If My Butt Were on Facebook, I'd Friend It

Grady got on our scale and watched as the digital zero ran across the screen.  The instant a real number showed up, he shouts, "I WIN!"  Me?...that stupid scale...when I step on it...it reads 'BUTT.'  And I'm not winning anything.

My butt and I, we've always battled.  I battle with lots of things.  Bedtimes, pop addictions, dirty fingernails, diapering squirmy kids, paci's, and whether I should have wine or beer.  Growing up and into my twenties,  I dreamed of skinny legs and a much, much, smaller rear view.  What I got was athletic legs and ample seating.  I aspired to find that perfect pair of jeans.  The ones that gently hugged my hips and hiney, but didn't gap at the waist.  No matter what I did, I'd turn around, and it was still following me.  My butt.  And it sure as hell wasn't getting any smaller.

These days, my butt and I, we're friends.  I use it to block the stroller from racing downhill while I'm readjusting my inline skates.  I fend Finn off from the kids' dropped candy.  I shut doors with it and sit on it to watch Lillian play soccer.  When the Jungle Book's, Bare Necessities plays on Pandora , Lil makes me crawl on all fours and bounce her around on it.  "Just like the bear does to the boy," she describes.

Kids love butts.  Lil and Grady like to show me theirs.  They want me to takes pictures of it.  They shove their butts in my face (and each others), sit on one another, and ask me to wipe it.  Dempsey's races aways when he's stolen the chocolate milk out of the hands of his brother or sister.

I've comes to terms with my butt.  We try to get along.  I dress it and sometimes it dresses me.  I put on a pair of pants. It says, 'I can't breath.'  I say, 'but you look cute.'  It says, 'I'm bustin' outta here.'  I say, 'I'm not going up a size.'  It says, 'size doesn't matter.'  I say, 'screw you.'

My butt.  It powers me up hills, pushing 75 pounds of stroller and kid, sometimes with one on my back.  It climbs the stairs, piggybacking one child, with another hanging down the front.  It moves Sean to the other side of the bed when I need more space.  Literally and figuratively.  It makes noise, but I can quiet it without it talking back.  It pushes a shovel full of snow in the winter and a wheelbarrow laden with mulch in the spring.  It's always behind me and always supportive.  It never leaves me. I can always depend on it to be there.

A great butt.  It's a terrible thing to waste.

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