Giraffe puppet, doughnuts and football players

EB has been doing a lot of drawings lately, and she's come a long way since the surreal/scribble-like drawing
she created a year ago. Here are a few of my recent faves.

Giraffe Puppet

EB: "This is a puppet giraffe."

Me: "Why a puppet?"

EB: "Because I can't draw its legs.

 

Father's Day Card
EB: "This is me and Daddy. I have a chocolate doughnut and a strawberry doughnut. Daddy has two chocolate doughnuts."
Me: "Where's Mommy in the picture?"
EB: "Mommy...it's Daddy's day, not your day."

 

 Football player

 EB: "This is a picture of two boys and they are football players. This is a girl (the one on the left), and she's sad because they won't let her play football."

Me (slightly concerned): "Did that happen to you at school? Did the boys not let you play football"

EB: "No."

Me: "Do you know what football is?"

EB: "No."

Me: "Then where did you learn about football?"

EB: "On Caillou."

 

Wardrobe malfunction

I had the unfortunate experience of flashing my baby belly to an entire plane last week as I was flying back into Little Rock.

It’s gotten hard for me to sit still for longer than 30 minutes at a time, so after the takeoff, I stood up to go the bathroom. As I was making my way back to my seat, I saw that the flight attendant was serving drinks, so I patiently waited, reaching up for the overhead area to steady myself. I was perfectly content; I was sick of sitting, and it felt good to stretch out my back. I saw a few people look up at me, break into a smirk, and just as quickly look down. “Assholes…it’s as if you’ve never seen a pregnant lady before”, I think. And then I felt a bit of a draft on my mid-section. I glanced down and to my horror, I saw that my shirt had decided to creep its way up, and the belly band on my maternity pants decided to roll down toward the bottom of my belly. Fully exposed was my preggo mound—I could’ve charged people for a lucky rub of my big, Buddha belly.

My face burning, I quickly pulled my shirt down, and did my walk of shame down the aisle to my seat. The guy next to me looked up, smiled, and said brightly: “So, you’re having a boy or a girl?”

Weepy pregnant lady in the house

A generous friend gave us a gigantic bag of her 8-year old daughter's outgrown clothes this weekend. So, I decided to make my Fourth of July a clothes-sorting day: I organized all of EB's clothes and went through her baby stuff in search of unisex onesies for Baby Stephen. Simple enough, right? Except I forgot to mention that I've been a bit crazy lately -- in a weepy, nesting, pregnant-lady sort of a way.

My day went something like this:
1. Open up a bag of EB's baby clothes and pull out a cute onesie
2. Marvel at how much she has grown
3. Show it to K
4. Kiss EB and tell her not to grow up too fast
5. Break down in tears

K soon realized that nothing good could come out of him sticking around the house with a semi-crazy pregnant lady, so he sought refuge in a trip to Sam's Club with EB. So there I was, all alone, opening up bag after bag, pulling out EB's little bottles and outfits, marveling at them, and dissolving into tears.

Indeed, my pregnancy hormones have taken me for a ride on the crazy train.

Wacky hormones aside, the cliche is all too true: Time flies by way too quickly and kids grow up too darned fast. Just look at the little slippers that we used to put on her little feet...and compare them to her "new" hand-me-down boots. In the blink of an eye, my baby girl has grown into a little lady.

So when EB asked me to have a "sleepover" with her last night, I happily said yes. I had a great time, reading to EB, chatting with her about this and that, playing with flashlights, and finally coaxing her to close her eyes at around 11 PM. Even though it meant that I had to give up the very little time I have to get stuff done around the house, the "stuff" can wait. Pretty soon, EB is going to be off to sleepover parties with her friends, and this precious time that we spent together will be but a distant memory for her.