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)