The graduate

Tonight we said goodbye to our beloved babysitter who leaves for college this week.

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M. moved next door when she was seven and has been one of our very favorite people ever since. She leaves for college this week—thankfully only an hour away. But, it’s hard. Watching her grow up has only made me realize how quickly these years pass. A few years ago, when she drove down the street in her father’s car for the first time, I quite literally burst into tears at the shock of seeing this little girl driving a car.

Yes, I’m aware of the irony: She has been taller than me since she was 15.

We love M. for many reasons, but I’ll sum it up with this: She has always made my children feel like they are the most fun kids on the planet. She truly seems to enjoy their company and has never made them feel like she is “only” their babysitter. Even tonight, in between going to see her friends and packing, she made a special visit to say “goodbye for now” to the kids before their bedtime.

For Belly, she is like an adored big sister. I used to joke that if M. and I were in a sinking boat, and Belly could only save one of us, she’d really have to think about it.

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Jilly shows, quite literally, how she feels about M. by wrapping herself around her like a monkey clinging to its mama. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to peel Jilly off of her. And while Jilly’s love can, well, hurt in its intensity, M. is so, so good and patient with her.

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And then finally, there is D, my goofball who has little games he plays only with M. “Make the cute face!” she asks, and after joking around, he gives her his giant-eyed, puppy-dog look. She yells, “I’m coming to get you now cutie!” and he screeches delightedly and runs away.

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Oh we’ll miss our girl next door. Thankfully she will be able to come home a few times a semester.  I know three kids who will be at her doorstop.as soon as they see her car.

50 Shades of Tan

Twice a year, I get naked and stand in front of a man who looks over every inch of me. And then I wait for the scolding. I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

I have a tan.

Whenever he starts to tsk over the color of my skin, I remind him that I’m probably one of the few people who actually keeps an August dermatology appointment. And I silently think, “Listen Mister: You could use a little color on that pasty-white skin of yours.” Though I don’t say that out loud. He has access to a scalpel.

I’m not one of those tanaholics who can’t wait to get out to fry in the sun, and my sunscreen doesn’t fall below SPF 30, (and my “tan” would make many of you laugh at its meekness), but I still see my color darken as the summer goes on no matter how often I reapply the block. And I am well aware that years and years of SPF 4 and “burn then peel” tanning was not in my long-term best interest.

In other words: I do not love the affects of the sun nearly as much as I did in my 20’s.

Do you remember those photos they’d show with a smiling woman’s face, “before” and “after” years of sun damage? Her “before” face would be clear and shiny . Her “after” face would be covered in brown freckles and patches.

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Freckle beard just visible on one side. Cute boy on other side.

I am the “after” face now. For the past two years, as soon as I start getting in the summer’s sun, I get a huge “beard” of freckles across my cheeks and across my chin. Nothing, nothing makes me feel so old as those freckles and age spots. Well what would happen if I entered a bounce house runs a close second. But we won’t go into that right now.

So when my kids complain at how much sunscreen I lather onto their skinny little bodies—when my oldest begs me not to make her “white” with zinc oxide—when they screech at sand mixed into the sunscreen that I’m trying to spread across their feet: I show them my freckly face and say,

Heed My Warning. Beware the freckle beard.

 Something tells me they aren’t finding this nearly as scary as I am.

Deep thoughts, according to a seven year old

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From my son:

So when someone says, “I love you with all my heart”, that means they hate everyone else right? 

You guys. . .you GUYS. . .he is now like this ALL THE TIME. He’s my own personal Jack Handy. The little boy who didn’t say three words at two, or ten words at four, is now always, always talking.

You should’ve heard the conversation we had about corn on the cob at the Farmer’s Market. It went on for so long that the woman standing nearby had to laugh at how often one little person could ask whether or not there would be worms in our corn.

This gift for gab is definitely a “my side of the family” trait. Oh, he has definitely inherited it. And then some.