This Girl

She slays me.

Cheers,
a

In Keeping With Current Trends:

Dearest Holden: 

I will spoil you rotten and I will love you more than you can fathom until my dying breath. I can promise you ice cream, dump trucks, swirly slides, cotton candy, cartoons, and a place to hang out when Mom just won't get off your case already.  Though, I can also promise you that if mom is on your case, I probably will be, too. 


I will watch you play football or baseball or soccer or ballet (yes, Jeff, ballet, if he's so inclined). I will cheer for you and yell "Go TEAM!" at the top of my lungs. I will embarrass you, but not nearly as much as your parents will. I promise to be the cool "aunt" and to always have little secrets -- just for us (like that sip of root beer before bed, or the extra sugary marshmallow cereal, or how you are just a little afraid of the dark even though you're a boy and can totally fight monsters, man!).


I will give you horrible advice and be totally out of touch. I'll tell you stories about when I was a kid and you'll roll your eyes and say, "yeah right, Athena, like you were ever that cool!" And I'll assure you that yes, believe it or not, your mom and I were, like, totally rad. 


I can promise that you'll fall for the wrong girl, at least once, but that falling in love is worth every bump and scrape along the way.  You will break a heart once or twice, and have yours broken, too, and I'll always pick up the phone if you need to talk (or need a sober ride home, you got that!?!) I will cry at your wedding, partly because you're getting married, but mostly because I'll be old enough for you to be getting married, which means so will my daughters. Maybe you'll marry each other. But not all three of you, mmmkay? I want my girls to share, but let's not get crazy, here.  


I will demand that you honor love and respect your mother from this day forward because, goshdarnitdiddilyhoo she's your momma and she birthed you and that whole birthing thing is no joke -it's hard. I will expect that you respect your father, and learn from him. He's a great man and an amazing person for you to aspire to be just like. 


I'll write annoying letters like this to you from time to time, and I'll take your picture more than you can stand. Especially when you find yourself in humorous and/or potentially future reputation ruining positions (e.g. the bathtub, smashing your first birthday cake, wearing mom's heels). 


And I'll hug and kiss and cuddle you.


Forever and ever.
Amen.


Aunt Athena.


(PS: Go check out Holden's birth story here)

First Lord, No Tattoos.

May neither chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.  May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it's the damage that draws the creepy soccer coaches eye, not the beauty. When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer. 

 Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. 

Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking you, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need not lie with drummers. Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a tiger flower blooming magenta for one day – and adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. 

 O Lord, break the internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.”

And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with your God eyes. 

Amen


~Tina Fey


Cheers.
A

PS: I mean it, girls. All of it. Minus the part about tattoos. I can't say no to you there. But that part about dry humping and laying with drummers? Totally mean it.

Losing It.

Today kind of felt like this. 

Like I had been hit by a truck.

It started great.
I had a great breakfast meeting with a prominent pain specialist group in Georgetown.
I had a successful lunch with a PT group.

I came home with a smile on my face.

And then I was in tears.

I tried to call Space Moving and Storage- the carrier assigned to our move by American Van Lines.
Disconnected.
I went online and found an alternate number.
Disconnected.
Then I tried the toll free 800 number.
Disconnected.

It appears our moving carrier has gone out of business.
Which means we likely have no recourse for all of our damaged furniture.

Then, I saw our cell phone bill.
$100 more than it should be.
Awesome.
I get to sit on the phone with yet another customer service department.

We got a response from the bank in regard to the offer on our house.
They countered the buyer's offer.
By quite a bit.

If the buyers don't accept, we might end up losing the chance at a short sale.
Awesome.

I feel run over.
Lost.
Frustrated.
Stressed.

And my girl Nadia is right: Everything will fall into place.  And soon.
Rebecca is right, too: At least our moving company went out of business after we received all our stuff.
(she always knows how to make me smile.)

But still.

I'm hoping tomorrow's a better day.
I'm hoping tomorrow I can learn to let go a little.
To stop fretting over details I cannot control.
To enjoy the amazing gifts that enter into my life each day.
I'm hoping I can follow my {new} friend Brady's advice
and find solace in a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

And I'm hoping the next time I am sitting on the floor
crying my eyes out
that my darling Elena will come up to me,
just as she did tonight,
and pat my dripping crying eyes
and whisper,
"shhhh, shh, sorry sorry, momma.
don't cry, momma.
it's going to be alright, momma."

And then I hope she tells me,
"you don't need to cry, momma.
I didn't throw a toy.
I wasn't bad! Promise."

And then I'll laugh.
I'll regain perspective.
And though I may still be a little run over,
at least I'll be laughing.

And it is because of this,
along with soooo many countless other reasons,
that I am blessed and grateful and thankful for my children.

Cheers,
A