Pull up a chair; I have more confessions to make. Many, many blogs' worth.
So I must tell you from behind the veil of blogdom: I lied in my daughters' baby books. Well, in the books of girls one through three. I didn't make a book for Laura yet. The first step to telling the truth could begin with her book. Or maybe not, depending on my good intentions versus the mommy guilt.
You see, our oldest daughter's first word was "danger." Could be on account of us saying it to her about ten thousand times a day from the moment she could first scoot toward a fireplace, rabid dog or television remote. "Danger!" To her it was exciting, and that excitement was evident in the breathy way her little 9-month-old self said it when confronted with the church staircase. "Danger! Quick, let me get to it before Mommy notices! She's pregnant... it should be hard for her to catch up." Heh heh heh.
Of course in the "first word" line of her baby book I wrote ... "Mama."
Hey! Don't judge me until you've chased a dangergirl who refuses to call you by name, you with another Mommy disser on the way who's only too ready to aid and abet the firstborn sassbucket.
I entered this state of mommyhood completely unprepared for the depth and breadth of the danger, and the sass, for that matter. As a child I was every parent's dream girl. (Did I mention my mom is technologically unable to go on the Internet to refute me? Hah! Let me revise history with abandon.) I was unfailingly respectful and downright terrified to get in trouble. I rode horses, but that was dressage, which everyone knows is never dangerous, for crying out loud. My tiny daughters race barrels, chase calves and bend poles all in an attempt to go faster than the 50-pound kid on the horse coming up next. I was a dancer with multiple broken toes, but I didn't laugh at the pain, as my daughters do. They do gymnastics, a sport famous for flipping athletes on their heads with only two inches of foam in between my babies' brains and the gym floor.
So far, my girls appear to own the "no fear" franchise. After bravely facing broken arms and worse, they do not inspire me. Not one bit.
Now, Madeleine's first word was "danger," and her sisters are following suit. Sarah's first word was "Dada" (I wrote "Mama" in the book, you know it), and while the EGE's no danger boy, it's his family genes that gave it to my girls. His sister is a river-rafting, bungee-jumping danger girl all grown up by virtue of now being a mommy herself. I can't wait until her son starts asking to snowboard. Heh heh.
Grace's first word was "baba." As in "bottle," which she pointed out in the possession of another baby. And then she demanded a "baba" of her own. Of course she was exclusively breastfed and had the precocious ability to drive me up the wall very early in her life. So in her case, the whole first word thing is dangerous to my mental health and mommy identity. Now that she's 4, and Gracie's baby book says (you guessed it) her first word was "Mama," she is unheathily obsessed with Laura's nursing schedule.
Maybe I should have told the truth. Would white-out redeem this situation?
Is there any way to turn back the danger (and for that matter, sass) clock? Experienced mommies, please reply.