Public Humiliation

That’s a major overstatement, because I don’t get embarrassed. I just don’t. I could fart in front of our pastor and just laugh. I hope my monkey-girl gets my sense of humor and self. I hope she doesn’t get my thighs.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago, she and I took off for a few days and drove down to Maryland to see one of my childhood BFFs at her wedding reception. My kiddo danced for 3 1/2 solid hours. I am not kidding you.

She’s a maniac, MAAAAniac on the dance floor!

Pre-viewing notes: 1. Check out the guns on that girl at 0:09. 2. Pay attention to the cutie little girl in the background. Who's going to be the smooth cool girl and who's going to be the maniac class clown from this crew, hmmmm?

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So she’s out there dancing and I’m half-watching her and half-talking to the mother-of-the-bride and some other people I hadn’t seen in YEARS, when my beautiful little girl comes rushing up to me, pulls down the top of my dress and shoves a seashell INTO. MY. BRA.

And then runs away.

{blink, blink} um, did that just happen?

I look around for her, wondering where she went, and there she is, on the other side of the dance floor, squatting on the floor, both hands over her mouth, and giggling hysterically.

Yep, this one’s gonna be trouble.


The Bigger She Gets

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