The Pixie turns THREE!

My status update on the Little Pixie's birthday is always this:
"November 3, 2009...The day the world met Darby."

I planned a big "Harvest Party" for the Pixie.  I admittedly go a little overboard on birthday parties.  I like to throw a good party.  Judge if you wish.  Anyhow, I made giant checkerboards out of burlap and used those miniature gourds and pumpkins as the checkers.  I made some rag top quilts and giant pillows and fleece blankets.  It was cute.  It was cold.  We had a couple fire pits, and it was still cold.  I made these chocolate pumpkin cupcakes for Darby.  She saw all the preparations that went into this party, but I don't think she realized it was all for her.  Well, I KNOW she didn't realize it was all for her until we sang Happy Birthday.

Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday dear DARBY!!
(At this point, Darby was physically taken aback.  She took two or three steps backward and had a look of astonishment turned pure joy on her face!  A look that I caught on camera!  A look that is now ingrained in my memory forever!  All the work was worth it for that one look!  That smile can get me through the messiest of messies in the kitchen-you know, the "woops-i-totally-didn't-mean-to-dump-the-ENTIRE-box-of-cheerios-out" mess?  Yep!  The joy on her face even takes away THAT)
Happy Birthday to YOU!!!

It was a great birthday!
...a great party! 
...for a great little three-year-old!

Someone get this girl a MIC!

Darby loves to sing.  The girl knows almost every lyric to every song on the radio.  Often times, she will be in the back and holler up to me when a good song comes on, "Mommy!  I LOVE this song!  This is my FAVORITE song!  SING IT!"  Sometimes I know the words.  Sometimes I don't.  Guess how it ends if I don't...

Anyhow, she loves to sing.  You get the picture.

I was at bible study one morning.  This particular morning, when bible study ended, our babysitter walked Darby in to the room.  Darby scanned the room and quickly honed in on the microphone and stand that was set up on the little stage in the corner.  It was set up to "Darby height."  Perfect!  She ran up to the mic and started singing.  She quickly gained a captive audience of about 30 women.  As the room grew quiet, Darby blasted out, "MOMMY!  CAN WE GO TO STARBUCKS AND GET A CAPPUCINO?!"  Immediate laughter burst through the room.  Thirty sets of eyes spun my way.  How does a mother of an almost three-year-old answer THAT one?

"Umm...yes, but we'll have to get DECAF this time."

Preparing for Haiti...

So, through a strange course of events, my friend, Kristin, and I ended up signing up to go on a missions trip to Haiti.  The missions organizations that we went with required that we be on anti-malaria meds for the duration of our trip, so a quick trip to my doctor was in order.  I don't know if it's just me, or if every mother absolutely dreads going to the doctor, simply because your have to drag your kids with you.  I mean, I think I've had pink eye for three weeks and can't motivate myself to go to the doctor because I have to take Darby with me.

Typically, a doctor visit for me will include Darby making an outright raucous in the waiting room, turning the little kiddie waiting section into an area for which the Governor would declare a state of emergency if he were to see it.  Aside from the disaster Darby creates, there is always that Mennonite lady with her little-house-on-the-prairie dress and bonnet and black tennis shoes with her identically dressed, completely quiet, well-behaved girl sitting quietly with her legs and hands crossed.  How nice it must be to sit in complete silence, knitting, while you wait for your turn to see the doctor.  The only reprieve from the waiting room is knowing that nurse's assistant will be there to call your name out, causing your little redhead to sprint for the door so you can walk the gauntlet to the scale, leaving the waiting room in disarray, and that sweet little Mennonite lady to finish her sock.

I think I annoy my doctor.  We are in the middle of an adoption from Haiti, so I'm always going in there with requests to have my urine and blood tested, physical after physical.  "You need to be tested for Syphilis for this adoption?"  Dude.  Don't ask.  We're talkin' HAITI here.  They don't ROLL how WE ROLL!  Answer: "Yes. (WHATEVER!  This is WAY more painful for me than it is for you, man)"  Remember: I'm doing ALL this stuff with Darby in tow! 

Come to think of it...I've always wondered why I leave my doctor's appointments sweating.  It's coming into focus now.  I THINK it MIGHT be because I'm wrestling with Darby from the moment I walk in, until I leave.

Anyhow, I finally made it in to my doctor's office this particular day.  Doc walks in and proceeds to have the following conversation with THE REDHEAD:

Darby: "I like your shoes."

Doctor: "I like your shoes, but my shoes are bigger."
Darby: "Does anyone in this room wear tennis shoes?"
Doctor: "Not right now, but sometimes they do."
Darby: "What's your name?"
Doctor: "Doctor Patti."
Darby: "Doctor Patti cake, Patti cake, baker's man...bake me a cake as fast as you can."
Me (to myself): "So, I'm going to Haiti, and I need a bunch of stuff." !)

The girl can turn any given situation into rhyme or song.  Try her.

More dirt...

Monday, I decided to tackle Tate's room.  I pulled out an embarrassing amount of TRASH from underneath his bed.  I cleaned his room for FOUR HOURS.  I felt a twinge of guilt spending all this time cleaning Tate's room when we had an overnight guest coming that evening, but our guest swings through a lot when he's on the road, and he's more like family now, and family doesn't judge when your house is trashed, right?  No?  Okay, well, I guess I stopped caring then.

Anyhow, you might be thinking, "What was Darby up to when you were cleaning for four hours?"  Answer: I don't know.  (Joke...sort of)  Sometimes, you "gotta do what you gotta do," right?  She kept running in, tripping over stuff and running out, so I knew she was still alive.  After my marathon cleaning session, I did a couple loads of laundry, grocery shopping, made dinner, and all the sudden it was time for soccer and my five mile run.  Dallas got home from work, and sort of started freaking out because DVDs were thrown all over our living room.  That's a daily occurrence in the Hills household, and I see them more as "accessories" than DVDs strewn across the floor at this point in life.  On top of the DVDs, Darby, once again, dug the dirt out of my favorite plant in my favorite corner.  I knew all this would happen!  It's nothing new!  I just chose to overlook the somewhat catastrophic look of my family room.  Our friend, who is yet to become a parent, would have to overlook the mess (in my opinion).  My run would take precedence.  I mean, really, you have to prioritize, folks!  Come on!  Not Dallas's thought...at all.  He was willing to make the kids late for soccer in order to pick up the DVDs.  I told him to take the kids, and I'd deal with the mess.  He left for soccer.  The way I saw it after this is that I had to choose between vacuuming up the dirt OR picking up the DVDs.  I chose the DVDs.  Remember, I'd been cleaning all day long.  I was one swipe of the vacuum away from the local mental hospital.  So, after I straightened, I left for my run.

After soccer, we drove home, and our friend had arrived.

Awhile later, he said, "You want the good news, or the bad news?"  I always take the "bad news" first, given the choice, because sometimes the "good news" makes you feel better after hearing "bad news".  Dallas chose the "good news."  Our friend looked a little disappointed and then confessed, "Well, there really isn't any good news.  I looked over in the corner (pointing to my favorite plant), and there's dirt everywhere."  He looked a little unsure...you know, kinda "feeling us out" to see how we would react.  I gave a throw of the hand, "Oh, that happens almost daily."  He looked a little taken aback at our reaction.  "Dog?" He questioned, to which Dallas and I both replied in unison, "Darby."  But, seriously, man!  Haven't you HEARD the stories?!

The way I see it, a little bit of dirt is WAY better than the pile of petrified dog poo that was in our basement last Spring when he came through...

I'll take that...and put it in my water glass.

I don't know why Darby does this, but any time there's an available and accessible water glass, she takes the nearest inanimate object and tosses it in.  Let me give you an example...

The other day, I was out clipping back my perennials in the yard.  I had a cup of water sitting nearby because it was a pretty warm day.  I knew better, really.  It's not like this is the first time this has happened.  Darby took the garden shovel and plopped it right in my cup.  That's just one of many, many, instances.  Last night's example was the best.

We took the kids out to Dairy Queen for buy one, get one for 99 cents blizzards after soccer practice.  After we sat down (Do anyone else's kids still insist on sitting in booster seats when they're readily available...just because it's fun-even Naomi's "Felicity" doll had a booster seat!  I didn't even fit in the BOOTH!) and began eating, Naomi dropped her spoon on the seat.  She picked it up and plopped it back into her M&M/Brownie blizzard, at which point I said, "Naomi?  That has 'butt germs' on it now, and you just put it back in your blizzard!"  The look on her face was hilarious...a mixture of disgust and hilarity.  She climbed out of her own booster, and somehow maneuvered over Felicity's booster, and went to get another spoon.  At this point, you're probably wondering if this post has anything to do with Darby.  Yes.  It does.  See, DARBY, will seize any opportunity to create havoc.  I'm sure she learned that from her brother.  Darby, realizing that the "butt germ" spoon was very near Naomi's drinking water, grabbed the spoon, and plopped it into the water cup, of course!  Sometimes, I wonder what's going through Darby's head.  Was she trying to clean the spoon off for her sister?  Did she just want to know what would happen to the water if she did it?  Who knows?  Dallas sprang into action, grabbed the spoon, and Dallas, Tate and I just looked at each other with a widespread look of panic...a "What do we do?!  What do we say?!" kind of moment.  Seconds later, Naomi returned victorious with her new spoon.  "Look!  It's shorter than the last one!"  No one said a thing.  We laughed and laughed and laughed, but no one told her.  I sat there looking into the slightly murky water cup as Naomi took a sip.  We all laughed.  Naomi never knew, and I don't think Darby knew either.

God bless Dairy Queen.

HOW DARE YOU!

If any of y'all are country music fans, you have, no doubt, heart Miranda Lambert's tribute to her husband's (Blake Shelton) brother, who passed away.  I just love the simplicity of this song.  You can almost empathize with her on her husband's behalf.

Confession:  I'm a big time car singer.  I sing all the time, and I sing loudly.  Darby is taking after me.  She'll be in the back seat, and she'll hear a song she likes.  She'll call out, "TURN IT UP!"  Then, she'll say, "SING IT, MOMMY!"  I didn't really understand that she was learning vocabulary and beginning to use it in context until this song came around.

One day, after hearing this song, one of Darby's siblings took something from her, and I heard her angrily declare, "HOW DARE YOU, NAOMI! HOW DARE YOU!" She even said it in context, which I found fascinating!

Darby knows more lyrics to more songs than I know at this point!  Pontoon, by Little Big Town, is another Darby fav.  I just hope she doesn't pick up Tim McGraw's "TRUCK YEAH"!

"God Spankins"

August 12th, 2012:
"I've never had 'THAT kid' before. I've never had 'THE BITER,' that is, until today. The culprit? Guess...go ahead...GUESS who bit her friend today at church. You guessed correctly."

I'm pretty sure most of our friends and acquaintances from church have long since gotten wind of Darby's escapades.  She gallops all the way up to sign in every Sunday morning.  She jumps the entire time I sign her in...so much so, that I have a hard time getting her name tag sticker on her back without sticking it to her bouncing red curls.  I'm pretty sure several of our pastors read these stories.  Know how I know?  They are now walking up to me at church like I'm some victim of a redheaded horror story.  You know, the girl who screams when the zombie or killer rings the doorbell, but proceeds to run all the way up to the attic instead of out the back door?  Haha!  Yes. That kind of victim...but I'm no victim.  If I had some run-of-the-mill kid, I'd be bored stiff.  A girl needs excitement sometimes, and I have excitement ALL the time!  Anyhow, after I sign her in and finally manuever the sticker into place, it's time to hike up to the third floor to drop her off.  

They have this strange half door thing going on in the two-year-old classroom, and they always have this clipboard teetering on the edge.  So, most mornings, I chase Darby up the stairs, through the hallway and catch the clipboard as it falls to the ground while Darby lets herself in to class, does some victory jumps and says "hi" to her friends.  The room stops.  Kids stop playing.  Teachers stop teaching.  Darby has arrived.  She is now the center of attention, right where she likes to be.  Nothin' like getting your blood pumping before worship, y'all!  

You know, you've all heard of "the biter."  You know the one.  The one who terrorizes the children at preschool?  The kid at kiddie watch at the YMCA who bites...it's so bad, in fact, that when he's there, you decide not to run that day?  Yeah...that kid.  WELL.  I have that kid.  I picked Darby up from church one fine Sunday morning, and the sweet lady who runs the children's ministry very kindly told me that Darby had to sit in the "naughty chair" because she bit Noah.  The absolute first thing that went through my head was, "Oh, great.  Now I have 'THAT KID'."  I didn't let her have her lollipop that day.  The sky may as well have been falling, so extreme was her reaction to missing out on her Sunday morning highlight.  

The "naughty chair" is beginning to be a Sunday morning tradition.  Darby threw a book up in the air last Sunday, and it came down and hit her on the head.  You know what I call those sorts of events?  
"God spankins," aka. "self critiquing mistakes."  Don't you worry your pretty little mind.  She ALSO gets disciplined, but the "God spankins" just add a little sweetness to the joy of being a mother.  It's like He is on my side, and He is!  I'm trying to raise my Little Red Pixie to be a Big red Pixie who loves the Lord her God with all her heart, mind, soul and strength! 

 And, since "it takes a village," I am happy to hear that I have a team of people who are graciously sitting her little bottom in the "naughty chair...and then giving her a lollipop.  !)

 July 31st, 2012: 
"Darby snuck out of the house when I was vacuuming, went down the hill to play on our neighbor's play set and got stung by a bee. Can anyone say self critiquing mistake?"

Was I locked IN, or was she locked OUT?

There was one day toward the end of summer when my two big kids were out playing at friends' houses.  Darby and I had been playing dolls in her room for about an hour, when I decided it was her nap time.  I told her it was time for a nap, and she reminded me that her blankie was downstairs.  I said, "Well, go get it real fast!"  She replied, "Okay," and ran out of her room.  The next thing I know, I'm locked in her room.  I tried to coach her to unlock the door.  No gold.  I temporarily freaked out because the big kids weren't supposed to be home for a good, solid hour, and who knows what kind of damage Darby could do in that amount of time given free reign of the house!

After several minutes, and after realizing that this was NOT working, I decided to open the window and yell for Tate (can you picture this ridiculous scenario?).  We have a very friendly neighborhood, and people are always out and about, so I would just wait there, yelling out the window.  Unfortunately, on this fine August day, NO one was coming by.  The birds weren't even chirping!  I was all...alone....locked in Darby's room, trying to keep her entertained enough to stay right outside the door while sprinting from door to window so I didn't miss any passers-by.  Several minutes later, some "Good Samaritans," my next door neighbor's son and friend, came by.  I think Thomas is in sixth grade this year.  Here's how it went down:

Me (yelling out the window to Thomas and friend who were across the street):  "THOMAS!!!  THOMAS!!!  DO YOU SEE ME?!!!"
Thomas (tentatively):  "Yeah!"
Me: "Thomas!  Can you go in my garage and come upstairs to unlock Darby's room?  I'm locked in!!!"
(Remember, the kid's in sixth grade.  And, even sixth graders understand the incredulousness of this situation)
Thomas:  "Are you kidding?"
Me (to myself): "NO, I'm not kidding!  Are you for real?!  Why would I make this UP?! (all while laughing, fully recognizing the absurdity of this request)"
Me (to Thomas): "NO, I'm not kidding!  I'm locked in here!"
Thomas: "Okay.  I'll be right up!"

Thankfully, during our interchange, Darby did not leave the door, and Thomas and friend quickly ran upstairs and let me out.  In total, I was probably only locked in about 10 minutes, but it was a long 10 minutes!  And, I'm happy to have left Thomas and friend a story to tell for years to come!


August 10th, 2012:
"Guess who just locked me in a room?! You guessed correctly! Thank goodness for Thomas walking by! I had to shout out for him to come in through the garage and let me out! He thought I was kidding at first! Oh, dear little Thomas...mothers of Darbies do NOT kid around!"

Status updates~July/August 2012

 To play a little catch up, Here are some status updates from July and August accompanied by a short narration if necessary.  Enjoy!

July 18th, 2012:
"Why does the redhead scream so much?! I don't get it! Is the red trying to get out?!"

So, some of you might judge me here, but you can't keep an eye on your kids 24/7, and I can't exactly vacuum while she's napping, so here goes:
July 31st, 2012: 
"Darby snuck out of the house when I was vacuuming, went down the hill to play on our neighbor's play set and got stung by a bee. Can anyone say self critiquing mistake?"

August 5th, 2012:
"Me: 'Darby, go ride the plasma car.'
Darby: 'No! I wanna ride a unicorn.'
Me: 'No.'"

The next two statuses followed the infamous eye doctor appointment where I lost Darby:
August 6th, 2012:
"Off to Rockville for Darby's opthamology appointment. Really looking forward to getting new glasses, breaking them, ordering new ones only to have her bend them and making, say, 10 new trips up to the eyeglasses place for "adjustments" (note: heavy sarcasm)."

August 8th, 2012:
"About to make trip #1 to get Darby fitted for a new pair of spectacles. 'Jesus, help me!'"

We were invited to the pool with some friends.  After chasing Darby around all day, keeping her afloat and alive, she decided it was time to go off the diving board.  I stood right there and pulled her up out of  the pool over and over and over while she jumped and jumped and jumped.  She's fearless...
August 8th, 2012:
"Darby had to have gone off the diving board 20 times today!"

August 9th, 2012:
"Darby just asked Dallas if she could get married."

Darby, somehow, tore a hole in her pullups.  It was a vertical tear right along her butt crack.  I've had two other kids wear pullups without mishap!  Only on Darby...
August 10th, 2012:
"Well, THIS has never happened to me before! Brings new meaning to 'split you're britches'!"

Babysitters are different than DARBYsitters.

Babysitter: n.  1. A person engaged to care for one or more children in the temporary absence of parents or guardians.  2. A person who cares for or watches over someone or something that needs attention or guidance.

DARBYsitter: n. 1. A person engaged to care for and hopefully keep alive, one little redhead in the temporary absence of parents.  2. A person willing to risk life and limb to keep a redhead alive for several hours.

There is a difference...a LARGE difference, between a BABYsitter and a DARBYsitter.

A babysitter is required to change diapers, play, possibly feed children a small snack or meal, and possibly put children to bed.  I try to spoil my sitters.  I order pizzas for dinner.  My kids are always in their pajamas, and I'm fine with them watching a pre bedtime movie.  It's usually a pretty easy job, and I pay well. 

A DARBYsitter MUST be a different breed.  My assessment of whether or not one can stand the test of time when considering whether or not she will be hired for the job is based on three things:

1.  Does she have experience with young children?
2.  Does she work well under pressure?
3.  When the water boils, do I think she'd crawl into the fetal position?

Not everyone makes the cut.  

When I return, I always carefully assess my sitter's face.  Is she pale?  Does she look overly stressed?  Is she sweating?  Has she been crying?  I know the symptoms of DPTSD (Darby Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). I perpetually live life experiencing them.  Most importantly, are Darby AND the babysitter still alive?  After assessing those things, I dreadfully ask how it went.  Most of the time, I get a "it went well," although most of the time, I think they're lying through their teeth.  It's all good, so long as I still have a select few who would be willing to risk life and limb to help on occasion.

One time, I came home, and one of Dallas's grilling knives was on the counter.  You know, the ones that are two feet long?  They're more like machetes than knives, and I'm convinced that they're all for show.  I think he uses it to feel powerful in front of his grill.  That day, Darby must have wanted the power trip, because she somehow got it out of a locked cupboard and ran up to the sitter with it.  The sitter said she "turned around for a second, and Darby came running up with it."  You know what?  I totally believe her.  I'm just happy Darby didn't impale herself!

On the first day of school, I got a sitter for Darby so a friend of mine and I could go grab coffee sans children.  A celebration of freedom, so-to-speak.  Starbucks is 25 minutes from my house, but I make the drive...because I'm addicted.  Right as we were pulling in to Starbucks, I got the dreaded phone call from home.  It was my sitter:

Sitter: "Kelly?"
Me: "Oh, Hi, Sitter, how's it going?"
Sitter: "Weeell...Darby locked herself in the study."
Me: "Okay, you're going to have to look on top of the door frames for the little door unlocker things, okay?  If you don't find one, you're going to have to call your house (next door), and ask for someone to bring you one of yours.  If it works in your house, it'll work in ours.  Okay?"
Sitter: "Okay."
Me: "I'll call you back in five."

My friend, having heard my end of the conversation, and after putting two-and-two together:
Friend:  "Darby locked the babysitter out?"
Me: "Yep."
Friend: "HOW do you do it?  I mean, how are you not totally freaking out right now?!"
Me: "I guess I just don't really freak out about stuff.  I mean, what would that do for me now?  I'm 25 minutes from home."

After my friend and I got our coffee, I called my sitter back.  She had gotten Darby out of the study successfully, and was not in the fetal position, so I felt like I could stay out for awhile.  My friend was still overly shocked at "how well I took things."  I finally said, "You have to realize, this sort of stuff happens four or five times a DAY at my house.  It's nothing new!"  She agreed, and we enjoyed our "freedom" for another hour or so, and thankfully, both sitter and Darby were still alive upon my return.

I claim small victories.
That was one of them.

If you are a sitter of mine, you are valued.
You are cherished.
You are appreciated!
Your efforts do NOT go unnoticed!
And, Please!
Please!
Please!
Please!
...sit for us again!  We need you!

A trip to the Baby Chasing Eye Doctor.

Both of my daughters have Strabismus and some amblyopia.  That means they have some muscle issues of the eye.  The problem showed up in Darby just before her first birthday, so we are frequent fliers down at the pediatric opthamologist, which is an hour and a half drive from home.  Yes, there are specialists closer, but when it comes to eyes, it's only the best for my girls.  I don't mess around.  So, I have been happily making the drive about four times a year to date.

I just love Darby's Ped. Opth.  You can tell the man just loves his job, and because of that, I love him.  He is so genuine, happy, good with kids, and lastly, he has impeccable bedside manners, but he blew my mind on this particular trip. 

After the doctor took a look at Darby, he chatted with her.  I told him that we were driving the other day, and she asked if she could have a cappucino.  He busted up laughing, and then I told him that we had two young friends come over the other night, and she offered them Mojitos (more laughter).  He said he could have used a Mojito the previous night (him and me, both).  I then explained that I have no idea where she got the idea, because we don't even have the ingredients to make those in our house!  And, we don't order them when we go out. I told him that I could go on and on with stories like that, and that I was thinking about writing a book with all her shenanigans, that it would be similar to the book "Marley and Me."  More laughter.  So, we made our way to the door, and Darby slipped out while I received my instructions to come back in three months.  I gathered Tate and Naomi, and we exited the room not 4 seconds after the Redhead.  Darby was gone.

I don't easily freak out about stuff, so I just looked down the hallway, asked the secretary and nurses if they had seen her leave the room, and then looked in the waiting area.  No Darby.  I ran down the other hall.  No Darby.  In no time, the nurse manager was running the halls with me.  I told Tate to go one way, and Naomi and I went the other way.  I stopped by the elevators to see if she had gone by there.  I stopped by random rooms to see if she had joined someone else's appointment.  I ran, ran, ran, and so did her Pediatric Opthamologist and an army of nurses.  We were ALL chasing Darby on the second floor of Children's National Medical Center.  When I had run two laps, I ran back past our doctor's area again and heard her doctor exclaim, get this, IN THE ROOM WE HAD JUST EXITED, "Darby!  HOW did you get back in HERE?!"  He was still all smiles. That's why the man gets 3 gold stars.  He was astonished.  A few nurses ran in when they heard him exclaim, "I FOUND HER!"  I then heard him explain, "I don't KNOW!  Her mom left the room not 10 seconds after she did!"  I ran in, thanked the doctor profusely, and made some sort of joke about how I was going home to start my book that very day.

Basically, Darby almost threw the entire hospital under lock down that day.  We almost amber alerted the place. I have NO IDEA how she left the room, disappeared, then then reappeared in the same room she left without a SINGLE SOUL seeing it happen.  The thought of it STILL baffles me!


 July 26th, 2012:
"True story: Darby just asked for a cappucino."

August 5th, 2012:
"Darby just asked David and Paige if they would like a Mojito. Since we haven't made Mojitos in a good 10 years, and we don't order them when we go out, I'm not quite sure where she's picking this stuff up!"

 August 6th, 2012: 
"NO LIE: JUST after I told Darby's Opthomologist about Darby offering David and Paige Mojitos last night, and right after I told him I was thinking of writing a book similar to 'Marley and Me' about Darby-I LOST DARBY at Children's National Medical Center. She walked out the door. I walked out right behind her, and she was GONE. Receptionists, Nurses and Opthomologists alike were running up and down the second floor looking for her. Where did we find her? In the SAME ROOM we had just exited. I tell ya, there is MAGIC in that hair!!!"

Seeing Purple...

I bought Darby this cute little cotton purple sundress.  I love dresses in the summertime.  Easy...breezy...cool.  But, I don't like them every single day in the summertime.  I'm also not a huge fan of the color purple, the actual color, not the book.  I could take it or leave it (the color AND the book).  It's my husband's favorite color, which is the ONLY reason I have that color in my wardrobe.  I tend to stick more to hot pinks, oranges, teals, blues...enough about me!  This is supposed to be about Darby!

Darby must have some innate fashion sense to know that she looks FABULOUS in purple!  I mean, there's a REASON why red and purple are right next to each other on the color wheel!  They are SUPPOSED to be together!  The girl can work purple, and one day, she decided she would ONLY work purple.  Unfortunately for me, that purple dress is the only purple that adorned her entire wardrobe, excepting a hand-me-down purple shirt that had black sharpie mark on it...insufficient, according to my Little Red Pixie (and to myself, but we don't need to get into my own issues).  I could not wash the dress quickly enough.  She wanted to wear it every single day regardless of my vain attempts to clothe her in other, "lesser" colors.  She knew what color she wanted, and she was NOT backing down.  I actually found myself looking her little hazel eyes square in the face one morning (holding my anger and rants inside), and told her that I, too, know how to play this game.  If she thought she could win this "purple war," she...was...wrong.

The next day, I couldn't handle it anymore.  These "purple wars" were on-going.  What an exhausting way to begin your day every...single...day, and the stand-offs would take 20 minutes each morning, sometimes longer!  When I thought I had won a battle for the day, I would turn around, and she would have taken the clothes I put her in off.  One morning, the concept that her one and only purple dress was WET in the WASHING MACHINE was one that she could not grasp.  She wanted purple, and she wanted it...now.  I put a wet dress on her that day, but it was purple, so she was happy.  That day was the day we went purple shopping.  I actually drove 45 minutes to a mall with tons of children's clothing stores to make SURE that I came home with enough purple clothes to last a week.

The shopping trip went like this:

I walked in to children's store #1.
The store lady asked me, "Can I help you find anything?"
Me: "Do you have anything...purple?"
Lady (ineffectively trying to hold in her "you're a total weirdo" look): "Not this summer.  I'm sorry."
Me (to myself): "Seriously?  You don't have any purple?  Okay.  Good thing I have options at this mall."

Store #2:
Store lady: "Can I help you find anything?"
Me: "Do you have anything purple?  My daughter will ONLY wear purple."
Lady: "You know, we don't have anything purple this summer!  Another lady just asked me that question!"
Me (to myself): "WHAT?!  (Think minor freakout here...what if NO STORES had ANY PURPLE?!!!)"
Me (to lady): "Okay, thanks."

Store #3:
Store lady: "Can I help you find anything?"
Me: "Do you have purple?"
Lady: "Yes!  And, it's all on clearance."
Me (after jumping up and down and hugging the lady--joke): "SWEET!"

I bought shirts, shoes, dresses...

I took them home (remember, 45 minutes from those stores), and Darby decided that she would ONLY wear PURPLE...

...DRESSES.

Big...fat...sigh.

So, if you see Darby around town, and it looks like she hasn't changed since the last time you saw her, she has.  The dress is likely clean.  I've been washing it like crazy.
...and I'm starting to really NOT like purple.

July 2nd, 2012:
"Darby and I have been having serious confrontations every morning as I dress her. She ONLY wants to wear purple. Problem? I only had one purple shirt and one purple dress. So, we were arguing roughly five days a week. Saturday, I went 'purple shopping.' Imagine the conversation as I walked into each store: Employee: "May I help you?" Me: "Do you have anything...purple?" Employee: 'Not in our summer collection.' Me: 'Then....no.' You get the picture. So, I found four purple shirts and a purple dress, bringing us to an entire week's worth of purple! Victory, right?! Wrong. I showed all the new purple stuff to Darby this morning. She LOVED one dress. I asked her if she liked the rest. Her response? 'No. Take them back to the store.' (I actually just scratched my head)"

July 3rd, 2012:
"This morning, I took out all the purple clothes (the ones Darby told me to return yesterday) and tried to get her to choose something to wear. No gold. She ONLY wants to wear purple DRESSES...she's wearing only a diaper right now. I will not go down in flames!"

July 4th, 2012:
"HAPPY FOURTH! If you see Darby today in purple, don't judge. She still loves America, and Red and Blue make purple, so I'm going with it, and it's better than the tye-dyed number that was two sizes too big that she started in today."

Red Runs Deep

Walking in to our local "Country Market" today with Darby, a lady with a little redheaded beauty (about 18 months old) struck up a conversation with me (and her daughter...and Darby).

Lady: "Oh, look!  Another redhead!"
Me: "Yep!"
Lady: "Is she...fiesty?"
Me (to myself):  "Fiesty?  Are you kidding me?!!! The very word fiesty was invented to perfectly describe my daughter!"
Me (to the Lady):  "Haha...Yes.  I have a whole blog dedicated to her shenanigans...Red Runs Deep."
Me (to her little redhead): "Yes, little one.  Red runs deep."
Lady: "Are they all like that?"
Me: "Yes."

This lady probably wanted some sort of encouragement, which she didn't get from me today, unless she considers it a relief that she's "not the only one."  Hey.  I can't be the strong one every day.  If she's raising a redhead, she needs to hear the truth, and sometimes the truth "ain't" pretty!  It'll never be boring, so long as she has her own little pixie, but it won't always be pretty!  The other thing I know about "truth," is that sometimes, not unlike raising a redhead, it hurts.

So, lady, if you're out there, chin up! 
We're mamas of redheads! 
We need to "own it," and stick together! 
There's strength in numbers!
...oh, but red runs deep...

Who does she favor?

Last night, we ran over to a friend's house after soccer practice.  I ran in real quick while the fam stayed in the car.  Darby had passed out by that time...it's exhausting expending that much energy every single day!  I knew Dallas wouldn't be too far behind her, so I ran in by myself.  Not two minutes later, I saw my two older kids out back playing with our friend's son, and then Dallas walked in, and then Darby, true to herself, trotted right into the kitchen.  Our friend, who knows us pretty well, asked, "Who does she favor?", and then our friend and Dallas's eyes both zipped straight in my direction with matching facetious grins.  I looked at the floor.  Then, I looked back up at him and said, "WHAT?!  YES!  It's ME, okay?!"  We all had a good laugh as Darby galloped out back to play with the big kids.  Actually, she asked if it was okay if she could climb the tree (Umm...not today, honey).

A 30 minute layover...

The day after school got out for summer, I left for my parents' new home in Kerrville, Texas with the three kids...alone...for two weeks.

I wasn't so much nervous about being "on my own" for two weeks with three kids and no real backup.  I was nervous about getting there...and then...getting home.  I had to endure two, two plus hour plane rides on the way there.  No biggie.  We took all three kids from here to Hawaii a year ago, and that trip was WAY longer than this one!  I'm a seasoned air traveler, the daughter of a former fighter pilot gone United Airlines pilot; We flew for free, and we flew frequently.  What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm no stranger to flying.  I am completely comfortable in and around airports/airplanes and all that jazzy stuff that goes along with air travel.  It's the traveling ALONE with KIDS part that scares me. If you have ever parented ANYONE, you can relate.  This fear runs deeper than the fear of heights, the fear of spiders, the fear of death, and kids have no idea that they, in this moment of fear induced weakness, could completely dominate us!

So, I carefully packed DSIs and PSPs and all the cords, headphones, ipods, etc.  I packed snacks.  I packed books.  The flight was great!  We were in the back of the plane.  We landed on time.  I had a 30 minute layover.  That meant that I, after waiting for the line of "all-too-suddenly polite" people letting every stressed out passenger compile their 2.5 bags (even though it was repeated over and over that you were only allowed ONE carry-on bag and ONE "personal item"--whatever the heck THOSE are), would have roughly 20 minutes to find my connection and get on my next plane with three kids.  "Fortunately" for me, my connecting flight was leaving from another terminal.  Also, "fortunately" for me, Darby had a massive meltdown while I was sprinting and trying not to lose all my kids whilst darting through crowds of people, tripping our way down the escalator, and jumping on the train to the next terminal without losing anyone.  At this point, the mentality was, "don't care if I lose everyTHING...so long as we arrive with everyONE."  ...and then we arrived at the gate.  I must have looked "undone," because everyone let me go to the front of the line, where Darby decided to have:

the biggest...
meltdown...
I have endured.

I'm talkin', the girl was on her face, full-blown meltdown, and EVERYONE who had just encouraged me and my entourage to go to the front of the line was now glaring at me (It's amazing how quickly nice strangers turn on you when times get rough).  I can't pretend to be ignorant as to what was going through their heads.  I've been on many a plane with a screaming infant.  They were all hoping to be sitting as far from us as possible.  Actually, I, too, was hoping to be sitting as far away from "us" as possible!  That, and they were all mentally beating me up if this caused them to miss their connecting flights.  There was a lot riding on this unfortunately timed tantrum, and I was the one responsible. 

Darby is very vocal, and, for a two-year-old, she rations very well, so I asked her, "WHAT is it that you WANT?"  (Imagine the disapproving glares after I asked that question to my little bitty redhead)  She looked up through those fake tears and replied, "I want my backpack."  Seriously?  This was all about your...backpack, kid?  So, I sifted through the 15 bags I was carrying.  Alright, it was only two bags.  I'm just adding the necessary amount of drama so you can understand the full weight of this scenario.  That, and it seemed like I was sifting through fifteen bags as all my fellow air travelers began rolling up their sleeves and clenching their fists.  I handed Darby her little backpack, strapped it on, and we were on our way.  It was as if the tantrum never happened!  Immediately, the frowns turned upside down.  The piercing looks turned into astonishment, and I went from that mom with the screaming toddler, to, "Sheesh!  That was AMAZING!  How did she DO THAT?", and, "She should write a book on parenting!" 

I claimed victory over a two-year-old's tantrum at gate A-37!
I am a victor...
...A champion. 
...A dominator.

No need to sing, "We Shall Overcome"!
I.
DID.
OVERCOME!!!
...and we MADE IT TO TEXAS!
...and back!

A "one-liner" about being beautiful...

May 27, 2012:

"Today, Darby looked at me and said, "You're beautiful!" I cupped her little face in my hands and said, "God is ENTHRALLED with your beauty!" Her reply (while trying to repeat what I said)? "God is...a booty." THEN, she said, "God says...'Shake your BOOTY!'" I wondered...at WHAT point did we derail in that conversation? ...and then I got to shakin'."

The Banana Tree

I have a houseplant.
I call it, "The Banana Plant."
It most definitely is NOT a "Banana Plant."
For starters, bananas grow in TREES, not in houseplants.
I love the huge, waxy green leaves!
It sounds good.  Get over it!
It sits in the corner of our living room behind a chair that I also love.
I just love that whole corner, mainly because of that plant.
It gives me great satisfaction.

Darby also loves the Banana Tree.  Scratch that.  She loves the dirt in which my favorite tree is planted (Is it a tree or a plant, Kelly?  Who knows?).  Or, maybe she just really loves making sandcastles.  She loves digging, alright?  Unfortunately, the combination of her love of digging in my indoor plant that sits in that awesome corner and my berber carpet do not a happy mother make.  For a good, solid month, I should have either:

A~Temporarily relocated my favorite plant.
~or~
B~Temporarily relocated my bright purple Dyson vacuum cleaner to a location directly behind my favorite plant/tree (speaking of bright purple...maybe this is where Darby's love of all things purple began...you'll hear much more on that later).

So many "episodes" with my Banana Plant/Tree occurred that I was prompted to post this on May 21st, 2012:

"Dear DYSON,
You claim that you "never lose suction." I beg to differ. Your vacuums DO, in fact, lose suction when you are vacuuming up several cups worth of dirt and about two cups of peanuts that your two-year-old poured all over the house while you were typing up yet ANOTHER document for your new dossier.
Sincerely,
A very frustrated customer
ps-It is highly likely that I am taking my adoption frustrations out on you. Please don't take this personally. HOWEVER, if this helps you to improve your product, then I will spread this information with abandon."
 
We seem to have trained the indoor plant digging out of her for now, although I did see her eyeing a houseplant in my friend's office the other day...and don't get me started about the peanuts.

Should we rename the dog "Cinnamon"?

May 4th, 2012

I was in the kitchen making lunch, so I sent my three kids out to play in the driveway so I could make lunch without having Darby there to undo everything I was doing.  Somehow, before she exited the building, she grabbed the large container of cinnamon.  I do not know how I did not notice this.  I guess between the wild stampede of children trying to be the the first to get outside, our black lab, Molly, the rush to put shoes on, and the slamming doors and yelling children, I failed to notice Darby calmly walking over to the pantry with a smirk on her face, grabbing the cinnamon, shoving it under her shirt and slithering outside, unnoticed.  At least, that's how I saw it playing out in my head, since I still do not know how she got that outside without me noticing.

Several minutes later, Tate came inside to rat his sister out.  "Mom!  Darby put cinnamon on Molly!!!"  Me, "What?!  Cinnamon?"  I did not at all compute that he was talking about the stuff you bake with for a split second.  Then, I thought, "Well, big woop!  It'll just be a few sprinkles.  Why is he even tattling over cinnamon?"  I walked out into the garage with Tate to find that fully one-half of our dog was no longer black, but rather, well...cinnamon.  And, also the entire driveway surrounding her.  Actually, when she stepped up, there was an outline of our dog on the driveway (think CSI-outlined a human body on your driveway, only it was a dog print-yes.  THAT much cinnamon).  My poor dog was humiliated.  She sorta just looked at me with this, "Are you mad at ME?" look.  "Of course I'm not mad at you, Molly," I said, as I started to pat the cinnamon off of her.  The problem is that labs have two layers of fur.  The cinnamon had seeped clear down to the undercoat.  So, the more I patted, the more poofs of cinnamon that came up!  I patted and patted and brushed and brushed until she was relatively black again.  I left the "evidence" (ie. the cinnamon Molly print) on our driveway.

That night, Dallas got home, and we were all out in the driveway.  Dallas walked up to the cinnamon dog print and said, "What's that?"  I replied, "THAT...is a Molly print."  "What's it made from?"  "Cinnamon"  (who SAYS that?).  He was baffled, and really, so was I.  See, at this point, events like this were still not everyday events.  Maybe God just wanted my house (and my dog) to smell like cinnamon for a week...because that's exactly what happened.

Pancakes for breakfast? I think, not.

Somehow, I think I have it all together in the mornings.  I have a little "makeup bag" for Darby in my bathroom.  She gleefully asks (most mornings) if she can go put her "makeups" on.  This fun little AM activity allows me 10-15 minutes (usually) to put my own makeup on.  Occasionally, she'll run into her room to grab an extra toy, her blankie, or some other surprise, and occasionally, she will run down into the kitchen and make a mess the size of Texas.  April 27th was one of those days...

I was upstairs putting my makeup on. 
Darby was upstairs "putting her makeup on."
Darby disappeared...
I took note, but continued on, thinking, "I just have my mascara left.  How much damage could she do in, say, 5 minutes?" 
Wrong question.
(The time lapse between when she left and came back could NOT have been three minutes)

Darby walked into the bathroom and proudly announces, "Mommy!  I made pancakes for you!"  As sweet and thoughtful as that was, my first reaction was, "OH, CRAP!"  I dropped my mascara (still having one eye left to do) and ran downstairs.  I ran to the kitchen...no mess.  I looked over to the dining room table...no mess.  So, I mustered up my courage and said, "Darby!  Where are my pancakes?"  She led me to the family room, where she had dumped an entire bag of flour on our leather, Pottery Barn, ottoman.  Next to it, on the floor, were two herb bottles of Herbs de Provence.  As strange a combination as that seemed for pancakes, I was so thrilled that she did not add any other ingredients.  No water, no milk, no oil, no EGGS!  I whipped out the vacuum, declared that one a victory, and proceeded with a good 1/2 of my day with one eye absentmindedly and conspicuously mascara-less. 

True Parenting.

As I rang in April, my status update read:
"I hope you're not too owned by what I'm about to say, but I'm just going to throw this out there: If you haven't ever parented a redhead...you haven't really parented."

That status got seventeen "likes," mainly from redheads, mothers or aunts of redheads, or just sympathizers.  It also generated quite the chain of coments:

~Beth (a mother of five, but no redheads)~your day must be shaping up to be AWESOME!
~Millicent (a friend of mine who is familiar with Darby's antics)~ ha ha ha! I think my grandmother would have agreed with you ;)
~Emily (a dear friend and redhead herself)~Although I have not raised a redhead....I am one and so is my sister (just like Darby and Naomi!). I KNOW we gave our mom a run for her money!! Love you and, yes, want to talk sooooooonnnn! 
~Paige (a friend with some redheaded siblings.  Pray for Paige.  She will probably be a mother of a redhead one day)~bahaha truth. talk to my parents, they raised 2. 
~Mike (friend.  No redheads, but I commend him for raising kids anyway.  Some people will just never understand the difference)~What does red hair have to do with it???? I think of a brunette. 
~ Bobbi (friend)~I didn't birth a redhead either but am one so do know what it is like. My poor Mama!!!
~ Stacy (friend, and mother of two+ redheads.  Oh, and she's married to one.  And, on a good day, when she's standing in the sun, she's red, too.  In short, they're doomed.)~YES!
~Kim (My mom.  She would know. The poor woman is MARRIED to one!)~And you've done it twice !!
~Holly (Friend, and mother of two of the cutest little redhead ladies I know)~Amen, sister. And I've got double the red-headed fun in my house!
~ME~You and me both, Holly! There's a REASON I used to call Tate "The Red Flash!" AAAAHHHH! Someone tell me I'll make it! HAHA!
~Jen~ (New mother to a little redhead girlie girl.  Hopefully I haven't scared her too badly with all Darby's antics!)B is starting to scream.... and it begins... 
~Andrea (Mothered a redhead BY HERSELF for the most part!  This lady is my hero)~ i concur!!!
 ~Michelle (Wife of a redhead, who, by the way, is STILL a "Red Flash)~My mother-in law would concur!

And finally, there was one last rebuttal, one in which I had to stop and think.  I totally concur.  This mother is also in our club by default.  SHE is a redhead, and is parenting twins.  She had round-the-clock help at her house for EIGHT MONTHS, had to have some surgeries after birth and had to deal with a baby in a diaper in a cast up to his hip for two months.  She is a champion.  I tip my hat to her.  She is my friend, Mary, and she said:  "That's what I say about being a parent of twins...'you've never really parented until you have multiples'!!! And that is said by a red head :-). Your redheads are awesome!"  I have to wonder, however, if her parents would agree (wink, wink).

 Just this morning, I had a friend say to me, "Kelly, the Little Red Pixie stories are becoming a highlight. I love them. And I am so thankful my kids are blonde." See?  I'm just raising awareness here, folks! 

You see, there are a couple different viewpoints regarding redheads.  Some are right, and some just need to be enlightened.  I hope that you are blessed to parent a redhead if you haven't already.  Then, you will be in "the club," and you will finally understand.  Until then, keep on keepin' on.  Parent your heart out!  Enjoy every minute of it!  Eat, Drink and Be Merry!  ...because if YOUR nurses say, on delivery day, "Oh!  Look!  A Redhead!!!"...you're done for.  I say this with a smile on my face, and a twinkle in my eye.

March 2012 in a Nutshell

I could drag all these stories out for years, but I'm adding new stories daily, so I'm going to try to give you "the short of it."

(Think, announcer voice in your head)
Ladies and Gentlemen!
I give you...March of Twenty-twelve!

There was the surgery in which Darby ripped the IV out, threw up all over Kingdom come and tried to rip her hospital gown off.  I told you all the details surrounding that one here.

After that episode, March just FLEW by!  There was:
...the time we took her hiking, and she threw her glasses down a crevace.  Fortunately, we were able to carefully retrieve them using a stick and some mad skills.
...the time I didn't make it downstairs in time, and she had gone to the pantry, stolen pink chocolate melting wafers, and started eating them.  Fortunately, she figured out how to work the twist tie, because she already had the kitchen shears ready and waiting!  Consequently, I don't know why she had an entire bag of plastic knives, forks and spoons waiting.  Were they to be used with her little snack?
...the time I took them to the museum park in our town (remember, this is MARCH).  My friend dressed her child in a swimsuit.  I know, it was a fine March day, but we live in Pennsylvania for cryin' out loud!  Who goes to swim in a creek in MARCH in PENNSYL...VANIA?  Darby went in fully clothed.  A filthy, muddy mess was she.
...the time she walked into that giant ball contraption at Walmart and wouldn't come out.

Status update: March 19th:  I can't chase Darby around forever, so I'm going to go run 5 miles. 
...right.  Like I wouldn't have had to chase Darby around for another five miles as soon as I got home?  

...the time she made her own snack in the kitchen (in one of my new bowls):  Frosted mini wheats, strawberry shortcake yogurt and chocolate chips...and then dropped said bowl and it's contents on the floor, shattering said bowl, all contents and my patience.

And finally, we moved on to April, but we ended this month of nonstop action with one last hoorah:
...I was standing at the end of the driveway, waiting for Naomi's bus to come.  Darby was standing right next to me munching on a handful of chocolate chips (of course), only it wasn't chocolate chips.  It was dog food.

I realize that's roughly two "incidents" a week.  I cannot seem to keep up with the speed at which she commits these "offenses."  I also do not think I should subscribe to the "if you can't beat them, join 'em" idea in this case.  For starters, I do not like dog food.  She's still going strong in this "destructive" stage, but I have learned  how to "Outwit, Outplay, and Outlast" this little red pixie of mine.  If life is a game of Survivor, 
I. 
WILL. 
SURVIVE.

Darby~The Red Incredible Hulk!

Dallas and I went to Israel for ten days in February.  We left our children with my mother-in-law.  I not going to lie.  I was pretty nervous about leaving Darby in her (or anyone else's) care for such an extended time.  Thankfully, she only lost one of our children one time, and it was Naomi (surprisingly enough). 

Our ten days in Israel were glorious!  We visited our best friends in the world, who also are our children's godparents.  One night, our friend, Stewart, said, "Do you think being in Israel has done good things for your marriage?"  I said (half jokingly), "I think being away from our kids has done good things for our marriage."  All joking aside, yes, "Children are a gift from the Lord."  But, in the absence of my children, I was actually able to focus on and enjoy my husband for ten whole days!  That, and I needed a BREAK! 

Darby was scheduled for eye surgery the week after our return from Israel.  Our other daughter, Naomi, had the same surgery when she was three, so I knew what to expect.  I spent the entire duration of Naomi's surgery half crying in the "quiet room" reading any story in Scripture in which Jesus healed someone with a vision impairment or blindness.  The day of Naomi's surgery was the worst day of my life.  Yeah, I knew what to expect, and I was NOT looking forward to it.  Darby's surgery went off without a hitch.  The doctor was thrilled, and so was this relieved mama! When it was time to go back to the recovery area, I was a little nervous because what I've realized over time is that I don't really handle myself well when my family members are in pain.  We got back there, and Darby was peacefully sleeping.  Swollen, but she looked perfect.  Then she woke up.

No lie.  Darby went from "Sleeping Beauty" mode to the Incredible Hulk.  Speaking of the Incredible Hulk, it was actually incredible to see what happened next.  She jumped to her feet, ripped the IV out of her arms, yanked on tubes and cords, and started ripping her miniature hospital gown off,  all while surfing on her hospital bed, screaming.  Alarms were sounding, lights flashing, people running, baby screaming...all while I stood there dumbfounded, arguably catatonic.  Do we tackle her?!  We can't let her fall of the bed!  I've only seen stuff like this in movies (hence, the Incredible Hulk reference)!  After a solid hour of trying to console her, they finally released her.  We bee-lined for the car, but right before we made it to the parking garage, she threw up...ALL...OVER...HERSELF, ME, DALLAS AND the floor.  We went straight back up to recovery.  That day did not turn out to be the worst day of my life, but quite possibly the longest.  I'm glad it's over, and we can move forward on our journey toward 20/20 vision!

My status on March 1, 2012 upon our return from Israel:
While we were gone, my mother-in-law, Carol Hills, walked into Darby's room when nap time was over. There were books everywhere.
Carol: "What are you doing in here?"
Darby: "Playing football."

Darby. A household name.

So, rumor of The Little Red Pixie has spread far and wide in our small town and across the nation (via FB).  She is famous.  I can tell, because people have begun to tell me tales of their own toddlers, and referring to their stories as "Darby-isms."  For example, I had a good laugh when a friend of mine posted THIS as her status to ring in February 2012:

February 1, 2012:  "Really hadn't planned to scrub my sofa tonight, but I guess I have to since a potty-traning-toddler somehow got poop All. Over. It.  Can you top that Kelly Hills??"

Unfortunately for me, I had a rebuttal, although not as "crappy" as hers, the very next day:

February 2, 2012:   "Today was a really good day! The only thing that went wrong was that Darby stuffed two full toilet paper rolls into the toilet that Tate did not flush! I'll call that a VICTORY!  !)"

I find it interesting that I called that a victory, but whatever.  Victory is relative.

Just last Sunday, a friend stopped me at church and told me of her own "Darby-ism."  Actually, this friend coined that term, which I was unaware was becoming commonplace in our town!  I just love this story:

She told me that she often "misplaces" her coffee cup.  I often misplace pens in my house, which could possibly cause a catastrophic mess the likes of which my poor friend had to clean up.  Nonetheless, my friend eventually found her coffee cup.  Unfortunately for her, her 18 month old found it first and was gleefully flinging the coffee all over the room!  Yep.  That is an instance in which a Darby name drop would be more than sufficient to detail the events.  The best part about that story is the fact that she was laughing and smiling while she was retelling it.  

If the Darby-tales do nothing else but help people look at toddler and/or redhead catastrophies through the lens of humor, then I have done my job.  I'm also hopeful that I will come out on the other side of parenting redheads waving a flag victoriously.  I have 16 more years to come up with the design of my victory flag, but I know what the main color will be...red, and I will proudly fly it for the rest of my life.  I may also have a ruby encrusted broach made to celebrate the occasion, and possibly a trip to Red Square in Russia.  I also might ask Dallas to buy me a red sports car.  I'll buy him a red power tie.  I'll buy some new smokin' red pumps and some red wine, and we...will...celebrate.  That seems like so far a time away that it might never actually come, and since my goal right now is (in all seriousness one can muster up) "to keep Darby alive until she's four," I should probably stick to high, but achievable daily goals instead of planning my "Red Jubilee."  

I can do this!
I can do this!
I am not a pioneer in parenting redheads!
Mommies of redheads have done this for thousands of years before me!
I can do this!
 

We call her Darby.

Where did we come up with the name Darby?
...in a baby name database.

I picked Tate and Naomi's names.  I found several names for Darby, but Dallas was adamant.  Her name would be Darby.  What does her name mean?

• Free man~We like freedom, right?  The wind is free.  Wild horses are free.  In America, we live and die for freedom!  Take it away, and we're willing to fight!  Choices-free!  Speech-free!  It evokes a feeling like you're driving down a long, straight highway with the top down!  I like that!
• Deer settlement~To me, this reminds me of Psalm 42: 1, "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God."  And, because deer need streams of water, I then naturally go to Psalm 23: 2, "He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul."  That pretty accurately describes a "deer settlement," right?

This name sounded PERFECT!  The perfect amount of cute.  The perfect amount of unique!  The perfect meanings! 

So, Darby is more the "FREE MAN" than she is the "DEER SETTLEMENT."  See, the wind is free, but it's also wild and can be destructive.  Horses are free, but ever heard of a bucking bronco?  Ever been to the rodeo, folks?  Take Darby's freedom away, and you're left with a screamer...screacher, actually.  Nothing about Darby makes me feel like a deer panting for streams of water.  Instead, I'm just left panting.  Nothing about Darby makes me feel like I'm lying down in green pastures, or sitting beside quiet waters.  There's nothing quiet about her.  Her hair even seems to cry out!

After Darby was named, we found out that a character in Winnie the Pooh is named Darby.  She, too, has red hair.  I wonder what WTP's friend, Darby is like.  Is she on the "Free" side of the spectrum, or is she a "Deer Settlement" kinda girl? It doesn't matter.  I'm pretty sure you can't TRAIN "Deer settlement" into someone.  I could try, but I think I'd end up looking for the nearest wild horse to flee ride off into the sunset.

Celebrating our 12 year anniversary~puke style

For our twelfth anniversary, Dallas decided to take me to one heck of a fancy dinner!  You know, one of those "coat and tie ONLY" places?  I was PUMPED!  I spent hours getting ready!  I curled my hair, put on a great black dress with black polka-dot panty hose and these bangin' red pumps!  I have to admit.  We both looked great-like, going to dinner with the President, great.

I asked two of our "old" Young Life girls to babysit our three kids.  Two?  Yes.  Because, you see, neither of these two fine young ladies are, how do you say...maternal?  I mean, I trust and love both of them dearly, but both of them combined adds up to nearly three quarters of a babysitter.  So, the first young gal showed up and was slightly taken aback at how nicely we clean up...and my shoes were rockin' (I looked pretty fierce with my trendy hose and my power pumps).  After sitter #2 showed up, I gave them the rundown, and we were off to the Antrim for our seven course anniversary dinner. 

Ten minutes up the road, sitter #2 called me:
Sitter #2: "Um, Kelly?"
Me: "Yes, Sitter #2?"
Sitter #2: "Darby just threw up all over Sitter #1.  I mean...ALL...OVER...and it got on the couch...and the rug."
Me (to Dallas): "Darby just puked on Sitter #1."
Me (to Sitter #1):  "Ok.  We'll be right home."
Sitter #2: "Well, if you tell me where the cleaning stuff is, we can clean it all up."
Me: "No.  That's okay.  We'll be right back." (I think, between the two of them, they could change a diaper, but probably not clean up puke)

For some reason I cannot remember, we had to stop by Walmart on the way home.  I DEFINITELY would NOT have been on that "People of Walmart" website this fine 12th anniversary.  I was grossly overdressed for any place in our fine, small Pennsylvania town.  I actually think people stared.  I was THAT overdressed for our town.

You know, two-year-olds don't quite get that "something's coming back up" sensation yet.  I felt horrible when we got home to our puke covered Sitter #1, who felt horrible for getting puked on and "ruining our date."  I did not see it that way at all.  I'm STILL glad they called, even though Sitter #2's dad gave her a hard time about calling us.  I wouldn't want my baby to feel like I deserted her in her time of need!  Obviously you can't control when you get sick, but we still joke around that Darby ruined our date!

Recently, we had tickets to see DC United (Major League Soccer) play in Washington DC.  We live a good two hours from DC, so we typically leave WAY early so we can grab dinner before games.  We got 20 minutes into our drive, and Darby threw up all over herself in the car.  We screeched to a halt and turned around and came home.  I frantically started calling friends to try to fill that ticket so it wasn't a waste.  No gold.  So, the older kids and I scrambled for DC and made it to the game with seven minutes to spare (Tate was going out on the field before the game).  Then, I had to pay $32 for two hotdogs, three french fries, two Gatorades and a bottle of water.  I don't know why pro sports teams feel like they have to squeeze every last penny out of you when you go, but in my mind, I added the $32 food bill to the discounted $24 game ticket we didn't use (Tate had been to a DC United soccer game and that's how we got the discount tickets), and I figured Darby just caused us to waste 56 bucks that night. 

Occasionally, I'm going to just copy and paste my F-cebook statuses right here on my blog for your reading enjoyment.  Here are two that occured around the time of our fabulous anniversary:

January 13th, 2012:  
~Naomi dressed herself in this brightly colored ensemble today! Darby, on the other hand, came down buck naked. 

~Darby: "I wanna go to Kira's house, Starbucks. I'll be home at 5."

Merry Christmas & a Red Flash Forward

On Christmas Day of 2009, I thought that, perhaps, my intuitions about Darby were wrong.
...Let me explain.

Tate slept through the night at 9 weeks.
Naomi slept through the night at 12 weeks.
Darby gave me the best Christmas present of my life!  At just six weeks, and on Christmas Eve, she slept through the night.  WHAA?!  At this point, I totally second guessed all my freakout sessions!  I questioned why I let my blood pressure sky rocket over her hair color after delivery.  Was she going to be...dun, dun, dunnnn...

...my EASY child?

Maybe Tate wasn't "The Red Flash" because he was a redhead after all!  Maybe he was "The Red Flash" because he was a boy!  Does a "Y" chromosome really have that much UMPH behind it?  Could it be that ALL boys were "Red Flashes" and that my friend's son was just atypical?  I mean, 18-month-old little boys cannot typically STAND on top of the steering wheel of a sit and spin like Tate did, can they (surely that's only something redheads can do)?!  My mind was blown, and it wasn't for lack of sleep for once!

Darby was your typical baby.
She ate.
She slept.
She pooped.
She liked to be held.
...and then she turned one.

Do normal one-year olds know how to JUMP?   I'm talkin' full-on JUMP (the two feet off the ground at the same time...JUMP)...because my other one-year-olds did not JUMP at age ONE (Not even my other redhead)!

Aside from JUMPING, Darby started to wear glasses a week before her first birthday.  Thank God for glasses warranties.  The day she got her first pair of glasses, she broke her first pair of glasses.  I'm talkin', the girl manhandled them.  I watched her.  It was like watching The World's Strongest Man competition-the one where they bend metal bars- in slow mo'.  Yep.  I was in the car driving, and I watched it all go down in the rear view mirror...in ACTUAL slow mo'.  This was just a "warm up," if you will. 

When Darby was fifteen months old, she:
1~took a bite out of a bar of soap without wincing.
2~spit on the dog (I still don't know how to spit).
3~broke her sister's glasses.
4~threw my hat in the toilet.
Are you starting to feel like you're reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar?

It wasn't until she was about 18 months old that she REALLY started growing into her red hair.  There was the time Tate got stung by a wasp.  He was crying, so she walked up and slapped him across the face.  Did she mean to hug him?  Irrelevant.  She full-on slapped him, which (remarkably enough) made him laugh!  How do you discipline that behavior?  I am still baffled!

Facebook status: June 5th, 2011:
I think I might be in trouble when Darby gets older. I turn around, she has broken a glass candleholder. I turn around, she's dancing on the desk. I turn around, she's pulled a chair over to the bar and is standing on it...she's like this sneaky little redhaired pixie!

I don't remember what the story is behind the candleholder, the desk dancing episode, or how she was so quick to climb on top of our countertop bar before I could stop her.  It's probably all for the best that I forgot (Some might call it PTSD...I call it "forgot").  Regardless, I knew I was done for in for a wild ride.

The Day the Pixie Was Born

November 3rd.
A day that will live out in infamy.
However, it should come as no surprise.
Have a look at her predecessors.

Jakob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, German Romantic musical composer
American heavyweight boxing champion Larry Holmes
Journalist and poet William Cullen Bryant
A slew of other scientists, composers, kings and athletes were born on November 3rd.
Not impressed?

Events that occurred on November 3rd include:
The USA introduces an income tax.
US Supreme Court decides Native Americans can't be Americans.
 Bill Clinton wins US presidential election over Pres Bush.
(Hmm...come to think of it, maybe that didn't impress you after all.)

In our family, November 3rd, 2009 was the day infamy was born;  The day the world met Darby.  She came out screamin'.  The doctor announced, "It's a GIRL!"  I heard the nurses excitedly exclaim, "OH!  She's a REDHEAD!!!"

"OH, NOOOO!!!  NOT ANOTHER ONE!!!"  (I shouted out loud, or in my head, I am still not quite sure which one.)
I looked over to see for myself. 
Nope.
They were not wrong.
The girl was DEFINITELY a redhead.


I mean, FLAMING...RED...HEAD (with the apparent flaming personality to accompany it).  She was flailing and wiggling about, and screaming (and hasn't stopped since, by the way).  After that, my blood pressure spiked to the point where they were afraid I was about to have a stroke (Yes, I WAS THAT STRESSED OUT ABOUT RAISING ANOTHER REDHEAD!) .

 My internal monologue was on overdrive:
"Maybe they were wrong...maybe she just wasn't cleaned off enough for them to tell exactly what her hair color would be...if they weren't wrong, I HAD TO DO THIS AGAIN?!!!   ANOTHER 'RED FLASH'?!!!  SOMEONE HELP ME!  I CAN'T BREATHE!  KNOCK ME OUT OR SOMETHING!  What if we dyed it brown?  Kelly, get ahold of yourself, RED...is GENETIC.  GENETIC?  You mean, my grandchildren and their children, and their children's children could ALL have to go through this?!!!"

Later, her big brother and sister came to meet her.  Tate, my first redhead, took one peak at her and said, "She's a redhead, just like me!"  A twinge of guilt overcame me.  He must have felt like an outcast in our family!  The lone redhead until that fine November day, when he and the Little Red Pixie met.  It was brotherly and sisterly love at first sight.  To this date, Tate is the ONLY one in the family she will instantly obey.  They just GET each other!  Is there truly some sort unforeseen force that bonds the Gingers together?  I mean, truly, truly, I tell you.  There is a "CLUB," if you will, that you can ONLY be a member of if your hair is some shade of crimson (I even think they accept faux redheads)!  It's like how motorcyclists feel some deep seeded need to wave at each other as they pass by, or why I ALWAYS wave when I see another runner on the road.  It's why, no matter the age, a mother of a redhead will stop you if you mother a redhead to tell you all about HER redheads.  You're automatically a member of a club if your hair is red, orange or any shade thereof, and because I MOTHER not one, but TWO, redheads, I am now forever a member of this club as well....THE GINGER CLUB.  If you never knew this existed, you are not close enough to a redhead.

It's real.
It's true.
It's forever.
Membership runs deeper than blood...
...it reaches to the distant genetic ancestry that might prove that redheads came from the same ancient bloodline from somewhere across the pond.
...possibly even to the bloodline of the ancient King David, the "Man After God's Own Heart."
Being Ginger is forever.
...so is being a mother of a Ginger.
...and forever seems like SUCH...A... LONG...TIME.

It's about TIME!

Okay!
Alright, already!
I'm ON IT!
...FINALLY!
YOU ASKED!
YOU SHALL RECEIVE!

I'm a mother of not ONE, but TWO...REDHEADS (and a blonde...and two Haitian boys who are not home yet, but that's a post for my other blog).

My hair? 
Brown. 
My husband's hair? 
Brown. 

Yeah, yeah...we get the "milkman joke" all the time.  It's seriously funny the 10,000th time you've heard it.  And, I just LOVE answering the question, "Where'd they get the red hair from?"  Like I owe the gas station attendant an explanation about the genetics of my family?  I digress.  When my son, Tate, was born, I didn't know what I was getting myself into.  Thankfully, I have put his toddler years into the recesses of my brain.  All I can remember about that time period is that I called him "The Red Flash," and that time when he and my second daughter, Naomi, poured an entire (large) box of Rice Krispies all over the living room and were drumming the couch with glee as they flew through the air.  I cried.  My second child, Naomi, brought about a welcome change.  I thought she was so pleasant because she was a girl.  So easy-breezy a baby and toddler was she, that I actually began to think that maybe Tate had two "strikes" against him! 

One: He is a boy. 
Two: He is a redhead.

I had no circumstantial evidence to back my theory up, however, except that my friend, Ruth, also had a boy, who happened to have the most calm and compliant demeanor, thus supporting my theory that there's SOMETHING behind the RED!

Four glorious years of parenting The Red Flash and our sweet Naomi, and Tate finally came out of The Red Flash stage.  PHEW!  And THEN..."HONEY!!!  We're pregnant."  Except, it wasn't like that at all.  It was, "Oh sh*t!"  Sorry.  Just bein' real here.  After gaining 60+ pounds (I stopped counting when I tipped the scales at 200lbs, and was extremely thankful when my weight came in grams when I weighed in for my scheduled C-section), our little Darby was born.

The kid came out screaming.  I remember this scenario like it was yesterday.  The nurses said, "OH!  Look!  It's a little REDHEAD!!!"  I'm not proud of what went through my head at this point.

"OH, NO!!! NOT ANOTHER ONE!!!"

Darby was screaming out loud, while I was screaming on the inside. 
I knew what I was in for. 
...and I was right.

I have been known to say, "If you haven't parented a redhead, you haven't really parented."  At the risk of offending anyone, I fully recognize that the wild world of parenting is CHALLENGING to say the least.  I also fully recognize that parenting twins must be similar, in some regards, to parenting a redhead, and if God is so bold as to grace someone with TWIN REDHEADS, oh, dear me...that parent needs some serious prayer...and help!

OH, the stories you will hear about my "Little Red Pixie" will be glorious!  I will start from the beginning, and catch you up with all the mania that has encompassed the last two and a half years of my life...the triumphs, the frustrations, the failures.  I try to see what happens daily through the lens of humor, otherwise I'd have run far, far away by now.  Just know that if YOU do not react to a situation like I do, you are NOT A FAILURE!  YOU ARE NORMAL!  And, if you think I am a failure, you are wrong.  (wink, wink)