One for the grandparents

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Since my baby decided it was okay to grow up without my permission, I figured it was only fitting to commemorate that with a little photo shoot of her very own. She's turning eight next month, and cannot wait to get baptized.

It's funny to actually have a session with one of my own kids now. I used to have to beg, plead, and pay cash to get them to smile for me. Now, they don't seem to mind it quite so much. Pray that this attitude will continue so that years from now I will have more than just pictures of other people to look back on.

I'll tell you something though, it's sessions like this one that are why I wanted to become a photographer in the first place.

LOVE them. Love the girl in them even more.

Join me for a tear or two, won't you?



Sweet fancy moses.

What will I do on that fateful day when she wears another white dress?

Somebody freeze time for me. Please. I need to start stockpiling the Kleenex.

On advice of counsel

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After reading so many of your comments on my last post (yes, even that really nasty, unkind anonymous one), I decided that a lot of you missed the point.

You know, kind of like if you were to say:

"Yes, yes, Mrs. Lincoln. But what did you WEAR that night to the theater?"

The point of the post was this: I WALKED IN ON SOME LADY SITTING ON THE TOILET.

It was wholly unrelated to the innocent adjective that I used to describe myself in what I felt was a harmless, self-deprecating, humorous manner.

As I have done many times before.

But for future clarification, I offer you this disclaimer, drafted by the brilliant legal team of Mee, Miselph, & Aye:

I, Christie, being of sound mind and cellulited body, do hereby declare that any references on this blog, either in the past, present, or future, relating to body size or image, do not in any way, shape, or form refer to anyone other than the author of this blog.

Those references include, but are not limited to, the following: chubby, fat, dimpled, roly-poly, bloated, weight-challenged, super thighzed, ample, chunky, plump, portly, stout, or hefty.

These terms of endearment are meant only to imply that the blog author is capable of laughing at her damn fine self whilst simultaneously stuffing her belly full of donuts.

All previously stated references to weight in this blog are attributable solely to the author's imagination and possibly deluded self-image. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

[Surprisingly enough, this blog is all about me. I did not intend to offend anyone and would apologize profusely if I could, but my fingers are too sticky from the aforementioned donuts.]

That is all. Have a nice day.

One more story of shame to add to my life's work

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I had a lovely little lunch date with the Husband today. He happens to be in town this week, and I most decidedly took advantage of that rare treat.

We finished eating, and I got up to go use the, um, facilities.

After inquiring with our waiter, I was pointed towards the back of the restaurant. I pushed open the door to what I thought was a multi-stall restroom.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Some poor woman, pants down around her ankles, her big white cheeks planted on the single toilet in the room. She looked up at me and shrieked, "Oh sh#@! I thought I locked it!"

I ran as fast as I could to our table, told the Husband that we had to leave, LIKE. RIGHT. NOW. Good man that he is, he didn't question me. Just grabbed his coat and we vacated the premises faster than if we'd robbed the place.

As we booked it down the block and I told the Husband what had happened, he roared his head back in laughter.

Somehow, I didn't quite see the humor.

I mean, if I had known it was a single, of course I would have knocked. But we were in a restaurant, and I figured there would be more than one. There's always more than one. And since the door was not locked, and there was no knob, I pushed the door open and marched myself right in.

And so today, somewhere out there in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch probably feeling very, very embarrassed. And maybe just a teensy bit angry with the chubby girl who walked in on her while she sat on the toilet.

And also today in St. Louis, a woman sits on her couch and vows NEVER to make an assumption in a restaurant again.

[Tell me I'm not the only one this has happened to. Lie to me, if you must. I need some commiserating.]

Sixteen

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You still make me laugh, after all these years.

You know everything about me. And yet you love me anyway.

You gave me three perfectly fantastic children.

And you're as in love with them as I am.

You believe in accountability and don't accept excuses for anything in your life.

You live deliberately, not allowing yourself to waste a single moment.

You never question how I spend my days. Even when they're less productive than they could be.

You support the dreams I have, and help me to make them a reality.

You buy me that silly People magazine on your way through the airport. Because you know that I like it.

You let me sleep in, even though it irritates you.

You always tell me I'm beautiful. Even when I'm not.

You play my favorite song in the car. Just to see me smile.

You tolerate my cooking, in spite of how bad it is.

You let me have my way. Even when it's not my turn.

You hold my heart.

And you trusted me enough to give me yours in return. All those years and lifetimes ago.

Happy anniversary, baby. I love you.

The elephant in the room

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Since we are celebrating spring break around here, I decided to pretend I'm a good mom and took my kids to the zoo yesterday. We had a lovely time, and I noticed some things when we stopped by the elephant exhibit.

Some things that I may or may not want to admit here.

Things I found that I have in common with the sweet, old girl they call Pearl.



Like I can totally relate to her dry, crackly skin in the wintertime. There isn't enough lotion in the world to moisturize me right now.

And the wrinkles in between the eyes just begging for Botox?

Yep. We've both got those.

Of course, I should mention the obvious: She and I both have similar, um, well, shapes when it comes to our rear ends.

Though I am afraid hers might be a tad bit slimmer than mine.

But the similarities go beyond just appearances. For instance, we both are a little bit clumsy and seem to fall down from time to time when taking a little walk through town:



We both like to show off when we know that people are watching, though we pretend shyly that we don't:



And, sadly, I am afraid that both of us will do tricks in exchange for the sweet treat of our choice.

Hers: A banana.
Mine: Everything in the chocolate family.

(We also both seem to be willing to eat food right off the ground.)



And when we find ourselves exhausted from all that walking, falling, and sweet treat eating, all we really want to do is lie down and take a nice, long nap.



But the most disturbing similarity of all, the missing genetic link between humans and elephants:

We both occasionally find that a teensy bit of pee slips out when we are doing the exercising.


Sorry, old girl. But you and I both know that it's the awful, honest truth.