If Crying, Insert Burger

Another Sunday. It would be so very easy, and so very appropriate, and so very safe to wax poetic about the day's surplus of sunshine and smiles. About glittering green grass peppered with quaint picnics and happy people. But since the whole point of this blog is to inject some organic honesty into this artificially-sweetened world of ours, I am not going to dwell on these things. No, I am going to tell the truth.

I woke up sad.  Very sad. So sad that I deduced that I must of had a terribly sad dream. It didn't help that I was embraced by the aftermath of a baby shower - the nibbled chips and flat bottles of soda and lonely ribbons and 100 sad and deflated balloons dying slow deaths on my hardwood floors.  No, this probably didn't help.

But I wasn't going to just curl up on the couch and watch Diego and eat leftovers and succumb to the nebulous morning sadness. So the four of us headed out into the aforementioned glorious sunshine. And it was glorious. And I immediately felt better when I walked by the flea market and saw signs for jewelry made from street lamps, and wacky magnetic paper dolls, and my absolute favorite: functioning vintage toasters.  The sheer randomness of these items made me smile.

And then we headed to Turtle Pond where Baby took a quick snooze and Toddler found a stick she then used to try to reach Belvedere Castle and her honest efforts to make that stick reach over that pond to that castle made me smile again.

So the smiles were coming, softly but genuinely, and I thought: there is nothing, there is no emotional ailment, no Sunday sadness, that babies can't cure.  An empowering thought. Because I have babies. Two of them.

And as the morning faded and we headed home for naps, I saw Shake Shack, the wildly popular snack stop new to our neighborhood and I suggested we stop.  Now, this is unlike me. Because I am not a huge burger eater or shake sipper, but I figured a good dose of grease and calories couldn't hurt. And while we were on line, clinging tight to squirming girls, I saw this onesie. If crying, insert burger. And this made me smile.  Again.  And I looked at the sizes and pondered a purchase for Baby. Because you see it said very clearly in big fat font, Baby Onesies.  Not Mommy Onesies.  But I wanted one for me. If only they sold onesies in size 24-36 years.  If only it were this simple.  If crying. Insert burger. If only.

And as afternoon turned to night, we headed to my Mom's for dinner with the family. We chatted and laughed. And then I got a nice dose of honesty from select sisters. That black and white picture of me on the upper left of this blog? They're not a fan. Apparently, I look strange in that picture. Not like myself. Apparently, they've actually never seen me make that face.

And then I cried. And went into the other room, my childhood bedroom, and cried some more. And we all knew this wasn't about a few aired opinions and a goofy profile picture. But tears don't come with birth certificates, with explanations, with warnings.  They just come.

And then I wiped the tears away and ate dinner with my family. And felt okay.

And then I came home and put my darling girls to bed. And then I logged on and added that little caption to my less-than-flattering photo which I will probably change in the next few days because as much as I dream of being a thick-skinned superwoman, I am sensitive and vulnerable and not impervious to the odd stretch of sadness.  And then I wrote this. And it's not short and sweet and sunshiny like today was, but it is very much true. And I might not be a fan of burgers or shakes or that photo I loved until just a few hours ago, but I am a huge fan of truth. Oh, and babies.

Update: that goofy profile picture? It's no longer on the front page of ILI. But I loved it enough to keep it. It is now on the Contact page, so go check it out. And while you're at it, write me a note about how much you hate my picture (or love it, or love me) and I promise to respond!