Rob is 100 percent serious when he says he plans to turn our backyard into a giant playground for the babies.
“How else will we entertain 3 wild kids?” he says.
How else, indeed.
We’re lucky to live in an area that has outdoor-play weather nearly all year, unless you count out the three months of sweltering heat that resembles the fiery pits of hell. But maybe I’m just a sensitive Northerner who just can’t handle the Southern heat.
ANYWAY.
The evenings have started to be more consistently pleasant, and since we’re always pulling every trick from our sleeves to curb the evening crankies, we decided it was time to start on that playground.
Phase 1 is simple, a homemade swingset. For $50 in building material, three swings my parents bought for cheap ages ago and squirreled away and a bit of elbow grease, the babies now have a swingset of their very own.
Callista supervised the building process and must have been impressed with what she saw:
The frame is a simple wood frame, but I’m assured there is plenty of potential for additions in the future – slides, forts/playhouses, sandboxes, etc. For now, the swings alone will do. They’ll do quite nicely, in fact. The babies love their new play zone, and it’s especially nice to get them outside to play without melting away (or melting down like the one time we tried them in a baby pool).
Toby looks so not amused, but I promise he was having fun. He was so close to falling asleep here!
Eleanor
Toby
Callista
Toby and Eleanor were happily playing in Baby Jail while I unloaded the dishwasher. Only part of a wall separated us, and I was keeping an ear out for any shenanigans or “SHE’S TOUCHING ME” cries (Toby’s already so over being touched by sisters).
Their playing got a bit louder, and I heard telltale “smack-smack-smack”s, which meant Eleanor had gotten herself to the hard floor again to smack something against it. Better check on them, just in case.
Oh, yes. They had broken out and were making their way into our foyer. Clever babies!
It looked initially like Toby was the culprit and Eleanor was innocently following along, but as I sat in front of them and snapped pictures (obviously the proper response), Eleanor scooted closer to the opened gate pieces and demonstrated what more-than-likely happened:
She was trying to pull herself up to standing using the gate.
Yes, that’s right. They’re all trying to pull themselves up using whatever they can get their hands on.
It’s ridiculous, really, considering Eleanor is still mastering how to crawl on her knees, which Toby is only experimenting with and Callista hasn’t even attempted.
They’re strong and determined – a dangerous and awesome combination!
Just pause a moment and picture what it might be like to juggle three little bodies all trying to pull themselves up on you and various things around you at the same time. Keep in mind those three little bodies are wobbly and grabby and unstable and prone to teetering and falling – onto each other.
I’ve been googling how to sew on extra arms because clearly two arms aren’t enough anymore.
I’m a wuss. How I’m going to quell the fear of monsters in closets and under beds is beyond me. Those things still scare the crap out of me in the right circumstances, after all.
OK, so maybe I’m not afraid of monsters anymore. I can’t even say I’ve ever been afraid of monsters. I have been and still am afraid of people creeping up in my house, on a mission to steal things and kill any people (me) who get in their way.
Issues. I haz dem.
You know how kids are afraid of monsters or alligators that live under beds, and they leap from doorway to bed to avoid the reach of such ankle-grabbing beings? Yeah, I lept from the door to avoid the person under there, wielding a knife and waiting to slash my ankles.
So why am I telling you about this nonsense? It all started in the shower last night.
I was showering, minding my own business and thinking about how I’d tweet to the world that I valiantly gave up 15 minutes of sleep in favor of getting rid of my Baby Jail stank. (You draft blog entries and tweets during your mindless tasks, too. Admit it. OK, maybe it’s just me because it’s often my only connection with anyone outside this house.)
I was washing my face, eyes closed and covered when I realized things seemed darker than they should. I peeped between fingers, hoping I was wrong, but yep – the light wasn’t on anymore. Our bathroom lights turn off for some reason, but I couldn’t remember if it was temperature or time. I hadn’t been in the shower long, and surely it hadn’t gotten that hot in there yet.
Holy crap.
There’s a killer waiting outside the shower door. Or in the tub. Or crouched just around the corner. The door into the bathroom was cracked, so they watched and waited for me to close my eyes and sneak in.
If I had been wearing pants, I would have peed them.
I froze and waited, wondering what Rob – who was in the garage – would do if I screamed, if I even had time to scream. Would he run to the babies first? Would he come save me, too?
(You should know I was born and raised in Ohio, so I think as quickly as I talk – these shenanigans lasted a whole 90 seconds, if that.)
A glimmer of reason flashed in my brain, and I took a huge risk, cracking open the shower door just enough for me to reach my arm around and turn on the light over the shower (the light that had been on before was over the tub).
Back in light, I froze again because, you know, the serial killer wouldn’t notice that someone turned on the light over the shower.
I’m rolling my eyes with you, I promise.
I rubbed a clear spot in the fogged-up door and desperately tried to see into the tub using the mirror on the opposite wall. I didn’t see anyone there, but they could be crouched down. My angle wasn’t any good, after all. Then another spark of sense flashed in my brain and I realized I should have just looked at the light switch. Switched on means it was just the light. Switched off means my paranoia is finally more than just that.
Switched on.
Huh.
Come to think of it, the light was on already when I came into the bathroom. Time or bulb temperature could have made it shut off.
Finally reconciled with the fact that no one was lurking in the shadows waiting to kill me, I finished showering in (jumpy) peace.
Normal adults probably wouldn’t share such wussy antics with anyone. Me? I toweled off and dressed and immediately went to tell Rob and his friend out in the garage and am now telling you.
Why? I think it’s hilarious. I think it’s ridiculously funny that, after all these years, the little girl who could so vividly picture thieves creeping through the flower beds under her window to come in, steal things (like Barbies?) and then kill her before running off – that little girl’s imagination is still active and paranoid of such atrocities. Any little bump in the night causes me to freeze and quiet my breathing (the logical defense, I know), convinced I’m about to meet my demise.
Was it fairy tales? SNICK? Scary Stories books? The local news? What inspired such wild fear in me, an only child in a town that honestly required no door locks because nothing bad ever happened there? Or is it just a wild and active imagination?
Whatever sparked the fear, it still burns on, waiting for a creak, a bump, a switched-off light, a stupid cat stuck in a stupid pantry.
As long as I can laugh about it later, I’m OK with the fear. It makes for good stories, at least!
I had a difficult time breathing while I read about Zaria, a tiny fighter who graduated from her month-long NICU stay but never left through the doors.
Zaria, whose twin sister was born still, was born at 21 weeks gestation. She fought and her parents fought, but the battle was bigger than her tiny body, and she passed away after a much-too-short time in this world.
If we’re all honest, this could be any of us. Premature birth doesn’t just affect twins, triplets or more. We support March of Dimes in hope of fewer tiny fighters losing uphill battles, but until then, we support families who have been in similar shoes but have walked different paths.
Suzanne is hosting a rad giveaway to entice you to donate to a family in need of support. Read about Zaria and consider donating to help her family. Our combined efforts might help dull the sting of dreaded medical bills for Zaria’s family. And, hey! You may be lucky and win one of the awesome prizes as a bonus.
I’ve said before that Eleanor is passionate about everything. She is 100 percent something all the time. This time, it’s breastfeeding.
No worries, folks. It’s safe for all to view – it’s in the dark, and you can’t see a thing. You may want to turn the volume down a bit if a baby moaning in pure pleasure would raise the eyebrows of anyone in earshot, though.
She doesn’t moan like this every time, but it’s a fairly frequent soundtrack to her mealtime. She does it while drinking bottles sometimes, too. Like I said. She’s passionate.
God help us when she’s a teenager.
