Emptying the Baby Trousseau

3 03 2012

This started out as a hand-written note (yes, people still write those), but then for some reason I felt compelled to turn it into a blog post. Maybe someone out there needs to read it, or maybe I’m just a raging narcissist. You be the judge!

Before I ever got pregnant, I expected to have girls. I had good reason—Car’s brothers had only managed to spawn two sons at that point. (Even now, we contribute 1/3 of the Smith clan’s naturally-born grandson population.) Then I got pregnant which, as you know, didn’t go very well the first three times. However, in two of the three pregnancies I lost, we knew the gender: girl.

With girls on the brain, I did the natural thing many a baby-hungry woman has done: I bought baby clothes. If I saw something ridiculously cute on sale, I snatched it up. I filled a Rubbermaid tub with clothes fit for a princess and dubbed it my “baby trousseau.”

After my third loss, the baby trousseau was discreetly tucked away along with other baby-related items. Friends would have babies and I’d buy them gifts, but obviously I wasn’t going to take anything from my bin—that was stuff for my baby.

Four years passed, and I was finally blessed with my miracle baby, who just happened to be a boy.

My brother’s wife had a baby—the first girl on our side of the family. “Oh, she would look so cute in this outfit I have!” I said, and with a little pull at my heart, I opened up the big blue bin and found something perfect for my new niece.

Three more years, and another miracle—again, a boy. This time, a strong (very welcome) feeling that my childbearing years were over.

Little by little, my baby trousseau has dwindled as my acceptance has grown. Last week I opened it up to find a gift for a friend and discovered I’d reached the last of the items from my blue bin of princess clothes.

Emotions are funny things.

I have no desire to keep girl clothes at my house. I’m thrilled I’ll never have another baby. Yet here I sit, weeping because my baby trousseau is now empty.

Still, that bin can now be filled with rocks and cars and Legos (and skinny contortionist boys). I doubt it’ll stay empty very long.

I won’t be the mother of girls in this life, and that’s okay.

I’m the mother of boys. It’s not at all what I expected, but it’s glorious.

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Plausible Deniability

11 02 2011

I love the stage when kids first start to lie. As time goes on it becomes decidedly less adorable, but at the outset, when they don’t even try to to keep their lies in the realm of the possible, it’s pretty darn cute.

As part of our nightly bedtime routine, when we’ve finished scriptures, prayer, and bedtime stories, the kids hop onto the ottoman and I swing them into the next room. They’re always loaded up with paraphenalia—Big G has his Pillow Pet, Lightning McQueen blanket, and assorted other treasures (on any given night these can include sheets of Care Bears stickers, an origami star, coins, or candles) and Little G has his pillow (pet).

Tonight Little G jumped up on the ottoman and I heard a strange clanking sound coming from his pillow. I groped around the pillowcase and felt the shape of…a toy. Possibly a car. I was too lazy to actually reach into the pillowcase to find out.

“Little G, is there a toy in your pillow pet?”

As I stood there with my hand clutched around the toy in the pillow, Little G looked at me, pursed his lips, tossed his head to the side, and said, “Nope!”

He’ll make a fine politician someday.





I’m Okay with That

20 05 2010

One of our cars is currently in the shop, which means that Car has to drive to work (at about 6:30 or 7 am), work for a couple of hours, and then bring the car back so I can taxi the kids around. I drive him back to work, and go about my business.


Car works in a production environment, so he wears prescription safety glasses at work. I realize safety is more important than fashion, but I’ll put it this way: if he wore those glasses all the time, we wouldn’t have to make a conscious effort to prevent offspring.

When he brought the car home today, he’d forgotten to switch glasses, which led to this exchange:

Big G: “Why is dad wearing those glasses?”
Me: “You’ll have to ask him.”
Big G: “Dad, why are you wearing those glasses?”
Car: “Because your mom thinks I look hot in them.”
Me: “Why would you say that to a 4-year-old?!”
Big G: “I’m okay with that.”

I almost ran the car off the road. I have the most awesome 4-year-old ever.





I’m Brick Tamland’s Mom

11 05 2010

Just before I take Big G back to bed, Car always says, “Goodnight, I love you.” Sometimes Big G answers, other times, he’s totally oblivious.

Tonight seems like a totally oblivious night until we get halfway back to his room and he says, “I heard dad.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this, so I ask, “Well, why didn’t you tell him you love him too?”

“Because I don’t love dad.”

I harbor a lot of guilt over being the favorite parent. I realize I have no control over it, but I still feel bad about how obviously Big G favors me. At the same time, I’m pretty sure it’s not true that he doesn’t love Car, so I decide to investigate this a little more thoroughly.

Me: “Why don’t you love dad?”
Big G: “Because I love you.”
Me: “But you love dad too, right?”
Big G: “No. I just love you.”
Me (getting a little frustrated): “I love you, but I also love Little G and daddy.”
Big G: “I don’t love dad.”
Me: “I love you and Little G and daddy and grandma and grandpa and Uncle Peter, all at the same time.”
Big G: “I love you and Little G and grandma and grandpa and Uncle Peter and Andrew. But not daddy.”

At this point I’m becoming rather concerned that some sort of serious relationship repair needs to happen between Big G and Car.

Me: “I think you do love daddy.”
Big G: “I love my fish lamp.”

I’m not making that up. Big G just channeled Brick Tamland.

In his defense, it is a pretty cool lamp.

I decided to let it go. He’s only four, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t hate his dad. Right?

*Pediatric Neurology appointment tomorrow. Wish us luck.





Go play outside. Seriously.

4 05 2010

Little G has a speech delay. I don’t think it’s that big a deal. If he hadn’t been born so early (29 weeks, for those just joining my blog), I might not have even noticed or sought help. But he was, and I did, and so here I am with a 2-year-old who has speech therapy. He has about 15-20 words, and doesn’t do any two-word combinations. Again, I’m not terribly stressed about it. That’s not the point of this post.

Oh, you want to know what the point of this post actually is? You people are so demanding. It’s the words he does say.

I find myself filled with overwhelming shame when I admit that out of my child’s 15 words, two of them are “Dora” and–as of this morning–“Wiggles.”

At least they aren’t swear words, right? (Although I have to admit, “Wiggles” kind of comes out like a swear word when I say it.)

The best part of this? I don’t even have cable. Yeah. This is all from watching Sprout and Nick Jr. at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. (Lest it sound like I’m blaming them, please note that I didn’t say we don’t watch TV at our house. Just that we don’t have cable. Obviously PBS Kids isn’t engendering the same sort of devotion in Little G.)

I’m looking forward to warmer weather. This kid really needs to get out more.

*If you’re reading this, thanks for following me over here! Now I don’t have to spend the rest of my day in the fetal position!

**At least, not for reasons related to my blog.

***I took long enough to post this that it’s now Wordless Wednesday. Frick.





My Kid is a Little Creepy

2 05 2010

As you know, Little G’s birthday was yesterday. It was a great day. We went to the aquarium, had pizza and cupcakes, and Grandma and Grandpa bought him a water/sand play table. It was in the 40s and raining, so we temporarily put it in the garage and filled the whole thing with water. Awesome, right? Little G loved it.

Here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have nightmares about Little G’s laugh. Seriously. He sounds like a crazed killer clown or something, and he’s doing it all the time now. It’s not just me, right? This is creepy.

Sweet dreams, my lovelies!





Happy Birthday Little G!

1 05 2010

As this is my blog, I reserve the right to post gratuitous celebrations of my children. Two years ago today, we welcomed a beautiful little 3 pound boy into our family.

 Happy birthday, little man. You’ve come a long way.