Manufacturer's stamp

The "no meds" plan lasted all of two hours: she had a fever when I picked her up from daycare that day, started pulling on both ears by Saturday so we visited a doctor and were handed another cocktail of prescriptions, and came home early to avoid another sleepless night in Montpellier in our portapotty (but very friendly) hotel. Thankfully the 7th tooth came out and we may be in the clear now - until the 8th and 9th tooth and on it goes.

If I do therapy one day, instead of discussing dreams, I think I'll discuss the tunes I hum. I hum to the little one in the evenings to get her to fall asleep, and while it always starts inconspicuously as a random set of notes, it generally unconsciously evolves into a well known tune. Care to guess which has been recurrently hummed in this household recently? Anyone put their money on

"There's a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us" (West Side Story)?

My brain's got a pretty good sense of humour.

Recently the odds of life have been unkind to friends and family, with broken hearts and deaths. I accept the oppportunity to focus on something else besides my own little universe, and to be there for others. I don't know how to explain though while keeping the right perspective that although it is nothing as dramatic, I am feeling very vulnerable at the moment. But my thoughts are muddled so no more on this at this time.

Among my very greatest of friends is a particularly striking woman whose beauty has driven young boys and grown men silly. But this friend is suffering from poor body image at the present - convinced that she needs to lose many pounds. I know that our appreciation for our bodies is all internal-based and cannot be gathered from externally looking at us. There is little (no?) correlation between appearance and body confidence.
I look at a picture of the finish line of the Danskin triathlon, and all I can think of is "my thighs look fat, especially compared to my friend's".
Actually I thought I'd resolved all my issues with the birth of the little one - I was reconciled with my body now that I'd seen it function so beautifully and bring life.
But I was getting winter clothes out of their hideaway spot on Monday, and came upon a very old pair of jeans - bleached, too short, pretty ugly and with a tumultuous history. I rarely wear them except to paint, but they've been my reference pair. (I'm sure you've got one too - the one that tells you which size you are currently.) They were big on me. I should've rejoiced - yay, postpartum and extra room in my reference jeans. Instead I thought "oh I should wash them, they must've been stretched out over time", closely followed by "but I have no muscle, it's all fat right now; I need to start working out again".

I look at the little one's body. I take fake bites out of her Buddha belly, I massage her legs gently, I bury my nose in the folds of her neck. I even marvel at the preciousness of the tiny birthmark on top of her right foot - the one her pediatrician calls her "manufacturer's stamp". Her body is perfect. I only hope she'll know it too.