idontbelieveingrammar

No one would ever mistake me for a dance mom.  Most men these days can do a better bun than me and I can’t tell the difference between a leotard and a swimsuit. Tess has been in dance for over four years now and I’d still rather vacuum than help her put on tights (which is saying ALOT). Her debut was at a Junior League Christmas shopping event where they had squeezed a stage in the corner and invited local dance studios to perform while women shopped for all things Santa and rhinestone. Tess was barely out of pull ups. I didn’t want to start her that young, but….if she heard music ….she danced.  In the aisle at the grocery store. In restaurants, she would “perform” while waiters dodged her dancing between tables. Occasionally she even got applause. The check-out clerks at Target would tell me, the table next to us eating would tell me and even my parents told me, “Get that girl in dance”. So finally I bought the tiniest of ballet slippers and the most annoying tap shoes an...

The first time I posted this wasn't on mother's day or even close....but it seems to fit today. I have written a ton lately....but none of it seems ready for public consumption just yet. So --instead there is this: My Favorite Scar When I was ten I fell on a piece of glass and sliced open my left hand. The scar is thick and a little lumpy because I waited too long to get stitches. On my other hand is larger white scrappy scar from a bike injury. The involved me trying to beat the boys. My knees are thick with scars. More bikes, tennis courts and plain old clumsy. My son has a few already and he gladly shows them off. They are a testament to his toughness.  The one on his back shows that he did in fact survive jumping (and falling off the bed). There is one on his chin that the ER doctors glued shut – we no longer practice diving in the bathtub. And a little one on his hairline that received a few staples. Scars show us what we have survived and we have healed. But I ...