Why men refuse to understand the concept of a belt, I have no idea.  If you go to Target, you can probably buy a belt for less than the cost of a twelve pack.  If you can’t afford a belt, then I’m sure Home Depot sells some rope that’ll work just fine.  Creativity to save others from nausea seems a small price to pay, right?  Selflessness without a side of stench and vulgar, right?

Today, I did a lot of waiting.  Waiting alone with a good magazine, book or movie is one thing.  Waiting with a four-year-old for a service man to make their appearance is shear chaos.  No, we can’t run to the park to let off some steam for an hour.  No, we can’t run to the grocery store, so Babyface can ride on the back of the cart for an hour.

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Five years ago, if you had asked me whether I needed a cell phone to feel connected to the outside world, I would have said, “no f#^*ing way!”  If you had asked me whether I needed a cell phone to feel safe or when injured, I would have said, “I can walk to the local hospital or run to the nearest police station and, if not, I know how to hail a cab fast.”  I would have said, “If someone really wants to reach me, then they can call my home phone and leave a message.  If it’s not a medical emergency, then it’s not that important.”

Then, I had a kid and my cell phone became a necessity.  It became just as essential, as a sippy cup full of water on a day trip.  It became my own version of 911 for my daughter’s well being.

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I left my heart and soul in Oahu, Hawaii.  It’s been two days since our return and my mind is still on vacation.  My mind is still soaking up the sun and sipping on Mai Tais and Tropical Itches.

When I was packing a week and half ago, I felt the work just wouldn’t be worth it.  It had been 9 months since we had traveled for pleasure and I had forgotten how much the calm, stress-free relaxation could soothe my soul.  It has the power to erase the previous world around me, the minute the ocean is in sight.

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The other day, Babyface took a nice, big spill.  Her private parts landed on top of her foot.  This would never happen to me.  I’m envious of her flexibility, but who ever thought it could cause pain.  Sometimes, I wonder if her entire body is double jointed, she’s so flexible.

She never cries when she gets hurt, unless it’s really bad.  She often fakes a stomach ache to get what she wants, but isn’t a good enough actress to fake tears.  There’s some whining.  There’s some hugging.  But she gets to the real point fairly quickly.  Her patience is short, so I always know what she really wants in under a minute.  “I have a stomach ache.  Can I have some chocolate?”

My answer, now, is always, “well, I guess you’ll have to lay in bed and drink lots of water.”

This is always the instant, verbal remedy for her attempts at manipulation.  My dad would always say, “Mom, get out the Jivan Mixture.”

Jivan Mixture was this nasty medicine that my parents brought back with us after we visited India.  Think caster oil.  The stuff was so bad that it could induce vomiting just from the smell.  And, the stench was so strong that I could smell it from the next room.  It worked every time.  If I were trying to stay home from school, I’d have my clothes, shoes and backpack on, within minutes.

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Prior to giving birth to Babyface, ballet was never at the forefront of my mind.  It wasn’t even settled into the white matter somewhere.  I would pick a great rock concert, the opera or a musical over tutus and leotards any day.  In fact, the word “ballet” was synonymous with “snoozefest” for me.

The music was great, but the movement simply bored me.  That was until Babyface took a princess ballet class and instantly fell in love with it.  At first, I thought it was the gaudy tutu and end-of-class sticker that captured her heart.  Then, I signed her up for a real ballet class and realized, for her, it was so much more than that.  Our living room soon became a dance floor for her to show off her new moves.  We would watch them over and over again, offering the same praise and excitement each time, to the point where our eyelids grew heavy from the repetition.

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I like to separate my opinions about an actor’s professional prowess from their personal stupidity.  I’m afraid if I read the tabloids and let the information seep into my view of their performance; I would never see a movie again.

Tom Cruise is a great example of this.  He’s cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs on a personal level, but also a great actor.  If he jumped on a sofa in a movie, he might even gain an Oscar nod for his performance.  But, jumping on Oprah’s couch was like watching my 4-year-old slip into a sugar high on Halloween, running around the kitchen island screaming, “Trick or treat.  Trick or treat,” over and over again in different pitches.  His energy is exhausting and dumbfounding.  It’s fake and just for show.

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I am a pack rat.  I find it hard to throw things away, wondering whether I’ll need them in the future.  That old, half-used, work notebook will come in handy someday, right?  After all, there will be a day when I’ll need paper and it will be my savior, right?

That old, half-used bottle of straightening shampoo has a shelf life of forever, right?  Keeping my old laptop from six years ago will make sense someday, right?  What if we lose our back-up, hard drives and I need to re-download the pictures, right?  Those old, worn-out, platform sandals will come back in style someday, right?  Some wunderkind cobbler will fix them up, shiny and like new, right?

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Yes, it has been days since The Walking Dead season finale premiered.  Having a kid, DVR is my best friend.  I never watch anything the day it airs, anymore.  In fact, I’m just now starting on season one of Dexter, during my daily workout on the treadmill.  I need to combine my adult activities or they will cease to exist.

[Spoiler Alert]

Many people have questioned how Carl shot one of the Governor’s army in cold blood, after he had already surrendered.  Truth is, the Gov’s guy never put his rifle down.  Carl may have acted too hastily, but he’s a kid.  He is a product of his environment.  He has grown up without a mother and a father.  No one ever took the time to teach him right or wrong.  His dad has killed humans in front of him.

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I watched my four-year-old leave school today with her snack bag and a shattered heart.  Her preschool asked each child to bring in a flower, say something nice about one person in their life (parent, teacher, grandparent, friend or anyone else) and donate it to the group table.

Yesterday, when we picked out the flower, I was happy that Babyface had chosen her teacher, because I didn’t want her to make any of the other kids feel left out.  It was a great decision, I thought.  Unfortunately, in trying to avoid hurting other kids, Babyface ended up feeling left out.  By being thoughtful, she wasn’t thought of.

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I thought I had a few more years before the class “projects” consumed my afternoons.  I thought I had a few more years before I had to introduce my daughter to the world of Photoshop.  Apparently, these projects start in preschool.  At this rate, in a few years, they’ll start while babies are still in the womb.

The other day at pick-up. Babyface was smiling ear-to-ear, carrying a big bag.  She gave me a running hug and I almost toppled over, the contents, a medium-sized, stuffed elephant and a binder, flew out and landed on the ground.  “Oh no, Mommy!  Get Skipper!  He might need a Band-aid!” Babyface screamed.

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