Archive | motherhood RSS feed for this section

War Crimes

21 Apr

I like to tell my kids this is a benevolent dictatorship…and I kind of run a communist style ship around here, if I’m being honest. Everybody shares everything, too bad if you don’t like it, no soup for you, I’m not sorry.

 

So, seeing as I’m basically my family’s Vladimir Putin and all, I thought I’d take a little time to charge some folks for some war crimes. As one does.

28166-unaxzb

 

 

 

 

 

Maggie, age 6

 

Charged with Inciting Panic. You know that hour right after dinner when you’re completely exhausted from being an adult all day and the act of pretending like you’ve got your life together is really taking its toll? You know…it’s the hour when you feel as though all the life blood has been sucked from your body by a parasite and you’re about to fall into an unbathed pile of exhaustion. This is the hour in which she strikes. She will sneakily lure unsuspecting younger siblings to the stairs and whisper potty jokes to them, convincing them that screaming “poopy diaper head” in the faces of your dinner guests is a good idea. She will laugh maniacally while forcing you to listen to yet another knock-knock joke. Under the guise of entertaining her little brother, she will start a game of “chase” in which someone most certainly will be tripped and maimed. She will insist on leading the others in illegal games of “jump all over the damn couch even though Mom told us eight thousand times not to” and “let’s all violently wrestle until Lily’s hair gets pulled and she shrieks like a banshee.”

 

 

Lily, age 3 

 

Charged with Harassment and Stalking. She’s kind of the least offender because I truly believe that her intentions are pure…but she’s always there. She’ll demand to help with every single task ever of all time. Have some strong chemicals you want to clean with? She’ll pour. Have a sharp knife you’d like to chop with? She’ll show you how it’s done. Have some detailed sewing to be done? She’ll hold the needles. Have to finish your taxes? She’ll file ’em for ya. Have some sleep you’d like to get? She’s in your bed. However, if you actually ask her to help with a task she’s so uninterested it’s not even funny. Chores to be done? Nah, she’ll sit an observe the other fools and cry rather than comply.

 

Also, she’s an accessory to every other crime committed. She’s not usually the mastermind (…yet. Kid’s brilliant, so once she realizes her powers I have no doubt that she’ll use them for evil), but she’s usually coerced into helping, so we’ll let her off with a lighter sentence and call it good.

 

 

Everett, age 2

 

Charged with Aggravated Assault. Even his hugs hurt. Gentlemen visiting our home are advised to wear an athletic cup in order to protect themselves from the colossal skull that will crush their testicles approximately ninety-seven times during their visit. Also, watch for flying dump trucks being launched down the stairs, blocks torpedoed toward faces, and strategically placed Hot Wheels that were definitely not under your feet a second ago, but most certainly are under your feet now that you’re carrying a lot of stuff. The perpetrator has been known to climb basically anything with an elevation of…off the ground. So, watch for falling boys, as well.

Also, while we’re at it, let’s charge him with Indecent Exposure and Disorderly Conduct. You know, for good measure. And ’cause he never wears pants.

 

Remy, age 8 months

Charged with Disturbing the Peace. Bro doesn’t sleep. Or rather, he sleeps, but only long enough to give you the illusion that you’re going to be able to get something done. He’ll nap juuuust long enough for you to get right into the deep disgusting middle of finally cleaning out the refrigerator and then he strikes. It basically goes on like that ad nauseam.

 

Alright, so that’s my legal work done for the day. Time to go dole out punishments! Mwuahahahaha!

You Matter

18 Apr

Guys, I’m struggling a lot lately and I know a lot of other people who are, too. It just seems like so many of us can’t catch a break. We don’t feel seen, we don’t feel heard. A myriad of big and little hurts has piled up and we can’t catch our breath for the weight of life pressing down on us. This is hard.

 

But here is what I know to be true: We matter. You matter.

 

flowers stock photo

 

Pope Benedict XVI said,

We are not some casual and meaningless product of evolution. Each of us is the result of a thought of God. Each of us is willed, each of us is loved, each of us is necessary.

 

You are necessary, friend. You are valuable. You were thought up and planned out and you are important.

 

I’m going to take some time today to meditate on that truth, the truth that I’m necessary and I’m loved. I’m going to dig deep and breath deep and do my damnedest to feel it deep in my core that I am a remarkable creation, deeply loved by God, redeemed by Christ, and pursued by the Holy Spirit. And you are, too.

 

You are so incredible. I hope you know that.

 

xoxo,

Mary Susan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo via https://www.pexels.com/photo/flowers-flower-pink-17666/

On Bodies

22 Feb

I knew it would happen sooner or later. Kids are curious and vocal, so I can’t say I was super surprised by the question my five-year-old posed to another mom after story time.

 

“Do you have a baby in your belly?”

 

Shit.

 

She clearly didn’t. I mean, she was wearing an empire waist dress, but she was obviously not pregnant. Also, we’ve got a hard and fast rule about saving your questions/comments about other people’s bodies until we’re in a private place.

 

The mom (a new and wonderful friend even after the comment, thank goodness) brushed it off with a self deprecating comment about how her belly was just “big” – she’s got a body I totally envy, by the way – and we got on with our conversation. It really wasn’t a big deal, except it was. It is a big deal.

 

Body image is a huge deal to me, something I desperately want to get right with my kids. I know without a shadow of a doubt that these little souls in my care are completely and utterly beloved by their Creator. I believe that more than I believe almost anything else in the whole world. They are glorious creatures and I will fight to the death for them to know that and hold it as truth deep within themselves.

 

I feel like I’m in a losing fight, though. I mean, I’m just one person and these sweet babies are living in a broken world, a twisted system that has been screaming the opposite from the moment they were born. My five-year-old girl has already been so inundated with labels, and appearance, and the importance of prettiness…it’s second nature to her and to me, too, if I’m honest.

 

I also feel like I’m up against a ticking clock. Right now, these kids take my word for Gospel. But that window is rapidly closing and we all know the day will come when my opinion won’t count half as much as the opinions of their peers. And I get that it’s just the way it goes.

 

I’m also very aware of politeness. I mean, it’s generally pretty rude to make comments about people’s appearance. And the Southerner in me is horrified by the thought of having impolite children.

 

But, after the episode at the library, I couldn’t bring myself to chastise my daughter because I really didn’t feel that she’d done anything wrong. I refuse to squelch her curiosity and I felt like the whole thing was more of an issue of tact than anything else. Honestly, I had no idea how to broach the subject with her.

 

Because the whole damn thing is a catch 22, isn’t it? At our house we believe that all humans deserve dignity and respect because they are creations of God. We believe that all bodies are worthy of respect…big, fat, tall, skinny, whatever. Those are descriptors. All bodies are valuable and, because of that value, they are beautiful. But we also believe that words have power. So, even though I know the word “fat” is just a descriptor, and even though I know that  am fat and most days I’m okay with that because the word “fat” in no way negates my value as a human, I also know we’re functioning in a broken system. I can’t very well teach my kids that words like “fat” are just descriptors and send them out to the playground. The first time they describe someone as “fat,” they’ll be accused of being mean and that’ll leave them so confused and hurt.

 

So what do I do? How do I teach my daughter to love her body and to recognize all bodies as valuable and worthy of love in a world that won’t play ball?

 

I stewed over this for weeks and finally called my best friend who gave me some good advice, ’cause that’s what brilliant best friends do. Acknowledging the weird double-standard of the situation, we agreed that my aforementioned rule of “don’t talk about people’s bodies until we’re in a private place,” should stand. And then she suggested that I give the kids some options. And it’s brilliant. In my experience, children respond better to alternatives than to just being told to say or do nothing. Teaching kids methods of self soothing as an alternative to violent outbursts is far more successful than just telling them not to get mad, for example. Also, I don’t like the idea of children internalizing things and not being allowed to ask questions. We need more question askers in my opinion.

 

So, instead of saying, “Is there a baby in your belly?” my daughter can say, “I love the happy colors in your dress,” and then feel free to ask me about the baby thing when we’re one-on-one.When I discussed it later with the kids, it went a little something like this,

We know that it doesn’t matter what you look like, a person’s heart is what makes them beautiful. But not everybody knows that. Sometimes people believe that you have to look a certain way to be beautiful or people sometimes think that there’s something wrong with their bodies. And it seems kind of silly to us because we know that that’s not true, but those people are confused and it makes them sad to talk about their bodies. We always want people to feel loved when they’re with us, so we don’t talk about things that might make them sad or hurt their feelings.  If you have a question about someone’s body or how they look, that’s totally fine, but wait until we’re alone and then you can ask me about it without being rude.

 

And then I gave them some options of what to say instead.

“I love the way your eyes look when you smile.”

“I like your purple shirt; that’s one of my favorite colors!”

“You look really strong/happy/joyful/healthy today.

“I really like playing with you; you’ve got great dance moves.”

I also think it’s important to consider how to compliment and comment on the person rather than just their appearance.There was a fantastic article by Sarah Powers in the Washington Post on how to compliment little girls that addresses this really, really well. Haley over at Carrots for Michaelmas also has a good post on how to nurture a positive self-image in our girls.

While I certainly haven’t solved the world’s body image issues here, I think I’ve found a solution that will work for our family. We’ve practiced what we might say in certain social situations, but I’m not naive enough to believe that there won’t be more awkward gaffes in our future. And that’s cool because that’s how we learn. Ultimately I just want to raise some decent humans who make other humans feel decent, too.

What are your thoughts on teaching young kids about body image and respecting others? How would you have handled the situation? Lemme know!

xoxo,

Mary Susan

Things They Don’t Tell You

18 Feb

The other day, my dear friend Amy and her family were over for dinner. They’ve got three kids who fit right in between the ages of ours and our oldest girls are besties. We love getting together because we can just manhandle the craziness and the more the merrier and everybody loves chaos and sometimes we drink. Also, my sister-in-law happened to be over that night as well.

 

So, house full of people is what I’m saying.

 

Y’all, it was so fun. Because I’m a secret communist or because I’m dedicated to dorm life or something, we’ve got all the kids’ beds in one room leaving the extra bedroom as a dressing/play room and it. is. awesome. All the kids played semi-nicely upstairs. The grown-ups had real conversations and we ate pizza and it was great.

 

Until we heard a little voice yell, “Jovi just threw up!”

 

And, sure enough, she did. Poor kid stood right at the top of the stairs and just yakked straight down ’em. To say it was epic would not do it justice. It was a masterpiece.

 

And as Amy and I were cleaning vomit off of every stair in my house, she looked at me and said, “You know, you think you’re going to have this little baby and it’ll be so snuggly and sweet… But nobody tells you that your baby is going to turn five and throw up down the stairs at your friend’s house.”

 

And we both laughed like maniacs because it’s totally true. And also, when you’re cleaning puke, you might as well laugh ’cause what choice do you have?

 

The good news is, my stairs got cleaned for the first time since I’ve lived in this house. So, that’s a thing.

 


 

And I’ve been thinking a lot about the things they don’t tell you…

 

Like, nobody tells you about how little boys grab their junk from day one. That happens, guys, it’s weird.

 

And nobody tells you that someday you’ll be struggling to teach your daughter how to squat and pee because the dang bathroom at the park is locked. And wow, is it hard to teach someone how to squat to pee. It does not come naturally, unlike junk grabbing, apparently.

 

When they hand you your darling baby boy and tell you to take him home from the hospital, nobody tells you that someday (presumably after you’ve boasted to the internet that he’s knocking potty training out of the park) he’ll alert you to the fact that he’s pooped his pants…right as you’re changing the baby’s diaper. You won’t think this is that big of a deal until you see said poop running down his leg and onto your couch (damn you to hell, Burger King nuggets). They don’t tell you that this will happen when you have a friend over.

 

But here’s the thing. When they hand you that baby and they tell you he’s yours, they also don’t tell you that you’re in the club now. You’re part of the larger fraternity of parenthood and we are tight-knit bunch. They don’t tell you that, if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to seek out some like-minded compatriots who will be there for all the other stuff they don’t tell you about.

 

So, sure. They don’t tell you that your kid is going to puke in public or poop on the couch when you have company…but they also don’t tell you that you’ll have somebody to commiserate. If you’re lucky, you’ll have someone right there with you, elbow deep in vomit. You’ll have a buddy who brings you coffee and then cleans poop off of your couch unasked while you scrub your kid upstairs. You’ll have someone you can text at 3 am to ask how to get horrifying stains out of microfiber or to message about how comfort nursing is making your skin crawl. They don’t tell you you’ll have brothers in arms, but you will. You totally will.

 

Which is good, because they also don’t tell you that while you let the Mad Pooper soak in the tub so you can run to check on the couch, he’ll poop in there, too. When you discover that monstrosity, the little guy will say, “Look, Mama! I made you coffee!”

Potty TRAINing

3 Feb

Allow me to set the scene:

Interior – Day – Chez Delagrange – Everett sits enthroned upon his Thomas Potty. (See Fig. 1)

bdy85-thomas-railroad-rewards-potty-d-1

Fig. 1 – The Thomas Potty exactly as seen in Chez Delagrange…only my floor’s not that clean. Obvs.

 

The potty plays the melodic notes of the Thomas theme song and ends with the tell-tale “chugga-choo-shhhh” sound that can only mean one thing – The “train” has left the “station.”

All around the boy there is great rejoicing…much like this:

 

We’re potty TRAINing, y’all. (See what I did there? I had to or my dad would have and then he’d think he was real clever and we can’t have that.)

 

A few words on the Thomas Potty…Ev got it as a Christmas gift and was genuinely so pumped about it that he couldn’t even handle it. This thing has magical sensors in it so when a liquid (or presumably a solid) hits it, it plays music and makes train sounds. If that doesn’t pump your pistons, I don’t know what will.

 

The only down side I can see to the Thomas Potty is that your average two-year-old can easily figure out how to take it apart and make it sing without peeing in it. You can say a lot of things about a two-year-old, but if you need a button to be pushed (literal or figurative) they’re pretty much your best bet. Unfortunately, the button on the Thomas Potty is on the bottom, which requires said two-year-old to turn it completely upside down, something that I sort of expect to backfire on my aaaaaaaannny minute now…

 

And, because motherhood is basically an eternal experiment in “Things I Never Thought I’d Say,” or because I know you’ve just been wishing that you could experience this craziness firsthand, but haven’t called because you’re not sure if you really want to experience this crazy firsthand, here are a few of the phrases I’ve been recently repeating over and over…and over.

  • “Do NOT put your broccoli on your potty!”
  • “Dude, if you keep moving your potty around you’re going to forget where you put it and nobody needs that!”
  • “Guys, mind your own business! You really don’t need to see his pee.”
  • “I know you’re trying to help, but let’s just let Mommy be the one to empty the potty.”
  • “Drop. The. Potty. I said put it down!!”

 

Also, people have already asked about how we potty train and how the boy vs girl thing is going, here’s my two cents on that:

I am a hard and fast and firm believer that this is not a race. I do not know any 30 year olds who wear diapers to work. If your kid is toilet trained at 16 months old, cool! If your kid is toilet trained at 4, sweet! It will happen when your child is ready. I repeat: this. is. not. a. race. Follow your kid’s lead and you’ll be golden…probably literally.

Also, my friend Alisha just told me that her dentist’s wife potty trained their 9 month old. And we both basically said a big hell naw to that. I mean, if that’s your jam, it’s cool I guess. But I’m lazy and diapering a baby or even a toddler is a lot less work, at least for a while. You can slap a diaper on a kid or at least have stuff contained, right? Few things will prepare you for venturing out in the world with a newly toilet trained kid. You’re on their terms now and heaven help you if you dare to call their bluff or wait a moment too long. All I’m saying is, once you potty train, you’re signing up for the “Tour of Every Bathroom in America” whether you’ve got places to be or not. So, take your time. It’s not a race.

 

I am also a hard and fast believer in the “Naked Weekend” brand of potty training. I’m also realistic and know that it takes longer than a weekend. Regardless, I’ve had the most success with hunkering down for as long as possible with a pantless kid and a potty you can move from room to room with you. Also, you have to do a potty dance that is so explosively celebratory you can’t even handle your own face. That’s part of the fun. For more information on this brand ‘o training, check out Kendra’s post on it over at Catholic All Year. (I have an unprofessed blog crush on Kendra…her family just bought a 10 bedroom mansion built in the 20’s and they’re remodeling it and I’m obsessed and creepy and not sorry.)

 

As for the boy vs girl thing…it’s totally not a thing. I’ll admit, I was initially intimidated by potty training a boy, probably because of some societal tendency to deify the penis or just the fact that I don’t have one, so I’m sorta clueless. Here’s the deal: he’s got a while to figure it all out. The main goal here is to get the waste into the proper receptacle. Everything after that will come with time. So the thing’s not a thing. I’m potty training him just like the girls and he’s knocking it out of the park.

 

He’s knocking it out of the park so much, in fact, that I basically never have to remind him to pee. Like last night he was (ill-advisedly) naked and on the loose downstairs while I got the girls out of the tub. He ran back upstairs yelling, “Mama, I peeeeeeeeeeed!!!” at which point I panicked. I asked where he went to the bathroom and the only response I got was, “Don’t worry about it, Mama. I show you.”  Umm…doesn’t really inspire much confidence. So I followed him downstairs and he lead me to the Thomas Potty and yelled, “Aaaaa-priiiise!! In the potty!! Ta da!!!” And sure enough, in the potty it was. Praise God from whom all blessings flow…and I do mean all blessings.

 

And Scene.

 

 

Mom Instincts

23 Nov

Y’all. There are a few ways you know that motherhood is getting to you.

Permanent dark circles…

Lack of hygiene…

The contents of your purse… (No lie, at this very moment my purse contains the following: one dirty princess sock, a pacifier, several french fries, broken-lidded lip gloss I confiscated from the eldest, a diaper, my wallet, a comb, seven tiny hair bands, and the feet of a hopping mechanical chicken. Just the feet.)

There’s also the fact that you develop magical Mom Instincts. Like, I might not shower for days, but you’d better bet I can tell you the exact location of Maggie’s Bunny. Or I’ll be so exhausted that I’m literally running into walls, but I can catch a falling pacifier like a ninja. Mom Instincts allow me to decipher the deeper meaning behind the make-believe games, interpret whether or not requests for the potty are valid or cheap ploys for a later bedtime. While the rest of your life disintegrates around you, Mom Instincts allow you to remember preschool snack day just in time and recall the location of that one Frozen shirt.

I’d like to point out that, while Mom Instincts make you a rock star in the parenting department, they sometimes overrule all other rational thought and make you less than cool on dates. Just saying.

But I really hit a low point the other day in the “Motherhood is Getting to Me” department.

I need you to know that two thirds of our children have had the stomach flu, all have colds, and one may or may not be teething but he won’t submit to an oral exam and refuses to learn to talk, so…hell if I know. Also, the wordless one has been on a sleeping strike, so basically it’s like living with a cranky mute dictator who demands Wheel of Fortune at one a.m. Except he’s not really mute because he screams. A lot. Just no words. And his older sister is potty training. And I’m trying to take a doula class, and Vin is working like a zillion hours a week, and, and, and. Life is crazy.

I tell you all of this in hopes that maybe it’ll explain my actions, but I really just think I’m off. my. rocker.

So, night before last (but I don’t really know because my days and nights have been messed up since 2009), I got the kids into bed and foolishly assumed they’d stay there and took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Alone. For the first time in forever. (No, I’m not sorry I just put that song in your head.)

I went to the bathroom, instinctively put the ironic Pooh potty seat on the toilet, and sat down.

And then I got all surprised and weirded out that the toilet seat was like a kajillion sizes too small, so I kind of freaked out a little bit, but things were already well on their way and I’ve had no control of that biz since, like, 2009, so I had not choice but to keep on keepin’ on. Luckily my aim is spectacular…unlike my brain which has apparently turned into a pile of mush.

Doodie Duty

24 Sep

Y’all. Today we’re going to be talking about poop and private parts and if you can’t handle that, then you best be on your way ’cause I’ve got a lot to get off my chest. And before you wonder, “Does she mean she’s got poop to get off her chest?” the answer is yes. There’s probably poop on my chest because there’s always poop on my body somewhere. Small though the speck may be, I am constantly accompanied by the feces of another human. This is my life.

So, let’s dive right in, shall we?

For those of you who might not know (that’d be the two readers I’ve got who aren’t either related to me or alumni of my elementary school), I’ve got three kids: two girls, and a boy. The girls came first and then the boy was born. He was born after I spent three and a half years getting used to girl diapers. He is a boy. With boy parts.

Holy geez, was that a game changer.

Literally the first week or so we had Everett home, I’d go to change a diaper and be audibly surprised at the contents. Like, I would undo the diap and get a shock because I was so jarred at the sight of a penis in there. And who can blame me? I mean, penises are pretty weird. I appreciate the fact that they’re built for service and they certainly perform their required tasks well enough. Hell, I’m sure I’ll really appreciate the fact that my son can pee standing up once he’s potty training and refuses to go at home but then has an emergency in the parking lot at the grocery store and I’ve got the girls buckled in already and Ben and Jerry’s melting in the back and I have no choice but to let him pee on the asphalt. At that point, I know I’ll love the fact that he’s got a penis since that probably will mean that he won’t pee on my feet like his ungrateful and uncoordinated older sisters. Vaginas are no good in a parking lot. (If somebody doesn’t put that on a throw pillow right this minute, I’m going to pitch a fit.)

So, at some point, I’m sure I’m going to be very pro-penis, but y’all, let’s just face it. When it comes to diapers, girls are so much more…streamlined than boys. With boys there seems to be an endless array of skin. Like, there are literally ten gajillion tiny crevices that poop can sneak into on a boy. There’s lifting and rearranging that has to take place before the kid is clean and you’re always under the gun. Ev has literally only peed on me twice in his little lifetime but I’m still super nervous that my luck will change. And ohmylawd there is so much junk  to clean. Maybe it’s just my kid, but changing a boy diaper is super labor intensive.

Cookin’ one up.

This brings me to the poop. Can I just continue to complain a minute? Guys, we don’t call Everett the Poop Smith for nothing. I have never in my life seen a child more capable of destroying the tri-state area a diaper than my son. At one point (and by ‘one point’ I mean ‘a stretch of several months and he’s only twelve months old’) I was changing that child’s sheets every single time he slept. He’d get a bath and smell all sweetsie and baby-like and I’d rock him and sing to him and kiss his little downy head and then I’d lay him down in his fresh, clean crib. Come morning, I’d hear him laughing and babbling in his crib. And then I’d go into his room…opening the door was like unlocking a crypt. I swear, I could actually hear the seal break, “pffffchhhh,” and then the smell of decaying body death poop-purri would just rise up like a Dementor and smack me right in the face. I won’t lie. I gagged. Several times.

I need you to know that this is a smell that lingers. As a coworker of mine said, it’s like one of those cartoon smells that contorts itself into a green goblin-y face or a creepy hand that beckons you into a mousetrap. It’s one of those smells. It doesn’t matter if you open the windows, take away every offending article of clothing/bedding, that room is still going to smell like a freshly cracked crap crypt all freaking day.

Let me reiterate here: this happened (and sometimes still happens) every single time he sleeps. So, the kid goes to sleep, craps his brains out, and wakes up. Every time he sleeps.

And this is not regular poop. This is poop that escapes any and all diapers that come into contact with it. It doesn’t matter cloth or disposable, this crap cannot be contained. This poop is so attracted to clean sheets that it will find the quickest route out of jammies possible. It defies the laws of physics and gravity and I don’t understand it. What angle is required, what force necessary for a child to achieve such feats? The poop goes up the front (the better to ooze into creases), up the back, down at least one- if not both- legs, and onto the sheets. Always, always onto the sheets. I can’t tell you how frequently we’ve just thrown that kid in the tub first thing in the morning. And I’m not sorry for the time(s) I’ve just thrown the pajamas away. Sometimes it’s not worth it. “I Love Mommy” has a very empty ring to it when it’s smeared with shit.

One of those mornings…

The good news is that his poop cycle is changing such that he doesn’t actually poop as frequently. However, that does mean that he’s pooping at times when I’m not prepared for it. Before the schedule change, I’d know good and well what I was in for. Sure, I knew I’d be changing the sheets for the kazillionth time that week, but at least I had the benefit of knowledge on my side. That way I could prepare myself for battle…shirt over the nose, plastic bags, eighteen thousand wipes, pressure washer, etc. These days, the lad’s more of a stealth pooper. He likes to wait till we’re not expecting it and then release his venom into the world.

You know, like when the weather’s just changing so there’s a nip in the air and the whole family is climbing out of the car to go visit a friend’s newborn baby in the hospital. That, that is the perfect time for this kid to poop. Aaaaaall the way down the pants, into the socks, filling the car with the smell of “Dear Lord, what is thaa…Evvverettttt!” That’s the time he poops. And once again, thank goodness for my mother-in-law who had the foresight to get some long sleeved shirts for that kid (which I luckily didn’t bring into the house because we live in our car the way good Americans do) so I at least had sleeves to put on him. Otherwise he’d be left with what was left of the extra clothes from the summer stocked diaper bag. So we dressed that kid in a onesie and a long sleeved shirt, threw him in the Ergo with no pants and took him in to meet the new baby. Because I’m a firm believer in showing people what they have to look forward to.

%d bloggers like this: