Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Maybe she's born with it

A few weeks ago we spent an entire day with friends. It was not exactly planned, and turned out to be one of the more productive and fun weekends we've had in a while.

It started with a phone call. My friends husband needed to talk to mine. Which in and of itself does not sound like anything special, but it was out of the norm for him to call our house and speak to Fred directly. You see, the wives (me and my friend) are the ones who are friends. And when I say friends, I don't mean the neighbor you hit it off with when you first moved in, or the fellow PTA mom, not even your sorority sister from college. I'm talking about the friend you've known since you were 2 years old. The one who lived across the street your entire childhood. The friend you did everything with, your best friend in the entire world, until you had a horrible falling out in college. The friend who after 8 years of not talking, took the first step to reconciliation at your 10 year High School reunion. The friend with whom you now share a connection as if it never ended. With whom, much like the Phoenix, you have a friendship that was reborn from the ashes; foundation repaired, slightly renovated, and fully restored.

Wow! That crudely summed up 31 years in about 2 seconds. But you get the point. I've known this woman for a really long time. Practically my entire life. We are the friends, our husbands are just along for the ride. So to have them contacting each other, conspiring projects together, was an oddity.

As I sat there on the couch listening to one side of the conversation, pretending to be engrossed on the website on my computer screen, I became more and more curious. What in the world were they talking about? Something involving coming to our house and using Fred's welder. Will we be home tomorrow? The kids could play and the girls catch up. Before I knew it my Sunday morning was already planned for me and I only heard snippets of what that would entail. It turns out, my friends husband brews his own beer. This I already knew. However, he needed to make a new stand for his burner and wanted to borrow Fred's skills and welder in order to do it. Fred, of course, jumped at the chance to play with fire and help out a friend. As I watched him explain the design to me, I could see that familiar smile creep upon his lips. They were going to have way too much fun doing this.

Fast forward, it's Sunday morning, kids bummed there is no Grandma Sunday, but super stoked friends are coming over to play. As the boys disappear into the garage, our kids play restaurant and draw pictures while my friend and I discuss the latest in our lives. She offered to help her cousin with the programs for their upcoming wedding and she had no idea where to start. She was hoping I could help since I am such a creative, crafty guru. A few minutes later I am pulling up Pinterest and seriously getting into designing these programs. We all break for lunch, enjoying our traditional Sunday Potbelly sandwiches and shakes. The boys are done and now discussing how you brew beer. Next thing I know, it was agreed we would all head over to their house to brew beer on the newly created burner. So we clean up lunch, pack up our stuff, and hop in the car.

The kids never missed a beat, returning right to play as soon as we arrive. The boys quickly head off to brew the beer and I sit down at the computer. My friend and I deep in creative discussion about the wedding program. She never had to ask. I love to create! I could sit at a computer designing things in photoshop all day. I was happily in my element, working till it was done and dinner time arrived. As I said, we spent an entire day with friends. While we enjoyed our dinner in the dinning room, the kids quickly scarfed down theirs before returning to play. It was nice to have adult conversation and not be interrupted by screaming kids. It was then, mid bliss, that I realized it had been awhile since we heard any noise from the children. In my house, this usually means they are up to no good. As I mentioned this out loud, Fred went up to the bedrooms to check on them. He returned carrying Sophia, her arms and legs spread out as if she was terrified to let anyone touch them.

"She was on the top bunk," Fred explains. Our first reaction was, how did she even get up there? She knew she wasn't allowed on the top bunk because previously in the day it was discovered she could not get herself down and screaming for me to help her. Then we discovered that was not the worst of it. Fred shows her hands and feet to us. They are messily painted a dark blue. "I boot-iful," Sophie exclaims. That's when it hits us. The realization of what was going on upstairs. Why the silence. My friends face drops. "They were painting their nails on the top bunk? On the brand new comforter I just bought?!" Fred and I exchanged knowing looks. Someone's about to be in trouble.

Her husband returns from upstairs, comforter in hand, blue nail polish, clear as day, smack dab in the middle. I cringe. Then he places the small bottle of Bon Bons dark blue nail polish on the counter. I freeze. Eyes wide, fixated on the nail polish, wondering if anyone recognizes that bottle, because I do. It was one of the favors from Sophie's birthday party. Oh, snap! I'm the one in trouble. I felt so guilty having supplied the contraband that ruined a brand new comforter.

Sophie, however, spent the next 24 hours refusing to use her fingers afraid to mess up her pretty nails even though we assured they were dry. And over the next two weeks she kept showing off her nails and telling anyone and everyone she was beautiful. I admit she does look cute in the polish, and they were perfect for 4th of July. What we can't figure out is where does she get this love for all things girly? I'm talking makeup, nail polish, skirts and tutus, etc. I am not a real girly girl. I hardly every wear skirts or dresses. I haven't had a manicure or pedicure in over a year, and maybe once a year (Halloween) paint my own nails. I don't wear makeup, unless Fred and I have a date, or I'm attending a special occasion. Both of which rarely happen. Don't get me wrong, I like to dress up and look beautiful. It's just not a part of my daily life/routine. So we can't figure it out. We know she doesn't get it from me. The only thing we can think of is this; she is a girl, and girls are born with it.
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