Magical Godmother Moments

We celebrated my godson's third birthday this past weekend. And we celebrated in style, with the whole Sesame Street gang. It was a day filled with laughter, presents, Elmo, and all the cuteness that comes with a child's party. 

As usual, there were plenty of moments that I tucked away into my heart for safekeeping: Ellie napping on my chest, Jacob's delight with his giant balloon bouquet, quiet conversation with Jenna over a cup of coffee. 

But there was one moment in particular that was so special, I'd like to share it with you today.

As usual, Brian and I arrived hours before the party so we could help Jenna set up. There were decorations to be hung, fruit and veggie trays to prepare, and games to organize. Naturally, all of those things were sprinkled with pauses for the tickle monster, singing songs, and kissing babies.

Jenna's mom (affectionately known as Gran) arrived shortly after we did to help with "kid wrangling." She bundled them up, tied their little shoes, and whisked them outside for playtime. The rest of us got busy setting up for the party.

At some point in the morning, Brian and Jenna were busy at work, moving furniture to make way for guests. I took my cup of coffee and joined Gran and the kids in the backyard, where my godchildren were happily swinging in the hammock. 

I stood with Gran, admiring their adorableness, commenting on the warm spring day. Suddenly, Jacob decided he wanted to get down. He reached out his arms to us, and together, we hauled him up and out of the hammock. Ellie was retrieved by Gran, and it looked like it might be time to find a new game to keep them occupied.

Just as I was about to head back into the house to make myself useful, Jacob walked over to me, put his arms around my leg and said, "Aunt Abby, I swing with you?"

He looked up at me with those big, beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes. And I simply melted. 

"You want me to swing you in the hammock?" I asked.

"NO, swing WITH me, Aunt Abby!" he said enthusiastically, and pointed at the hammock.

I had a brief panicked feeling. Will I be too big for the hammock? Will it break? But I didn't have time for my insecurities to keep me from enjoying the moment. I followed my godson as he tugged me toward his goal, his feet crunching in the leaves on the ground.

I steadied the hammock, sat back carefully, and helped him climb in beside me. "Are you ready?" I asked.

"Ready!" he said.

And so I lifted my feet, allowing the momentum to swing us forward.

I looked down at the child laying beside me, and my heart swelled at the sight of the smile on his face. He scooted over as close to me as he could get, snuggling up so that his head was on my arm. 

We got comfy and enjoyed the gentle swaying of the tree branches overhead. Sunlight warmed our faces, and the birds chirped us a sweet spring lullaby. 

I sighed with contentment, and caught Jacob peeking up at me from beneath his cap. "I could do this all day," I said to him quietly.

"I could do this all day," he parroted. 

And when his hand curled up over my heart, I pushed off with my feet again, and we laughed as the hammock lurched forward, higher than ever before.

Tweezers: Beauty Tool or Means of Torture?

A girl I admired in high school once told me I had really nice eyebrows.

It as one of those rare, odd compliments that has always stuck with me. Here I am, nearly 14 years later, and I still think of her when I examine my eyebrows in the mirror. 

Truthfully, I never plucked a single hair out of my brow-line for years. I was probably 27 or 28 before I even thought about it.

That thought was made possible thanks to a less-than-friendly manicurist at a local nail salon.

I'd gone in with a friend for a pedicure, and was looking forward to being pampered for that blissful thirty minutes. I was not, however, looking to be dissed by the guy who buffs my heels. He took one look at my face as I settled into the massage chair and said, "You want I do your eyebrows?"

Thinking I'd somehow communicated that I wanted 'the works' instead of just the pedicure that day, I answered, "No, just the toes today. Thanks."

He had the audacity to smirk at me, then said, "Ok, lady. But I do eyebrow for ten dolla'. Wax away those ugly hairs." Then he put his fingers over his eyes and waggled them at me.

I was shocked. I had perfect eyebrows! Didn't he know?? I wished I was still in touch with that girl from high school, so I could call her up on the phone and let her wax philosophical about my forehead hair with Mr. Manicure. 

That evening, I came home and studied myself in the mirror. Ok, so there was an errant hair here and there. And to my horror, there was a weird one growing out of the center of my forehead. 

But other than that, my eyebrows were normal. 

Weren't they?

I turned to Google for help and realized that at some point between 1999 and 2007, the natural eyebrow look had gone out of style in lieu of the perfectly sculpted eyebrow, complete with a nearly-architectural arch.

Well, my eyebrows had never had much arch to them at all. They were sort of...flat. Like someone took a ruler and drew a line of hair across my forehead, leaving just enough space between them so I didn't look like Bert sans Ernie.

I began to doubt my friend's kind words, and myself. I immediately went to the drug store, bought my first pair of tweezers, and set to work trying to remedy this hair-fashion problem.

Let me say that whoever devised plucking as a method for hair removal was a sick, sadistic freak. I don't care what anyone says---every single hair you pull out of your face hurts like holy hell. You never get used to it. 

I'm not sure what led me to the conclusion that pulling them all out at once would hurt less than one at a time, but my next move was to schedule an eyebrow waxing from my hair stylist, LeAnn. She is wonderful, and as gentle as can be...but it still hurts. A lot. 

But, with each waxing, I get that perfect, shaped, arched eyebrow that all the fashion magazines say is the number one accessory must-have.

Still, I can't help but miss the days when I didn't have to pluck at all. Mainly because ripping hair out of my face on a regular basis seems like a form of torture that should be reserved for terrorists and the mass murderer guy that Kevin Bacon is hunting on basic cable.

Either way, I'll continue paying LeAnn to wax my eyebrows every 8 weeks. And I'll keep yanking that one weird forehead hair out on my own (before I go see her, because WHO HAS A HAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR FOREHEAD?) 

Why?

Because I liked being the girl with the perfect eyebrows.

I Don't Want to Live On the Moon

When I was a child, life was in absolutes.


1) I was the most cherished child on the planet.
2) Summer evenings were slated for running through the sprinkler, helping Dad in the garden, cookouts, impromptu dance recitals, and catching lightning bugs.
3) Sesame Street came on once in the morning, again in the afternoon, and I never missed an episode. Ever.


I really didn't watch a ton of TV as a child. My days were spent living in my imagination. Books were read (and written), elaborate alter-egos were created and lived, and my Barbie dolls had lives straight out of All My Children.


But when it came to Sesame Street, I was avid. Mom didn't have to tell me twice that it was coming on. I was parked in front of our ginormous television, my little girl's brain at attention and ready to learn. I soaked up the alphabet, counting, sharing, even some Spanish.


I belly-laughed at the Martians:





I shouted for the fishies with Bert and Ernie:







And I danced the boog-a-loo to all the fantastic funk songs from the 70s:



(this would make an AWESOME ring tone!!! Must investigate....)


Sesame Street wasn't just a television show for me. I had such a vivid imagination as a child, I was totally submerged in every moment. I remember when Mr. Hooper died, and David took over the store. I remember entire songs, every single lyric, that I haven't heard since I was 5. I remember learning to count to 10 in Spanish with Maria, singing about the people in my neighborhood with Bob, understanding what it's like to feel green thanks to Kermit. 


I even had the albums. Mom and Dad would tuck me in after story time every night, kiss me on the forehead, and turn on my "Daydreamin' On a Rainy Day" album (David was always my favorite). I would fall asleep listening to him sing about Safaris, and the Circus, and the Rubber Band Band. 


There was one Sesame Street song, on one of my many cassette tapes, that always made me (and my Mom) cry. The so-sweet sentiment combined with the simple lyrics created Sesame Street perfection.





I have always said that when I become a mother, Sesame Street will be a must for my kids. I don't know what's on TV these days, but I am glad to know that the institution of my favorite childhood show is still in tact....just with a bit of a face lift.





Although, I have to say, I'll miss the funk songs the most.