jesus doesn't love us

I started this blog when I was still in my thirties. I will be in my thirties for another hour. I know better at this age than to judge myself or anyone else on the basis of age, but well, call me shallow, say I'm missing the point, and I don't mean that you should ever really do that, but I am freaking out a little about turning forty. The mortality of it all.

I didn't so much freak when I was hitting thirty. Thirty-five smarted, but at thirty, I still thought I had a decent shot at turning into Madonna, or at least into Madonna Junior, back in the day. What a child I still was, but in an endearing way. Which reminds me of one of my recent self-improvement goals, to overcome my tendency to flagellate myself into a bruised pulp. So far my efforts bear fruit. I'm easing my internal dialogue into a kind of maternal tough love. I call it my inner bitch-warrior.

hummus

Mommy and Daddy had a rocky afternoon. I can't get enough me-time and Daddy doesn't get any. Kids are sensitive creatures. They pick up on tensions, even when they involve hurled frozen veggie-burgers (Daddy) and hurled angry curse words (Mommy). It was subtle, yes, but kids are receptive. Like little sponges.

holding forth

Stella turned three this week. Happy birthday Angel-cake. My daughter's age is finally catching up with her height and precocious manner. Now I won't get that smug thrill anymore when people ask how old she is and I say, "Two," and they can't get over it, because she seems older than her tender years. So I'm into showing off about my kids. Apparently. Meanwhile, Hamish refuses to eat anything pink, so he got an ice cream cone. Meanwhile again, I should have saved myself the time and few bucks for the cake mix and just served Stella a can of pink icing. Kids.

movin' on up

The other week or so I facebooked that Because I Love Her, the mother-daughter anthology I have an essay in, was in the self-help section at my local Borders and nowhere to be seen on the Mother's Day display.