Another Gray Hair

Viewing Window

Ugly Dawg, our beloved pop-up is billed as a camper that sleeps 7. This is not so. Four is about the max that she will hold comfortably. Toss in a dog and a baby and, well, you’ve got yourself a crowded house. But we’ll do just that as often as we can this summer and fall. Right now, the set up isn’t too bad. Harper (the baby) is so small that she sleeps in an under-the-bed storage container in our bed. It’s a King sized bed so we have no problem making room for her. The container she sleeps in is cloth. I bought it a couple years ago to store the kids’ artwork and craft projects in. We throw a blanket in there and she has no problem sleeping in it. It has a convenient viewing window on the side so that I can gaze at her sweet face while I drift off to sleep. I love it. I begged the Huz to let me use it at home, in our bed, but he’s not having it. He thinks the crib is a more appropriate place for the baby to sleep in. What’s wrong with him?

I want nothing more than to drift off to sleep each night, gazing at her sweet face. She’s my last baby. Every first with her is bittersweet because it is also a last. Her first smile was my last first smile and it filled up my bliss tank enough to keep me humming show tunes for days. Every time she nestles up against my chest and drifts off to sleep, I close my eyes and try to glue the sensation to my memory. I want to remember the way she smells, the sounds she makes, the warmth of her against me, the way it calms me to have her there, where she should be, warm in my arms.

So, you can be darn sure we’ll be camping a lot this season. If that’s what it takes to sleep next to my sweet Harper in her under-the-bed storage container, that’s what I’ll do.

 

**It should be noted, for the alarmist readers among you, that there is NO LID on the storage container.**

Almost Perfect

My oldest daughter is beautiful. I know I'm biased but she's not just beautiful by her adoring mother's standards. She's beautiful by society's standards. She has tons of brown hair, giant brown eyes and a gorgeous round face. She's the reason Brown-Eyed Girl was written. When she was born I looked her over and admired the sheer perfection that was her tiny body with one exception. There was a large patch of dark hair on her lower back. Her doctor noticed it too at the 2-month check-up. He said something like, "Oh she's just beautiful," then turned her over and said, "And I see she has a little patch of hair on her back. Don't worry Mama. That will fall out. It's not uncommon in babies born a little early." I tried to hide my relief.

She turned four last week and the patch is still there. It's even expanded a bit to take up a sizable area on her little backside. I guess my princess has a touch of werewolf in her. As long as hair doesn't start showing up on her upper lip, I'm ok with that.

I brought my newest little girl to the doctor yesterday for her 2-month check-up. It was déjà vu. "She's perfect Mama. I see she has a little hair on her back but that will fall out. It's not uncommon." Yeah right. I can say, in all honesty, that my back is hair-free. Both girls have inherited this trait from their Father's side of the family. Thanks Hales! Much appreciated.

Which of my lucky children inherited my non-hairy back? My son. Figures.

**I was initially going to title this Blog, "A Hairy Pair" but thought better of it. It's pretty funny in retrospect.**

Down the Road

My street leaves something to be desired, especially at the end, where it T's into a major highway. There my street, which sounds deceptively bucolic with a name like "Fairway Drive," is flanked on either side by some pretty intense eye sores. On the left side is The Rebel Drive-In. Aside from its unfortunate name, this Cleveland landmark is actually a pretty good place to eat. It's been around for years and I could see it appearing on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. The building is nothing to write home about but it is not particularly offensive either, except right now. The large iconic sign that faces the road is leaning precariously to one side as if it has been hit by a car or truck. It is one of those marquee signs with the removable letters. Right now, however, there are no letters but under the broken sign is a new sign, a portable smaller marquee. This is what it says:

SIGN BEING REPAIRED

Rich.

We've got a new business moving in across the street from the Rebel, the fourth or fifth in a line of failed attempts in that particular building. While driving back from picking my son up from school one day I noticed that the new ownership was doing some redecorating. It's an auto repair shop but they had clearly been shopping in the mismatched paint section at Lowe's because they had chosen a bright coral color for the exterior and a canary yellow for the trim. The front of the building was 2/3 painted and there was no sign that they intended to finish. After uttering some obscenities under my breath, I decided to embrace it. Hell, if our car ever breaks down, we won't need to call a tow truck. We can just put it in neutral and push it to the Backwoods Barbie repair shop down the street. I'm happy to report that the original color scheme was scrapped for a much more tasteful white with canary yellow trim and the shop should be open for business any day now.

The Baby in the Bubble

Just as I am finally feeling secure enough in my baby's immune system to start venturing out in public again, wouldn't you know it, a pandemic strikes. What freakin' luck I have. Now I have to stay at home and listen to Anderson Cooper rattle off statistics about the impending doom of mankind care of the swine flu, I mean H1N1, I mean hybrid influenza. Whatever the name, it is enough to scare the bejesus out of a new mother. So, if you see me about town with an infant car seat wrapped in Reynolds wrap and "Police Line Do not Cross" tape, please keep your distance. I'll be armed with Lysol and enough anti-bacterial gel to sanitize a small town and I won't be afraid to use it.