Doodle

My American girl

Caroline got an American Girl doll from Mimi and Bops for her birthday this year. I decided that, along with her feminine pink .22, she and her doll needed some beautiful matching pajamas.

Unfortunately, either the American Girl website isn’t very clear with their sizing information or the Chinese manufacturers believe that American children are abnormally large because the pajamas we ordered in a size 6 were big enough to fit me.

And, honestly, I could have read the size chart wrong. I shouldn’t criticize China considering that we’re in 9 trillion dollars worth of debt to them, which is slightly more than I spend on jeans in a calendar year.

Anyway, the replacement pair arrived yesterday and Caroline had to put them on as soon as she got out of the bath last night. She even asked me to blow dry her hair so it would be shiny and straight just like her doll.

Doesn’t she look sweet?

You’d never know that, just an hour earlier, this same delicate little girl told her Bops that she thought the clouds looked like a shark eating a poodle.
Pretty in pink

Yesterday morning, P woke Caroline up about 6:45 a.m. and she went from being in a deep sleep to jumping on the bed in excitement in approximately three seconds. I made her a nutritious breakfast of Eggo frozen waffles while she got dressed and searched for the proper hair accessories. The whole routine only took about twenty minutes which was great until we realized we still had about twenty minutes before it was time to leave the house. Twenty minutes filled to the brim with just one question:

“IS IT TIME TO LEAVE YET?”

Or the variation:

“I’M READY TO GO! WHEN CAN WE LEAVE?”

Fortunately we had plenty of time to take a few back-to-school photos.

Bless her heart, it’s like she’s never seen a camera.

I just wish she’d come out of her shell and show some zest for life and self-confidence.

P and I walked her into school and she immediately found a friend. She dropped my hand and walked ahead of us, talking to her friend and I heard her say, “We should get together soon for a play date”. And then she pulled out her Blackberry so she could get it on the calendar. The social obligations that come with being a first grader are never-ending.

I got back to the house and started some laundry, ran the dishwasher, and cleaned up a little bit. Then I looked at the clock and it was only 8:35 a.m. Clearly I am going to need to find something to fill my days besides sitting on the couch watching Rachel Zoe marathons on Bravo and eating Gummie Sours, although it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Monday.

The only time I cried was when I went to HEB by myself and realized how much I missed my little shopping buddy. Which is ironic considering how many times this summer I had to threaten to put back everything in the cart, including the chocolate Pop-Tarts and Oreos, if she asked me for ONE MORE THING.

Then she’d be quiet for about fifteen seconds before asking, “Can I get a gumball before we leave?”

And I would be forced to launch into my lecture about having a grateful heart while silently singing the words to “Swing Low Sweet Chariots” because I felt sure I was about to have some kind of mental break and would need a band of angels to carry me home.

But yesterday I missed all of it. Not necessarily the part about the gumball, but I missed her running commentary on my grocery selections.

When I picked her up at the end of the day she was all smiles. Apparently, first grade is PERFECT and she can’t wait to go again, which works out since she has about 179 days or so left.

Also, on a totally different note but on the subject of PERFECT, I have a great giveaway right now on my Giveaways page. Click here to read all about it.
I’m going to need a box of Kleenex and Starbucks

Caroline starts first grade today. Just typing the words causes me tear up a little which makes perfect sense when you consider that I drove past the high school yesterday and got a little teary because oh my gosh she’ll be in high school in just eight years and sunrise and sunset and all that.

Yes, I’m enjoying this fragile emotional ledge on which I am perched. Thanks for asking.

The truth is that I am the one who feels melancholy about the end of summer. Caroline has been waiting to be an official first grader all summer long and spent most of the weekend speaking in ALL CAPS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS about all the great things that first grade will bring. She has never met a social situation that she doesn’t love, as opposed to her mama who sometimes wants to hide in a corner until it’s all over. But I don’t because then people would point and stare and ask “Who’s the crazy lady hiding in a corner?” and that would be awkward.

On Friday we met her teacher and she was every bit as fabulous as I thought she’d be. She has so much energy and personality, both of which are good traits to have when you’re in charge of wrangling seventeen first graders all day, every day.

When we walked in the classroom there was a stack of forms on each child’s desk that needed to be filled out. We also had to put up all their school supplies which totally stressed me out because what if I put the box of Kleenex in the wrong place and Caroline didn’t get credit for bringing in a box of Kleenex? What if I didn’t properly label her Crayola Markers and they end up in the wrong cubby? Do I put both boxes of Crayons in her school box or just one? Do I take them out of the boxes first or leave them in?

How on earth am I going to survive twelve years of this kind of stress?

I managed to get all the supplies in (Please, God) what I think were the right locations and began to fill out the forms on the desk. Most of it was basic information like how she’ll be picked up from school each day and if she usually brings her lunch or buys her lunch. I’m sad to say that after a brief love affair with the cafeteria food during the first two weeks of Kindergarten, she officially broke up with mass-produced cuisine and requires a homemade lunch each day, which means I have to get up ten minutes earlier each morning.

It normally doesn’t take me ten minutes to make a ham sandwich and stuff some chips in a Ziploc bag, but the early morning hour is not my friend and renders me unable to locate cheese slices that are right in front of my face.

Anyway, I was filling out the forms and got to a question that read, “What makes your child happy?” Since Caroline was right next to me, I decided to ask her instead of just writing down my initial response which was “To be loved and adored by her first grade teacher, having a friend to sit with at lunchtime, and being recognized as an incredibly special and wonderful child”. Because that might be a bit much.

So I turned to her and asked, “Hey, what makes you happy?”

She looked at me for about three seconds and replied, “Shooting pigs”.

Of course. Shooting pigs.

She is such a first grade girl cliche’.

Needless to say, I didn’t want to frighten her new teacher so I took the liberty of exchanging “shooting pigs” for “enjoys outdoor activities”.

It just sounds better; not to mention it won’t cause a visit to the school counselor on the first day of school.

On Sunday we spent most of the day getting everything ready for the first day. There were more forms to be filled out and we had to pick out what she was going to wear on the first day, a process that proved to be only slightly less tenuous than the Middle East peace talks and ended with me being totally mature and telling her I wasn’t sure why she wanted to look homeless on the first day of school.

P made the mistake of walking into her room in the midst of all the wardrobe strategy and I asked, “Why does a person have to have so many opinions about what they will and will not wear?”

He said, “The same reason you do”.

Oh, he’s good.

Ultimately, we found a compromise somewhere between the old, faded skirt and the precious red sundress.

Now I just have to figure out how to navigate the carpool lanes at the end of the day.

And hope that her Crayola markers were properly labeled.

And hope that the next twelve years don’t go by too fast.
Maybe she’s been reading The Zoe Report

I’m sure you’ve all been worried sick about our backpack deficiency so I am proud to share that, as of 11:00 a.m. yesterday morning, we acquired a Disney Princess backpack at Academy. I’m not sure what the difference is between the Disney Princess backpack at the Disney Store and the one on sale at Academy, but it’s probably better for my mental health if I just let it go.

I have no doubt that we would be better served with a sturdy backpack from L.L. Bean or Lands End, but when I showed them to Caroline this morning they were met with a resounding “THOSE ARE SO BORING”. She has never been a big believer in the whole less is more theory or in carrying around an accessory that doesn’t come complete with sparkles.

Academy was our first stop of the day because, geographically, it made more sense to go there before we went to Target. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it once or seventy times, but the Target moved to a new location and it takes an additional seven minutes and three stoplights to get there. Meanwhile, Academy isn’t close to anything except for a Wienerschnitzel because everyone knows that folks who enjoy sports and outdoors like to indulge in the occasional footlong chilidog.

The favor of God rested on me at Academy because finding tennis shoes was unbelievably easy. We walked down the aisle while I silently willed her not to notice all the ghetto fab shoes complete with lights and Bratz dolls on them, and she picked out a sporty pair of Nikes with a hot pink swoosh and, hear the chorus of angels sing, velcro closures. It took everything in me to only act moderately interested in her choice because I knew if I got too excited she would sense that she’d made the wrong choice if there was any hope of driving me to the brink of a psychotic episode.

After we purchased the shoes and the backpack, I still felt like we should go to Target to check out their selection. We strolled the back to school aisles filled with tired mamas holding their Venti Lattes and, lo and behold, there was a Barbie backpack.

Apparently Barbie is SO YESTERDAY because she wasn’t interested.

However, she was very interested in the clothing section and saw several things she wanted. For several minutes I felt like I was shopping with Rachel Zoe because she kept saying, “Oh I am dying to have that”. I was just waiting for her to declare that something was “bananas”.

We got home and received our letter from the school informing us who her teacher will be this year. I was thrilled because it turns out that her teacher is a good friend of my dear friend AJ and I’d secretly hoped that’s who she’d get.

Caroline sat next to me while we opened the letter and I told her that her new teacher is a good friend of AJ’s.

She was excited because she loves AJ and asked, “Is she the same age as AJ?”

“Yes. I think they’re the same age.”

“So…she’s young?”

“Yes, she’s young.”

“Oh good! That means she probably won’t die soon.”

Well, yes. I guess that’s one way to look at it.

Of course maybe she didn’t mean “die” in the literal sense as much as “die” because her mom refused to buy her a bright green t-shirt with a glow-in-the-dark panda bear on the front holding a red lame’ heart in the girls’ department at Target.

It could go either way.

And on a fashion-related note, there’s an 84% chance that I’m resuming Fashion Fridays starting tomorrow.
There’s a reason Elvis didn’t make “Blue Port Aransas”

We made it home yesterday afternoon and I am currently buried under fifty-eight pounds of laundry and six bags of half-eaten chips that probably need to be thrown away because I’m the only one in my family who thinks it might not be the best idea to play with live bait and then promptly help myself to a Frito covered in bean dip.

Also, today is my 38th birthday.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to mention my birthday because it feels like a desperate ploy to get y’all to leave me lots of comments saying “Happy Birthday!”, but considering there’s a good chance that later today I’ll spontaneously announce “It’s my birthday!” to the cashier at HEB in a desperate ploy to get her to wish me happy birthday, it only seems natural that I do the same thing here.

Last night, P offered to write a guest birthday post about ten things I do that get on his nerves, but when I questioned him further about what those things could possibly be, he couldn’t come up with anything.

I don’t think it had anything to do with the fact he knows I’m suffering from PMS and was holding a sharp knife at the time. And, honestly, the sharp knife was to cut up the barbecued turkey we were having for dinner.

So, in honor of my birthday, here’s a video of Caroline. Which has nothing at all to do with my birthday unless you count the fact that if I hadn’t been born thirty-eight years ago today, then she wouldn’t be here either.

The Beach from Big Mama on Vimeo.

A few quick notes:

I think “It’s almost like Hawaii” should be Port Aransas’ new ad campaign, even though it’s not at all like Hawaii except they both involve the ocean and sand.

Apparently, being in a tropical locale makes her want to employ her limited Spanish vocabulary.

She knows how to enjoy a piece of bubblegum. I think she gets it from me, which might be one of the ten things I do that gets on P’s nerves.

I mean, if I actually did anything that gets on his nerves.

Which I don’t.

Except for when I do.

Y’all have a great Friday.
I went to Port Aransas and all you get is this lousy post

Here’s something that most of y’all didn’t know, we’ve actually been on a little vacation at the coast for the last few days. However, due to our new and improved heightened state of paranoia, I haven’t mentioned that we’ve been out of town and am only mentioning it now because, by the time most of you read this, we’ll be back at home and any attempts to burglarize our house and steal my jewelry collection, full of quality pieces some of which cost upwards of $5.99, will be useless.

Although one time, several years ago, an evil-doer stole these fabulous Mexican-style pottery urns complete with blooming flowers right off my front steps in broad daylight while I sat on my living room couch glued to an episode of Alias. They’re lucky I didn’t hear them because otherwise I would have been forced to put down my bag of M&M’s, jump off the couch, fling open the front door and yell, “Hey! You! Why are you stealing my urns? Why would you do that? That’s just mean.”

I’m sure my line of intense questioning would have caused them to second guess their urn-stealing ways and place the urns promptly back on my front steps.

We’ve been looking forward to our week at the beach all summer long, even though we knew it would mean the first day of school is right around the corner. But we have carpe diemed the heck out of the last four days.

One of my requests this year was for P to provide me with some sort of shelter on the beach because Ma-Maw is too old to expose my fragile, age-spotted skin to the sun for long periods at a time. I can’t undo the sins of my Hawaiian Tropic SPF 4 past, but I can try to learn from my mistakes and the brown spot under my eyebrow that no Oil of Olay can erase.

When we got to the beach the first day, I reminded him that I needed some sort of shade tarp. In my mind I had envisioned one of those cool tent-like things with maybe a Texas flag on the side and some comfortable chairs.

P went all Survivor Season 1 on me, pulled a few things out of his toolbox, and this is what I got.

I’m just going to say that it’s not easy to have the most redneck makeshift shelter on a Texas beach, but I think we managed quite nicely.

Of course, in all fairness, it served its purpose even though I was a little concerned that the rusted rebar stakes might cause the trip to end with someone needing a tetanus shot. And really, we fit right in because right down the beach from us was this fine structure.

From a distance I thought it was some kind of memorial and a memorial on the beach can never serve as the harbinger of good news. If this was a memorial to someone who was the victim of a shark attack, then I don’t know that I want to be within in a thirty mile radius. On closer inspection, it does not appear to a memorial, but rather a white trash totem pole. I’m not sure if you can clearly see that there are some leopard-print underwear hanging from the top but I assure you that they are there, right above the empty cans of Lone Star Light.

The rest of the trip was spent doing all the normal things we do in Port Aransas.

Taking a picture in the mouth of the large shark outside a souvenir shop.

Trying on kicky fedoras.

Feeding a pound of fresh, dead shrimp to a flock of seagulls.

(And I ran, I ran so far away.) (Did you go there? Because I did the minute I typed it.)

The fresh, dead shrimp cost a little more than the old, dead shrimp, but we feel that they’re worth the investment.

Catching baby sharks which caused me to promptly vacate the water because if there’s a baby then there’s a baby mama somewhere nearby.

Be free, little one. Let your mama know we treated you well.

We ate snowcones thanks to the ice cream man that drove right down the beach.

We ate lots of chips thanks to a mama who went grocery shopping with PMS.

And we watched P do his best version of Captain Ahab because he hooked a four foot shark that got away and spent the rest of the trip trying to catch his nemesis. I don’t have a picture of his quest because did I mention the shark hunt was taking place past the second sandbar, also known as where you become part of the food chain?

But I did get a picture of this.

There’s really no other explanation than that’s an apple that didn’t fall far from the tree.

And they make me so happy.