Thanks to fair Winnie, whose comment on my last entry sent me to the dollar store, I put together the much-talked-about bumblebee, butterfly and flower costumes for a whopping $7.
We had the flower headband already. The wings were all $1. I bent Callista’s wings so they were more leaf-like (I knew I couldn’t bring home wings for Toby and Eleanor and not have wings for Callista, so her wings became leaves). The antennae headbands originally had skulls on them but were only $1 each at AC Moore, so I ripped off the skulls and stuck on styrofoam balls I had on hand that I then painted black ($1 bottle) and pink (already had it). Toby’s wings got new fabric-paint ($1) stripes. The final piece was a styrofoam cone ($1) used for flower arranging that got a coat of black paint.
They’ll be a bumblebee, butterfly and flower by day and pumpkins by night. Or maybe they’ll be bumblebee/butterfly/flower-pumpkin hybrids, but that’s totally cool because it makes even more sense than any of those sexy monster/goblin/zombie costumes that are ever so popular, AMIRIGHT?
Toby, Eleanor and Callista, I’m writing this blog entry for you, for your future days in therapy, so you can hold up a calendar with Oct. 31, 2013, circled in red marker to pinpoint when your mother started breaking your hearts.
(If we’re honest, it was probably when I decided triage parenting – neediest one tended to first – was our style of choice with three infants and not enough arms to go around.)
We limit the number of television shows ETC watch for many reasons, but the number one reason they don’t watch many shows is because they bug the shit out of me.
Dora happens to be one of those.
Sunday morning, I was trying to get breakfast finally made amid all the “Help me, Mama” requests of the potty/play/fight/time-out/boo-boo kiss/etc. nature, and I let the TV keep running after an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba. They were quietly watching a Halloween Dora episode, and I could finally make breakfast, so I just did. not. care. that I was listening to, “VAMANOS! LET’S GO!” (Seriously, Dora. Why must you yell everything? Set an example and use your quiet voice.)
And then I heard it.
Toby: I wanna be a bumblebee for Halloween!
Eleanor: I wanna wear a butterfly costume for Halloween!
Callista: I wanna be a flower for Halloween!
Me, poking my head into the living room: But, you’re pumpkins, remember? You love your pumpkin costumes!
Them: Repeat earlier lines, with more emphasis and volume.
Oh, boy.
This is what I get for being proud of myself for sneaking last year’s costumes (three Pottery Barn Kids pumpkins I bought barely used and for a tiny price) past them. They were super excited when I pulled them out. They still have no clue they’re last year’s costumes, but instead of me skipping into Halloween pleased with my money-saving scheme, I’m dragging my feet and feeling guilty.
They’ve been happily telling people for weeks now that they’re going to be pumpkins, but they’re now saying, “I’m gonna be a bumblebee/butterfly/flower with such glee that it breaks my heart to stand behind them, silently shaking my head and mouthing, “Pumpkins.” It’s even worse (albeit adorable in a Michelle Tanner kind of way) to hear, “But I don’t waaannnt to be a pumpkin,” when I try to talk up their recycled costumes.
Sigh. Dora, I like you even less now that you taught my kids they can have opinions about Halloween costumes. I dread what other opinions are going to spring forth from this valuable Nick Jr. lesson. The occasional daily outfit opinion pops up along with the always daily underwear opinion. I’m not ready for input from three near 3-year-olds!
I really did think about scrambling to make new costumes on the cheap, but the next thing I knew, two days passed, and at the start of writing this, I’m facing two remaining days plus needing to stay super duper cheap. Naturally, I’m running scared from the idea. I just know I’d spend too much and wouldn’t be able to pull off decent-looking costumes and would use the pumpkins anyhow, so I’m giving up.
I’m going with my original plan, the “They won’t remember their costumes. They’ll have fun regardless. They’ll look adorable and stay comfortable. The candy will distract them from what they’re wearing. Did I mention they look adorable in these second-run costumes?” plan.
Only, now they can read about it. Oops. Sorry, kiddos.
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I rarely know what the date is anymore, so it took me by surprise when I saw the Wave of Light and other remembrance notes start pouring in on my Twitter and Instagram feeds before bed last night.
I double checked the calendar, and, sure enough, it’s October 15.
It’s been four years since my first loss and three and a half years since my second loss. We were told we’d lost Callista, and while that declaration was miraculously wrong, it was the most painful and confusing of my loss experiences. In the time that’s passed, I’ve had plenty of other pregnancy- and baby-related trauma that hasn’t exactly eclipsed the devastation I felt with my two losses, but compartmentalizing has allowed me to stow a lot of those feelings under lock and key.
I’m lucky.
I carry the experience with me always, but I only find myself accessing my memories when I truly need them – when I pray for babies struggling to live, when someone I know experiences a loss, when I fill out medical forms that ask for my number of pregnancies and births, when it’s October 15.
Time has given me some mental clarity, and I’m partially grateful for what I went through. I can’t say how I would hope things went if I had a do-over, but I can say that I’m happy with how things have turned out. I am a better mother. My cords of my marriage got stronger. I am a better friend. I dread going back to those days in my mind. I’m happy to have them buried under new memories. But, Lord. I’m thankful to remember those pregnancies and the hopes, dreams and definitions that bloomed the three days I learned I was pregnant.
We went camping this weekend. In a tent. In the woods. In another state. In the mountains. Everyone told me I was crazy for taking my almost-3-year-old triplets on a real camping trip. I told them it’d be fine. It’d be fun. They’d do great.
They were wrong. I was right. It was fun. They did great. It was an AWESOME weekend.
True, camping with three little kids isn’t anything like camping with just adults. They tested my patience. They made their daddy nervous. There was scolding, tears, boo-boos, triplet fights and more than a few repeats of “No!” and “Be careful, please,” and “Don’t touch the itchy leaves!” and “That’s not safe,” but there were no real injuries – not even a scrape requiring a bandage – and there was only one time-out.
At one point, I was fretting to Rob about missing out on one thing or the other simply because of time or logistics or probably just having too many things on my want-to-do list. He stopped me and pointed out all the things we were doing. And all the things we have done.
I’m a dreamer, which is a blessing and a curse. I’m also clearly a do-er, but I have a hard time turning the dream machine off even when I’m in action. I’m always planning my next big conquest, and I tend to get carried away with what I think should be happening next rather than what’s happening now.
One of my biggest fears in becoming a mother of triplets was that our family wouldn’t experience things like singleton families. I made it my goal to keep as many of the the “OMGTRIPLETS?!” hangups from negatively affecting their lives.
Comparing the trips, excursions and outings of my only-child childhood with that of my triplets who aren’t quite three … well, let’s just say I’m fairly sure that if the scales haven’t already tipped in their favor, they’re pretty close to tipping.
Naysayers, fear mongers and my own worries have no chance against my hopes and dreams.
