Rosie the riveting
A little less than a year ago, I bought some coveralls, size 4T.
The intent was to take a Rosie the Riveter picture, and just to have a Rosie the Riveter costume in our possession, you know, to balance out the SleepingBeautySnowWhitePrincessPrincessness that is every costume aisle ever, or at least the girls’ side. But also: hello—I have a child named Rosie. This was going to happen at some point. Of course it was.
But then stuff got in the way, and work, and growing babies, and growing babies some more, and having babies, etc., etc., and the costume got shoved in the closet. But it wasn’t forgotten. Oh no it wasn’t.
This week I’m home all day every day with Noah and Max, and Rosie has a special music camp to attend from 9-12 Tues-Thurs, but after noon on those days it’s me and three kids, hold on tight, geronimo. Getting out of the house to take Rosie to her activities at the designated time requires a lot of rushing around and sweating and wardrobe changes, but I’m happy to report that the first day we made it to the church on time. (AND it was raining. I’m expecting my medal of valor in the mail any day now.)
Then in the afternoon, I did what any self-respecting newly-minted mom of three kids did: I turned on a nice long movie. That’s right. I also gave the kids sodas and didn’t make them wash their hands before eating lunch. MOM POLICE!
We riveted the Rosie.
And you know what—looking at that posterfied Rosieface is making me feel like maybe We (I) CAN Do It. Right on, sister (daughter). Right on.