Things They Don't Tell A Girl

When I got pregnant with our first child, I thought it best to approach the new experience with a shout-out to my comfort zone: reading with all the geekiness I could muster. Yet in the pages of What to Expect, How To Raise Perfect Children, and Make Them Love You, I seem to have missed SCADS of information that is known by other moms but not disclosed for fear that the human race will stop its procreation on a dime and be stuck only with the people presently alive and running the country.

Things They Don’t Tell a Girl #1: Personal dignity leaves with the placenta.

Some might argue this occurs months before, and they’d have a good point. But what about all the years after the delivery days? Case in point: This Sunday, I’m singing in church. Our rehearsal was Tuesday night. Moments before I was to leave the house (CLICKING my heels, by the way, to be en route to a semi-social, adult event! Yee haw!), I took stock of my image in the mirror for the first time since that morning. I had hives. Something related to gardening and a culpable resin which led to red, itchy, swell-y things all over my neck, arms, and face. The hives weren’t the surprise that night. But when I touched one of the more conspicuous ones on my chin, it started to bleed like a stuck pig (sorry—Iowa image). UNCONTROLLABLY. Minutes before my departure for two hours in the real world.

I searched the house over for a Band-Aid that was age-appropriate. The Holy Grail would have been one of those little circle things, flesh colored, demure. I located Dora the Explorer, The Amazing Spider Man, Barbie….No flesh circle. So this is how I looked when I showed up to rehearse leading a congregation in undistracted, focused, Jesus-lovin’ worship:

 

Nice, right? Here’s a close-up, since I know you’re wanting to see more of the follicles on my chin:

 

 

I’ll have you know that my husband took these photos, but it took him awhile because he kept saying in response to my facial expressions, “Um, scary. Kim, that’s scary.” This is what ten years of marriage does to verbal communication.

So here’s to a hive-free week for you, wherever you are. May your chins be blemish and rash free and may your husband look lovingly on your face and pronounce you not the scariest but the fairest of them all.

 Spouse's Editorial Note: I used the word "scary" in its nicest meaning. We have a good marriage.

Author's Retort: Not sure how often the spouse will be allowed to edit.

Party Like It's 2009

Today I blog! ‘Tis the beginning of a new era, friends. I’m being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21^st century, a world of YouTube, Twitter, posts, widgets, gadgets, and blogs (I don’t officially know what three of those things mean).

If you’re game, listen in, join in, or butt in. I’m happy to see you here. But be forewarned: I’m the girl who had to be told for her latest manuscript that people don’t actually own answering machines anymore and that using the word “dork” would age my characters. AGE THEM. I didn’t mention that I’d acquired a fancy-shmancy newfangled bit o’ technology just LAST MONTH. It’s called CALLER I.D. and it has changed my life! You can see who’s calling and choose whether or not to answer! On a non-cellular phone!

Using the word “cellular” ages a writer.

Good to see you here, dear reader. Please come by again. You never know: today I blog, tomorrow I just might figure out how to set the clock on my VCR.