No More the Training Pants! It's time for big girl panties?

Squiggle Bug learned to use the potty a few months ago and she's pretty much a pro now. It's great, sudden hollering of "my poopoo coming! I go potty!" echo through out our little house on a regular basis followed shortly by "I did it!" and "Bye bye my poopoo! Bye bye my peepee!"

So with regular success of bye-bye peepee and bye-bye poopoo, it was time to get Squiggle Bug some new undergarments. Panties. Deciding to couple the Target shopping expedition with family time, we first went to see Toy Story 3. I've waited a long time for this movie and was more excited than the girls. Cute flick, we all enjoyed it including 2 year old Squiggle Bug. After crying through Toy Story 3, we headed with a grumpy, napless Squiggle Bug and the rest of the crew to go buy the new panties. Buying new panties is an exciting time. No more the training pants and stretched out undies from big sisters, it's time to pick out your very own panties! The general rule regarding trademarked characters on clothing in our home is lifted and any panties with any character are permitted. Even if they have no idea who Dora is.


I fully expected princesses or fairies. She doesn't know who the characters are really but she knows a princesses is anyone in a pretty outfit. She really likes princesses. We found our way to the baby section with toddler panties and found the smallest size. In a regrettable move I picked out some Tinker Bell and Friends panties and showed Squiggle Bug. One look and she was screaming no and hitting the package in my hands. Shocked but a little bit pleased I hung the offending package of panties back up. Not having learned our lesson, The Piano Man presented her with a set of the Micky Mouse Princesses and received the same reaction. Over and over she stomped around saying "I want MY panties!" Bewildered, we attempted to show her other potential selections, each received with a similar reaction.

I was determined to throw something in the cart, anything. Plain white panties weren't easy to find but I wasn't going home empty handed. Between the 5 of us there that had any hope of understanding what it was she wanted, none of us actually knew. Loitering in the toddler underwear aisle for a while was starting to feel awkward when I spotted a set of Toy Story undies. Thinking she would calm down upon recognizing the characters we just saw in the movie I showed Squiggles. It worked. She calmed down. Well, actually, she did an immediate 180, squealing and jumping up and down. Snatching the package out of my hands she squeaked "my Buzz! My Woody! My Panties!"


I looked at The Piano Man over our now enthusiastic 2 year old and tried to ignore the giggles and shocked whispers of her big sisters. He shrugged. "Boy underwear!" The Storyteller giggled uncontrollably.


And so it came to be that I bought my first package of little boy underwear. Reluctant to hand her package of undies over to the check out girl, Squiggles had to be comforted for the few seconds while it was scanned before gripping it tightly to her chest for the rest of the way to the van. As soon as we got home she wanted them on. Her favorite pair are the lime green ones with both Woody and Buzz on the butt. Modeling them for me, she got concerned when she couldn't find her new friends until twisting to look at her rear-end and then beamed up at me "There's my Woody! There's my Buzz!"


At 2 Squiggle Bug has figured out the secret I only learned a few years ago: boy undies are way more comfortable than girl panties. Screw the princesses, cowboys and spacemen rock for girls too.

Better than Bling

(Squiggle Bug babywears Raffie)

I wear my baby. And my toddler. I'm a babywearing mama. No matter my outfit, they match. The perfect accessory, they go with blue jeans, silk skirts, and t-shirts and vintage jackets. Better than bling, they boldly proclaim my status to the world: I AM A MOM!

(Smunchie- 4 weeks and Squiggle Bug- 2 years, on me, iPhone pic by The Storyteller)

Because people couldn't already tell I'm a mom. Ok, so I don't babywear to look cool or make sure my status as MOM is known. I'm pretty sure that could be made clear with the constant spit-up decoration on my shoulder, the massive diaper bag and the fact that I have 5 small people running around regularly calling me "Mommy!" apparently just so they can declare who I am to the entire world. Not because they actually have anything to say. Make it 4, Smunchie isn't talking yet. I can't even imagine what it will be like with one more, children have an amazing ability to increase volume exponentially.

(Lolie wears her new baby in a kid tai by Sweet Slings)

No, I wear my babies for other reasons than making a fashion statement. Though babywearing does kind of save me from having to worry about fashion, nobody can tell what I'm wearing when there is a super sweet jelly kid on my back or front. In fact, people almost don't notice me, just the tiny people that seemed to sprout extra long legs and a head. I put my babies in slings, wraps, Mei Tais, and soft structured carriers for far greater reasons than fashion. I didn't have a kid (or 5) so I could look cool, even though I do.

I wear them for convenience. I mean, gosh, I need my arms, I can't stand around holding a kid all day. Sheesh.

(Multi-tasking, building an art piece while wearing and nursing Smunchie)

Alright, that's actually true but that isn't the only reason any more. It started out that way, to be sure and I don't think there is anything wrong with that. I have times when I wrap a little one on me so I can actually get the dishes done, vacuum the carpet (mom, stop laughing, I do vacuum... sometimes), or have a phone conversation but I keep my babies tied to my body with strips of fabric so I can be close to them and they can be close to me. There was a time when I bought the idea that we needed to make our little people as independent as possible from the get-go but over time and over the course of my parenting experiences, I don't feel that way any more. I actually think it is a good thing if my baby is attached to me and I am attached to them.

(My view of Smunchie in the wrap, iPhone pic)

However, I don't call myself an Attachment Parent-er. Or whatever. I don't like labels. I have a a label phobia. I'm label-phobic. Oh crap, now I'm labeled again! Gah. Anyway, there are principles of Attachment Parenting I love, The Piano Man and I do a lot of them instinctively but still we don't consider ourselves AP. It probably really does just go back to the label thing. We choose to wear our babies because though we started doing it for convenience reasons we noticed a few things about babywearing. For starters, we just like having them close, it feels good to them and to us. The stroller started to seem like a pain in the rear compared to the sling. Our babies were way happier on us than anywhere else. The easiest way to sooth an upset baby that didn't need to nurse was to wrap her close to us. On cold days it was so cozy and we could know she was ok. We felt like we didn't miss anything, smiles, talking, observing, all of it was right there. When we started thinking about it, it just seemed more pleasant for our baby to be up close to us being able to see what was going on around them clearly. I noticed that I talk to my babies more, interact with them more when they are on me and yes, talk to, not at. And the big one was just the contact, it seemed like an easier transition to go from the womb, to being snuggled up in a wrap, to hanging out on mommy or daddy's back, and then exploring the world, knowing they can come back when they need to.

(The Piano Man wears Squiggle Bug on a bike ride in a Beco)

So we are big time babywearers now. There has been some concern about babywearing safety lately, this post isn't about that though but check out some of these hyperlinks. We don't use the types of carriers that were recently recalled, we prefer wraps, ring slings, soft structure carriers, and Mai Teis. If you are a babywearing mama or daddy, check out my friend Shanna's blog for ideas on how to respond to the inevitable "you know those things kills babies, right?" concern you'll get now. I'm not in a hurry for my babies to grow up and not need me any more, most parents aren't. Ok, sometimes I am but those come from a place of feeling overwhelmed and tired. But most of the time, I'm trying to savor the moments because I know they go by all too quickly. What better way to do that than to have my baby on me for as long as we can?

ETA: There is a babywearing safety workshop this Saturday for Houston families. Facebook event link and the vital info:
Sling Safety Workshop

Date	Saturday, April 10, 2010
Time:	12:30pm - 1:30pm
Location:	3701 West Alabama Street

Books, parenting and some rambling thoughts.

We just got back from the bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. They are awesome and I can loose myself for hours in them. Books are wonderful, opening doors to stories and places, lives you never would have imagined on your own. Ideas for cooking, crafting, creating, abound and in the leaves of a colorful book you may discover a passion for a hobby you didn't even know existed. Do-It-Yourself books, relationship advice, and spirituality titles boost confidence that we can do, be or become whatever we want. Every difficulty and challenge can be mastered if we're armed with the contents of the shelves in any given section. Need to know how to fix plumbing? Other than this book you'll just need a wrench! Going to build something? Get this book first. Want to understand your faith better? All laid out for you right here! In pursuit of happiness? Follow these 7 easy steps! Your husband an ass? Read this and have a new one by Friday! Your child is a handful? The answer is right here!

I get sucked in quickly. I start thinking I should get this book for cooking tips, this other one for knitting ideas, another one for home schooling, and yet another one for parenting. Today we were getting to spend gift certificates so I wasn't on a mission but because the girls needed help weighing their options (suddenly their gift cards seemed very small) I wasn't able to spend much time browsing myself. There was one book I was looking for that had been on my list for quite some time. When I had a moment I headed over to the parenting section and begin to browse. The book I was searching for wasn't on the shelf so I read through the titles to see if anything else caught my eye. It didn't take long for something else to jump out at me. The titles and blurbs on most of the books read as though children are problems. That if you just read this one book and follow their step by step instructions, you can turn your child into the perfect little mini-me you wanted. There were few books that seemed to focus on helping parents understand their child instead of telling parents how to change their children but in my eyes even those seemed to be lacking something. Something profound yet so simple. With the exception of special needs children, most of those books addressed what parents could naturally find in community with others, a community of parents and non-parents.


But more often when moms and dads get together and have the opportunity to share ideas and experiences, including the difficulties, it becomes a competition. Instead of finding support we often enter into a bizarre game of "my child is better/worse than yours, I have it better/harder than you." I think we miss the opportunity to actually support and learn from each other. Would we need so many books on parenting if we could realize that this parenting thing isn't a competition? That these books aren't manuals on how to win the parenting Olympics? Or that being the perfect parent is a myth? And that having the perfect child isn't possible? That what we're all really shooting for is to not screw them up too badly?

Want to hear a secret? No matter what it looks like at any given moment I know you don't have all your shit together and you know I don't have all my shit together.

Here's another secret: it isn't a competition and we don't have to go it alone.

What works for one family may not work for another but we don't need to go buying book after book to find answers. Books are great but they don't take the place of community. Being together with other parents, parents at all stages in their parenting, we can share so much more and not only save money but have true friends as well. Let's cut the crap people, we're all in the same boat and none of us have it figured out entirely. If we could silence the parenting games we may find that we have good instincts when it comes to rearing our children and when we feel at a loss, maybe there is a friend that can encourage us. It is possible, I really think it is.

Huggz Heal

I guest posted over here today. This was not an easy post to write for me personally and readers should know there could be triggers for abuse victims. In this particular post I talk about how even loving, devoted parents can slip into patterns of abuse with their children, in fact, I think often that is the case. The abusers rarely are the monsters we'd like to imagine them to be. The truth is, they are usually just like you and me. The danger of teachings by Michael Pearl and his wife Debbie Pearl is just that it is easy for parents seeking to raise their children "right" and to be godly people don't realize just how far it, how far they can go. My family was a part of ATI, then called ATIA or Advanced Training Institute (of America) and my parents really believed they were doing what was right. I believe that later their understanding changed. It is a slippery slope and the intentions are for the best. Unfortunately, that doesn't ensure that the outcome is.

To Grow Imaginations- part 1

A shoe zoomed by my head with a “swoosh” sound effect from my three year old. I looked up from my perch on the couch just in time to see the tiny homemade fairy with crazy yarn hair and a little stuffed giraffe fly by tucked into one of my daughter’s sneakers. The shoe was followed by a wooden toy boat loaded with more homemade fairies and various small wooden animal shapes bobbing along in the air supported by my 5 year old’s arm. Following the boat was yet another shoe, this one sparkly and red from last year’s Dorothy costume for Halloween with more fairies, tiny people and animals tucked inside with my 8 year old daughter providing sound effects. I paused in my reading to see if I could catch the tale being woven with flying shoes, boats, funny fairies, and wooden animals in the amazing minds of my three daughters. They called back and forth to each other with the voices of fantasy play about a magical land they had to reach before nightfall. Though it was early morning, nightfall was apparently coming quickly judging by the urgency with which they encouraged each other along. I couldn’t catch it all but their land of fantasy sounded truly fascinating.

Like most parents, we’ve experienced the fun of picking out just the right toys for our children for holidays and birthdays only to have our youngsters captivated by the wrapping paper and boxes over the gifts we selected for them. At first I was slightly hurt by their apparent lack of appreciation of all that I went through to find the perfect gift, hide it and then wrap it up for them. Actually, they did seem to appreciate that last part a bit but the toy itself was profoundly neglected in favor of the packaging they had ripped apart. Eventually my disappointment gave way to rationalizing their choice, they were so young and when everything was cleaned up they could see and play with the toy properly. Besides, when they got older their appreciation and anticipation of the gift inside the packaging would grow. I told myself that for quite sometime.

With three children close in age it didn’t take long for the toys to begin pilling up and still the boxes and wrapping paper were the best part. We began to assess the situation of trying to keep the toys caroled and I noticed that I was less than thrilled with them myself. Not just because they were regularly under foot and actually not played with that often but because most of them were an ugly nuisance. The colors seemed tacky, the beeps and whirls down right irritating, the music out of tune, and they seemed to rob my children of something that I couldn’t put my finger on. It didn’t help that there were just so many of them! I was overwhelmed with the shear amount of toys available, how to pick which one to play with at any given moment? Did they even matter any more? One thing was certain, the toys were in the way of our lives but I wasn’t sure how or why.

Exactly Like Me

Ophélia, age 11.

(I wrote this several years ago and haven't done anything with it. The story is true and the lesson I learned is one I'm still working on everyday.)

"Get that thing away from me!" I shrieked. My then 8 year old Ophélia giggled and backed up a bit.

“Isn’t he cool?” She asked with an awe-struck grin on her face.

“If you say so.” I said, barely hiding my disgust, not wanting to send her the wrong message. Oh the irony.

“Look at its beautiful thorax mommy!” Her enthusiasm was almost contagious, but only almost.

I dutifully examined the dragonfly she was holding admitting that the colors on its thorax were quite beautiful and the translucent wings stunning, if you like that sort of thing. Less than enthralled personally I forced myself to connect with my daughter by actively engaging with her object of interest. Gross though it may be. I couldn’t help but be surprised that she even knew the terminology, I only remember the terms from her many explanations and sharing passages from her books. Though as a family we strive to live gently and without violence in peace with nature, this whole fascination was completely beyond me.

There was a time when I dreamed about my little girl growing up and wanting to be just like me. I thought there could be no greater compliment than to have a child that thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I dreamed of this utopia for my daughter and I where we agreed on everything and saw eye to eye on each and every topic. Having a daughter would be so wonderful, she would be just like me! Secretly I worried that she wouldn't want to be anything like me and I wouldn’t know how to relate to this child of mine.

I hate bugs. For as long as I can remember I have loathed any kind of creature that could fall into the category of “bug.” Insect, arachnid, crustacean (though admittedly, I wasn’t opposed to eating some of those), worm, and others were all on my “EWWWW, gross!” list. Snakes weren’t too bad and I could tolerate lizards too as long as they weren’t touching me but if a flying creature that lacked feathers came near me, screaming would soon commence. I don’t really even like butterflies.

It wasn’t for lack of exposure as a child, I grew up in Florida after all. There are creepy crawly creatures there of impressive proportions and I encountered them quite often. The tropical climate of central Florida was a haven for beasties that wouldn’t survive in colder settings, many of them made their home around my home if not in it. My mother wasn’t a fan of these things either, working diligently to rid her lovely home of them and as far as I can remember my brother and sister didn’t exactly cheer the varmints on. However, nobody harbored the deep-seeded fear of bugs as much as I did. Perhaps it was this fact and it’s exploitation that perpetuated this fear into my adult life. My father didn’t seem to mind the presence of most bugs but he dutifully fulfilled his squashing, bug-riding duties when called upon by my mother. If I called him though he seemed to take a momentary delight in my frozen terror of whatever critter had crossed my path. My childhood is filled with memories of terror stricken bug encounters. One such memory happened on a rare evening of pleasant weather when my family was outside to enjoy a meal on our back porch. Apparently my family had learned my bug cries by this point as my shrieking reaction to spotting a large palmetto bug (AKA: American cockroach) on the wall was greeted with an exasperated “now what?” attitude. My mother came to soothe me, calling my dad over and I backed as far away from the wall as I could to watch the destruction of this intruder by my capable father. With one slight flick of my father’s wrist the details of the evening right down to the clothes I was wearing were forever embossed on my mind. Reaching to remove the bug that was a fairly safe distance from me my father casually rocketed the offender off the wall and right onto the chest of my royal blue velour sweatshirt. To this day there are no words for the fear that gripped me. The thing had seemed huge on the wall but now, looking down eye to eye with it I realized that it was in fact enormous. I screamed. It tried to fly away but to my further horror the prickly and sticky hairs on its legs that allowed it to crawl on the wall and ceiling caused it to be stuck in the velour. Antennae twitching, wings beating, the hideous thing began to move, towards my face. Yes, I was going to die. Though it seemed I jumped up and down in hysterics for an eternity in my 10-year-old mind, it couldn’t have been but a few seconds before my mother’s yells squelched my father’s laughter and I felt his large hand grab my shoulder and he plucked the roach off my chest. Nine years later I moved to Chicago where I heard bugs were of a more reasonable size and considered it a safe environment to begin a family.

I could be wrong, but perhaps memories like this one and others are at the root of my deep and abiding fear of bugs. I was never attracted to men that thought bugs and such were “cool” and I married a man that holds a strong dislike for bugs though he is capable of eliminating them so I wouldn’t have to if we encountered any in our life together. After our daughter began to walk my husband and I decided we would attempt to protect our daughter from our irrational fear of the creepy-crawlies and actually encouraged her interest in them. This wasn’t easy but we were certain that it must be healthier. Years later I question that decision.

The truth is, my daughter loves bugs. Living in Houston now, she has an endless supply of research opportunities within our own backyard and sometimes, even inside. A budding entomologist, her room is decorated with bugs: model ones she made, decorations from a bug themed party (where the party goers made bug boxes and took home live crickets), habitats for the critters, books, specimens and her drawings. One Halloween she dressed-up as an Entomologist and convinced her sisters to costume themselves as bugs. For birthdays and Christmas she asks for more bug paraphernalia without fail including live specimens to raise. She has raised and cared for worms, caterpillars, butterflies, moths, dragonflies, rolly-pollies, grasshoppers, praying mantids, ants and there would have been more if I had let her. As I write this there is a family of Walking Sticks crawling around a habitat in her room. I can’t understand how she is even able to sleep with the things in there but she is quite happy with her arrangement. I no longer hide my distaste for such critters and she handles it well. We are two different people after all and this fact doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She catches tadpoles and baby frogs, names the earthworms in our garden and compost pile, picks up the grubs or other yuckies for me when we are gardening, and rescues insects and spiders from certain doom if found inside. Because of her fascination with insects we have all had to become educated as to the possible dangerous ones to be sure she doesn’t handle those but I have no doubt that she will one day be begging me for a big hairy spider (not an insect, I know) to live in her room. I’m just grateful we’re not at that point yet.

This isn’t the only area where my daughter and I show our individuality but it is perhaps the most pronounced at the moment. Our preference in style of dress is distinct already, her culinary tastes reflect not only her age but also her separateness, and her athletic prowess comes from someone other than myself. We share enjoyment of several areas as well, reading, music, and growing things but there is no doubt that she is her own person. I hate bugs, she loves them. When she was tiny I imagined all the things I would teach her and the ways we would grow to spend time enjoying the same things and there are many ways that we do. I never imagined her tiny fingers being the ones to rescue me from a stare down with a bug that I was terrified of yet this is exactly what has happened. She laughs at my squeaks and yells about the bugs in our lives and I promise to hug her after saving me as long as she washed her hands first. At first I was disappointed that there were interests we didn’t really share and I was confused by her attention to subjects I couldn’t stand. In time however, I have learned to appreciate her diversity and invest myself in learning more about what piqued her curiosity. This mysterious child bears my resemblance and is involved in a host of subjects I find intriguing but at the same time she has established herself as a unique individual developing and refining her own personhood. When it comes to bugs, she has left me far behind and I couldn’t be more proud.

The poor dragonfly she showed me that day didn’t have long to live due to its severe injury but I encouraged her from a distance in her care for the creature. I admired the iridescent blues and greens on its back and examined its compound eyes through her magnifying glass. After it died, though I didn’t touch it, I helped her display her new specimen in her collection, he really is the perfect addition. Weeks later I’ve helped her care for the Walking Sticks and hugged her today when she discovered one of them dead. I don’t know what will be living in her room next but as long as it’s not poisonous or dangerous in any other way I will support her, though I may not go in there for a while. We may not see eye to eye on the bug thing but I’m grateful that she’s not exactly like me after all.

On the Inside

*sigh*

I've started numerous blog posts in the last few weeks but they don't get finished before I get pulled away for some reason or another. With 5 kids, one of which is a newborn, I shouldn't be too surprised. There goes one New Year's non-resolution. Oh wait, the post I had intended to share here on that was never finished or posted so none of my readers (that have probably stopped reading and have considered calling the police to check on me) will understand the reference, it's just in my head. Like soooooo many other things. At the moment I'm typing one-handed.

I'm posting to try and get my mojo back. If you're looking for something profound, this post will let you down. Mindless entertainment and time killer? Here you go.

Today, while bathing the two little ones (ages 2 years and 8 weeks, how did THAT happen?) I was interrupted by an 8 year old that thought my presence in resolving an issue with her younger sister was immediately required. The following conversation transpired.

L: (from outside the closed bathroom door) Mommy, come now, I need you!

Me: What's wrong?

L: (Hysterically) We need you!

Me: Is everything ok?

L: NO!

Me: Is someone hurt?

L: YES! (crying)

Me: Are they dying?

L: (disappointed) No.

Me: Are they breathing?

L: (quieter) Yes.

Me: Are they bleeding?

L: (Loudly and with tears) I'm bleeding on the inside! (sob)

Oh, she's good. She's really, really good.

Farewell baby, Hello toddler!

She has learned the word, the power word of toddlers the world over. No. It was official that she moved from baby to toddler when she started walking and denying it grew more difficult when she was running a week later. But still, somehow it didn't seem like she was really a toddler. Until two days ago. The moment was innocent enough, we were home from the day's activities and I had gotten Evangeline Claire out of the van, set her down to toddle up to the house as I grabbed the diaper bag and reminded the big girls what they were supposed to be doing which was not hitting each other with their bags and actually going to the house as well. In the midst of that particular chaos, Evangeline discovered a light on the inside of the van near the step and sliding side door. Captivated she alternated covering and uncovering the light, squealing with delight in how the light reappeared each time. It was cute. I joined in the game after issuing one last warning to the children still in the van giving Evangeline and me a sweet shared moment. We were giggling, me at her obvious delight in the light's little trick, her that the light was still there every time she moved her hand. And then, because I'm 31 and not almost 16 months, I tired of this activity (who has the attention issues I wonder) and invited her to hold my hand and walk to the house, pointing out the flowers blooming along the way. Evangeline looked at me sweetly pointing to the light and then ignored me by returning to the game. Visions of blood sucking insects filling our van, again I tried to redirect her, this time taking her hand and gently leading her away from the open door of the van. Concern and confusion crossed her sweet features and she grunted, pulling away from me. I talked happily, crossing to the pink flowers to entice her leave what I considered the mundane light. It didn't work. So I came back to her and told her it was time to go in now, there were too many mosquitoes out and let's go find a book in the house while again taking her hand and moving to close the door as I gently but firmly tried to lead her toward the walkway. Right then, after a little grunt and a look of frustration she discovered her stubborn tone and said "no." It was so final sounding, she really meant it. Suppressing a laugh I responded with "I know you want to stay but let's go find a book inside the house" while again leading her by the hand away from the van so I could safely slide the side door closed. With her hand in mine but resisting with everything she had she stomped her little feet in rapid succession yelling "no! no! no! no! no!" before collapsing in a heap of tears at my feet. No and a temper tantrum. Definitely a toddler now.

The squall didn't last long, soon she was standing against me, her arms clutching my neck as I kissed her cheeks and dried her little face. Speaking brightly I showed her the cheerful flowers again and she babbled crossing to them with interest, tears forgotten, she squatted to check them out then moved on to cross the threshold repeating "boo" over and over again on her way to pick out a favorite book to read together. As she played just minutes later, far too busy to sit still for a book I sighed at this new place we are entering together, me letting go of the baby, her discovering and exerting her will and the shaping of both child and parents that is sure to be a part of all of our growing up.

Eight

I don't remember being 8. There are a few fuzzy memories of when I was 5 or of kindergarten anyway: "M" day where we all had to bring something that started with "M" and there were marshmallows, M&M's, a kid with red dots all over his face for "measles." A crush on PJ or was it JP? David chasing me around the playground trying to get a kiss and the substitute that was kind of mean about quiet time. After that I have vague memories of events or playing but I could have been any age. I remember some birthdays (the ice cream cake with clowns and the chocolate chip themed one), vacations, school projects, etc. but just being 8 doesn't stand out to me.

Maybe this is why sometimes I look at Lavinia and wonder where this variety of person came from and how in the world can I relate to her.

Two weeks ago she turned 8 and being that she got a big party last year this year it was a small affair, just family. We let her pick out whatever she wanted to eat for the day and after her initial request of French Toast, Doughnuts, Kolaches, Cupcakes, ice cream, crepes and a whole lot of other sweets we amended the "whatever you want part" to be "one breakfast option, some kind of non-sweet lunch and dinner option and one celebration sweet" which left plenty of room for lots of junk she normally doesn't get to have. She pouted but settled on French Toast, Macaronni and Cheese with hot dogs (yuck!), cupcakes, and pizza. Hardly growing food but we conceded and she enjoyed her feast of grease and sugar. We gave her the gifts in a similarly simple fashion, she gushed over an American Girl doll from Grandma and Grandpa Martin (only complained once that it wasn't the one she asked for) and carried her around changing her outfits and hairstyle multiple times a day right off the bat, she giggled over arts and crafts supplies from Jeremy and I, she hugged a new outfit, shrugged at the $50 she could spend anywhere on anything (amended to exclude everything normally excluded when she asked "Even a Barbi!?"), and squeeled over the "Fairy Realm" series. The best gift of all though was 6 rolls of Scotch tape all her very own. She loves tape, steals it constantly sticking it everywhere from walls to paper sculptures to herself. Jeremy and I had been half joking for two years now that we should get her tape and we finally did. I never expected that she would be so delighted by this gift, made me wonder why we didn't give it to her years ago. Oh to be 8 when Scotch tape would trump $50.

Today we had a call from the director of the home school enrichment program the girls go to on Tuesdays, she asked us to see her when we came to pick up the girls, there was something she needed to discuss with us. Apparently, during Creative Writing the boy (we'll call him Bob) Lavinia had a crush on last month decided to write the boy (we'll call him Joe) that Lavinia has a crush on this month and so Bob, who Lavinia informed she no longer liked, told Joe that Lavinia now liked him. Joe handed the note to Lavinia who freaked out and wrote a note back to Joe denying the whole thing and telling him that she infact hated him. Horrified that she told the boy that she does actually like that she hates him, her heart got the better of her and in front of the entire class she stood up and declared that she lied and that she does in fact have a crush on Joe. Her pension for drama earned her, along with Bob and Joe, a trip to the Director's office and a phone call to mom and dad. I wasn't exactly sure what my reaction was supposed to be so I laughed. Hard. Really, really hard. In case your wondering, the director laughed too. For that matter, perhaps the entire class did since they all witness her rather loud proclamation of love to Joe. A long conversation with daddy about how she doesn't need to be announcing her love to anyone outside her family for at least another 12 years or so Lavinia seems unphased by the entire experience. When asked if she was embarressed at all that the entire class heard she said no because she knew it was important to tell Joe how she really felt. She's 8. We are in so much trouble.

Hello my name is Jessica and I'm addicted to... cloth diapers.

Ok, laugh. Laugh so hard your sides hurt and you snort. Or are you just thinking I'm crazy? It's possible you're not thinking anything at all since, well, I may be the only person reading this anyway. But you know you have your odd addiction too. Besides, I'm not the only one. There are entire online communities of CDing (Cloth Diapering) addicts. Yes, I belong to a couple and yes, we really do get online and chat about diapers and what goes in them. I'll let you ponder that for a moment.

My addiction started innocuously enough, it certainly wasn't intentional. In fact, I had thought my diapering days were over when, surprise! We got to give it a go again. I had encouraged friends that were having babies to go green, save the earth, do baby's bum a favor and forgo the disposible diapers in favor of cotton but me, well, it was too late. Cloth hadn't even been on the radar with my first three so I confessed the thousands of diapers I dumped in a landfill and moved on after a moment of silence. Until that line showed up on the stick I peed on. It wasn't long after that positive test result that I moved from "Oh my gosh, we're having another baby" to "Oh no! I have to cloth diaper it!" So between puking and IVs I reached for the computer and began my research. That's when I discovered the online communities dedicated to just cloth diapers! Crazy? Possibly. Fun, oh yeah! At first I had sticker shock but that faded after a little bit of math (hello, disposable diapers aren't CHEAP!) and I started thinking how cute and soft it would be. I became educated in the health benefits as well and considered that if we had used cloth with Lavinia and Helena perhaps our rash issues wouldn't have been such a battle. I'll never know of course but so far, Evangeline's bum has been much less red than her big sisters' rear ends ever were in their diapering days. Then I started picturing a cute little baby bottom swathed in soft fabrics with darling prints. Someone introduced me to the wonders of wool as a natural cover for cloth diapers and after puzzling over that one for a little bit I was completely hooked. Aside: yes, wool would seem like a hot option, after all we don't even own any wool for ourselves here in Houston but when someone asked me if I'd rather wear wool or a plastic bag and I got my hands on some amazingly soft, not itchy wool I saw their point. Back to my story. So I bought a few diapers. They came, we opened the packages and the girls and I oh'd and ah'd. I practiced on baby dolls and teddy bears and settled on prefolds (the kind my mom used but not the big flat ones that you have to fold, the ones that are, well, pre-folded) and some fitteds. We choose a combination of PUL and wool for covers but it wasn't long before we realized we liked wool the best. Yes folks, Evangeline really did wear wool all summer long and you know what? Not one rash. We LOVE our cloth. It's fun, cute, healthy, and good for the earth. There's all kind of info out there on cloth, I'll come back later with some of that but for now, I just wanted to share; I'm a cloth diapering addict. :)