Sweet Baby Stains

Saturday, September 09, 2006
Sweet Baby Stains (For my Sista's Who are Moms) Current mood: contemplative
Every so often, when she's feeling extra nostalgic, my mother gets out a small box that she keeps deep within her closet. The box contains several "special" baby outfits from myself and my brother that my mother has chosen to keep for whatever sentimental reason...be it a Christening, a hand-smocked dress, a favorite sweater...And the same conversation happens every time.
"I don't remember there being a stain here!"
"I would NEVER dress you in something stained, let alone KEEP something so special stained!"
Oh, the trickery of time.
Where do these mystery stains come from? Were they the unseen drippings from a bottle of juice that over the years has attacked dirt? Are they the sweet spots where a bit of breastmilk spilled, undected, from a feeding infant's mouth? Did an over-tired, over-worked, stay-at-home Navy wife simply miss the tiny blotch way-back-when, only to discover it with the scructinizing eyes of a Grandmother? We'll never know for sure how the stains arrived on said clothes, all we know is...they're there. And that's ok.
Fast forward to today...Andrew dressed our 17 month old daughter in a delightful little yellow eyelit number, complete with matching capri pants. She looked adorable, although the outfit appeared a big...um...how do I say this without insulting her...SNUG. Now, without accusing my little Princess of being "plump" I asked Andrew why he picked this particular outfit out, and he told me "Because it was all I could find! Could you PLEASE organize her clothes???" Of course, they ARE organized to me, I'm the one who launders, folds and puts her garments away, but to the amateur eye of her father...he was lost. I looked at the tag-"6-9 Months." Well, good for you, Girlfriend! But seriously, I changed her immediately into something more, well, fitting.
"Do NOT put that yellow outfit back in her drawer!" were my instructions from Big Daddy. He didn't want to make the same mistake twice, and why should he? It was high time I cleaned out her drawers.
I didn't realize how many out of size outfits had accumulated in her drawers. But I will say this...the amount of out of date clothes FAR out weighed what is in her current collection. But the thing that surprised me most? How sad it made me. My little baby Sweetie is growing up. Fast. They stay small for so short, and each tiny Spring and Summer ensemble reminded me of such. I found myself pausing over a baby blue onesie and skirt. I fingered them, mulled them over, and remembered how I purchased them at Target when we first moved to Anderson. I remembered how hard it was to leave Virginia, but how eager I was to start anew. I remembered how I was hoarse for a full month from all the move-related phone calls I had to make and now the wine flowed EXTRA freely during that time. I remembered stepping into a new Target, not my old Sterling Target, and having to navigate a different, foreign Target floorplan. But I did it, mostly alone, and I was proud of myself. How can a piece of cloth hold such memories? And why was I pausing as I put the onesie in the "discard" pile with a bevy of mismatched socks and Max's old undershirts? Because the blue outfit was stained. Stained with something light green around the waist and then some discoloration around the neck. I loved putting Vivien in this outfit because she looks so cute in blue. The blue brings out her bright blue eyes, and offsets her brown hair. Plus, it's something not so "girl" but at the same time, very feminine. I was at a crossroads. There was no reason per se, to keep the stained blue outfit. I wouldn't be passing it along to friends or family when they have a baby girl because who wants to put a soiled outfit on their precious tot? So I folded it up, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and put it in the diaper pail.
Moments later, I was folding up the "saved" outfits and placing them in a large, pink storage container. "Someday I will look back on these" I thought. "Someday, I will hold these outfits up, and laugh and cry and remember how 'Schweet' we thought Vivien was and what a special little Princess she was (and hopefully always will be)" and I thought of my mother's stained outfits, the one's she thought were perfect reminders of our childhood, holding the tell-tale stains of our history. I wondered if I would find hidden stains, if my tired, sentimental eyes were subconsciously missing spots so I wouldn't have to give them up.
Someday, I'll open that pink storage bin. I will pick through and ponder over Vivien's clothes...especially these clothes, the ones that not only remind me of my baby, but also of our big move to Anderson. I will laugh, I will cry, I will wax poetic, no doubt. And I will find stains. And it'll be ok. For when our memories look back remembering the past, do we not wipe clean the slate of "stained" memories, leaving room only for the good? I won't ever know for sure if my mother packed away stained clothes unknowingly or if the stains simply appear with age. And neither will she. Memory has a great way of surpressing these things. When we remember our children, our cherished little infants, it's hard to imagine anything being "stained."
And by the by, I am on my way upstairs to rescue the blue outfit from the diaper pail. I already know it has stains, so I won't be surprised when I look back on them someday, will I?

Mommy V. Ceiling Fan. Mommy: 1, Ceiling Fan: 0

Thursday, October 12, 2006
Mommy V. Ceiling Fan. Mommy: 1 Fan: 0 Current mood: pleased
It all started off so innocent. Picture it. Yesterday. A beautiful fall day in South Carolina. Not a cloud coving the gorgeous blue sky. A slight cool breeze, temperature steady at 69 degrees. Lov-er-ly.
While The Boy was at school, I took Viv to the grocery story to pick up a few items. Now, being the coy little schweetie that she is, she always seems to charm the pants off someone in order to trick them into giving her a balloon. We've literally had a guy from the produce department chase after us through the dairy section, pink balloon in hand, huffing and puffing, in order to make my little con artist giggle. Being the polite Southern Belle that I am, I always graciously accept the gift, all the while the gears are turning in head, thinking of a way to secret dispose of the choking hazard death trap that is the rubber balloon. You see, balloons are very dangerous because if they pop and your child inhales any balloon fragments, they basically cannot be "Heimliched" out. Not good. And I don't want to look like the mean, trolly, freakishly over-protective mom who would rather see their child cry in distress rather than give them a pretty little toy. It's almost always a man or an elderly female employee (read: someone who doesn't know the hazards of balloons) who offer forth the treasure.
So, yesterday, like clock work, my little princess batted her eyelashes and I heard, in slow motion: "Would she like a balloon?" and before I could yell at "NOOOOOOOO" (also in slow motion, much like when Maverick finds Goose dead in the water after ejecting from his navigation seat...) they were blowing up the balloon. Oh well, I'll just take it home and tie it to the garbage can in the garage (the trashmen must think we really like decorating our can.) Well, Sista Soulja wanted NOTHING to do with that idea, so the balloon came inside. Viv walked right into our bedroom and released the balloon to the ceiling, where it promptly wrapped itself tightly around our spinning ceiling fan. Now, I'm not exactly sure how high our ceiling is, but let me put it this way. If Andrew (6 foot 4) put a step ladder ON our bed, he STILL couldn't reach the fan. If you don't believe me, ask Becky, she's seen it with her own eyes.
So today, the battle with the balloon began. That's right. Andrew did not make any attempt to release the balloon. He left that fun project up to ME. You know, watch two kids, feed them, play with them, keep them happy, Oh, and somehow become a superhero so I can FLY up to the fan to untangle the stupid balloon.
Since this is already way too long, I'll just cut to the chase. With Vivien busy organizing the Body Shop body spray under my sink and Max upstairs in the playroom, I went to work. I made a bayonette out of a broom, some masking tape and a steak knife and all 5 foot 3 inches of me SAWED that motherfu-cker outta there. I didn't damage the fan, nor did I damage the steak knife.
I guess what I'm getting at is, when you become a mother and you're in the hospital holding that little baby in your arms, you really just can't see the future. I mean, I never pictured myself forging a bayonette out of a broom and steak knife, not even in "I think I'm Uma Thurman from Kill Bill" day dreams when I'm doing Kung Fu in my kitchen (eww...you probably didn't need to know that...)
Is it wrong that I'm super proud of my ingenuity? Or am I just excited to gloat that I didn't need a man to fix my problem for me? Or am I just happy that I got to fashion a bayonette out of household items?