When Katie was younger, when she was six or seven, and we would go to the pool, she would migrate to the other children. She would stand real close. She would ask them if they wanted to play. She would say "hi". She would be turned away over and over.
She has learned not to try to befriend every small person she sees now.
( She did however have a very long detailed discussion with the lifeguard who was working the snack stand, now that I think about it.)
This makes me so sad.
But, it doesn't seem to make Katie too sad. So I will be happy about that.
I watched as she bobbed and jumped for over an hour.
She has learned to play alone. She has learned not to feel lonely without a friend along. As my mother would say...she has learned to entertain herself.
I watched as Katie walked like a crab in the shallow end of the pool. She wove herself around mothers and toddlers.
Scooting like a crab. All the way around. Then up the steps. Leading with her feet, I watched her climb the steps.
Out of the pool she scooted. Short little crab steps. Right toward me. Smiling and clacking along. (Well. She wasn't making the sound of a crab. I think I imagined that.) She maneuvered right up to me, not saying a word.
And I smiled at her and laughed and marveled at the ease in which she covered the deck.
When she reached me, she smiled and turned back to the pool.
She jauntily crab walked back to the pool and slipped right back into the warm water.
My happy little crab walker...how I love her.
My tweezers are missing.
This is a crisis.
I called Emma last night at 11:10 and said, "I think you took my tweezers. Why O why did you take my tweezers?"
She was lying in her bed, studying Hebrew and didn't jump up immediately to search for them. Cause my tweezers are not important to her. But they are VERY important to me. I love them. They work just right. I have three other tweezers that just do not work. But the old pair works just right. And now they are in Chicago.
I have this obsession. I confess.
I have little white hairs on my chin. No one would ever notice them.
But I do.
I don't notice that my hair in unbrushed or that I have forgotten to put on mascara for two weeks.
I do not notice the stain on my shirt or the sag in my pants. I do not notice the unkept eyebrows or the
But a hair on my chin. It can not be.
In 1999 I noticed the downy hair on my chin for the first time. I asked my quilting friends if they had little hair on their faces. Was this a sign of aging? My question was met with stares. No one had given it a thought. I felt alone.
As God is my witness, I'll never be hairy again....
I remember a lady who ran a knitting store up north. She had lots and lots of big huge whiskers on her face.
I think she scared me for life. That's what it must be. Her hairs were epic.
Hollywood material. Hollywood-scary-movie material.
Yes, that's the source of my fears, my obsession. I have just worked it out right here on the blog.
Dear Bearded Lady,
You have scared me straight. I will never be the same.
Your hairless friend,
And so the oddest blog entry comes to an end.
Sorry bout that.
Encourage one another,