Skip to main content

Cracks

A conversation between my 4 year old boy and my mother:

Grandma, why do you have those cracks on your face?

What cracks?

These cracks right here (he traces one with his finger).

Those are called wrinkles.

Do they hurt?

No, they don't hurt.

***********************************
I made an attempt at organizing my photos. I never really know what to do with them these days. Do I make them into prints? Do I make a CD with all of them? What will I do with a CD? Where can I store all of the albums?

The pictures evoked so many emotions from years past. The wonder and sheer exhaustion of new motherhood, the excitement of moving, the warm breeze at a park, the comfort of familiar. I also found that I could spot the times of my life when I was under extra stress.

I have a tendency to stop eating when I'm anxious. From the pictures, I surmised that I must have had about ten really good years.

Besides the weight loss, my face looks different. I found a picture of myself and my daughters at a particularly dreadful time of life. The woman in the picture was slender but, for perhaps the first time, there were noticeable lines on her face. Even though she is smiling, I can see the anxiety in her eyes. In fact, if I really look at the pictures, I can see in the face when she is struggling with stress.

Now I look at the lines in my face and I don't remember when I got them but I know that I paid dearly for each of them.

I think my mother was wrong. Cracks do hurt.

Comments

  1. When I'm stressed I eat. So all the photos where I'm fat are the bad years.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I just pretend that each "crack" represents a bit of wisdom I've picked up...each year, I get smarter!

    And they look better than being all facelifted, botoxed, collagened up - think Joan Rivers - now that face hurts.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Isn't it funny that we can look back on pictures and just by our own selves can tell how good/bad life was at the moment.

    I have a fat girl picture on my fridge as a reminder to never let myself get that unhappy again. To never let someone else control my emotions.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I adore you and all of your cracks.

    Yeah, I said it.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I notice that some of my cracks are from laughing and smiling, and I am not trading those in for anything...

    Great post!!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Most Dreaded Words

 Everybody knows that Christmas is about keeping the Santa Secret and pleasing your children. Therefore, the most dreaded words are uttered on Christmas Eve. "I changed my mind, I want a [pony, scooter, bike, Red Rider BB gun]" A close second place winner is, "Can I have a New Year's Eve party?" Then, "Me, too?"

Too Sick to be Sick

I am sick.  Really and truly sick.  I even took a sick day and felt no guilt whatsoever that maybe I wasn't sick enough to have a "sick day."  Because I am.  My 5 year old was sick, too so I took him to the doctor.  I refuse to acknowledge that I'm sick because I don't get sick.  So with absolute glee, my little boy climbed up onto the table, stuck out his tongue and conversed with the doctor.  I heard something about cloudy ears and antibiotics and then I just turned it off. It hurts when sound reaches my eardrums. We drove back home, I turned on the television, brought in the dog, and let the babysitting begin.  I crawled back into bed and swam somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness.  The kids came home from school.  I might have acknowledged them.  I made chicken noodle soup from scratch.  I couldn't even think.  My husband caught me in a sway and asked what he could do.  I grunted some terse instructi...

What We Eat

Check out the good looking crew.  Just to clarify.  I'm the pretty one. There's a little mountain resort in Northern Utah that is invaded every July by this group of people. We are an intimidating bunch. 5 years ago my brother brought his Nepalese bride to the United States.  She lived in a country where she had no expectation to ever drive a car.  She bought her food daily from the market and ate it.  She taught English, although her accent was so strong when she arrived I questioned her grasp of the language.  We tried to be friendly and accepting.  We ended up scaring the daylights out of her. She thought we were crazy.  Her words, not mine. Although I think she tolerated me a little better than the others because I had the brand new fair-haired baby that she continued to steal.  She wanted a blond haired, blue eyed baby and wondered what her chances were now that she married an American. We take turns cooking for the family dinners. ...