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.