Babies, Bunnies, and Bees...Oh, My!

After a prolonged hiatus and with the assurance of a friend that my writings will not incite action by child protective services or land me in a padded cell,  I am back to blogging! Since my last writing, Izzy has evolved from a screaming, red-faced hourly milk depository into a charming little girl.  Not to say that she doesn't have her occasional meltdown, but now with less frequency than I have mine. 

The big news is that we are finally emerging out of our germaphobic coccoon and have begun to enjoy the social circuit with Izzy.  We started simply with a gathering of about a dozen of our healthiest friends at our house.  That was a baby step.  Then, we decided it was time to travel.  Our first big outing was 1.9 miles away at our church's Easter egg hunt (yes, our definition of "big" has sadly taken a turn for the worse).   It was a bright and gorgeous spring day suitable for a paisley cotton romper and a floppy hat (Izzy's outfit, not mine).

Car seat in place?  Check. 

Diaper bag loaded?  Check. 

Bottle, toys, and books?  Check. 

Camera?  Of course. 

By the time all the baby paraphernalia was packed, a breeze had stirred and a few fluffy clouds had appeared.  The 15 minute ordeal of the inevitable diaper change, tearful carseat adjustments (mostly her tears but a few from Dave), and an epic sunglass hunt (mine, not hers) resulted in an alarming shift from light breeze to heavy gusts.  But not to be deterred by a little tornado weather, we marched onward.  Less than 1/2 mile down our little country lane, the wind (upgraded to gale force) blew down a rather large and quite dead tree which now lay artfully arranged to block forward passage.  My husband, a hero to rabid egg hunters everywhere, leaped from the car, assessed the situation man-style, and began to tug fruitlessly on the offending tree trunk.  Which, by the way, also happened to be called  "home sweet home" by a multitude of angry bees.  Not a class of insect that likes to hold in their feelings, those bees.  Long story short, a welted and humbled Daddy, an epi-pen wielding Mama, and an oblivious sleeping beauty named Isabel reversed the car, took the scenic route, and arrived at the egg hunt just in time to see all of the kids scrambling for the church basement while worried parents eyed the ever-darkening skies. 

So I feel that this doomed outing was an omen somehow.  We had been doing just fine as agoraphobes, thank you very much.  Then, lured by the promise of a  few chintzy easter eggs and a photo op with a creepy Easter bunny on steroids(see photo) we risked life, limb, and exposure to snot-nosed kids just to show off our cuter-than-average baby (again, see photo). 

We know when to say when; we have retreated.  Back into the safety of our home where Burt's Bees shampoo is the closest we come to stinging insects.  Back to home where the only reportable

tree incident occurs in the tragic ending to "Rockabye Baby". 

One of these days, like the boy in the plastic bubble, we will venture outside of these protective walls again no matter the consequence.  But for now,who needs to travel for easter egg hunts or bunnies?  If we crave a little homeside excitement there is always the continuing search for the wayward sunglasses and plenty of burly dust bunnies in our midst.