Go Big...Gray?

This week, there’s only one shade of gray that I’m interested in.

Smoky Gray.

And it just so happens that the Georgia game isn’t the only special event this week—Ben’s birthday is today. So, like any good parent, I waited until the day before to finish up the shopping. (And by “finish”, I mean “do.”) He gets an A for effort, but when Brad came home last night with a smoky gray jersey for our birthday boy, my excitement plummeted to panic when I checked the tag and saw that it was a woman’s jersey, size small.

Since his big gift this year is a shopping trip to buy a new bike, that jersey was going to be the only gift he would have to open up this morning. Time to get creative.

*Disclaimer: this is not one of my prouder mommy-moments.

We put the jersey in his balloon-filled room last night and feigned surprise when he opened it this morning and found that the shirt didn’t fit. What we didn’t expect, though, was his deep level of disappointment when we told him we would have to return the jersey and he couldn’t wear it to school today. (Which would have been perfect because it would have matched the pretzel sticks I made for him to take to his class—they were dipped in orange chocolate and had silver sprinkles on them. That’s right—I have my good mommy-moments, too.)

Fear not, fair readers—The Professor swooped in to save the day. Between busy appointments and classes and busy business meetings, Brad made it over to the Student Store where a little birdie told him the youth-sized jerseys would be delivered today. (I can’t lie—the little birdie was the person working at the store yesterday afternoon, but that sounds a little less 'insider.') I’m not sure what all went down, but I got a text from Brad saying that I would be getting a call from someone later in the afternoon when the jerseys were ‘ready’ and I would need to go to the back door and meet Marlene.* Sounded legit.

Around 1:56, I got the call. I felt a little sketched out walking into the Student Store and trying to find someone that would lead me back to what I was sure would be the Black Market of UT apparel. I even had a getaway car driven by Timmy* just in case a quick exit was needed...or because parking on campus is a beast. Either way, palms were sweaty. Eyes were shifty. And then I saw Marlene.

In an orange and white button-down blouse, perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair and pearls to boot, looking like she had stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Not a Polo ad that runs in Glamour—I mean like, classy, timeless Ralph Lauren ads that run in a real lady's magazine.

But I digress.

I said, “I’m looking for Marlene…my husband was here--” She put her hand up and said, “Right this way.” Wow, I thought, The Professor has come through…and I kinda feel like VIP right now.

She walked me back to the back of the store, quietly explaining that they weren’t allowed to hold any of the new smoky gray jerseys because of high demand, but when she heard the story about a disappointed birthday boy, and “saw the desperation” in Brad’s face, she just wanted to help us out. She handed me the jersey, but then stopped me suddenly, saying it looked like it ran a little small. While she was ordering some underclassman-stockboy to “find this woman a Youth size small!” I thought of Lucie…and timidly asked if there was one for a 3-year old girl who has an unhealthy obsession with t-shirts. Before I could even blink, she had put one in my hand. It all happened so fast. 

With 2 jerseys in my hands and a little bit of my faith in humanity restored, I went to the front of the store, paid and headed back outside to the getaway car where droves of students, alumni and fans alike were walking around campus…most wearing orange, but some wearing the newly coveted gray. I felt like I had scooped everyone—haha…you suckers will be standing in line for these things tomorrow! I texted Brad: “The hay is in the barn. I repeat—the hay is in the barn.”

So if you think that changing up a uniform for one game a year doesn’t matter, I think Marlene, one particular 7-year old and I would all disagree—the past 24 crazy hours prove that. Now, I know that these things have been available for a couple weeks now, but I’m willing to bet that Brad didn’t even mind running around like crazy trying to make sure Ben had this jersey today, the day before the 'football guys' take the field, pumped to be wearing the same color—he’s one proud papa because he has a little Vol buddy.

Even though we’ll be wearing gray this weekend, we will still be shouting “Go Big Orange!”...and I'm pretty sure that Ben's birthday will now be a little happier. 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Redemption Song

Sometimes I feel like Red, sitting across from the parole board in Shawshank. Am I sorry for what I did? There's not a day goes by I don't feel regret. Not because I'm in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him -- tell him the way things are. But I can't. That kid's long gone and this old man is all that's left. I gotta live with that.

My crime? Being obsessed with clothes. And now…laid out before you, THIS is what I gotta live with.

World War III with Lucie…every morning…picking out clothes. God help me if one of the four pre-approved t-shirts (tie-dye, Monsters University, Angry Birds or purple "Angel" from Italy) isn't clean and ready for her to wear. Literally--God, help me.    

What the heck has happened?! She used to LOVE the adorable clothes I picked out for her! Cute pink bubble skirt with coordinating leggings and a matching headband complete with shiny silver ballet flats, yes please! I was the proudest mommy EVER when I could smugly say "Oh yes--Lucie keeps her hair bows in, no problem. The bigger the bow, the better the mommy, that's what I always say!" But that ship has sailed, folks. That ship has sailed, been hit by a nuclear torpedo and exploded into non-existence with the force and heat of a thousand suns. 

I admit it. In the years before I even THOUGHT about having kids, I was slightly* obsessed with clothes. I spent just about every paycheck from Baby Gap/Cracker Barrel/Chili's on clothes, and I even stooped so low as to lock all my clothes in the trunk of my car just so Michelle couldn't wear them.  

*Some of you reading this may say that this is a slight** exaggeration.

**Some of you may say this is the biggest understatement in the history of understatements. 

I even kept a "clothing calendar" after college--I would write down what I wore each day so that I could look back and say, "Nope--I just wore this two weeks ago. Too soon, 3/4-sleeve hot pink shirt from Banana Republic, too soon. Back in the closet you go." Yes. I had a slight problem.  

Judge me all you want…I'm paying for it now.

After having Ben, I instated a very strict "no-character, no-cheesy-tagline" rule on clothes purchased for or gifted to my handsome firstborn. Again, I'm humbly admitting this to you--I would literally cringe at the sight of onesies with cute animals saying "Somebunny Loves Me" and while yes, I wanted people to know that Ben was obviously thinking "I Heart Mommy" at all times, I refused to let it be embroidered across his chest in a crawler. (There were a few exceptions: A little romper from HHI that had "Poop Deck" written across the butt. C'mon--poop jokes trump all rules, across the board.) I was a flat-out brat, reminding family members around birthdays and Christmas of this regimen and preemptively preparing myself to return anything that broke my rule, like some crazed Fashion Führer.  

Again, judge me all you want…I'm paying for it now.

As I am typing all this out, I am shakily slurping up my third cup of coffee…trying to recover from the massive meltdown that took place this morning.  Little fists of fury, flailing…fiery red curly locks whipping around…the shrieks…oh dear Lord, the shrieking!! And why?? Because she wanted to wear her Angry Birds shirt and non-matching striped shorts. Again. For the third day in a row.  

Call it payback. Call it karma. All of you are saying I deserve this--you are absolutely right. Now that I'm owning up to all this, I just have to find my patience. Because even though these battles make me want to tunnel my way out of her room with a freakin' spoon and crawl through five hundred yards of $@*# just to avoid it all, I just have to remind myself that I am the lucky mother of an adorable little red-headed diva…that this is all (hopefully) temporary…and at some point in the future--maybe a high school graduation party or wedding rehearsal dinner--I can show this picture. Not in the effort to embarrass her. But as a reminder to myself--that even though she's mismatched and breaking every haute couture rule I thought I would live and die by, she's still absolutely beautiful. 

Baby Face

I'd like to tell y'all a story about Myrtle. AKA Big Baby. 

Myrtle joined our family over Christmas back in 2007. Mamaw, my grandmother, was going through her doll-making phase and had decided to make each of her great-grandchildren a doll. At the time, there were 6 great-grandchildren. (I think--don't fact-check me on this...and don't judge me--we're up to about 40 people in the family, so cut me some slack.) And out of those 6, Ben was the only boy. So, Christmas Day at Mamaw's, all the kids opened their dolls. 

Now. Just imagine pulling back some red and green wrapping paper and seeing this face.  THIS. FACE. 

I knew the hard work and months of time and heartfelt effort that went into making all of these dolls…so I did what any good family member would do. I smiled, thanked Mamaw for the doll…and took it home with us to Florida and buried it in the closet in hopes that it would not rise again in the middle of the night á la Poltergeist. And there this banished baby stayed.

Until a few months ago.

Fast forward to 2012. A lot has changed. We had Lucie, moved to Tennessee and had finally gotten settled and somewhat organized in our new (rental) home. I had completely forgotten about the hideous plastic baby-creature that had been hidden away for so long. But somehow, Lucie found it. Him. Her. Whatever. Literally, this thing was still in the box…but she insisted on opening it up and adding this baby to her collection of dolls. And sleeping with it. And taking it in the car. And in the store. And EVERYWHERE ELSE. The curse of the risen doll was upon us.

People would gasp. Shudder. Coil back in fear. What…is…THAT?!?!?!  And Lucie would just smile and say, "My Big Baby." (And then she would continue to carry it by its hair across the room.)

This is a problem, people. But, in my heart of hearts, I felt awful for making fun of it. This doll has been lovingly made for my firstborn son by MY GRANDMOTHER. My children's great-grandmother…it's Mamaw!  How can I be so ungrateful and disrespectful?!

Well, Mamaw came to visit…and for once, I wasn't clambering to hide this baby doll away for fear of scaring my house guests. I was actually looking forward to telling her that the kids love to play with the doll that she made for Ben 5 years ago…and how much Lucie loves it and is proud of it. 

In walked Mamaw…and she gasped. 

I thought to myself, Yep. I'm scoring major points here--she's so happy that the kids love her doll!

"Nicki, WHAT IS THAT?!!?"  

Wait--what?!?!? I said "Mamaw--you made that for Ben…!!?"

"NO I did NOT. I found that at an estate sale because I made the girls dolls and I didn't want Ben to feel left out. And he liked ducks. Good Lord, Nicki--why do you have that?! That's just creepy."

No s*@%, Mamaw. 

So here we are today…this creepy baby is still as much a part of Lucie's daily routine as it is a funny focal point with friends--we've started calling her/him Myrtle because we think she would get tons of attention strapped in a Baby Bjorn and walking down Myrtle Beach, Hangover-style.  

I guess I've learned my lesson--from now on, I'm double checking the heirloom-status of everything before deciding how long to keep it. Although I don't know that I could pry Myrtle away from Lucie quite yet…but I'm hoping she'll let go of it the next time a White Elephant party comes around…