Prediction: lots of friendly smiles in the cereal aisle.

I try to keep the negativity to a minimum on this blog and I definitely limit the amount I complain about specific people. I know writers who maintain anonymous blogs just to vent. I might explore this particular possibility for mental health reasons. I could write chapters and chapters. And chapters.

Crazy.
Here's something I hate that isn't aimed at one person. There are probably about five of you. Women I've met many times who fail to recognize me on a consistent basis.

It is mind-boggling.

How do you not remember me? I taught Sunday School with you. We spent an entire morning chatting about our lives, our one-time careers, your random birthplace, your current and not-that-interesting enterprises. Why do you look right past me in the cereal aisle? Private school and public school families can commingle. It happens all the time!

Or lady who I talked to at a party. I know some semi-personal details concerning your husband. How can you pass me, almost weekly, in town, at the post office, buying gas, and not say a friendly hello? It's basic social grace and you don't got it.

Or mom who's kid was in my kid's class for two years in a row. We sat next to each other at holiday celebrations, in very small chairs, sipping Dixie cups of apple juice.

I understand forgetfulness. Don't ask me what I had for lunch or what we did last weekend. (Please, don't ever ask me what I had for lunch last weekend!) Yesterday, I woke up with a headache. I wanted medicine, but I couldn't remember if I already took some. For the life of me. I had to wait it out. Ouch. And I mix up names more than I get them right.

So I understand. Sometimes I feel like my mind files are full. But, thankfully, common courtesy tends to prevail.

I do not take your absent expression personally. I accept that you compartmentalize and I am in the unimportant compartment. It's cozy there. You've packed a lot of us together.

And in case you're worried, I'm not seeking bestie status. I don't need you to like me. I'm not interested in side-by-side pedis. I don't want to carpool to the Lilly Pulitzer sale. I don't like Lilly Pulitzer all that much. There, I said it.

Just be polite. It's a goes-around, comes-around, karmic world. Smile. It can't hurt.

I'm probably not talking about you. But if you suspect you are this kind of person, stop it.


Cool.
Happy birthday, Bea! Today, you are two! Not to mention too cool, too cute, too silly and too fun.

We tried to have you for what seemed like an eternity but was actually four years. You didn't like all that stressful fussing. You sat up on your baby cloud in baby heaven and waited until we gave up. Then you decided it was time. Time for our family to get a Bea, which can be best described as a giant burst of everything sweet with a tiny side of trouble.

I'm not sappy. I don't get overly gushy with my children and their milestones. I wasn't like that with Lu and I'm even less like that with kid #3. 

I have a parent magazine that somehow arrives monthly in my mail. On the last page, they feature a reader-submitted photo with caption. This month's "winner" is a baby grabbing a piece of birthday cake and shoving it in her mouth. It's adorable, but the caption is ridiculous. I'm paraphrasing, but it says something about how the captured scene sums up her daughter's approach to life. Really? She's one. And you just put cake within her reach. Don't over-analyze! Her approach is "eat the cake!" Next it will be "poop the cake!"

Then it snowed, just a little, a few days ago. And I became a mushy mess. I led Bea to the window and pointed out the fat, wet flakes falling, swirling. Watching her watch the snow was totally emotional. I could sense, feel, see the circuitry firing in her little red head. Fine and beautiful. Smart and perfect. "Wait. I've seen this before. I think. And I've heard about it. It's snow. It's really snow. Right now." The sense of wonder was almost too much. 

Then it turned to rain and Bea went about coloring on more walls. Maybe the tiny side of trouble is more like an entree at a steak house. Thank God for the Magic Eraser. I know I've written about the Mr. Clean bottle I played with as a child. Well, our relationship continues. Those fantastic rectangles of space-age foam-ish material are ah-may-zing!

Bottom line is - I love Bea. We all do. She is constant entertainment. She is the light of our lives. And now she is two! Wish me luck.

No, you are not a loser. 
(Unless you consistently ignore me in the cereal aisle.) 
She is telling you she's two. Happy birthday, Beatrice Gail!