Yesterday I went running.
When I came back. I stank.
I was a sweaty, hot, bloody mess.
I walked to my room, took off my shoes and socks and started to stretch.
In walks Phoebe.
Phoebe: Hi Mommy.
She leans over and gives me a kiss.
Phoebe: Oooh. *scrunches her face*. You stink.
Me: No, I don’t. As a matter a fact I brushed my teeth and I KNOW my breath doesn’t stink.
Phoebe: No. Not your mouth. Your other parts. . . . . .Everything else.
Me: Oh. Ok. You’re probably right.
24 hours later.
I’m typing on the computer.
Phoebe: How come? How Come? How come? Why? Why? Why?
Me: Because, because, because. Because. Because.
I pull her to me and wrap her in my arms, and I breathlessly whisper, “I love you.”
I shake her and ask her if she is okay.
She nods, smiles, and says “Its just that your breathe smells so good. I love it.”
And so I guess I’ll keep her.
She has redeemed herself.
All hail the nuts that keep it real.
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A week ago little Feebs celebrated her birthday.
4 years old now.
Keepin’ it real with the worst of them.
She told me she wanted a Dora or a Barbie Cake.
Invented this very fabulous filling that went on smoothly, was low and sugar and PACKED full of REAL strawberries. And I didn’t even have to make it. Just scooped it out of the jar.
Plopped it on the cake. Smoothed it out. . . . .
Iced it. Decorated it.
And brought that mug to Chuck E. Cheese.
And she REFUSED to eat it.
She claims she never asked for strawberry filling.
She just wanted ice cream.
To the moon, Phoebe.
TO THE MOON.