The Beautiful
Three things there are more beautiful
Than any man could wish to see:
The first, it is a full-rigged ship
Sailing with all her sails set free;
The second, when the wind and sun
Are playing in a field of corn ;
The third, a woman, young and fair,
Showing her child before it is born.
by W.H. Davies
Thursday, March 29, 2012
I don't feel small.
I'm officially ten weeks off from being overdue with this baby, and I already feel huge. That said, twice in the past three days, people have said to me "But you look so *tiny*!!"
The thing is, I don't look tiny. First of all, I'm over six feet tall. I wear size nine and a half shoes. Secondly, I'm quite pregnant. There's nothing tiny about this.
I'm not sure if this is one of those things that people say because they think that if they honestly report what I look like I'll burst into tears or something, but I won't and it's just wrong.
Even F knows it.
A few nights ago, she and I were working on putting her toys back in the bassinet that functions as her toybox. It's a sysiphian task involving me picking toys up and putting them in the toybox while F quickly retrieves them and replaces them onto the floor.
In goes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a wooden block. Out comes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a...
"Mama whaddis?!" she waves Millennial Barbie over her head. I know she knows what "dis" is, so I return the question.
"You tell me, who is that?" I hand her the tiny brush that she uses to stroke Barbie's hair. "Who is it?" I repeat.
She looks thoughtfully at the Barbie for a second, and then "HANNAH!" she exclaims, beaming at me.
So HC is Millennial Barbie. How sweet, seriously.
P is still trying to convince F to call her "Glamorous Older Sister," which, being the mouthful that it is, has not yet caught on, but she clearly agrees with the underlying message.
The last time F identified something as me it was this picture of Winnie the Pooh.
And there was nothing subtle about it. She looked at the picture, pointed to it, and said "MAMA!"
The time before that, I was a polar bear.
Ah well, at least the girl's honest.
The thing is, I don't look tiny. First of all, I'm over six feet tall. I wear size nine and a half shoes. Secondly, I'm quite pregnant. There's nothing tiny about this.
I'm not sure if this is one of those things that people say because they think that if they honestly report what I look like I'll burst into tears or something, but I won't and it's just wrong.
Even F knows it.
A few nights ago, she and I were working on putting her toys back in the bassinet that functions as her toybox. It's a sysiphian task involving me picking toys up and putting them in the toybox while F quickly retrieves them and replaces them onto the floor.
In goes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a wooden block. Out comes a ball, a stuffed dog, a xylophone, a...
"Mama whaddis?!" she waves Millennial Barbie over her head. I know she knows what "dis" is, so I return the question.
"You tell me, who is that?" I hand her the tiny brush that she uses to stroke Barbie's hair. "Who is it?" I repeat.
She looks thoughtfully at the Barbie for a second, and then "HANNAH!" she exclaims, beaming at me.
So HC is Millennial Barbie. How sweet, seriously.
P is still trying to convince F to call her "Glamorous Older Sister," which, being the mouthful that it is, has not yet caught on, but she clearly agrees with the underlying message.
The last time F identified something as me it was this picture of Winnie the Pooh.
And there was nothing subtle about it. She looked at the picture, pointed to it, and said "MAMA!"
The time before that, I was a polar bear.
Ah well, at least the girl's honest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
