Three Men and a Baby

Moths to the Flame

They can’t leave her alone, these older men in Celeste’s life!

” Boys, I’m moving Celeste to a quiet room where she can sleep.  Please keep your noise in the den and not around her,” I said. The words were still flowing from my mouth as they followed me and the baby carrier into the dining room and set up their game at her feet. Adult words ignored by children, that’s what it really means to inherit the wind!

She’s just so darn cute!

My turn. No, mine.

William and Walker stand in eager silence as a bottle comes in view, ready to fight for the prize of feeding her first, in case their name is not the one called out to sit beside the pillow ready to prop her head and hold the bottle for her. Karsten is sure the solution to every cry is to run for a pacifier to put in her mouth (a case of do unto others, for sure).  One day the pacifier was nowhere in sight, but he knew something, anything, must be found! Inexplicably, he ran to his mother with a can of whole kernel corn from the pantry.

William is the most attentive, which isn’t surprising. He’s older, and he has always been a helper and a protector around children smaller than himself. I watched him the other day as he tried everything he knew to stop her fussing: pacifier, blanket tucking, head rubbing, hand patting, gentle shushing, calls to bring a bottle.  When, in spite of his efforts, she finally began crying inconsolably , William sat back with a resigned smile on his face, and announced, “There she blows!”

Lucky Celeste

Celeste already knows she is a lucky little girl.

My Girl!

I must have the sixties on my brain!  Go to You-tube and watch a few minutes of the Temptations singing and foot syncing if you want to put yourself in a good mood!  I saw Celeste again today, and My Girl is playing over and over in my head.  We’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day!

She's so soft!

Sunshine on a cloudy day.

Even got the month of May

My girl!

What can make us feel this way? My girl! Talkin’ about my Girl.

I have to find those old Temptation cd’s.  They’re around here somewhere.

Papa’s Gonna Buy You a Mockingbird

Hush Little Baby              ©3DogStudio

No need for a thousand words today.  The picture says it all.

Rotten Mr. Potato Head

Three Hours Old

Today, I hope to get some good pictures of Celeste.  Yesterday I had to be content using the point and shoot through the nursery glass.  She was completely swaddled and sleeping with her face all scrunched up and her eyes closed.  They had pasted a blue ribbon on her head, not realizing, I guess, that we are now into PINK!  She did look a little bit like a potato.

Now that my son is an adult, he has revealed how deprived he felt as a child.  I am grateful that after all these years I am able to explain how we inadvertently led him to the sad feelings that he was unworthy, perhaps had disappointed us.  

The moment of awful truth occurred  when my daughter-in-law mentioned that she wanted to give their son a Mr. Potato Head set, an assembly toy consisting of plastic potato shaped bodies and hundreds, if not thousands, of plastic body parts and accessories. My daughter-in-law was surprised when her casual statement caused a vehement response.  ”I hate Mr. Potato Head!  I had one when I was little and my parents made me use real potatoes.”   

When she told me how fried he was about his unhappy childhood, I mentally reviewed my options for explaining what we had done to him.

Perhaps I should apologize profusely for the lack of self-esteem this poor choice of toy caused in him. What about turning the guilt around by telling him we were really poor, and only doing the best we could?   Maybe add that we sacrificed food for the table in order to give him that Mr. Potato Head. It would be too strong to say we just didn’t like him, but I could remind him that we always searched dumpsters for his toys, and he was lucky to have even a partial set.

I could  tell him he was an idiot, but that would only reinforce his already low opinion of our parenting skills.  Could he possibly handle the truth, that when he was little, Mr. Potato Head didn’t come with plastic bodies, and that using real potatoes  was creative, challenging, and the ONLY option?

We hashed out this potato conversation close to the occasion of Celeste’s birth.  It was no surprise to me when my son called with the good news, that he told us she looked just like a little potato.  She is certainly not a toy, but she is exactly what she needs to be, whole and complete.  And we don’t have to deal with all those plastic parts that get stepped on and sucked up into the vacumn cleaner!

Flounces, Ruffles and all

Word Cloud ( http://wordle.net/ )

This morning I am waiting for the call to go to the hospital to meet my new granddaughter. Her name is Celeste, and that is all I know about her.

Will she put up with the pink and ruffles we are eager to dress her in after years of blue denim required for the three little boys already in the family? Will she be assured but cautious like her cousin William, a gravity-defying daredevil like Walker, or a nimble, climbing, human fly like her brother Karsten? Will she be shy, or like Karsten, confidently march out, an army of one, to meet the world?  

Will she like music, books, art, sports?  Will she be reserved? Out-going? Easy-going?  Will she have an amazing memory and a wry sense of humor like her dad,  follow her heart as her mother did when she became a veterinarian and advocate for helpless animals? Will she be helpful, generous, responsible and reject green peas until she’s eighteen like her aunt Elizabeth, hate shoes and remove them whenever possible like her great-uncle John and Grampa Kyle? Will she have her Mother’s infectious laugh, her Dad’s ability to make up words and use them with authority?

Will she have her Grandmother Anita’s sense of style and Danish tastebuds, her Nana-K’s creative bent? Maybe she will be an analytical problem solver like her two grandfathers? Will she like to travel, be scholarly like great-grandfather Frank, have a generous spirit like great-grandmother Polly, or a keen observer of the humor in the world like great-grandmother Marjorie?  What will her favorite color be? 

We have so many questions. She has none. She will just appear, trusting that we will love, guide and teach her, no matter what the answers are to any of our questions.