Memoirs of A Girl I Knew

I'm sitting here trying to drink a cup of very strong coffee and get
through a whole section of the Sunday paper. It sounds like an easy
task, but I've just realized the house is very quiet- too quiet. Thirty
seconds ago I could hear my four-year-old little princess digging
through a trunk full of Barbie dolls. I didn't buy her these dolls,
mind you. Not that I'm one of those militant feminists who believes the
image of Barbie will forever warp my daughter's idea of what a woman
should be. My mother bought them, because I always played with them.
(If you consider shaving Barbie's head and giving her tattoos
"playing".) No, I'm not too concerned with her having so much plastic
surgery in the future that she will be rendered unable to stand up
straight. She runs around barefoot now, and I just can't picture her
clunking around in a pair of stilettos. I think there's a lot more to a
child's demise than a doll with blonde hair and impossible body
proportions. It's just&;#8230;it's just those breasts of hers. Every
now and then I'll catch Kaitlyn poking poor Barbie in the boob. Last
summer Kaitlyn wanted to know why she couldn't take off her shirt and
lay in the sun like the teenage boy next-door. I tried explaining that
it's not something girls should do. She just stood there, curly little
pigtails, floppy bunny rabbit under her arm, clearly confused by what I
was trying to relay to her. Finally, it all came down to Barbie. "Boys
don't have these and girls shouldn't show them around." I thumped
Barbie on the boob and shook my head. I think that's how I said it.
Yes, in fact, those were my exact words. Later, I realized she was
probably even more confused as to why she didn't have any of her own.
But that's another conversation saved for another day.
Ok, she's taking a nap under the coffee table, floppy bunny tightly
clutched beside her. If I put the kid on a pillow of clouds, she'd cry
and kick and throw the mother of all tantrums. But tell her to curl up
under the table and she's out like a light. Kneeling beside her, I
stroke her hair and gently pull her thumb out of her mouth- a habit I'm
trying to break her of. She has shaped my life, this kid. I was the
first one in my group of friends to have a baby. I was the first one to
get married, too. The day I told my best friend I was pregnant, she
looked at me as though I had pointed the barrel of a gun between her
eyes. We were seated in our favorite restaurant, enjoying a gourmet
specialty sandwich with lemon water. Well, she was enjoying it. I
couldn't enjoy it because I was trying to figure out how to let her
know that our lack of time together was about to be cut in half, maybe
more.
"Jenna&;#8230;we're having a baby." I thought for sure she hadn't
heard me. She calmly squeezed her lemon wedge over her glass of water,
than stirred it quite deliberately.
"Well&;#8230;congratulations?" Jenna let go of her spoon and watched
it slowly twirl around her water glass.
"Are you asking me if you should congratulate me?"
"Was it planned? Or was this a total shock?"
"No, it was planned. We were ready. As ready as two people can be, I
suppose."
"Oh. So, congratulations. It will be weird having a highchair next to
the table on our lunch outings."
"Are you happy for me? This is the most exciting event of my life and
you're just sitting there!" I was desperately seeking some sort of
reaction, be it good or bad. But no reaction at all from my best friend
of almost fifteen years&;#8230;it was almost as bad as dripping acid
on my skin.
"I'm happy for you&;#8230;if you are happy for you." She gave me her
infamous look- the one that says: Are you trying to prove this to me or
to yourself?

It's interesting how our interests evolve over time. It has always been
impractical for me to decide on a career and stick with it. It's not
that I'm unmotivated or don't have drive. There are so many things I
would enjoy doing, I don't know what to designate as my primary focus.
Is that so wrong? Lazy? No. Well-rounded? Hmph. I much prefer that to
being called lazy. Currently, I'm employed saving the world, or at
least that's what we like to say around the office. I work with
teenagers who have problems, mostly family-related. Most of them talk
trash and act tough, but underneath they are all little children who
had alcoholic mommies or absentee daddies and no one ever told them it
wasn't their fault. Of course, I also have the simmering pots, ready to
explode at any moment because they do realize their circumstances are
not their fault, and they're more than angry about it. Both categories
have a right to feel the way they do. I figure I give some of the best
advice in the joint, since I started out a wounded little child, turned
into a simmering pot, and eventually turned out all right, thanks to
God, parents who didn't kill me, and some other patient folks along the
way.

I see something streak by the living room window and I realize it is my
husband, Dave, sprinting across the backyard. From the way he's waving
his arms around, there is obviously a bee or some other stinging
creature chasing after him. He's not the bravest, but he's mine. He's a
bit older than I, by eight years. To me, it never seemed that much
older. My parents always made it sound like he would be arriving at our
wedding with a walker and an oxygen tank. He is a gentle soul. The only
time he ever yells is when his football team is losing or he has to
drive in snow. He's a big guy. I mean, really big. Finding a shirt with
his neck size is a challenge and-a-half. He has a beer gut, but he
drinks no beer. Basically, he's built like a linebacker. We met at a
party. It wasn't one of those wild, drunken orgy parties. This was a
Christian party at a Bible school, and we were surrounded by the
holiest of people. I was the only Christian smoker at the party, come
to think of it. I had to sneak out in the middle of the holy
festivities to light up in the parking lot. No matter how hard a smoker
tries to hide their addiction, it always falls short. So when I came
back in, everyone was staring at me and one guy even tattled on me to
Dave. Fortunately, Dave didn't think smoking would send me to Hell and
he continued dating me in spite of my random-yet-motivating nicotine
fits.

They say your feelings toward your spouse change through the years.
Hopefully, if you have a healthy relationship, your love only grows.
Otherwise, you fall out of love and start resenting each other. Our
love has grown, and I can't tell you how I thank God for that.
Butterflies still do back flips in my belly when I know we're going out
on a date, or my parents have agreed to take Kaitlyn for the weekend.
When I'm near him, I have to hold his hand. And kissing him is a sweet
thing. I'm not saying he never drives me crazy, because he does. But
it's easier to forgive such a beautiful man.