After my latest rant over the music selection at our hometown football game, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been introduced to Christian gangsta rap–if there is such a thing. I’ve been jamming out to the musical stylings of Lecrae and Tedashii and some dude called Pro. This stuff sounds so hardcore, that I’ve almost forgotten I’m just a white lady from Oklahoma who wears neutral-colored ballet flats and drives her kids around in a 4-door Saturn. Whatever. It doesn’t mean I can’t reminisce about my days slinging dope on the mean streets of Philly.
Okay, I never actually did that.
I love my town. I got to thinking today (shocker) and I realized that it’s been almost 7 whole years since my husband and I hauled our beach bum butts up to Oklahoma. 7 years. It’s only been recently that I’ve felt like calling this place home and meaning it, in every sense of the word. And maybe it’s just the gloriousness of Oklahoma fall season talking, but I love it here. I love the house, the neighborhood, the Main Street, the schools, the grocery stores, the gas station, the park, and our church. I love our friends and our church family. I might be singing a different tune in late March when my sister is texting me pictures from Pensacola Beach and I’m still up here wearing my winter coat in just-above-freezing temps.
I do love Oklahoma.
My kids are funny. Merrick cracks me up on a minute-to-minute basis these days. He’s so imaginative. Every morning we play “Dad and ‘Baby-girl’.” I’m the baby-girl and he’s my dad, and I’m constantly in trouble unless I hurt myself in a tragic, bloody way. Only then does he show me fatherly love by way of saying, “Aw. Poor baby girl.” I guess it doesn’t sound as hilarious as it actually is, but believe me–this is by far one of the most entertaining games I’ve ever played with my children. You really want to know how the kids view your parenting style? Switch roles and watch the hilarity ensue. Only maybe it’s not necessarily funny if your son tries to strangle you over every minor offense.
One thing that Merrick is loving lately, apparently, is bald-headed people. Yesterday, when Caleb was trimming his hair, Merrick wanted him to go ahead and shave it all off. “Why? Why do you want daddy to be bald?” Merrick: “Because I want you to be bald. I love balds.” And he kept saying that over and over–“I love balds.”
Finally we get him to tell us why he loves balds so much, and he explains: “Because Tarter’s dad and Tate’s dad and Taleb’s dad and Mr. Jeremy are bald.” Ah. So all his friends’ dads are doing it–our kid is feeling left out of the bald-headed-dad club or something. Curse you, dad, and your full head of hair!
Curse him indeed. He’s like 41 times hotter than me, and he only gets better-looking as the years go by. It’s just not even fair. That man will have hair until he dies at the age of 130. My hair is thinning as we speak. And graying too, probably. My husband is a stone-cold fox and I’m already starting to look like a leprosy-ridden anemic badger that was hit by a truck. Everyday I pray that he will gain weight or something–anything–that will make him look slightly less attractive, because I just cannot keep up with Mr. Good Looking Hairboy. Please God, throw me a bone here. I will love Caleb no matter what.
…Maybe Merrick and I can shave his head while he sleeps.