I have had about 1,001 things that need doing before summer, and this weekend, I knocked that list right down to around 995. Hooboy. We are rockin’, now. Look out, world!
Many of you have asked to see for a picture of my wedding dress and I am not trying to be coy, I am just… ummmm… I don’t know what I am. Superstitious? I don’t think we can call me superstitious when I’m getting married in a multicolored (including orange and fuchsia) cocktail dress, really. So that’s not it. Weird? Well, THAT’s hardly a debate; obviously I am weird. But that’s not the issue, I don’t think. I think it’s more like the baby names thing. You never tell people what you’re THINKING of naming your children, because SOMEONE will invariably say “Oh, I knew someone named Chickadee and she was a chronic nose-picker” or something, and then your love for that name will forever be tainted. But if you NAME your kid that, even the most boorish people can generally be counted upon not to say stupid stuff like that when faced with an actual human. So.
All of this is to say, I will post a picture after we get married, and then if you hate it, OH WELL. As a consolation, would you like to see my blurry kids?
(Disclaimer: These pictures are crappy. They make the baby Jesus and Otto cry. But you forgive me, because at least I am attempting to include visual aids. Moving on….)
It turns out that the suit issue solved itself, after a fashion. The kids got home tonight and I asked Monkey to try them on for me. The grey suit fits pretty well, even though it seems to make Monkey want to strut around the kitchen penguin-style. (Don’t ask me. I just live with him.) The camel suit, on the other hand, would be an excellent hobo outfit. Somehow, in spite of being the same size (numerically), it’s gigantic in every possible way. Also, it’s sort of shiny, which didn’t bother me initially, but now it does. So, I could try to get that same suit a size smaller, but I don’t think I will.
And that only has a little bit to do with Monkey insisting that he was “totally handsome” in the grey one, while Chickadee opined that “this one is really a much better getting married suit, mama, because it’s more serious and this is serious business.” Right, then! Grey it is! Because getting married is serious business!
After forcing Monkey to try on both suits and let me take his picture, I took Chickadee upstairs and pulled her dress out of the closet. “Ohhhhhh!” she said. Her clothes went flying as she stripped down to try it on.
“I don’t know,” I teased, as I slid it over her head, buttoned the back, and tied the sash, “This dress isn’t very pretty. Maybe we should just forget it.”
“NOOOOO Mama!” she protested. “It has an INNER FLUFFY THING!” She bounced and swayed and twirled with glee while I tried to figure out what in the world she was talking about. I felt the skirt and then understood.
“Honey, that’s called a crinoline.”
“It’s an inner fluffy thing,” she insisted, primly. “And I LOVE INNER FLUFFY THINGS!” She spun and dipped and finally let me take her picture. Then we discussed shoes briefly (“with a HEEL!” she begged, because just one inch of heel makes her feel like a princess, and who am I to say no to that?) and I only had to chase her around the room for five minutes to get her to take the dress off again. I think she would’ve slept in it if I’d let her.
So. The children have clothing to wear. I have something to wear. We have aaaaaalmost set a date. The other 995 things will get done, eventually. I think. I hope.
Chickadee is talking about the move. It’s as if the dam broke last week and now she’s ready to discuss it. And discuss it, she does. Let’s talk about the good things! Let’s talk about the bad things! Let’s talk talk talk about the move while I cry about it, Mama, and you can bite back the urge to tell me how great it’s going to be and instead nod and say, “Yes, that part will be hard. Yes, I know it’s scary.” She was thrilled to help Monkey with the suits and try on her dress, but 10 minutes later she was creeping into my lap, sniffling about not wanting to move.
It’s reasonable, and it’s right, and it’s good that she’s finally talking. None of that stops me from feeling like a big creep when it happens, though.
So we had our before-bed weepiness and assurances that it will all be okay, and then I tucked everyone in with kisses and hugs and came back downstairs wondering if it will ever stop being hard, if I will ever feel 100% certain that I am giving them everything they need.
“Mama?” From the top of the stairs, a pitiful wavering.
I sighed. “What is it, honey? You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“I know. It’s just that I forgot to do my homework.” Homework is given on Mondays and due on Fridays, and she did it on Monday last week.
“From Daddy’s church. We have homework.”
“Oooookay. Can we do it tomorrow?”
“No.” She giggled. “Thank you.”
“That’s the homework. To thank someone. Thank you!” I’d made my way to the bottom of the stairs, and she smiled down at me from the darkness above. My own mouth twitched upwards in return.
“Whatcha thanking me for?” I braced for the inevitable “I dunno” response.
Instead, she threw her arms wide. “For EVERYTHING! Night, Mama.”
“Good night, baby. Sleep tight.”
I have got to get me one of those inner fluffy things.