Sesame Street is still my favorite TV show since birth. On Saturday mornings I still sit gleefully on the couch with a huge bowl of cereal tapping my feet and singing the Sesame Street theme song at the top of my lungs. Aaah, there is no greater joy than an hour filled with Jim Henson puppets and educational, yet snappy songs. Well, not literally, but Sesame Street does make for an hour free from DIPS since I'm pretty sure that I can still say my ABC's and count to ten in English and Spanish.
I have always known that Sesame Street would decorate the walls of my nursery, just as it did my room when I was a kid. My passion for Sesame Street began when before I was even born. One of Mommy's soldier friends gave her a stuffed Grover doll before she had me. In case you don't watch or remember Sesame Street, Grover is the fuzzy blue character with the big red nose. In my baby book there are pictures of a three-day old Kym, propped up on pillows with Grover sitting next to me. In other pictures, I'm either holding Grover or you can find him laying somewhere in my vicinity. There are pictures of Grover and me drinking a bottle, taking my first few precarious steps, asleep in a car seat, and getting my diaper changed. Yes, Grover and I were quite a pair. At least until I was two, when we went to visit my Grandmother in Chicago and Grover was mistakenly left behind. Mom says I fell into some sort of baby depression and cried for my Go-go, as that was my version of saying Grover. Distressed at seeing her baby in distress, Mom searched every toy store in San Francisco until she found another Grover. She says I held it, took one long look at it, and threw it down. I refused to be had -- I knew that wasn't my Grover. Anyway, Grover naturally became my favorite character and Sesame Street became my favorite TV show.
I've been so excited to decorate the nursery. Actually, Frank has been the excited one. He is the interior decorator of the house, because I have no eye whatsoever for decorative flair. He's really quite good at it. So when it was time to get the nursery together, my only stipulations were that he did it in primary colors and of course, Sesame Street. Over the course of two weeks, he did a beautiful job, with creative touches to rival that darned Martha Stewart. He managed to find framed pictures of SS characters (including Grover) and put up some huge deflated SS balloons. On one wall he put up this huge mural of a sunny sky and clouds, and you can't help but hear, "Sunny days, sweepin' the clouds away..." For those of you suffering from DIPS right now, that's the start of the Sesame Street song. We've also been stockpiling Sesame Street stuffed characters to put on a shelf in the room. It's Sesame Street heaven in there.
Though Frank is rather skilled on the decorative end, he's no Mr. Fixit. I'm telling you he absolutely sucks at putting things together, and he gets kidded for it by Mommy and my sisters almost constantly. Okay, I admit to joining in, too. Putting things together is my area of expertise, but since it's usually a more manly duty, Frank feels the need to meet that stereotype, as if it would balance out his eye for decor. Since we found out I was pregnant, the running joke has been, "Hey Kym, are you gonna let him put the cribs together?" Chuckle-chuckle, ha-ha, elbow in the ribs and all of that. Frank standing in the background saying, "Forget all of y'all, I can put stuff together without it falling apart." And that much is true. Stuff never falls apart, but it sure isn't put together right. The very desk that this computer sits on is put together all bass-ackwards, as we ghetto people sometimes like to say. A couple of years ago Frank bought a weight bench set and put a piece of it on backwards, making one particular piece of equipment unusable. He didn't even realize it until I pointed it out to him.
Just last year I bought my sister one of those stroller/car seat/carrier combo thingies and made the mistake of leaving Frank responsible for putting it together. I presented the stroller to Chanel at her baby shower, and at first, everything looked normal. I even lauded Frank for managing to get something fixed without putting a piece of it on the wrong way. A week later, Chanel and I were trying to figure our exactly how to get the carrier/car seat attached to the stroller. When I saw no earthly way that that could be done, I got the box it came in and found some stuff still in there. I asked Frank what all of that stuff at the bottom of the box was and he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Spare parts." I thought, "Oh God, he's done it again." Some of those spare parts turned out to be the brackets you attach to the stroller to allow the carrier sit securely on it. They also turned out to be the brakes for the wheels, the rod that holds up the hood, and the parent drink/accessory tray. After I spent an additional hour getting the stroller put together the right way, the house was in a hysterical uproar at Franks goof.
Well, I am here to tell you that my baby has finally managed to put something together the right way the first time. The cribs are excellent. No leftover pieces, no backwards railing, no unsafe mattresses. When Mommy came over to see the finished nursery, she did a diagnostic check over all of the crucial crib parts while eyeing Frank suspiciously. I watched her while saying, "Frank actually did something right this time, Mommy, and I have all confidence that my babies are going to be safe in those cribs." She said, "Well they look alright, but have you tested them by getting in?" Without hesitation I exclaimed, "Hell no!" and the two of us were immediately sent into a fit of bladder-busting laughter. Of course she was just joking, and she slapped Frank on the back for a job well done.
Alright, folks, this next part is going to be quick because A) my dear darling Frank is ready to eat dinner and the twins are kicking me to let me know that they are too, and B) I've been sitting here for two hours straight typing two journals and my butt hurts. Aquarius, the water bearer -- Aquarians are thought of to be avant-garde. There is a saying that says, "The way an Aquarian thinks, so will the world in fifty years." Well, I certainly hope that's not entirely true because if that's the case, this world is in for a major Retardo Renaissance because I am an Aquarian.
I celebrated my 23rd birthday on February 11, and I became an Aquarian in the truest sense. On that day was bestowed with a maternal gift so glorious, it surpassed all the other gifts I received -- my boobs started leaking. I don't just mean a drop, I mean a flood. Yes, at this time, five months pregnant, it is somewhat of a bother, having all that fluid and nowhere else to go but down my chest and onto my bed sheets. But it was a moving moment, and I got all weepy at all the ways my body is getting ready for these babies. Well, folks. Gotta close it here. The pork chops are calling my name and my booty is screaming for relief. If any of you have any tips on the leaky boob thing, please post me.
Much love from me and Grover,