A pink t-shirt

When I was a senior in High school and working at JC Penney, a change started coming over me. My favorite color had been red, then it morphed into Orange and now, it was morphing again.
There was a pink flowered T-shirt in the Jr department, right across the isle from the Misses sportswear department where I worked. The Jr's associate and I worked closely, covering one another's breaks, putting away teetering towers of clothes from the fitting rooms, that sort of thing. What this all means is; I walked by that pink t-shirt roughly two billion times a day, and every time I walked by, my love for pink grew until it unseated orange as my favorite color.
I bought that pink flowered t-shirt. I bought it and loved it in spite of the fact that it fit awkwardly. It was rather too short and the gradated floral motif hit me in just such a way as to bring more attention than I wanted to the boobular area. I loved it, but I hardly wore it.
I hung onto it for a long time, partly because of the love, and partly because I didn't know how to get rid of clothes. Pitching anything with the least amount of wearability was an unpardonable offense to my mind.
Six years after the t-shirt entered my wardrobe I learned how to let unworn clothes go. I put the pink shirt in the donate pile, but I still couldn't do it. I loved that pink floral too much. I snatched it out of that awful pile, and apologized to it's lovely pink softness. I didn't put it back in my closet though. I knew it didn't belong there, keeping it locked up, unworn, was a grievous crime and it was time I repented.
I took it to my sewing room. I snipped and sewed and soon, I had a lovely baby dress. A gradated pink floral baby dress ready and waiting to adorn my sweet young child.
Today was a great day. Today I opened the box of size six months baby girl clothes, pulled out the little pink dress, and put it on My New One.
She, of course, looks fab in it.

I meant to post photos of both my baby girls in the dress. Alas, the image of baby Zizza wearing the beloved item is missing. I know there exists such a photo, but find it , I cannot.
One day I'll find it and when I do, I'll post it. For now, we'll have to make due with a photo of one adorable baby girl wearing the legendary pink shirt-dress. The photo really doesn't do justice to either the baby or the dress, but I was in a hurry, sorry.
Enjoy.

 

Don't talk to me when I'm dealing with poop

Lunch has been eaten by all. The older two have adjourned to the back yard and the new one has grown tired of her chair.
I'm hoisting her out, one hand grasps under an arm while the other slides under the bum and finds slime. "Darn it," I'm thinking, "She must have spit a lot and it's dribbled into the bottom of her seat." I reposition her to get a look at the damage, leaning her against my body in the process.

It's poo.

Her poop has smelled particularly manure like lately, still I failed to notice she was slick with it until I'd smeared it all over my abdomen.
The stress in my voice didn't process with Zizza and Enzo when I admonished them to stay out side and play for a bit. They followed me up stairs and bore the brunt of my poo covered grumpiness.
I should have mentioned the poo to Zizza before I fled up the stairs. If she'd known, she would have understood.
I had a parenting triumph the other day when she came to talk to me as I was changing Enz. Once he saw what I was doing, she stopped her address and muttered under her breath "Don't talk to Mama when she's dealing with poop" What a valuable lesson for a young child to learn. I had to repeat that phrase about a bajillion times, (once or twice per poopy change since she's had younger siblings) but she finally got it!
Today, once she realized it was a poop situation I was dealing with, she decided to get a head start on her quiet time and headed off to her room.
Now, If only I can get Enz to understand as well I'll be all set.

C'mon and wake up!

Sleeping with a smile on her face...

Disturbed by my nosy picture taking...

Didn't take her long

to warm up.

The new one is feeling much better and in a delightful stage. She spends her free time on a blanket lined floor in happy baby pose, rolling from side to side on her back like an up turned turtle and admiring her own sweet toes.
Unlike most five month-olds who prefer to sit up in your arms showing off their hard won balance and muscle control, our New One leans right in and holds tight when you pick her up. She's supporting herself, she just likes to do it close and snugly with her arms as far around your neck as she can manage.
Hugs every time you lift her? This is an incredibly rewarding child to parent.
Still hoping we get to keep doing it.

The Deceptive Baby

Does this baby look to you like she has Bronchialitis (which may or may not be RSV)and a matched pair of ear infections?
No?
Well, that's probably because she was perfectly healthy when this photo was taken two months ago, but if you imagine her hair a little longer and her cheeks a little rounder, you will have an accurate image of what she looks like now.
She started coughing on Sunday. Wednesday she sounded better, coughing less, her sweet little coos had the sound of a returning voice. Wednesday night was rough, and I decided a Dr visit was in order.
Thursday morning I followed through with my decision and made her an appointment. She coughed maybe once between the time when I made the phone call and her in. I was expecting the "It's just a virus, go on home" speech.
Instead I got a nebulizer and antibiotics for those infected little ears of hers.
Lets review.
Baby looks like this;

She's coughing some, but she's happy, smiling, pleasant to be around, doesn't even have a runny nose.
Diagnosis?
Chock full of mucus, can only just breathe, and probably can't hear a word you say through all the infected goo in her ears.
How on earth are you supposed to know shes sick if she never gets grumpy?
Happy cooing babies are not supposed to require thrice daily breathing treatments and antibiotics!
I'm really not complaining. It's wonderful having a baby with such a gentle disposition, but if she would have at least cried a little, I might have realized she needed to go to the Dr. sooner in the week, she wouldn't have gotten so bad, and she could already be feeling much better.

A New Love

My boy loves crayons, and pencils and markers... you get the idea. I guess it's coloring that he loves, more than crayons.
His sister didn't get interested in coloring until she was closer to three. I wonder to myself what made the difference. Did he become interested earlier because he saw her coloring, or is he naturally more interested in that sort of thing?
Mix a love of writing implements with an energetic not quite two year old and what do you get? That's right, a mess.
We had the crayons out at kid level until just recently when his love really bloomed. I've been gathering crayons and tucking them away for the past few months. I thought I had them all but early this week he found one.
Generally if this occurs I either get him a piece of paper speedy quick before he finds his own medium, or thank him for finding it and put it away. This time though, it was a white crayon so I let him hold onto it.
And that is how Enz came to have a crayon as his constant companion.

He kept it tight in his fist as he pulled up plants in the garden (don't worry husband, it was just one small plant)

And later, when he sat down to rest for a spell his "eon" was there with him.


Zizza noticed the crayon for the first time today and tried and tried to pinch it for herself. She had a hard time understanding why I was defending his sole ownership of the crayon. Blankies she gets, crayon love is beyond her grasp.

4 months new

4 months ago today we thought our foster parenting days were over.
4 months ago today we got the phone call saying there was an hours old baby needing a home.
We didn't hesitate to say "yes" even in spite of the fact we'd decided to let our license expire at the year's end and count our lesson learned.
Now we have eleven pounds of four month old, giggling and cooing, wiggling on blankies and getting ready to roll around the house(she rolled once already, tummy to back, 3 days ago) Sometimes she holds her own bottle, and sometimes she falls asleep snuggling that hard plastic thing.
What a blessing to have her, how I pray to keep her.

Dashed dreams

We stopped in at a bike shop to inquire about the possibility of conveying three children under the power of a lone biking adult.
Last Christmastime, while walking through the mall I happened upon a bike shop, it's windows full of beautifully painted, basket laden beach cruisers.
I have no interest in biking long distances or through mountains and accordingly my interest in bikes died when the mighty driver's license entered my life.
When I saw those lovely bikes I remembered how great it was to pedal around the neighborhood, with or without a destination. I realized that I didn't have to bike for miles or over mountains to enjoy the freedom and joy of a bike.
And did I mention the bikes were lovely? I was previously unaware that there was such a thing as an attractive adult-sized bike.
From that day forth I have wished for a bike. A bike to ride to the park, to take Zizza to her dance class, to make my hair fly, and to admire.
This winter I was going to do it.
At the bike shop yesterday we learned that there is indeed a way for me to propel all three children along with me. As long as all of the children can sit and support their own heads. There is no way, not a way known to the bicycle man anyway,to bike with a two month old.
"I guess we won't be biking Sister to dance class" I mourned. DO you know what that Awful Bicycle Man did then? What he had the nerve to do after dashing my dreams?
"Whoa," said A.B.M. "Dance class at four? somebody's gonna be self conscious when she gets older"
Excuse me? Self conscious? Because she goes the the neighbors house to plie to various Disney soundtracks for an hour every Wednesday? Self Conscious because she's learning coordination and how to enjoy exercise and express herself through movement?
I still want a bike, and I'll still probably buy it at that shop when the New One grows some neck muscles, but I'm going to give that Awful Bicycle Man a dirty look if he's there when I do.

With the Bathwater

Slippery Baby
Boy on the counter
Sister tips the tub
Mama gets peed on
Twice

Beauty Parlor

You are never too young to look your best.

tragic trick-or-treats

Last night we got all dressed up and set out. We had a party to get to and the plan was to trick-or-treat our way there. So we did.
My Tiny Ghost was darn-near irresistible tripping up the walks with his little orange bag over his ghoulish wee arm.

Here's where the tragedy comes in. Maybe one in five houses had their lights on, of those, half were actually not home and just forgot to turn the light off when they left.
When we arrived at the party, rather earlier than we'd planned on, our children each had 4 pieces of candy.
It was a sad, sad, experience. Luckily our destination was worth achieving, with spooky decor, Halloween cartoons, a rockin' awesome cake and a Holiday Mr. Potato Head as the prize for best costume, which our own Jane Banks won.
She was so overcome with pride and satisfaction she cried when it was presented to her. (The tears could, possibly have resulted from being over-tired and over-suggared, but lets just stick with pride and satisfaction as the reasons, shall we?)
Here she is recovering from the surge of uncontrollable feelings that came with her win.

Jane spent her evening on the sofa watching the cartoons.

Tiny found the bowl of candy meant for trick-or-treaters and spent the remainder of his time carrying a pack of smarties and a tootsie pop back and forth between his parents, begging help to open them.
The parents, knowing that opening either candy would result in his further pillaging of the trick-or-treat bowl, refused him aid. So, back and forth he went. Sometimes, between parents he would stop and work on it himself. He never did get them open, eventually though, he traded the tootsie pop for a bag of skittles, which he also could not open.

Our New little butterfly spent her evening snuggling in laps. Sometimes with wings,

sometimes without.

The Mr. sacrificed a black T-shirt that this wee child could have a pair of black jammies with which to wear her wings. That's love folks.
In case you were wondering, I dressed up as a Gypsy in the costume I made a few years ago, and The Mr went as Alton Brown of Food Network fame. You can't see it in any of the photos, but he made himself a fork pointer like Alton's. Also, his dedication to accuracy resulted in the shaving of his goatee.
I'll make a Halloween lover out of him yet.

change of plans

I hate to admit I can't do it all. I mean I really hate it. Also, I hate to cry so this particular moment double sucks for me.
A new baby who has an average of three appointments to keep every week, an unwholesome addiction to books, a sprinkle of procrastination and now an unexpected trip leave me in the throes of agony over my ambitious Halloween plans.
The admitting part is especially painful when the accompanying sacrifice is so near my frivolous costume loving heart.
I'm saying my farewells to the Banks Family as though they are the dearest of friends leaving with no chance of return.
Baby Girl may still dress-up as Jane, we'll see what she says when I tell her about the change of plans. She's planned out her next 3 years of costumes in the course of this last week, so maybe she'll decide to go with one of those ideas instead.
Now, in an effort to stop feeling sorry for myself, I'll tell you the story of the last time I felt the way I do now.

I was a senior in High School. Three or four nights a week I worked, I was rehearsing twice a week for an Oratorio with my church. I don't remember what stage the School Play was in at that point. Maybe I was just auditioning but I think we were in the thick of production with after school rehearsals every day. I was also nominated for Homecoming queen and had been asked to the dance by means of a phone book decorated as a cake in which I could find no clues about the identity of the boy who was asking.
The nominees for Homecoming Queen were each asked to build a miniature castle. The judging of the castles would serve as the primary election for the position. The nominees for Homecoming king had to make a salad. Don't ask me how they came up with that but it's the truth.
Anyway, one day I was miraculously at home during the afternoon. Cassandra was at my house, we were lying on my marmie's bed. I'd been trying to find someone to take my shift at work so I could work on my fimo castle and leaf through my phone book in a search for clues. That's when the stress caught up with me and began to devour my soul.
It was fortunate that Cas was there and that she knew the identity of my would-be Homecoming escort. She took pity on me and told me who it was which quite noticeably lifted my burden. I think she might have gone in to work for me too, friends are great like that.
Sadly there's no one who can bail me out this time. I guess it's the whole "grown-up" thing.
Try as I might I can't leave the Homecoming castle story incomplete, so here's the rest.
I spent hours molding granite-colored fimo into an exquisite turreted castle with ivy climbing it's walls. It was one of the projects I've been most proud of.
On the day of the judging I had quite a full plate, as was customary for me. We were to drop off our castles around 3. They would be judged and when we returned that evening for the nominees dinner-thingy they would announce the winners.
I didn't have the time to run home and bring my castle back after school so I took it to school with me in the morning and stored it in the drama class room (the advantages of being a theatre geek and TA for the drama teacher)
Since I hadn't had to go get my castle after school, mine was the first delivered, and instead of being labeled with a numbered piece of masking tape like the subsequent castles were, a barely visible number 7 was scratched on the tray that held my creation.
That night I was shocked to hear that my castle hadn't been selected. I blame it on that awful invisible number seven.
The winning castles were displayed in the library for the week of homecoming. I couldn't walk past without feeling a little sick.
I've often wished I'd swallowed my bafflement at not being selected and asked the judges if it really was a mistake. I wouldn't have wanted them to tell the girl with the inferior castle about the mix-up, I really didn't mind not being a finalist, but I'll always wonder why my castle didn't win.
If it wasn't an accident caused by the faint number seven, the only other explanation I can come up with is that they thought I'd cheated.
I took my castle home to my Marmie and she put ghosties in the windows and used it as a Halloween decoration until a year or two ago when I got a timid text message from my little brother admitting that he'd accidentally smashed it.
I'll always wonder why I didn't win, but my castle had a good happy life being haunted atop the barrister bookcases every October.
Now this meandering post will come to a close. It's been incredibly soothing to sit here and type. I'm not nearly so sad as I was when I started out.
Winnifred Banks or not, I'll still have a happy Halloween.
Thanks for "listening" while I worked through my disappointment.

vanity

You want to know one of the really cool parts of having a weeks old baby that you did not bear yourself?
When you are approached by strangers admiring the wee babe and answer their inquiries about the child's age they invariably respond with a sincere "You look great!" That's always good to hear.
Of course the "great" is subjective to the fact that they think you're 3 weeks postpartum. The qualifications for looking "great" in that case are a lot lower than otherwise but I do my best to ignore that and take the "great" at full value.

Figuring

I haven't accomplished much the past few days. Not in a measurable sense anyway.
I've been busy figuring out my life and how it works with our new one.
I've figured out how to work on the computer with her.

But that's only one small thing. There's plenty left to figure.
I'm wondering if we'll get to keep her and figuring out whether that is what I really want. I recognize the blessing it would be to be given that choice. Still, I can't help but mourn the loss of my little family of four.
It sounds awful, I know.
As good as a new reality may be, isn't it ok to be sorry about the end of the old one?
Then again, maybe this isn't the end of my former reality. Maybe tomorrow I'll get a call saying they've found a place for this new one and I'll be back where I was 3 days ago.
I'm trying to let myself love her and still maintain a safety net for my heart.
I don't think that will work though.
If this is going to be a good experience for any of us I'm going to have to risk breaking my heart.
It hurts.

Look

We've got a new one at our house.