This weekend was fraught with much celebration. Across the board in our family. We finally celebrated Celia's 9th with much a do and many a hurt feelings because the free world wasn't invited.
Because the free world wasn't paying.
Funny enough, she has one in the same spot. I'm drilling her to love it. It's a beautiful thing to have. Love yourself and that mole. It works for Cindy, no? She says, "Cindy, who?"
We had a painting party with a princess frog as the themed painting. Part of me was QUITE SCARED that her peers would make fun of her painting choice while the other part of me was fist pumping into the air that my child is just that. A child. Full of conviction of her subject matter. Caring not what anyone else felt about what they were going to paint. She's 9 for goodness sakes! If she still like Barbies, frogs and princesses? So be it! BRING IT! Stay a child as long as possible!!!!
The biggest hit of the party? My friend's child's boots.
I find at 43? I'm feeling more like a nine-year-old than my actual nine-year-old.. I'm having to explain myself to everyone and anyone for my decisions or my lack of conversations to placate everyone else's opinion. Because contrary to popular belief, I really hate confrontation.
At this moment? I feel quite a few want to make the decisions for me and my family. "with their best interest at heart."
At times I want to be a man without the whole penis and ball shit. You know, say what you mean and mean what you say? I punch you in the arm and you punch me back and then we hug it out? Sadly, girls aren't made up that way.
Instead, we are shitty back-stabbing bitches.
and the bitches? can leave me alone.
Because I want to be nine again.