The scene.
Evie is naked, per usual. What potty-training toddler isn’t? Plus I feel like her bedroom is a mile away now in the new house. It’s easier to let her go commando than walk upstairs to get her a pair of underwear.

So there’s Evie in her birthday suit. She’s also on my countertop, squatting down so her head doesn’t hit the light hanging above her. Gianna’s boyfriend is standing nearby, getting ready to feed Evie her 50th snack of the day. He is so good with her and she loves hanging out with him. Probably because he gives her gummy worms and soda all the time. Then apologizes to me like he had no clue that’s like giving her crack. But I like him anyways. Because despite giving her crack, he plays with her so well and that gives me time to get shit done.

I followed the girls around all night, watching them laugh, take photos, and stalk (so not casually) a group of young boys. We took a break after they lost the boys and grabbed some flatbreads. They scarfed down their food, handed me their iPhones, and ran off to the nearby rollercoaster line that promised them a 30-minute wait. I sat at the table, babysitting their devices, and finishing their pizza scraps.

Alone, with just me, some crust, and their electronic devices, I was hit with this thought:

I am the holder of phones now.

This morning, we left the house commando (just her). The potty came along just in case I needed a vessel for her to let loose in. Of course, the urge came…right in front of a glorious house.

I didn’t want to ask her to wait, so I parked the stroller and whipped out her potty right in front of their gate. These people were probably having a grand old laugh, sipping espressos on their patio facing the bayou, watching my toddler take a piss on their security camera.

Whatever. This is life. Enjoy the show! I closed the potty with a click and hung it back on the stroller, pleased with Evie and myself for a successful #1.

Not thinking, at the time, that it’s been a solid day since she’s gone #2 and she is normally a once-a-day pooer.

You know what comes next….

Selfie taken without being detected by the crowd, I pull up Facebook to post. I click on upload photo and pause as I see my face in the image I just captured.

Look at those wrinkles around my eyes.
Look at the lines around my mouth.

My finger pauses on the post button as I debate filtering the photo to remove the lines. But I can’t do that. Filtering my photo to remove my wrinkles would be fake. I made a vow to myself to not be fake on my blog. I might not share every detail of my life, but I’m not going to cover up anything real with something manufactured.

Standing there in the cold, the action on the field paused for a water break but I continue my own game in my head. There are two sides playing in my mind, kicking the idea of my wrinkles around. Do they really bother me? If they do, why don’t I do something about them? But when I start to consider fixing my face, I start to think about the other things I would rather fix first. I start picking apart the other pieces of me that also need adjusting.

I’m lying in the queen-sized bed of our short-term rental, nursing my 2-year-old daughter Evie before she lays down to nap. I haven’t weaned her yet. These nursing sessions before bed are not something she’s ready to give up and I’m not taking them away until she’s ready. Every child has their own path to growing up, after all.

She’s snuggled up on me, with her head full of blonde curls resting in the crook of my left arm – her favorite position. I look down and gently brush a stray collection of hair off her face. As the lay my arm back down on the bed, Evie makes eye contact with her one deep, blue eye. I see a bit of mischievousness twinkle in that left eye for just a moment. It’s not uncommon to see that spark in her; she’s a Gemini after all and always up to something.

As I look into her eye, her hand moves over and does the thing I’ve been hoping she wouldn’t do. My hope was pointless though since every day for months it’s been the same.

Evie takes her little hand, grabs my unoccupied boob, and gives it a hefty twist.

Yes. A twist. As I am laying here on the bed, trying to lovingly nurse my sweet angel child to sleep, this toddler decides to give her mother a tittie twister.

The first words I often hear in the morning come from my two-year-old daughter Evie. When she wakes up, she immediately demands to be let out from her bed by saying the word “mommy” repeatedly. It’s never a calm request. The way she says mommy changes in tone the longer I take to come get her. Her “mommy” starts off sounding like, “why aren’t you here already?” and escalates to “get the hell in here now you sloth of a woman and pick me up!”

She starts off saying mommy as an order for me to come get her. But it never fails that her next word she says when she first lays eyes on me is “boobie!”

Not morning. Not hi. Not good morning mother I love you and we are going to have a great day.

No.

She says boobie.

She says it like she’s ordering her breakfast…because she is.

Yes, I still nurse her.