“I need water, Mommy.” Sarah, my precocious five-year old tugs at my black dress. I’m running late. To a funeral.
“Here.” I put the green cup in front of her on the kitchen table as I debate with the mirror. Eye make-up or not. Chances are I’ll cry. I’m a crier. And the make-up will just end up making me look like I have two black eyes. Skip the eye-liner.
“Mommy, here.” Sarah pushes a stapled paper book she made in school into my lap as I pull on my boots. “You forgot to read this to me.”
Now? I’m thinking? You need me to read this to you, right-now? Zip up my second shoe and prop my princess in my lap. Ten pages. I can do this. Continue reading
I’m not a hat person. Was. I was never a hat person. Until recently. And not by choice.
I grew up avoiding hats at all costs. Let the rain mat my hair. I wasn’t wearing a hat. Let frozen ears lay bare. No hat on my head sat.
Bottom line, I was too vain for hats. Had to keep the hair looking good. So even in sub-zero temps, I would walk into school with a non-slurpee induced brain freeze and proudly assert a teeth-chattering, “Sorry, I don’t do hats.”
Fast forward a few years. Okay, more like a decade or two. My head is cold. And when I’m old. A hat is sold. And truth be told. I thought I was bold. When in fact, I was just…stupid. Continue reading