Listen…..I’m not going anywhere until I finish this final scene for the movie I’m making: “Die Hard: The Slow Way” (Sequel #6). At this point…Bruce Willis could just pick his teeth and I’m going to make money.
Okay….How is my hair?
Uh Oh! It’s those darn steps again.
Mommy! I told you I’m not ready yet.
Come on. You know you want to pick me up.
Just because you gave birth to me, doesn’t mean you’re done carrying me around.
It’s “The Mom” here. The surgical supplies are in for Justice.
We figured it would be cheaper to take care of it ourselves. Lucky kid gets to have a Flexible Laryngoscopy, Bilateral Myringotomy w/Tubes, Tonsillectomy and an Adenoidectomy after we get back from vacation at the end of this month.
I hope my Surgery For Dummies book comes in on time.
Mom is taking over today. I told you she would from time to time.. She said I needed to skedaddle, so I’ll do my best. “La, la, la….I’m not listening.
For those of you who follow or read me elsewhere, this will be old news. Sorry about that! For those of you who are hearing this for the first time……stay where you are.
My friend (Stirling Gardner) created a site: An Open Apology. Anyone is welcome to write and submit an apology letter, anonymously or not. It doesn’t matter who the recipient is, what you’re sorry for, or what tone you write in. It just matters that you mean it.
HERE IS MY SUBMISSION (apology to Justice):
Although these words will never meet your ears, I’m apologizing anyway. You are and will always be protected by what I felt that day, in that moment. After all, I’m a mother. I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect you.
Admitting something I’m deeply ashamed of isn’t easy. Even your father doesn’t know this. How could I tell him? He didn’t share my feeling. He didn’t share my fear. I didn’t want to look less in his eyes or risk losing a piece of his heart. But, this isn’t about him. It’s about you and me.
During my pregnancy, nothing was out of the ordinary. Although it had been eight years since your sister was born, it was like riding a bike. The only difference: I was deemed to be “high risk” because of my “advanced maternal age”. At 40, I was five-years deep into the label. I didn’t mind. I felt great.
Besides the standard “what sex is your baby” ultrasound, (I’m sorry my heart sank a bit when they told me you were a boy. Your sister has proven that raising one girl is more than I can handle.) I was advised to get a genetic one due to my ancientness.