January 5, 2008

I was reading our devotions to the children tonight right before supper. The 3-year-old who possesses the most beautiful skin on earth and the personality to match it, was sitting on my lap, and by that I mean she was squeezed into the chair beside me with half of her body on my left hip, and half on the arm of the chair because my lap doesn’t exist anymore. Except for things that are the size of baby birds and one handful of marbles.


As I was reading, she was touching various parts of me like small children do. She touched my neck, played with the diamond on my necklace, stroked my cheek, pushed in one nostril, and petted my head which is the nicest feeling in the world, and she will now get to be at the birth to do this petting-my-hair-thing from the very first contraction until she leaves the house to be married. She then moved to my hands, but when she touched one of them, she kinda jerked it back real quick to her body and looked at me with a strange mixture of revulsion, weird curiosity, pity, love, and revulsion. And she said this…..

“Mommy, your hands are soggy!”

‘Cause, ya know, I’m just not feeling bad ENOUGH about my physique at this point, and need a toddler to join in the Could-I-be-Any-Grosser-Than-I-am-Now Extravaganza.


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