The "P" Word

I have a new friend. She is new to this planet, having arrived here just last February. Her mom and I became friends a couple of years ago in a college class, and in my spare time I babysit. It's nice because it gives me some money apart from my regular job, and my new friend is the bee's knees.

She has super long eyelashes, but not much hair. She is a snuggler, and I love to snuggle. She is one of those babies that just kind of leans and cuddles in, and loves to be held. Her mom told me that she and the dad don't use the "P" word around her, but she hears it a lot when they go out. Pretty. I mean, I get it that they don't want her looks to define her. And she is more than just a pretty face. She is smart and funny and crawls both backward and forward and pulls herself up on things.

She seems to think that I am the bee's knees, too, because when she sees me she smiles and puts her arms out for me to pick her up. Yesterday she did that, and I took her and we were just sort of talking and I said, "So how ya doin', Princess?" I gasped and immediately looked at her mom. "Uh, another "P" word, huh?" Her mom smiled good naturedly and said, "Yeah, we try not to use that one either."

But the thing is, as soon as I said the "P" word, my friend broke out in the biggest smile ever and laughed. She knows she is a princess, and she likes it that I get that about her, her princessness, or princesshood. If anyone would understand, it would be me. I drive a pink car, for goodness' sake.

So I had a little talk with my friend and told her that we are more than our looks, that we are smart and funny and talented and kind and wonderful and strong, and the sky is the limit as to what we can accomplish. I asked her if she knew that Barack Obama (Can you say "Barack Obama"?) was re-elected President, and that he respects women and will work to make sure no one puts baby in a binder? She thought that was funny, that baby in a binder thing. So I said it a bunch of times really fast. Babyinabinderbabyinabinderbabyinabinder.

We can be anything we want to be. Scientists and professors and mechanics and well, maybe one day soon Hillary Clinton (Can you say "Hillary Clinton"?) will become the first woman President of the United States. It is wonderful to be a girl. It is the best thing ever, to be a girl in a world like the one we live in today.

Her mom had Sesame Street on, and I told my friend about PBS and how Big Bird and Elmo and Abby weren't going anywhere. Today's post has been brought to you by the letter "P," and it's for all the pretty princesses everywhere.

Susan

In A Bind

It's likely you heard Governor Romney's comment about having binders of qualified women when he was putting together his Massachusetts cabinet. It was the kind of remark that makes perfect material for those of us who would like to poke fun at the Governor.

Binders, otherwise known as notebooks, are still in use even though so much of our information today is digital. We keep files in our smart phones and in our computers, but occasionally we might have use for a binder. One of those three ring binders with the hole punched paper inside.

And while Governor Romney's comment was funny in a sad way, or sad in a funny way, some of us are not blameless when it comes to carrying around binders full of stuff. There is one binder in particular that puts us in a bind. That would be the one marked, "Something Bad Happened the Last Time I Did That."

We carry around this old, well worn binder, and open it when we come upon a new situation. It could be a romantic relationship, where we won't give a guy a chance because the last time we were involved with a man, it didn't go so well. So while on the one hand, we yearn for love, we find ourselves sitting home because of all the bad stuff so well documented in the binder.

We don't go for that new business venture, because as the papers in that binder will clearly show, the last time we stuck our neck out it almost got chopped off. And why start eating healthier, when the last time we attempted that, we just lapsed back into our old habits within a few weeks? And yes, we could jog or go to the gym or take a Zumba class, but the binder clearly documents our intense hatred for any kind of physical activity.

The older we get and the longer we live, the more we stuff papers into that binder until it will hardly close. We hate it because it reminds us of all our failures, yet we love it because it is an excuse not to try anything new. We could be living a fuller life, we could be on the road to finding the happiness and peace we crave, if we were not constantly referring to our binder marked, "Something Bad Happened the Last Time I Did That."

How about you? Do you carry around a binder? Has it got you in a bind?

Susan