Friday, July 3, 2009

Big Girls Don't Cry... But Their Mamas Do

Beatrice, you are tough. Earlier this week I battled a splinter in my big toe. And by battled, I mean that I whimpered while your father dug it out with tweezers for what seemed like at least an hour. In reality, he tells me it lasted all of 3 minutes.

In my defense it conjured childhood memories of me and your auntie sliding on the hardwood floors in our house in Ecuador. I don't know how but we both ended up with footfuls of splinters and hours of painless splinter extractions. Why is that most of my childhood memories are traumatizing ones?

The other day I was clipping your fingernails and noticed a splinter in your finger. I started to panic envisioning the crying and squirming that would ensue as we tried to take it out. I called to your father and he brought in the tweezers, bracing himself for the episode. He gingerly squeezed your little fingertip, slowly applying more pressure, coaxing the splinter to the surface. I winced somehow telepathically feeling your pain. You sat their, eyes transfixed on your TV boyfriend, Arthur. You could have cared less. Your father squeezed harder and then brought out the big guns, the sharp and pointy tweezers. The whole process lasted at least 5 minutes, 2 minutes longer than my agonizing surgery earlier in the week. You toughed it out. I cried.

Let's see how you do during a 20 hour labor. But let's wait at least 25 years for that challenge. I am already having nightmares after watching too many episodes of 16 and Pregnant.

I love you, baby. Stay tough.

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