Recounting Pimento's Arrival

It was a surprise.

From the very beginning, we weren't sure what to expect.  We learned of her burgeoning presence just one day after landing in Wisconsin for Daddy's new job.  We had just purged our stash of baby stuff before the move, were living out of suitcases in a hotel, and had only begun to amass housing options.  

In those first weeks, the morning (yeah, right) sickness kept me bedridden on more days than I care to recall.  Nothing smelled right, everything gave me a headache, my mouth tasted like spare change, and I had no appetite for anything except saltines and ginger ale.  Once I got over the worst of it, I was constantly tired.  The heartburn was endless.  And then there was the fluttering.  It started around my second trimester, and from that point on, falling asleep at night was a struggle.  Flutter, flutter, little bird...

This was not how I remembered pregnancy.  

Granted, my last pregnancy was spent mainly on my feet, waiting tables at a TGI Friday's for tips that never seemed worth it.  I was in better shape, counted my calories, and walked three dogs twice a day.  I was also able to nap when I felt like it, without feeling like a neglectful mother.  

While I'm on the topic of napping, one could argue that my visceral need for sleep may have been the cause for Pimento's early arrival.  Let's all go back to that day after Halloween, November 1st, 2010...

I was completely wiped out from an evening of costumed hiking and begging for candy, enhanced by a lovely evening of visiting with my Uncle Al (The Kiddies' Pal), topped off by Peach's Monday morning gymnastics class.  Around 2 o'clock in the afternoon, I couldn't take any more.  With Peach having given up on afternoon naps unless properly coddled, I plied her with a snuggle and the verboten Mommy Milk, and we napped peacefully together.  Shortly after we awoke, my dear husband arrived home early, anticipating his 20-hour workday of covering the elections the next morning.  

It was a lovely autumn day, so I offered to take our two dogs for their afternoon walk.  Halfway through, we met a large lab-mix and his girl, playing in the leaf piles across the street.  Our little hairless mutt, Loki, must have looked suspicious because in a matter of seconds, the large dog had streaked across and was on him, and our Jack Russell (Lloyd, the "big brother") was a blur of defensive strikes on behalf of his best bud.  The neighbor girl ran after her dog, called him off, and took him home.  She was freaked, I was freaked, and my dogs were in shock, one of them bleeding from his bite-wounds.  I hurried them home, washed the bites, and Daddy rushed Loki to the nearest vet for assessment.  He was fine, we were told, the wounds were superficial and he had a nice protective layer of blubber in lieu of fur.  The girl's father paid for the vet bill, and I was able to settle my nerves.

By the time all the hubbub had subsided, it was nearly dinnertime.  I don't recall exactly when I noticed my stomach hardening, but once I noticed, I kept an eye on the clock.  This didn't feel like labor.  It couldn't possibly be labor.  I called the midwife, and she gave me two options: wait it out or come get checked out.  With Daddy's long day of election coverage looming, I figured it was better to get a professional "all clear" than have him worrying about me while at work.  I packed a bag for myself, told him to stay home with Peach, and drove myself to the hospital, thinking I would be home in an hour or so after they confirmed my suspicions of "false labor" or whatever this was.  

Around 8:30 pm, the midwife told me I was 5cm dilated, but some women had been known to stay at that point for up to a week, so it wasn't a conclusive indicator.  I should stay and walk around, and they would check my progress in an hour... At which point, I was 6cm dilated.  

"You're having a baby," the midwife said.  

No way.  She was two weeks early.  Incredulous, I insisted it didn't feel like labor.  I had no pain at all!

Regardless, all signs pointed to L&D,

I called home, and Daddy got Peach ready to go.  They moved me to a birthing suite with hardwood floors and soft lighting.  By the time my little family arrived with their bags, it was nearly 10:30.  

I had been walking the wings, waiting for my so-called labor to feel like the punch-in-the-gut I was expecting. After all, when Peach was born, I was awakened by the cramping contractions of impending motherhood.

We settled in, and I tuned into some Bossa Nova on Pandora (thanks to hubs' smart phone) while Daddy and Peach slept on the provided sleeper sofa.  The midwife checked me, hour after hour, and my progress eventually stalled at 7cm.  My water hadn't broken, I still had no pain.  Around 1 in the morning, she stripped my membranes to move things along, and that's when things really kicked into gear.  I kept walking the halls, but this time I had to stop periodically to lean on the wall as each contraction demanded my full attention.  

I found my way back to bed, waking Daddy to let him know we were close. Back in the bed, I lay on my side and clutched at the side rails, breathing through the contractions as Daddy fretted about my comfort and we inquired about the possibility of an epidural.  Thus far, I had remained drug-free, and I was told we were already too close to delivery for an epidural to be effective.  Okay, then.

When it was time to push, the pain was intense, but not unbearable.  My pleas for help likely convinced Daddy otherwise.  The pressure urged me onward, and then I felt a release as she slipped from me and into the world.  She was here.

Peach woke only to her sister's cries.  

Born 2:53 AM on November 2, 2010

It's Happening.

Pimento is starting to talk, gesticulate, and stand on her own.

Granted, the three "words" that I've understood so far (all today!) are variations on the "ee-ee" theme.  Kitty, doggy, and pretty.  I should probably count "mama" and "dada" too, since she says them frequently enough, though I've dismissed them both as baby babble for a while.

Her greeting gesture is an open-closed-open-closed fist, and it's the same motion for animals or people.  She mixes in waving, sometimes with both arms flailing together.  Flapping.  She is the Little Bird, after all.

I'm trying to be consistent about teaching her sign language for things like "eat", "more" and even "diaper change", while infrequently remembering to sign "drink", "light" and other notables.  She may have attempted to sign back, though it's a work in progress and I can't say for certain.

There can be no doubt, however, that her desire to communicate is strong.
"Ahhhhhhhhh!" she yells, "I have something to saaaaaay!"

The surprise of her standing on her own coincided with her desire for big sister's awesome new toy, a Lite Sprite.  This ingenius playset comes with a "magic wand" that uses an electronic sensor to collect color from anything, display it, and then transfer said color (from up to seven feet away!) to a little plastic fairy with LED lights inside.  Really cool stuff, and it gives Peach a huge thrill to have that kind of power.
 
Anyone who has ever encouraged their babe to crawl by placing an expensive electronic device just out of reach will be familiar with the sudden inspiration to achieve milestones when there's something verboten nearby.  And so, she let go of my fingers and reached eagerly with both hands, stable on her own and ignorant of the expected-but-missing support.

I have no doubt the colorful, flashing, light-up toy in question (which Peach is enamored with and not eager to share) will be all the motivation Pimento needs to start walking.  Which leads to running.    

Oh, God.

Culinations

Peach helped me whip up our first pumpkin pie of the season this afternoon, while Pimento supervised from her perch in the Baby Bjorn.

This was less than four hours ago, and the pie is already half gone.  I'll admit to doing the most damage, but I count pumpkin as a veggie, so it's practically health food... Right?

Inspired by our collaborative efforts, Peach invented her first original recipe.

"Whatever you make, you have to try," I sagely advised.
"No, you can just try it for me and tell me what it tastes like."

Eventually she conceded to trying it, as long as we did it at the same time.  And then the creation commenced.

She carefully mixed sugar, cinnamon, Reddi-Wip, and shredded cheddar and then lovingly pressed the mixture into a mini-muffin tin and handed it off for a round in the already-hot oven.  A few minutes later, they were brown and bubbly.

She dubbed them Daffodil Daisies. They tasted like Candied Cheese.

Little Pimento had a taste, too.  And was the only one who wanted more.

Milestones Apart

Little Pimento (we also regularly call her "The Bird") is piling on the milestones, and Peach will not be outdone.

 

The small one is about a week and a half into her crawling masters class, and has seemingly developed the ability to materialize across the room in mere seconds, pulling up on anything that she can get her hands on.

What's that noise?!  Oh, look at that, the baby is introducing the floor lamp to the TV.

Her little legs seem to be spring-loaded, instinctively refusing a seated position for the better option of being upright.  Now that she has crawling figured out, she's fixated on walking. 

Shaking things is nothing terribly new, but today she turned it up a notch and got busy with the maracas, cracking us all up and prompting Peach to imitate ("Look! I taught her that!") a full-body rock.  Her accompanying ape-like expression puts it over the top.  She also might be using her new move to facilitate a hello/goodbye wave.  We'll have to present more opportunities to practice those burgeoning communications.

Topping off all of this obsessive development, there seems to be a tooth-pocalypse going down in Pimento's mouth.  The drool hasn't stopped for four days, and I've got her popping teething tablets like an addict.  Upon inspection, it looks like there are no fewer than five teeth laying siege to her defenseless gums.  It's incredibly pathetic.  And it's turning my normally easy-going baby into a clingy, restless retread of her big sister.  

Speaking of whom, Peach is blowing us away with her grown-up-ness, spouting vocabulary and creative story-telling that instantly turns us to putty.  We want to encourage her without rushing her, mainly because her sudden language prowess serves as proof that she'll soon be too grown-up for the nightly snuggles, laps to sit on, and "hold me!"s she currently demands.

When Daddy was putting her to sleep last night, he facetiously asked if she would still want to come snuggle in our bed when she was married.  

She answered, "Only if my husband doesn't snuggle me." 

And she was quite serious.

Mobility: A Work In Progress

Little Pimento is stuck.
Not that she can't move herself around, because the rolling and scooching is surprisingly fast and effective when she wants to get across the living room to dump the dog's toy basket and chew on his (apparently) much better rubber toys.  But she wants to do SO! MUCH! MORE!

We schlepped up to the play area at the mall today to meet some friends for a little air-conditioned physical activity, and Pimento was not satisfied to be prone while her big sis jumped and clambered on everything in sight.  No, I was quickly drafted to play the role of body support while she drunkenly stomped around the padded floor, greeting everyone with a proud, open-mouthed grin.

Which is especially adorable with her three teeth-- the two prominent bottom incisors and one little bud of an incisor on her top left, thereby gaining another nickname from me: Fang.

I could handle my hunched-over walking-assistant duties for a few minutes at a time before lowering her to the floor for more crawling practice.  She's very good at push-ups and will roll to one side with a  provocative leg-extension and a come-hither gaze, usually followed by some bodily emission to remind you of why babies are not sexy.  Cute, yes.  Sexy, no.

Tonight, the mobility-quest continued with some visible hip-lifts as part of the push-ups.  She's trying so hard!  I know we're not far from full-on crawling, and I have to admit, I'm a little scared.  As much as I want her to learn something new, I'm in no rush to endlessly chase her from room to room.  Time to install the baby gates!

The Job Narrative

Below is the narrative requested as part of the application materials for a glorified board-op job in public radio.  One I'm more than qualified for, but I didn't have the also-"required" bachelor's degree to back up my experience and training, so I was cut from the prospective candidates early on.  Still, I thought this quasi-memoir was worth sharing, even if I am dismally under-educated.  Enjoy!

It was as if a lightbulb went on. 

Reading through the list of responsibilities, I became excited at the prospect of filling a void with my unique expertise and enthusiasm. Public radio holds a place of honor on my list of dream jobs. I cut my teeth on public radio, I have over five years of radio experience with a focus on news, and I've never been anything less than a positive team-player.

My first radio internship was at WKSU in Kent, Ohio. I knew little about audio editing and even less about the software used to do it (CoolEdit, in those days), but I learned quickly. I was charged with assembling a four-hour playlist of folk music and adding fades to the front and back of each song, utilizing a library of CDs and a series of quasi-compatible PCs and the accompanying software. It was solitary work, and a good lesson on technological flexibility.

Flash forward to my second internship, with a title as an assistant producer and call screener for a prominent Cleveland-area talk radio program, The Mike Trivisonno Show. Under the tutelage of master-producer Marty Allen, I was introduced to the fine art of weaving together a compelling broadcast, from guests and callers to the subtler, deft timing of each audio element. Live radio can get messy, but he taught me to keep it moving.

When I finally went out on my own, news was my comfort zone. At KGRN in Grinnell, Iowa, I became the one-woman news team, mini-disc recorder and elderly computer included. It was a short-lived experiment, and I learned more from my mistakes (long-winded newscasts about street paving and echoey audio from public meetings) than I could have imagined. Still, without that stepping stone, I wouldn't have found myself in Minneapolis at the Minnesota News Network.

Once I became part of a “real” news room, I discovered how little I knew. The news director, Stan Turner, was an old school news man who expected his reporters to do their jobs without nagging, though his coaching on the pacing and tone of my newscasts was invaluable. The broadcast format was brief, so the writing and sound clips had to be compelling and concise. MNN had over 70 affiliate stations statewide, a statistic which demanded we keep an open mind about our coverage and not become metro-centric. Peer editing quickly honed my skills, and I was motivated to contribute my best work for the benefit of the team. The software workhorses were CoolEdit/Adobe Audition, WireReady and Audio Vault-- two new programs, but I had to catch on fast or be left in the dust. Working strictly by phone and email, I was expected to churn out ten stories a day while maintaining my afternoon schedule of newscasts. I got such a rush the first time I hit the mark at the end of a syndicated broadcast, and I never tired of the challenge. MNN was a great bootcamp for me as a radio journalist, and choosing to move back to Cleveland and start a family was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made.

Back in Cleveland, I served as a part-time news anchor for Metro Networks' local hub. With the birth of our first baby just weeks away, my husband took a chance on a radio news opportunity with a cluster of stations in Brunswick, Georgia, and off we went. I started working as a board op for remote broadcasts on the country station, later adding a regular air shift and work on the A/C and rock stations, live appearances and other responsibilities. There was more new software to learn (Scott Systems, TLC), promos and commercials to record, as well as weekend programming to upload. Somewhere in there, I had a baby, and she started coming to work with me. Our coworkers became like family. There was some social dysfunction, but they made the Yankees feel welcome.

My husband's quest for advancement took us to a news/talk station in Pensacola, where I filled in with traffic reports and weekend shifts on a country station. More new software (archaic automation systems on the country station, their names a long lost memory), but I wouldn't be intimidated. Before long, we were trekking across Florida to Orlando, where the big news/talk station provided a bump in market size and pay for our family's main provider. I was mostly at home with our daughter, but there was plenty of fill-in work, especially with my background in news.

Once my husband was established with his afternoon shift, I often jumped in as an early-morning reporter or late-morning anchor, thrilled to be part of a news team again. Stories for the morning were typically either built from audio recorded on the street/in live interviews the day before, provided from the ABC affiliate website, the AP newswire, or gathered by phone. Once the on-air versions were ready, reporters wrote a separate version and posted it to the website. I studied with the veteran reporters and anchors, determined to become an asset. I learned what was expected and I delivered, crafting balanced newscasts with a variety of voices. A story was not complete without opposing viewpoints. I began to understand that information can become closer to entertainment when thoughtfully and artfully presented, and I strived for compelling storytelling, ultimately earning an AP award for my efforts. Near the end of my time with WDBO, I settled into some regular hours, confident in the leadership role granted to the anchor, charged with steering the action in the newsroom for optimal coverage of the day's top stories.

When a news director position was offered to my husband, he leapt at the chance to lead a newsroom, and we came to Madison. And discovered I was pregnant. With morning sickness sapping my motivation to job-hunt, I accepted an offer from my stepdad to help out with his burgeoning Fair Trade import/wholesale business and worked from home in my spare time. What was initially a low-key endeavor became a great lesson in time management, and I've become rather adept at maintaining contact with our customers by phone, via email, and through various social networking sites.

Now, here I am, ready to get back to work in radio and primed for the position as [producer] of [talk radio program]. Please, allow me to be everything you're looking for.

Ta Da!  

Maybe I can recycle this into cover-letter material for the next great gig that comes my way.  Until then, I'm going to love up on the girls and hubs and enjoy my current job title: Mama. 

Toothaches and Bossa Nova

Pimento is teething.  And there might be some gassiness in play, as well.  She's wakeful, napping not more than thirty minutes at a stretch during daylight, and outright fighting sleep at bedtime, finally drifting off in our arms, but twisting and flailing when horizontal.  We've dispensed the go-to remedies to combat the teething, wakefulness, and gas.  She's finally sleeping now, snuggled up with big sis in the biggest bed.

And I still can't sleep.
I have a raging toothache that spans the left half of my jaw, and no amount of home remedies or pain meds can dull it long enough for me to relax.  It could be some sort of teething sympathy pains, though the more likely cause is a remaining wisdom tooth shoving its way into a full mouth and leaving the well-established inhabitants little option but to jostle and bump each other out of the way, in slow-motion.  Which frigging hurts like a mother.  It makes me want to curse and kick and grab some pliers for a little G D relief!

It started throbbing earlier this week, so I called and made an appointment with my dentist.  Can I wait 'til next Thursday?  Sure!  It wasn't unbearable at that point.  Now Thursday looks like a distant mirage, my vision blurred by the pain.

When I was struggling to settle Pimento for the night, experimenting with putting her to sleep in a crib (which I was able to do once earlier, and lasted half as long as it took me to accomplish), Daddy had the clear-headed genius to bring me the radio, tuned to some mellow World Music.
As I rocked and soothed, the tunes went from flutes and guitars to blues and finally, my go-to good mood music, Bossa Nova.  A familiar melody.  All the tension of a restless baby, combined with a wrenched shoulder (oh, didn't I mention that?) and the throb of toothache, lifted away by chill Brazilian syncopations.

Now, with an anesthetic-soaked cotton ball stuffed in my cheek, I try to focus on that feeling, those oceanic rhythms and mellowness lifting me out of my aching body and onto a higher plane, where I can see the big picture.
Where baby teeth arrive and naps can resume.
Where bedtime doesn't take three hours of constant soothing. (Yes, I'll still miss it when she's all grown up.)
Where Thursday really isn't that far off.

(But it still can't come soon enough.)
 

The Car Accident

The girls and I were in a wreck today.

No one was injured.

But our '97 Subaru wagon won't be joining us on any more adventures.  Poor girl was hauled off on a flatbed truck to the junkyard.  Her sacrifice will not be forgotten.
Two other vehicles were involved, and both drove away from the scene while I stood in the midday sun, sweating along with my babes, waiting for and then watching Zack the tow truck operator load up our mangled chariot.

My first call was to 911.  Both girls were crying and Peach was complaining that her chest hurt.  During the course of the call, the crying and complaints subsided, but I wasn't confident in my judgement.  Send an ambulance, just in case.

My second call was to my husband.  We're all okay, the car looks bad, we'll figure something out.  I think I repeated the word "okay" in several contexts, probably trying to convince myself more than anyone that it could have been worse.  Apparently, my default operating system in a crisis is forced calm and optimism.  He called and sent messages every few minutes to check on us and offer guidance.  I'd never been in a car-totaling accident before, and he knew I was shell-shocked.

I've been repeating the split-second scenario of the moments before and during impact, trying to decipher exactly what happened and how, but I'm still completely baffled.  It simply should not have happened.
I had just retrieved Peach from preschool, and was planning to take both girls to visit Daddy at a nearby hospital where he was being treated for his chronic condition.  Peach was having a fit about wanting to choose the order of the afternoon's planned activities, and was emphatically arguing that the library should be the first stop.
We were moving, and then we weren't.  I noticed the brake lights in front of me, and reacted accordingly.  There's no way I didn't hit my brakes in time to avoid a collision.  We weren't even going fast enough for the airbags to deploy.  It's as if the brakes just didn't engage, despite full pressure from my panicked right foot.  And yet, the front end of our workhorse vehicle was fully smooshed, hood folded and lights crushed, fluids leaking and engine exposed.  Thank you, Japanese engineering, for making a smooshable car that keeps the passengers fully intact.
I want answers.  I want CSI-style skid-mark analysis.  I want to inspect the black box aboard my craft.

Instead, I get to enjoy my citation for "failure to yield" or some such legalese term for "dummy rear-ended a stopped car", as well as a four-year-old daughter who will never let me forget how much she "doesn't want to hit any cars this time" during subsequent travels.  She really wanted to ride in the ambulance that was sent.  I'm thankful that wasn't necessary.

Once the wreck was cleared away, the attending officer, Amy, kindly chauffeured us to the aforementioned hospital, where Daddy's station vehicle was available to receive both kiddos' car seats.  On the way to there, I learned that the blast-force A/C in a fully-equipped police cruiser does not adequately cool the back seat, as it is fully obstructed by a bullet-proof pane.  So, while thrilling for Peach, the ride in a police car was torture for hot little Pimento and is overall not an experience I'll choose to repeat.

We spent a few languorous hours with Daddy in his hospital room, soaking in his sanity and sating our nerves with Spongebob and single-serving snacks.  Peach didn't want to leave, but Pimento was struggling to cope with her combo teething/vaccination pain (Oh yes! Did I mention little P had her 6-month checkup and shots this morning, too?  It's truly been a joyous day.) and I needed to get in gear for the evening's impending bedtime routine.
Peach was apparently still expecting a stop at the library.  Sweet naivete.

It was a poorly-timed departure.  We pulled out of the hospital parking garage and into rush-hour traffic, compounded by construction and extra drivers, diverted to our route by a grass fire.  It took us the better part of an hour to make it home, which was less than five miles away.  Add an insect-induced anxiety attack from Peach and factor in non-functional A/C, and you'll understand why I was at the brink of tears for twenty minutes once we were home.  (I called hubs, and he talked me down, like I knew he would.  Thank Jeebus for that man.)

And now, a prayer.

Dear Universe,
Thank you for keeping my family from harm today.  I solemnly swear that I've learned whatever lesson you were trying to teach me.  Please let tomorrow be better.
Amen.

How do I know she's growing up?

Peach is four now.
Having had a recent birthday, there are nevertheless very few stark benchmarks that come with her new age.  As expected, most of her development has been gradual and therefore difficult to pinpoint.  Which is why I'm amazed to notice these pinpointable changes.

She rides a bike.
That is, she rode a brand new, lovingly team-Stein-assembled Disney Princess birthday bike (with training wheels! and a seat for a doll/stuffed animal! and a handlebar pouch for snacks!) several times on successive days, until she almost fell off one too many times while navigating the uneven turn from our driveway onto the front walk.  Now she wants to ride her tricycle again.  We might try again tomorrow, fully strapped with the knee and elbow pads that came with her 3rd birthday Disney Princess rollerskates.  That first day, when she jumped right on and took to it like a fish to water, Daddy and I co-marveled at how tiny she looked perched atop her shiny new ride.  A one-block trek was punctuated with multiple stops for snacks (from the princess pouch, of course), inspecting ants, and picking dandelions.

Her ponies are no longer just the factory-labeled characters.
They are free to be Mommy or Daddy, requesting help from the other to "get the water out of the trunk" [of the car], much like the real-life counterparts.  A "little sister" character is now common in her cast, too, usually being denied the use of a tiara or other personal item belonging to either Mommy or the big sister.

What really knocked me out, though, is the skill she flaunted today.
She can craft familiar animals from playdough.  She's been squeezing and rolling it proficiently for over a year, including some exploration with various plastic apparatuses and molds to make abstract and food-like shapes, but the independent combination of basic shapes to form animals (and even a fairly recognizable pink/purple Tinker Bell) blows me away.  True, she's basing her creations on the included illustrated instructions (from a Crayola Model Magic Pop-a-Dot kit with kangaroo/platypus options), but her ability to translate those flat images into a three-dimensional creation seems like a disproportionately advanced skill.  Maybe it's just Mommy pride.

Like the pride I feel every time she requests and eats a green salad.
I still haven't completely mastered that skill.

I am my own worst travel agent.

We're planning to leave for Cleveland tomorrow night to visit family over Easter weekend (mostly mine), and - as usual - I've left most of the preparations undone until the last minute.

If it weren't for my husband's gentle (understandably concerned) reminders, I would have left even more for myself to do in the final hours before departure.  

Just today, I called around to compare prices on fuel-efficient rental cars and make our reservation.  This was less than 36 hours before we were planning to pull out of our driveway in said rental car.  I modified our car insurance to cover collision and comprehensive payments on the rental car, with a low deductible, just in case.  Horror stories about burglaries prompted me to add renter's insurance to our duplex, too.  I just have to write down the serial numbers of our electronics and I can move on to cleaning and packing.  Tomorrow.

There's a ton of pressure on this visit to be totally awesome, for plenty of reasons: Peach is turning 4, Pimento is visiting Ohio for the first time, Loki (our family dog) is coming along to act as playmate to his dog-cousin Apollo, and Daddy will be joining us.  He hasn't been back to C-town since we moved to Brunswick, Georgia in 2007.  (He has his reasons, and they're all pretty good.)  On top of the excitement of seeing the fam, I'm stoked to meet my C-town bestie's youngling, born a few months before my own bitty.  How do we cram it all in while savoring each moment?  Gah!

The plans for where we should be and at what time are shaping up, though haven't been completely solidified.  Once we land at my mom's place, Saturday will probably be low-key for the most part, since hubs and I will likely be whooped from driving overnight.  Easter service at Dad's church is on the agenda for Sunday morning.  Then there's the big Easter dinner at Mom's, which may end up being a birthday thing for Peach, too.  And Monday is pretty loose, with two visits occurring sometime within the constructs of the daylight hours.  

As far as the route we're taking, I think we're relying mostly on wits, with some help - if necessary - from hubs' smartphone's GPS. Maps are passé. There are only so many interstates between Wisconsin and Cleveland, after all.

See?  My itinerary is water-tight.  Who needs help with travel plans?

Overall, I'm staying positive.  The drive will be swift, safe, and enjoyable.  The interactions with family will be nothing short of elating.  And we'll arrive home to a sweet-smelling home, pre-cleaned to minimize the stress of resuming the daily grind.  

Wish us luck!

Mystery Science Fever

Peach is sleeping hard after day three of the fever-that-shall-not-be-named.

Seriously, no one knows what to call it.

We know it responds to acetaminophen and ibuprofen, otherwise climbing to 105 degrees.
We know it's not particularly contagious, as neither Pimento nor Daddy have contracted it.  (I'm excluding myself because, not to jinx it or anything, I seem to have a fairly ironclad constitution.  My ancestors were nothing short of hardy stock, I imagine.)
We know it's not a stomach bug, ear infection, food poisoning, sinus infection, pneumonia or strep, three of which she's already battled over the past four months.

So, the doctor says, we have to "wait and see" if it resolves itself.
If it doesn't, then we'll test for other, more hidden infections.

A friend suggested it could be Roseola, also known as sixth disease, which resolves in a painless, full-body rash after about five days of high fever.  Not so bad, compared to some of the alternative explanations my worst-case-scenario machine is working up: Meningitis, blood infection, Encephalitis...  I'm getting a stomachache imagining the multitude of horrific possibilities.

I should mention that, every time Peach gets sick, Daddy's bedside manner easily trumps mine.  He's the stalwart soother, calm and reassuring through the worst symptoms, ready with the right meds at precisely the right moment to prevent a fever flare-up.  It was his precautionary sense that helped catch her pneumonia with a chest x-ray at the weekend clinic just two days after our regular pediatrician declared her lungs to be clear, despite a relentless cough.  And Peach is starting to catch on, insisting upon her Daddy's care and companionship to buoy her through this illness.  It is bittersweet for me, seeing my original "Mama's Girl" push me away, albeit in favor of the guy I'm so crazy about, too.  He's my favorite nurse by far.
...

Peach just woke up sweaty and panicked, clamoring for me to pick her up while whining something incoherent.  Once deposited on the couch with her new BFF, Daddy, she rebounded instantly, snuggling into his lap with a smile.  Her temp has dropped back to 97.3, her "normal", but is that because she's functioning on a dose each of acetaminophen and ibuprofen?

We'll have to "wait and see".

Grocery Store Heroines

My recent travels with the Peach and Pimento were tough, to be sure, but certainly the tougher task is to complete everyday chores with any sort of reliability.

This struck me on my way out of the grocery store as I, triumphantly pushing a cart of somewhat-cohesive ingredients and a sleeping baby, observed another mother loading her two kiddos under three into a cart, preparing to embark on her regular errand with nary a tinge of dread.  I found myself sending sympathetic vibes her way, praying for the cooperation of her children and a successful grocery trip for her.  I had timed my own grocerying to coincide with Peach's preschool hours, so I only had one little person with which to contend.  

Everyone (figuratively) patted me on the back for flying solo with my girls.
But I got loads of help and one of them slept most of the way.
I can attest that I've been brought closer to the brink of tears by a wayward family shopping trip (on more than one occasion), something so mundane it rarely, if ever, gets recognition as a difficult undertaking.  Which it is.  How I'm ever able to bring home more than "princess soup," graham crackers, and Dora popsicles is a small miracle.

Here's to the all the grocery store heroines, making motherhood look so easy we only get one holiday. (I'm looking at you, Mom!)

As Blanche DuBois said...

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

I'll admit, the first time I heard that line, it was from Marge Simpson in the Springfieldian musical "Streetcar".

Nevertheless, I nearly uttered that very phrase with all the affectations of a southern belle while recounting my recent flights with two small children in tow.

Daddy stayed home while his three girls jetted off for a week in the sun (and, realistically, rain), visiting friends and family in Florida.  No particular occasion for said visit.  Just had to go see my good friend who happens to have two (sometimes three) little people of her own, and her 5-year-old gets along famously with my Peach.  We hadn't seen them since moving to Wisconsin last March, so a visit was in order.  And Daddy's little brother, Uncle Toddy, still lives down here. We'll introduce our new Pimento to him, as well.

Our day started with a 3:15am wake-up call so (ever-heroic, steadfast) Daddy could drive us the 90 minutes to Milwaukee in time for our 6:05 departure.  Ugh.  Who the heck booked this flight?  Oh, yes.  I did.

After waiting through the check-in line, and with Daddy long-gone with the car, an attendant at the Southwest counter had mercy on me when I told her (wide-eyed with disbelief) that no, I didn't have the required birth certificate for my 5-month-old "lap child".  She offered a warning for "next time", and allowed us to proceed to the gate with the necessary notations on my boarding pass.
Thank you, stranger!

We were aided by a woman just ahead of us (with her prepubescent son) at the security checkpoint, who loaded up two bins with our footwear and various loose articles and hoisted our wheeled carry-on bag onto the scanner belt with a smile on her face.
Thank you, stranger!

My deepest gratitude to lone traveler and businessman Dan Miller of Milwaukee, whose grandfatherly way with my girls on our flight to Baltimore kept me from melting into tears when one seemingly urgent need after another emerged.  One kiddo needed a diaper change and the other followed up with a request to "go potty".  No problem, Dan said, I'll stay with Peach, and then he held the baby... while I navigated the impossibly small 737 bathroom with just *one* extra body each time.  He offered up his tray table when the drinks came and I didn't have room on my lap to use my own and Peach's was occupied with diversions.  He graciously endured being kicked by baby feet during nursing sessions, and didn't creep me out when I had to breastfeed in close quarters.  Finally, he fetched our carry-on from the overhead compartment when we landed, wishing us good luck before melting into the deplaning masses.
Thank you, stranger!

Between flights, I stopped by a newsstand to pick up some gum and -d'oh- I forgot to grab a bottle of water!  No problem, the woman behind us offered, you can have this one, and I'll just go get another one.
Thank you, stranger!

On the flight to Orlando, Pimento graced me with a second messy diaper.  (Either I like her brew, or her poop truly does smell like yogurt.)  The mother next to us sat with Peach while I tended Pimento in the impossibly small bathroom alone.  She opened the plane snacks for Peach while I was gone, with only a touch of "and it was an inconvenience" in her voice while pointing it out.  She was traveling with her two small children, too, though she also had them outnumbered with a daddy and grandma tag-tending them.  (Was I envious?  Maybe.  But I think I needed to prove to myself that I can handle one of the more daunting aspects of parenting.  No matter.)
Thank you, stranger!

Another lone businessman retrieved our carry-on from overhead upon landing in Florida, and he even towed it out of the plane for us, waiting just outside the aircraft with it while we struggled along behind.
Thank you, stranger!

As I finally dragged my pathetic, travel-worn carcass through the Orlando International Airport, I was greeted by a familiar grin, and my dear friend took over the lead.  She was able to simultaneously comfort me, entertain Peach, move us efficiently from baggage claim to parking garage, and load us all into her waiting chariot without breaking a sweat.  (Not to mention she provided car seats for both Ps so I didn't have to schlep ours from Wisconsin.)  

This particular encounter doesn't fall under the "stranger" heading, though I believe its veritably life-saving nature as the gracious reception of an exhausted mama deserves recognition.

Traveling with littlies is generally regarded as an altogether beastly task, and I certainly received my fair share or more of pity and encouraging looks throughout the ordeal.  All told, I much preferred the notable actions of a few individuals to all the arms-length sympathy.  

I plan to remember these moments when the opportunities arise to act in kind.  

Anyone else enjoy the small miracle of human kindness lately?

Pippi Longstocking (Is Coming Into Your World)

I have this vague recollection of being awestruck by Pippi Longstocking as a child.
She was so strong! And fearless! And irreverent!

Oh, how I longed to be more like that plaited red-head.  I even thought about how tightly I would have to braid my own hair to make it stick out like that.  And I practiced braiding it over and over to achieve the desired effect, to no avail.
 
We must have borrowed the VHS tape (1988's The New Adventures of Pippi Longstocking) from our local library at some point in my youth, because the theme song -long cobwebbed over by more immediately useful memories- sprang forth from my lips within moments of the first instrumental bars, as if it had been living there, awaiting Pippi's triumphant return.  "Pippi Longstocking is coming into your world, a freckle-faced, red-haired girl. You oughta know she'll send your life into a whirl..."

Yet watching it with Peach to fill a lazy Saturday afternoon was like seeing it for the first time.  I had new eyes, albeit more critical ones, through which I marveled at both my own skewed memory (Is this the same movie that had me convinced of Pippi's cool factor?) and the rapt attention paid by my easily bored almost-four-year-old.  She almost missed the ending, it wrapped so abruptly.  A sincere "What happened?" was uttered.

Now Pippi is the new black.
She asked to watch it again today, only making it about 20 minutes in before she was sated.  Just a little Pippi fix, and she's good until tomorrow.

And I'll be honest, I'm stoking her obsession a bit.
I'm pretty wild about strong female protagonists who aren't reduced to rubble by romance (though I dig on romance, too).  Anything to broaden her horizons beyond ponies and princesses.  I want the opportunity to emphasize Pippi's positive traits (generosity, a positive attitude) over those potentially harmful ones (recklessness!).

I also appreciate that there are no marketing campaigns aimed at making my kiddo want a never-ending supply of plastic Pippi merchandise.
Peach has been randomly quoting commercials to herself lately, and my muttering plot to cut down on TV time has been little more than wasted breath.  And while I admit it's hardly a classic, Pippi Longstocking is the height of culture by comparison (I insist to myself).  Come to think of it, I take similar pleasure in exposing her to vintage Warner Brothers cartoons.  Oh!  And she loves Labyrinth, which makes me so proud.

I think my motives can be surmised thusly: If she watches what I watched, maybe she'll turn out like me, and I'm not half bad.

This same philosophy may apply to why I'm always trying to make her clothes.

(Hmm... Sudden introspection.  Will have to revisit this territory when I'm not typing one-handed and nursing a sleepy baby.)

Sleeping Like a Baby (and a Big Sister)

I  snapped a photo, after all.  Note the flash-induced sleep-wince.

Following last night's nocturnal mosh-pit in the all-girl bed, the sisters are sleeping soundly, snuggled angelically close together.  If I weren't so sure the flash would wake them, I would take a picture.

It's incredible to see how close they've become already.  Nobody can get a smile out of the little Pimento like her big sister.  And Peach eats it up.  I want to say I can't wait to see them grow up together, but I also hope it doesn't go by too fast.  

I hear the secrets that you keep...

Well, I suppose it's not anything particularly secret, but Lordy is my Peach a noisy one tonight.

"I don't want it!"
"You didn't draw [inaudible mumble]."
And the heartbreaking, "Mommy, help me!" Just for example.

Repeat, sporadically, for hours.
The worst part is, it continues despite my attempts at soothing or waking her, and while it certainly disturbs my sleep, she tends to have no recollection of the previous night's proceedings upon waking in the morning.  Classic "night terrors", or so I hear.

She'll typically have at least one brief outburst, and some nights are worse than others.  Tonight qualifies as "worse", based on duration alone.

At least she's not coughing or pukey.  Those nights are (understandably) more worrying.
The last time we endured a sick spell with Peach, Daddy took on the lead role, swooping in to care for and comfort the little patient.  Is it wrong that I went back to sleep (with the baby) once he took her out of the room, or does that serve as a vote of confidence in his ability as a caregiver and comforter?  I'm not going to say I didn't feel a twinge of guilt for staying in bed, but Daddy is definitely the rockstar parent when it comes to sick kiddos.

These nighttime habits could add an interesting element to our visit to Florida next week.  The plan is for Peach to share a room, and possibly a bed, with her pal while I bunk down the hall with Pimento and said pal's mama.
Deviation from this plan is anticipated, though I'd be okay if it went off without a hitch.

I think the leg-thrashing/sleep tantrums have subsided for the night.  Time to give *my* sleep another shot.

EDIT: Nevermind.  Now Baby Pimento is up and ready to party.

Compulsion

I'm not sure if it's the fact that the kiddos are sleeping peacefully, or the mounting self-inflicted pressure to immortalize these fleeting moments, but now is when I will finally give in and initiate this long-simmering blog.

Peach & Pimento are my girls.
Though initially tapped to represent "the one born in Georgia" and "the one whose middle name is akin to a small green fruit often stuffed with red pepper", the more subtle nuances of those artificial monikers began bubbling up soon after (as subtleties often do) and one could easily argue that their respective sweet and faintly fiery natures would be suitable for either kiddo depending on their current phase.
Certainly, the two flavors would be just as complimentary.

(I'm never as concerned about perfection as when I'm writing something for public consumption.  It's taken me nearly twenty minutes to compose these few sentences.  Maybe I'm just out of practice.  I'm sure more fluid musings are not far off.)

Consider this blog initiated.