. She sings while she empties the dishwasher. She has the softest cheeks that smell so delicious like Dr. Seuss truffula trees and sweet butterfly milk. Even when she is screaming and pissed she still lets me hold her tight and kiss her face.

Luckily I can still remember holding her the moment she came out, nursing like a champ right away, being naked against my chest for hours after she was born and pooping all over everything. Her first three sneezes as she took her first deep breaths in the world. Watching her brother rub his lips across her face and telling me “Mama! Her so soft!”.

Parenting can be like a holding pattern and landing delay while you are on a 28 hour flight to somewhere magical and you are exhausted and smell badly, your skin is dry and you are totally freaked your luggage won’t arrive and you will have nothing to wear and you desperately need a shower and to change your socks and underwear.

I am just flying around, in a figure 8 pattern, cutting little lines, in the ice trying not to fall down on my ass.

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