Livin' in a Fishbowl

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Last night, at a special church service, my friend, Christy, gave me the sweetest gift. I've always said that I thought my family might end up multi-colored. Therefore, Jesus Loves the Little Children would, naturally, have to be our theme song. It seems that Christy, knowing this "theme song idea" has had something up her sleeve for quite some time and, yesterday, she took her daughter and Kimmie to Build-A-Bear.

First, it must be said that I adore Jessica and Kimberly and wouldn't hesitate to raise them as my own daughters if for some bizarre reason the situation ever presented itself. In fact, I've often considered just taking them from their parents and raising them as my own for the fun of it. But "kidnapper" isn't really something I want to put on my resume so I genuinely shy away from such shenanigans.

Anyway, when I got to the church last night they were bouncing off the walls to give me my present. Or Matthew's present. Or the family's present. Whatever. Currently he's residing in the pack n' play but we'll see where he ends up. I wouldn't be surprised to find him nestled in with my son one of these nights because Garrett has been eyeing him with a great deal of interest. The bear's shirt says, "It's a boy." He has not one but two hearts sown up inside of him. Each girl got to put their own heart in. I actually love the fact that he has two hearts because it makes me think of my heart and Jennifer's heart, both loving Matthew in our own inexplicable ways. We will both love him so differently but I think a child growing up with the fierce love of two mothers is one lucky kid.

Last, but certainly not least, he sings Jesus Loves the Little Children or, rather, Jess and Kimmie sing it. They had to sing fast because they were only given ten seconds. I love that, when it gets to the part about red and yellow, black and white, I'm about to be halfway there.

Also, I never really told the story about Garrett vomiting his guts out for hours the first night we were in San Diego. Suffice it to say, it was gross. And he only wanted his, "Papa." Which was weird. Right? I mean, aren't kids supposed to want their mommies when they're puking out their noses? Anyway, it started in the car on the way home from dinner after we got picked up at the airport. He tells us the story at least once a day. Usually seventy-eight point five times. "Mommy. Barf out my nose. Hurt me so bad. Gee-Gee's car a mess."