I'm at a loss for a title

To Whom It May Concern:

You know who you are. But do you know what you're missing? Because what you're missing is a little boy who knows his alphabet. Every damn letter, even the "next time won't you sing with me?" part. You're missing a little boy who can count to 20. (Well, sometimes.)

You're missing out on the best thing in the world.

I've been told that he talks on the level of a 3-year-old, even though he's only 2. He talks fast, too. (Of course, you've met me, so that part shouldn't surprise you.) He can name every character in the movie Cars. He knows football better than I do. He's an avid Boise State fan. He can tell the difference between a Ford Focus and a Chevy Cavalier. (He didn't get that from me, either.)

You're missing bedtime stories and lullabies, and the chance to hear "That's a way good song, Mom!" You're missing milk and cookies for dinner, velcro shoes, and clip-on ties. You're missing bowling, and swimming, and more bowling. You haven't seen him set up a bowling alley in the family room with his stuffed animals as pins.

You missed the cutest Dalmatian puppy for Halloween. That night also happened to be the first time he peed in the toilet; you missed that, too. You missed two wonderful birthdays with horribly decorated cakes (so not my forte), and a third Christmas is about to be missed. He has asked every day for the past 10 days "Is it Christmas today?" Yeah, Christmas is gonna be a big deal this year. (You also missed the chance to hear him pronounce the word "truck" like the f-bomb...in church.)

You're missing the best smile, the best hugs, and the most amazing little kisses. Someday he won't be 2-and-a-half anymore, and I'll miss those things, too. But at least I'll have the memory of them.

I don't hate you; I've never hated you. But I thought you should know what exactly it is that you're missing.

Sincerely,
Me

PS: When you chose to miss out on all of the above, you also chose to miss out on me. And I think I'm pretty fabulous, too.

Happiness is a choice, love is a verb, and my hair is the color of Cherry Coke

Maybe it's because I spent my childhood obsessed with Anne of Green Gables. (The books. Not not not the movies.) But I've wanted red hair for as long as I can remember. So, one day in college I dyed my hair red. I was actually going for light brown and came out with dark red. That was the day I learned that my hair loves red, and any time I dye it anything with even a hint of red, my hair just goes crazy with it. Either way, though, I loved it. I went to my ballroom dance class the next day and got compliments from at least half the guys in the class. Win.

Then when I was 24, I dyed my hair red on purpose. Again, loved it.

And then something miraculous happened. After having my son, my naturally blonde hair got a little darker...but it also got a little redder. I had people complimenting me on my naturally "red" hair. It really wasn't all that red, still, but it was fun.

Two months ago I became a brunette. I was feeling a little impulsive and it just sorta happened. After I did it, I liked it, but I looked in the mirror and thought, "You know, I'd like a slightly redder brown. I'll have to do that when I touch it up." So now my hair is...is...I don't know what to call this! Obviously, this blog post needs a picture...but that's not going to happen right this moment. (I will upload a picture, though. Promise.)

And then it hit me. My hair is the color of Cherry Coke! You know...dark when you first look at it, surprisingly red when it hits the light.

Cherry Coke hair. You'd think that would be a negative thing, but I'm totally digging it.

Now for all that other stuff in the title...

Last year, when I was in a particularly dark place, my mom made the comment that perhaps the reason I was so desperate (because I was at that time) to find someone to love me was because I didn't love myself.

And she was right.

I firmly believe that love is a verb. And action word. To love is not to experience a pretty feeling, although that can be nice. To love is to be patient, kind, long suffering, and all those other things mentioned in the bible verses that I'm not going to look up right now. If I'm going to love anyone, including and especially myself, I can't sit around waiting for it to magically happen.

So I'm not going to. I'm going to take care of myself. I'm going to eat healthy and exercize...but I'm not going to deny myself the amazingness that is frozen pizza. I'm going to do more yoga. I'm going to hug Riley more. I'm going to not let myself neglect my spirituality. And somehow I'm going to do all of this while working 40 hours a week with a 30-minutes-or-more commute each way, taking care of a 2-year-old, and shopping for Christmas?

Eh, I'll figure it out.

You know, it doesn't make a lot of sense (or does it?), but changing my haircolor tend to bring out different pieces of my personality. Redheaded Amanda is going to be a zen Amanda.








PS: Gilbert, are you out there?