The Glamour of Layers of Ruffles

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Princess Panties

Here it is,

been building

laying stable,

over a moving table of sparkling,

shimmering kira-kira

LAVA–

 

At least, this is the way I tend to view

the rapture of everything-ruffles, Disney-don’t even-show-her-Barbies-please-no

towards my three year old girl

now very very interested in, acting out princesses,

shopping for fancy dresses,

earnestly wanting that set with the two pairs of heels.

Heels.

Just stop there.

Her little growing strong back potentially compromised by heels?

Heck, no.

 

Sometimes it seems a threat,

these princesses finding our house,

wanting to come in.

First it’s a friendly knock,

but repeatedly,

they ding-dong, ping-pong,

to play with my girl.

 

This is the input that makes her

wanna be glamorous everyday,

say

she wants to put on makeup,

be Cinderella–

a pretty, little, gorgeous thing.

 

Can you tell

I’ve been a bit tense about it?

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Her 1st time in the Disney store. Changed somehow.

Those Disney girls pushing catalogs for

the same costumes everybody wears, made in great giant batches of pink

for millions of girls,

which prompt them to ask, “Am I pretty?”

Then, “Pretty enough?”

 

This is the sugar-plum hair net

which shapes their thoughts

and culls their own creativity, perhaps–

to potentially stifle

the idea that she can imagine a different Cinderella dress–

that it doesn’t necessarily have to be light blue with puffy sleeves,

the lovely understanding

that women come resplendent in many many

ways, shapes, legs, tummies

not simply Disney’s or “the highway”.

 

Now there are

new mentions at ladies’ weight and haircolor.

 

Now she notices overeating and thinks about, points out

people.

She says if she eats too much she will get a tummy ache;

but one time she switched “tummy ache” for “FAT”.

 

Raising a little hun,

praising her heart and mind and body

while balancing princesses

and the story, her own story of creation

sometimes yields

a lithe, excited three year old, chanting

praise to God…

for making her a princess…

 

And then there’s the possibility that humility

can be zapped.

The good, real stuff snatched.

A three year old wanting to be twenty-two

like “that”.

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The clip-ons can hurt a bit, but she wants ’em…& then asks us to pull them off.

I’ve been trying to avoid

this thing

 

but

 

turns out princesses are quite nice

and this one

even wore her earrings, crown, light-up amethyst necklace to build.

Not pour over a mirror,

not act-out a commercial,

but build.

Create.

So I think, perhaps,

her footing,

her luminescent glass slipper may still be

on solid ground,

intact.

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Gone are the Days

Gone are the days you could nurse & lie down, sleep, watch daytime movies, & simply bask in the hurt-shoulders glow of holding a loooongtime nursing-can’t-be-mobile-yet-babe.

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Shinkansen, aka “bullet train” nearing 155 mpr. Smooth as silk, though. No bumps, hickups, or noise. Just speed.

Now it’s way long stretches of awakeness for him, power-nursing which does not turn much into conk-outs, but rather simulates that quick swig of cold, orange Gatorade from the sideline before a burst of energy and a new attack.

When to blog?

When to work?

How to clean when there are no real naps or lulls in between?

Thinking, thinking. Where’s my beat-all playbook?

mystified

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ever mystified over the lack of photos, video, journaling, whatever that exists from my sis & i growing up as babies & then girls & young women. did our parents not have paper? no caves or sidewalk chalk to jot down our funny quips or expressions? were we terribly hideous? or were parents simply not as easily impressed with their own offspring as we all are now? i get the no Facebook then. the no blogging day & night about spit-up incidents or school projects gone amiss. but to have nothing? i’ve said various times, 

“I’m lucky to even have a birth certificate.” 

such is the life when you come from a minimalist mom, where the chant, “What is this & can we throw it away?” resounded through our halls like a loud Citizen clock. 

I get the lack of technology, but without jotting, without the trusted, leather-bound journal, what will we remember? it all becomes a soft, albeit beautiful blur. 

More on all of this later. 

I have some remembering to do–of my own days as a child and how i got here & now, so that I will be able to lay back with my own & tell them of when they were kids, that is right now. so that we may talk of those funny words and how they couldn’t say something quite right, how it became the funniest joke, a new word planted in our Uchiyama dictionary, how everything turns out alright. 

how each birthday candle shone some beautiful light. 

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xoxo