So, I accidentally quit smoking. I didn't mean to, only I ran out a few weeks ago. I used to have this nightly habit: once the dishes were done, work caught up on, child nestled all snug in her bed: I'd lean over the sink with a drink and a cigarette. It was awesome. But then I smoked the last one in a pack and every time I thought about running across the street to get some more, I figured I'd probably end up shot in a robbery or hit by a car and then the newspapers the next day would say "Mother,40, Killed Running Across the Street for Smokes." And since there's nothing shamier than smoking, they'd probably find some way to throw in how much I weigh. So, I just sort of fell out of the habit of leaning over the sink with a cigarette and when I did my life insurance bloodwork, my blood came back negative for nicotine.
Who'd of thunk?
Of course, if I find myself in the presence of one who has not accidentally quit smoking, I quickly metamorphose from someone who doesn't smoke to someone who "doesn't smoke."
All day today I felt really fat and gross and jiggly. I have a rule that I'm not allowed to use the phrase "I feel fat" around my daughter. It is one of many fond wishes that I manage to, if not kill, at least thwart the body shame that women pass from generation to generation. My mother was almost always on a diet which was a shame because really loves food and would have been gorgeous even if she'd weighed 30 pounds more than she did. It'd be nice to be able to really relish a meal without feeling guilty about it almost immediately after. Maybe that can happen for Laney.
What's weird, though, about my particular body issues is that they're pretty fleeting. Today I felt fat and gross and jiggly. Tomorrow, I'll put on heels and a dress and then on the way to work I'll catch some guy checking me out and I'll feel great about myself.
There's a sad little self esteem irony, huh?
Poetry hour! I decided to read poetry to Laney tonight. She never wants to do it, until we get a poem or two in to Where the Sidewalk Ends. If you have kids, you can totally hook them on poetry with Dreadful. Just make sure you really burp at the end.
The thing about Shel Silverstein, though, is that his poetry is only ostensibly for kids. As you leaf through, you'll stumble across a poem that's so wistful and lovely you know there's no way a six year old would get it. Shel slipped it in there for the mommies and the daddies. Like this one. Read it aloud. It's Shel Fucking Silverstein - you can read THAT much poetry, can't you? Aloud?
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers...
How did it go?
How did it go?
Sigh. It's so wonderful watching your kid speak that language but, dammitalltohell, isn't it sad knowing that you never will again?
Downer, huh? Click on the link for Dreadful. It's awesome. Especially if you really burp.