Scarlett Pushes

More very swank vintage items can be found here: http://www.etsy.com/shop/vintageseventyfive

“Okay, Sonny, I had some real estate questions for your father, but let’s just start by looking at furnished apartments in our price range.” “Sure.”

Vesta drove Sonny and her two pals around the city, seemingly into every nook and cranny.

I could spend all day in this vintage shop, which also carries a line of naughty photos, oh my!: http://www.etsy.com/shop/Lovalon

Prices were all over the place.

The three co-buyers were excited about the possibilities, disappointed in the realities, and in the end overwhelmed by other folks’ furniture.

Ever-optimistic Scarlett got quiet as they visited space after space.

“I may be spoiled by being on my own so long, but this is not what I had anticipated. They’re all very nice, of course, Sonny. ”

“My dad only has one more furnished apartment on the list, Miss Scarlett.”

Another great photo from this shop, which has an array of early African-American and soldier photos: http://www.etsy.com/shop/Lovalon

“Fine, dear.”

Velma and Vesta had kept their opinions to themselves, wary of buying furniture on top of renting in the city — they both had sparse furnishings at the rooming house back in the country, and furniture seemed like a bulky investment.

Scarlett knew how to read their silence.

“Listen Sonny, let’s call it a day. Tell your dad I will call him.”

This shop has photos of World War I soldiers, vintage Halloween parties, parades, you name it: http://www.etsy.com/shop/Lovalon

In Vesta’s Model A, with Sonny delivered back to his parents, “Girls, we can club together and each bring a little furniture. I think we would all feel more comfortable not inheriting someone else’s ….aroma, let’s say. None of those places seemed clean and fresh, even if it was all in my head. Tomorrow we will look at some unfurnished places where we could put our stamp on the space.”

About AngelaLTodd

I am queen of the helicopter parents. But there are enough of us that we are becoming a social problem. Here’s my story. Thing 1 was coming, they couldn’t stop him, it was only 24 weeks and 3 days. Someone asked: should we try to save him? Well, yes. Yes! Ten days later, a team of doctors closed the door behind us to explain brain bleeds, sepsis, meningitis. Shall we pull the plug? Well, no. No! Babydaddy laid hands on him every day, massaged him when he was ready. For the three months he was in intensive care, and the three weeks at an intermediate hospital, I would get up in the night and pump breast milk, thinking about my baby across town. Babydaddy delivered it every morning, earning the name “milkman.” It was funny. We had every therapy going for as long as possible: early intervention, the intermediate unit, private therapies. Terms multiplied: sensory processing dysfunction, sensory integration problems, orally defensive, auditory sensitivities, comprehensive developmental delay, cognitive function impairment, retinopathy of prematurity. He did occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy; we consulted with a neurologist, school psychologist, wraparound service provider, developmental specialist. He worked with an occupational therapist for a year and a half to tolerate teeth and hair brushing. Not surprisingly, parenting didn’t feel natural. I learned to read to my baby watching Phyllis, our physical therapist. Voices, commentary, labeling colors, counting… she was very good! Merging professional research skills with my genetic propensity for silliness (mom was class clown, dad’s distantly related to Lucille Ball), my mothering style came together. Eventually. But I still channel Phyllis on occasion. Thing 2 was full term. They are complete opposites; she is a sensory seeker with a wild sense of adventure and an inventive sense of fashion. Keeping them both busy and happy is an exasperating and sweet challenge. I still believe that every day can be fun and educational while reinforcing kids' boundaries. I’m on a mission to save us helicopter parents from ourselves. No more bubble wrapped kids and guilty parents. Let’s teach them coping skills. Let’s get fun.

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