Ramona

I never read as a kid.  Matter of fact, I HATED reading.  Even the standard "Little House" books, I didn't read until I was in my early teens.  So, I really had no idea about Ramona Quimby books.  Well, maybe a vague idea, but that was all.  When the Ramona and Beezus movie came out, the only remarkable thing I knew of the movie was that Selena Gomez was in it.  Still, when my 9 year old requested it as movie fodder while our oldest daughter was off being Lyndi Lauper on Saturday, I was willing to hit up Blockbuster to find it for her.

We ended up watching it at a friend's house, someone who WAS familiar with the books.  We discussed the movie a little and while it was OK, IMO, it wasn't great.  I explained that I like watching movies to be entertained.  I WANT the happy ending.  Oh, the ending was fine, but there wasn't that AH-HA moment with Beezus when she realized AND verbalized that Ramona was Ramona and EMBRACED her for who she was instead of who she wasn't.  That was what I wanted.  I wanted rainbows and unicorns (pooping Skittles...call me a romantic) and I didn't get it.  Still the movie was cute.

Fast forward to this morning.  My 9 year old was home from school yesterday.  She was up the night before with a bad stomach ache and woke up with it (yes...shades of Ferris Bueller without the licked palm) and ACTED sorta sick until around 4pm when all that suppressed energy bubbled forth and I KNEW she would be at school today.  Did she happen to mention to me while dancing/jumping/bouncing off the walls that she needed to write a speech she needed to give for her run at student council representative?  Uh...NO!  She waited until she had 30 minutes this morning, while eating breakfast (which is always an ordeal getting her to focus) to ask me for help...while she starts writing random things.  Like..."I promise to give all my clothes to those in need"...or "I promise to feed all the poor".  Not that those are not admirable intentions, but let's face it...it's STUDENT COUNCIL, not Secretary General of the UN.   And woe be unto me if I should dare to point her in a more appropriate direction.  Whining and tears and help me/don't help me ensued until I finally said ENOUGH.  We do NOTHING more until...1. breakfast is eaten  2. body is clothed and 3. teeth and hair are brushed.

Here is where I made my mistake.  Breakfast was done.  I called out to her to ask if she was dressed and she said yes (which you KNOW didn't include socks) so I said brush you teeth and hair and I'm going to jump in the shower.  I turn on the shower, stripped to nekkid (yes, you are excused from forming a picture of THAT in your mind's eye) only to turn and find myself in a "Ramona Moment".  My daughter stood in the bathroom doorway with a comb in her hair.  No...with a comb ROLLED UP and STUCK in her hair.  840am.  I need to be OUT THE DOOR at 850am, I need to quickly jump in the shower.  And now I have to attempt to unroll a comb stuck in the front quarter of my daughter's hair.  Then her dad called.  And I was short with him.  I was also still nekkid.   I gave him a briefing of what was happening and went back to the "decombification of Beanie".  

It was then I realized that my life with Beanie is like a Ramona movie.  EXACTLY like a Ramona movie.  There are no rainbows or unicorns pooping Skittles in my life either.  No happily ever afters, nothing is ever neatly tied up with a bow.  What I have...is messy, it's funny, it's frustrating, it's  aggravating,  it's adventurous...and it's important to me to EMBRACE my Ramona for who she is.

I'm trying.