Mostly figuratively. That last post was out of character (with lots of WORDS! and FEELINGS! ACK!), and I’m not quite sure what to write next.
We’re chugging right along with Little Sister’s food issues – cashews and broccoli are no-gos, but a bit of caffeine in a brownie or Excedrin seems ok… I’m starting to look into banking/donating some of the extra boob juice, hoping that this crazy elimination diet can help someone else too. (PS – if you know anything about this kind of banking, hit a girl up with some info!)
The Little Scientist has been all kinds of busy – we’ve made moon sand (8 cups of flour plus 1 cup of baby oil) to use some of the flour I’m not allowed to eat. The mess was… MOSTLY contained. Mostly.
He’s also decided that he wants to play football (OVER MY DEAD BODY, YOU HEAR?!?!?)
And Nerdgrandma sent us an activity box chock full of ocean activities to do during preschool time in the afternoons. Chock. Full. So we’re elbow deep in plastic frogs and fishies and turtles and my towels are getting quite the workout during activities :).
Oh, and Little Sister and I will be headed to Blogher ’13 this week – and I’m so excited I just might pee on the carpet. (Take that with a grain of salt. I did just have a baby.) We’re planning on meeting SO many people that right now only exist in my computer, and seeing some family that hasn’t met the baby yet. YAY!! (Send aaaaaall the good plane baby vibes. Please.)
I’m super-excited that some of the #iPPP gals will be in Chicago too – you should check out their blogs to see why!!
We’ve been together ten years and 7 months. I’ll be 33 soon. Our 6th wedding anniversary is in less than a month – two days after my birthday. He never forgets either.
We’re extraordinarily tall. I’m 6′, he’s got a good 5 inches on me. We love sports, but neither of us played. Which is why it’s funny that most people assume we met as ball players. For some reason that makes being interracial okay. I rarely disabuse people of that notion. It’s easier that way. Safer.
We have two children. Our son is almost 3 and looks so much like his father that milkman jokes take on a new level of irony. Our daughter isn’t even 7 weeks old yet. She’s nursing while I write this. Protected from sunshine, her hand at my breast is as pale as my own.
We’re comfortable – some might even say pushing the edge of wealth. Which is a point of pride because two or three generations back on both sides is poverty. Mine rural, his urban. Our grandparents and parents worked hard. So do we.
And tonight I’m so scared. For my husband, for the son that both resembles and idolizes him. For the conversations I will have to have with the child that my mom never had with my brothers. About how to be less threatening, less tall, less athletic, less urban in appearance. About how the world will demand he be less black. About how there is nothing wrong with him, but he will have to change because other people think there is.
They are my heart, they are outside my body, and tonight that heart is broken.