Costume Change!

 Rudy is certainly hitting her three-year-old stride.  When things don't go her way, her head flops back and she wails loudly and dramatically.  A few of her recent tantrums have included extended shrieking sessions, and while I don't think she could ever match her big sister for sheer hysteria, she's at least giving it a shot.

Even better (not really), she's doing that thing in which she has to fill several small bags with random toys, items taken from the junk drawer or my nightstand, and sometimes necessities like my car keys or Todd's wallet, and then she has to bring all of those bags with her wherever we're going or, see above with the flopping head and the yelling, and for added drama, collapsing in a pitiful, civil-disobedient-limp, heap.

And then there are the costume changes.  Rudy switches tops, skirts, dresses, tights, leotards, and shoes several times a day.  Sometimes she adds bunny ears.  Sometimes she swaps one pair of fairy wings for another.  It's like living with Cher, or Lady Gaga.  Her desperate need to change right now is beyond aggravating when it's time to head out the door, and usually hilarious, too, at least in retrospect.  One of her lacrosse-season babysitters sent me this gem of Rudy's stroll to the bus stop to pick up her big sister.  In shiny, purple, heeled sandals.

Yesterday, Marley needed a costume change of her own.  As usual, we were rushing down the street to catch the school bus for afternoon kindergarten while Marley was still finishing her lunch.  Both girls were sitting in their wagon, and Marley was balancing a plate with chicken and ketchup on her lap.  When we got there and she stood up, she realized that she had streaks of ketchup all over her shirt.  So, uh-oh.

Lucky for Marley, I was already dressed for lacrosse practice, so I was wearing running shoes and a sports bra.  And I felt like Sporty Mom ready for a challenge when I told Marley, "Listen.  I can try and run home and run back with a new shirt, but I might not make it before the bus gets here, and if I don't, you'll have to get on the bus without me, and you'll have to wear that shirt.  Do you still want me to try?"  She nodded, and one of the other moms, ready to watch over Toot in the meantime, chimed in: "You can do it, Sister [more like sis-tah]!"  And I sprinted back down the street, into our house and up the stairs before I grabbed four shirts (you better believe I was going to give that kid options) and raced back, not able to sprint anymore but still running.

When I turned the corner (our bus stop is more than a couple of houses away), the bus was turning its corner one block down, and I raised the shirts in the air in exhausted triumph.  I was panting and sweating as the bus pulled away, and also laughing at myself, and my cheerleader (who, now that I think of it, was also a cheerleader in high school, a couple of years ahead of me) told me to take a nice slow walk home.  I did, pulling Toot in the wagon and feeling like, "I hope Marley remembers the time her mom beat the bus back with her shirt."  She probably won't.  But just to remind her that I was sometimes awesome, I will have her read this.