Inauguration

I have woefully attempted blogging before, with pitiful results. One was a cooking blog. I don't cook. One was a writing blog. I didn't write anything. One was a teaching blog. I teach, but I couldn't figure out how to share the trials and tribulations of my teaching day while keeping my students completely anonymous to the outside world.

So now I've decided to start a blog based on something that I do, and do well, and can't avoid even if I tried. I'm going to blog about raising my family. My husband, Rob, and I have two little darlings who have inherited my blonde hair (thus, "Blonde(x)3") but who have Rob's fiesty personality. Maybe the title of this blog is a misnomer ... maybe it should be called "Pistol(x)3." Only time will tell.

Sierra is our firstborn, and will be six very soon. She'll be the first to tell you she's almost six. She brushes her teeth well because she's almost six. She can run really fast because she's almost six. She believes that she'll turn into a princess when she turns six. She has princess everything in this house ... a princess castle (big enough for an afternoon nap), a princess play-tube, princess nightgowns, princess tiaras, princess shirts, princess sneakers, a princess backpack, a princess lunchbox, the list goes on. What happened to my tomboy? Oh yeah, she'll make her appearance later this afternoon when she begs Daddy to take her fishing at our shoreline. She will spear a worm onto a hook with the best of them. And she'll come home with toads in her princess pockets.

Jenna is our baby, who turned two in June. She's growing up fast, faster than her sister, because, well, her sister is showing her the ropes. She loves to jump. Off of things. High things. Like the back of the couch. And the dining room chairs. And the concrete steps on our back porch. My heart jumps right along with her. I'm thinking that Jenna will live her life eternally striving to catch up or exceed her big sister in life. I'm thinking that she wants to start by having the first broken bone. I'm wondering how to explain to a two-year-old that this is, in fact, not a goal to covet.

Of course, none of these adventures would be complete, would be even possible, without Rob, my husband of 11 years. He is the anchor to our family, bringing home the bacon (well, I do that too), caring for the girls (well, I do that too), and fixing things around the house (well, I ... broke that). He is a brunette, but obviously he has blonde in his veins because he passed it on to our girls. He would be the first to point out to you that he is living in a household of yellow-haired females, and ain't it amazing. So amazing, in fact, that he has made a solemn promise to me that when our girls reach puberty, he will unabashedly, unashamedly, and unhesitatingly support their journey through it ... from his man-cave in the barn. He will leave me to the vultures. Oh, he has an idea of what it's like to be around adolescent females (given his interest in them when he was an adolescent male), but he points out that only I know what it's like to BE an adolescent female. That was 20 years ago, but no matter. I will get the drama.

Not that our lives are devoid of drama now. Ever try to administer Omnicef to a earache-riddled, willful, vocally-demonstrative whirlwind of a two-year-old? Ever try to convince a headstrong six-year-old that yes, in fact, it IS appropriate to put on shorts under a minidress because, while her princess panties are just lovely, the checkout girl at the supermarket does not need to see them directly to acquiesce that point?

I close now with a visual icon of what I have discovered, in the last six years, is the only truth in parenthood, one "they" don't tell you about until it's too late, and you're in the throes of body-wracking contractions, and the pain you're feeling now is NOTHING compared to what's coming:



No, these are not my children. But they could be. And that's the point.