I am drowning in:
Bright, eye-sight-impairing, mountains of little girl attire that may or may not be 4 seasons past.
Of these clothes, my daughter is in LOVE with each, single, every itty bitty one of them.
These random shoes, that have no happy other half may, also, possibly, more than likely be about 19 sizes to small for my daughter’s adorable feet.
I am slightly terrified (read: very) to put them into the place that they surely (?) belong
What if she asks, “Momma, where is that small paper with the red, Van Gogh representation on the upper-right-hand-corner and the purple dot that represented the post-modern artistic movement on the back?
It was my most favorite thing in the entire world, except for you Momma.“ faint
(and…..) Stickers that are stuck in places no human could possibly reach nor should they go.
(HOW and WHEN did my girl put “Strawberry Shortcakes” on the underneath of the railing of her bed? Talent.)
(and….) Enough pretend food to feed any and all desperate and hungry baby dolls within a 100 square mile area of her room.
If there are leftovers, they could be sent to the dolls in China, Africa, South America, and the Arctic.
So, my friends….THIS is why I cannot hear you. All of the above..AND…
….because my precious, beloved, adored, and pernicious daughter is yelling into my right ear about what she just cannot part with while my inner-Andrea is yelling into my left ear saying, “Andrea, repeat after me, ‘You Are the Momma’, ‘You Are the Momma’”.
Before (shriek) and After (spa day please) pictures promised.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you “