Let me preface this post with a brief description of EM's relationship with her dad. She was born her daddy's girl. As soon as she was able to voice her preference, she has clearly made it known that she prefers dad...always, in any given situation, with no exception. Mom is no substitute. When she has to make do with me, it's always with the anticipation that daddy will soon be home to make her world complete. For the most part I am okay with this. I love that CW is such a GOOD father, the kind of dad that makes his little girl adore him. But, come on, I'm a mother...there is a part of me that longs for my child to long for me. So, when baby #2 came around, I thought maybe this time I could be the favorite.
Well, fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, in the long run) LuV came from the womb with a strong distaste for bottles. And so, as her sole provider of nourishment for the first months of her life, I am indeed her preferred parent. Sadly the reasoning for this preference is based on her need to survive...but I'll gladly take what I can get.
And so we finally arrive at the present day. Today was picture day. My friend had agreed to be our family photographer. In eager anticipation I awoke and immediately laid all of our outfits on the bed, just like it was the first day of school. It was going to be a beautiful day, we were going to look stunning in our family pics. I went downstairs to change the laundry. I heard a thud, followed by crying...nothing major, but crying that warranted my attention. It's hard to get a straight story from a 3 1/2-year-old, so I'm not exactly sure what happened, but LuV had a nice red circle (that would then turn to a bluish/purplish circle) on her forehead. I refused to let a little bonk ruin our photo session - everything was still set to turn out gloriously. A few hours later, yet again in the laundry room, I somehow managed to whack my head on the sharp corner of the door. Seriously, what is wrong with me? It was painful beyond belief. I had to assess my condition to be sure that I was not concussed. It throbbed, it ached, it pulsated...I had to medicate myself. But first I had to see how bad the damage was. Make-up covered up the redness, and if you looked at me head-on it wasn't so bad. But get a shot of me from any angle, and I looked seriously deformed. Half my forehead protruded like I was sporting some sort of abnormal growth.
Deja vu. Flash back 6 1/2 years. I was engaged, and a bit stressed to boot. Our engagement was a short one...not a lot of time for planning and throwing everything together. My poor complexion showed just how stressed I was. It was hideous...not even my dear mother could think of something comforting to say about my condition. Engagement photos were put off for another day...and put off again. To no avail. That face of mine was stubborn, and the carnage was not going away...not soon enough anyway. And so, when I thought things just couldn't possibly get worse...well, you probably have already guessed that they did. I was living at my aunt and uncle's, in an older home. For whatever reason there was a towel rack in the shower. Need I say more? I hit my head hard on that useless contraption, leaving a goose egg to be remembered. I was not a happy bride-to-be during those engagement photos.
So, my question is...do the photography gods hate me? I am not such a beautiful person that I need to be humbled every time I attempt to professionally capture this face. In fact, I am not a particularly photogenic person in the first place. It just doesn't seem fair does it? Are you wondering where I'm going with this post - random as it has been. Well, as I looked at LuV's tiny (in comparison) bump and my gargantuan tumor...I knew she was mine. She is my child, my baby girl, my daughter...clumsiness and all. As I held her in my arms before bed tonight, she snuggled into me, and she fit perfectly against my body. She was made for me. Just for me. (And CW, too, of course).
Thank GOODness for Diet Coke, Photoshop, Nielsen's frozen custard, and a new dress that hopefully detracted from the forehead.
Well, fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, in the long run) LuV came from the womb with a strong distaste for bottles. And so, as her sole provider of nourishment for the first months of her life, I am indeed her preferred parent. Sadly the reasoning for this preference is based on her need to survive...but I'll gladly take what I can get.
And so we finally arrive at the present day. Today was picture day. My friend had agreed to be our family photographer. In eager anticipation I awoke and immediately laid all of our outfits on the bed, just like it was the first day of school. It was going to be a beautiful day, we were going to look stunning in our family pics. I went downstairs to change the laundry. I heard a thud, followed by crying...nothing major, but crying that warranted my attention. It's hard to get a straight story from a 3 1/2-year-old, so I'm not exactly sure what happened, but LuV had a nice red circle (that would then turn to a bluish/purplish circle) on her forehead. I refused to let a little bonk ruin our photo session - everything was still set to turn out gloriously. A few hours later, yet again in the laundry room, I somehow managed to whack my head on the sharp corner of the door. Seriously, what is wrong with me? It was painful beyond belief. I had to assess my condition to be sure that I was not concussed. It throbbed, it ached, it pulsated...I had to medicate myself. But first I had to see how bad the damage was. Make-up covered up the redness, and if you looked at me head-on it wasn't so bad. But get a shot of me from any angle, and I looked seriously deformed. Half my forehead protruded like I was sporting some sort of abnormal growth.
Deja vu. Flash back 6 1/2 years. I was engaged, and a bit stressed to boot. Our engagement was a short one...not a lot of time for planning and throwing everything together. My poor complexion showed just how stressed I was. It was hideous...not even my dear mother could think of something comforting to say about my condition. Engagement photos were put off for another day...and put off again. To no avail. That face of mine was stubborn, and the carnage was not going away...not soon enough anyway. And so, when I thought things just couldn't possibly get worse...well, you probably have already guessed that they did. I was living at my aunt and uncle's, in an older home. For whatever reason there was a towel rack in the shower. Need I say more? I hit my head hard on that useless contraption, leaving a goose egg to be remembered. I was not a happy bride-to-be during those engagement photos.
So, my question is...do the photography gods hate me? I am not such a beautiful person that I need to be humbled every time I attempt to professionally capture this face. In fact, I am not a particularly photogenic person in the first place. It just doesn't seem fair does it? Are you wondering where I'm going with this post - random as it has been. Well, as I looked at LuV's tiny (in comparison) bump and my gargantuan tumor...I knew she was mine. She is my child, my baby girl, my daughter...clumsiness and all. As I held her in my arms before bed tonight, she snuggled into me, and she fit perfectly against my body. She was made for me. Just for me. (And CW, too, of course).
Thank GOODness for Diet Coke, Photoshop, Nielsen's frozen custard, and a new dress that hopefully detracted from the forehead.
2 comments:
Oh you crack me up! I was laughing out loud. "I had to assess my condition to be sure I was not concussed." Too funny, that is so you. Great post Sar.
I love this story. Isn't that the way it goes! I'm sure you were beautiful anyway :) Scoot and I will be up on Halloween for that weekend. I hope we get up there at a decent time on Friday, but we will see.
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