The Blog Post That Time Forgot

Alternate Title: Remember When Max Had A Birthday Party? No? Like, Three Weeks Ago? No? Nothing? Well, I Have Pictures. Anyone Still Interested?

So now it's been so long since Max's birthday party that I sort of feel like it's peculiar talking about it. It's like when you have an old friend that you haven't seen for awhile, so when you do see them conversation is all awkward at first until you get reaquainted, or remember that you haven't seen them for awhile because you actually don't like them very much and beat a hasty retreat. Truthfully, Max's party post is very long, and contains many pictures, and I have had trouble finding time to finish it, but I couldn't quite go on and write other, smaller blog posts with the party one just hanging there in draft form, and thus the writer's block. However, Max did have a birthday party, there are pictures and amusing anecdotes and more pictures to prove it, and we should not let a small amount of awkwardness stand between us and reminiscing about the experience. Ergo:

This was Max's third birthday party, his fourth if you count the one where he was actually born, but it was the first one that he was old enough to anticipate. He had a number of ideas about party themes, cake recipes, h'ordeurves menus, and presents, and while some of them were impractical ("I know, Mama! We will all go get me a Disneyland castle for my birthday! Is that a good idea, Mama?"), I did try to shape the party around his wishes. The most consistent and fervent of his many requests was a blueberry cake. Where he got this idea, I cannot say, but it caused me some hand-wringing. When I bake at all, which is rarely, I am a cake mix kind of lady, and blueberry cake is off the beaten path enough that there is no mix. In the end (because while this tale of my adventures in domesticity is almost unbearably fascinating, I know, we've got a lot of ground to cover, so we'll have to skim off some of the bakerly details in the name of brevity), I used blueberry muffin mix, poured it into a cake pan, and it was delicious. Max cracked the eggs for the cake. There was egg all over creation and we wasted at least three eggs because Max became overexcited by the cracking process. He was delighted. It was totally worth it.

More easily accomplished was Max's desire to have his party in the park. We did this with Maggie's party, too, and while there is always some risk in outdoor party-planning because the weather can betray you and lay waste your fond hopes, the dangers are offset by the promise of free child-entertaining and minimal mess.

While the weather didn't behave too obnoxiously on the day in question, it was a bit warmer than we were anticipating. Most of the playground equiptment is in direct sunlight, so we had to get creative to try and keep everyone entertained in the shade. My uncle Will sent this bubble machine to us a while back, and it made the perfect distraction. It does kind of rapid-fire bubbles at a break-neck pace, though, which I didn't realize until I had accidently sent a giant stream of them right up Maggie's nose.

Max took over the controls of the Bubbler, and things went much more smoothly once the new management was in place.

The last time we had a party in the park, Maggie could not yet walk or climb. Now she can. It makes the overall park experience much more -- what's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes --stressful.

On first glance, it looks like Justin is about to smack Max upside the head, and I had this picture all printed out and ready to send to the proper authorities when I saw the soccer ball behind Max's head. What a relief.

I was not privy to the conversation that took place while this was being photographed, but 'favorite accessories' was clearly the topic.

Margarets One and Two.

Not to toot my own horn or anything (what a weird expression, by the way. Like it's better to toot someone else's horn? Gross. And that's setting aside the whole issue of the word 'toot', which is what we said in my family for 'fart'. But I really, really digress), but the cake came out pretty great. Max wanted a "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" theme, which necessitated me finding palm trees to decorate the cake, hand-polka-dotting the edges with a balky frosting pen, and baking and frosting hand-carved lower-case alphabet letters. Combined with the aforementioned blueberry batter curveball, there were many, many points in the cake-making process where tragedy could have occurred. But it didn't. The cake was baked, frosted, decorated, and transported to the park without incident, and I only had to swear twice. (Fricking lower-case letters.)

Less flawless was the candle-lighting operation. In my youthful naivety, I initially attempted to light the waxen "3" alone, and with ill-placed confidence.

There was just enough wind, coming from just the right direction, that the matches kept blowing out before they could ignite the candle. Reinforcements were called in. Quickly, we divided into three groups; Group A took turns trying a variety of match-lighting flourishes, Group B formed a human shield around the cake, trying to keep the wind at bay, and Group C stood at the periphery and laughed.

We did eventually get the candle lit, but the wind blew it out long before we were finished singing.

In the end, we pretended that Max had blown it out, applauded him roundly, and served him a piece of cake before his suspicions could crystalize.


Blueberry Chicka Chicka Boom Boom cake. It's my new signature recipe.

In a piece of news completely unrelated to this picture (which kind of speaks for itself, I think), Maggie's new favorite activity is chucking toys in the toilet and then flushing it. To date, three baby dolls and a plastic turtle have been removed from her custody pending extensive cleaning, and the only reason we still have an unflooded bathroom is that she has so far chosen items that are too big to flush down. I really hope she turns her life around soon, for the sake of her filthy plush children. And turtle.

At first, Max had his own dish of cake, but when the paper bowl fell on the ground and got dirty, he decided to skip the middle man and eat cake straight from the pan.

And then, of course, we opened presents.

Max was understandably daunted by the prospect of unwrapping so extensive a pile of loot.

Luckily, Max's dad, who is secretly Superman (okay, so I exposed the secret. You know what? It was time. I'm sick of the deception, okay?!), stepped in to help.

Max kept wanting to stop opening presents, and just play with whatever he had opened last.

We called in a coach to help Max keep his focus.

Obviously, the strenuous task took its toll on the boy, but I think he's better for it.

Max first saw the movie "Toy Story" while we were in Canada, and he has been sort of obsessed with it ever since. He and Gramps found a Buzz Lightyear doll in a thrift store on one of their jaunts, and Granny and Gramps got him a corresponding Woody for his birthday.

After the party, Woody was tenderly fed some cake. He then joined in Max's nightime routine -- he put pajamas on with Max, he had his teeth brushed, he kissed everyone good night, and he curled up in bed with Max. Eventually, Max decided against sleeping with Woody, because Woody is quite pointy. I was just as glad. Something about Woody's frozen, toothy grin strikes me as alarming.

The day after the party, Max took his first nap in a month. For four hours. Being three makes you tired, I guess.

Happy Birthday Uncle ... Tom? Thomas? T-Man?

We're still working on the name thing, now that you're officially Max and Maggie's uncle. Have a happy birthday in the meantime. Cheers!

Happy Birthday Auntie Jessi

We all love you ever so muchly, and wish you enormous amounts of birthday glee.

Technical Difficulties

I have been trying to upload Max's birthday party pictures, which include the fabled blueberry cake with the even more fabled (fableder?) hand-carved lower case alphabet cookie decorations. Sadly, however, Blogger seems to be getting revenge for my recent inattention by appearing to upload my pictures, and then eating them when I try to publish. I will sweet-talk Blogger into forgiving me and be with you shortly.

In Which Max Attains Magic Number Status

However many children Ian and I are lucky enough to have, and however much we love them equally and uniquely and wonderfully, Max will always be the baby that changed us from Chelsa and Ian into Mama and Dada for the very first time. And for that, I will always, always be grateful. Max, I am so glad that you made me a mama, and I am so awed and humbled and filled with joy that you made me your mama. We have loved every minute. Happy 3.

Happy Birthday Auntie Jill!

I know that many things have changed for my sister Jillian recently. She has a new husband, a new name, a new life as a student and a wife and a woman. To me, however, she will also always be that rosy-cheeked little baby who used to throw her diapers at my head to wake me up in the morning. I love you, Jills, and I hope that your birthday is joyous.

T Minus Twenty Five Hours Till Party Time

Max requested a "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" birthday cake this year. As a result, I am currently hand-carving sugar cookie lower-case alphabet shapes to decorate the cake. If you ever doubt my love for my son, gaze upon my floury eyebrows and doubt no more.

Yeah, But I Have A Good Excuse This Time

Over the years I've been blogging, I've had a few people, here and there, express admiration for the fact that I have managed to keep updating so consistently even with two young children and an active life full of diapers and pureed sweet potatoes and whatever other rich and rewarding activities I engage in. And I always responded, humbly and with a self-deprecating wave of my noble hand, that it is relatively easy to write a paragraph here and there if you are a stay at home mama, because you can take advantage of nap times to get your blog on. And then, Ladies and Gentlemen, the unthinkable happened. Max stopped napping.

I was a notoriously poor napper as a child, and I outgrew my naps almost immediately after outgrowing the womb. Ian, however, according to his mother, was still napping in kindergarten, and I kind of thought that Max was going to take after his dad in this respect. However, in the last three weeks, he has napped twice. Two times. He will still ask to go lay down at nap time, and we will get all settled, and he will be quiet and still just long enough for me to think, maybe he's not really outgrowing naps! Maybe it was all just a crazy phase, brought on by school starting and too much vacation and -- and then I'll hear his little voice.
"Mama, this is really weird. I'm not tired. I'm getting upset. I think I'm going to go to the living room. Do you wanna come with me, Mama?" and that will be that.
What this means, folks, is that the window that I used to have open in my day for blogging, reading, cleaning myself or my environment, eating, breathing, etc. has been firmly closed. Max is coping with his new found awakefulness by making much with the crabby. He does not like to wear diapers. He is not interested in underwear, and if he were, it certainly would not be the underwear that I chose for him. He dislikes food, and he also dislikes being made to wait for the food that he refused to request and will most likely refuse to eat. He goes to bed earlier, which is good, but the hour before he goes to bed is now so utterly and all-consumingly fraught with emotional outbursts that the extra time we have after he goes to sleep at night is mostly committed to recovery. I recollect parents at the preschool describing the transition from napper to non-napper as a challenging one, and I recollect being amused by how their faces would fall when I would report that nope, their child had not slept that day, and I would like to collectively apologize to all of them for my lack of sympathy on their behalf. I know that Max's body will adjust to his new schedule, and that the rest of our lives will fall back into place and we will get a new routine going, just like we do every time any one has any kind of developmental leap. Max will not always be as prone to tears and outrage every God blessed minute as he seems to be right now. But Good Grief.

In other, possibly related news, Max and I started off a new school year last week. I work two days a week, six hours a day. Max comes with me, and Maggie stays with Ian. Maggie cries every time I leave, which makes me feel excruciatingly terrible, but Ian assures me that she is quite cheerful when she is not actually looking at me leaving, and they are having a delightsome time together bonding. Max loves school, he loves that he has a lunchbox and a backpack and sporty new Lightning McQueen shoes. He is learning the rules and routines, and it has been fascinating and wonderful and heart wrenching and anxiety-producing to observe him as he learns to be social and to take his own place in a group of peers. In theory, I am also bringing Max one day a week without me, so that he learns independence and self esteem and whatever else. We kicked the experiment off last Wednesday; I dropped Max off, said goodbye (he looked alarmed but didn't cry), went to the grocery store with Maggie, and returned to pick Max up an hour and twenty three minutes later. I walked around the corner toward the yard, saw Max sitting in the sand area with his back to me, and thought, "Oh, good. He's playing! I wonder if he even noticed that I was gone!" And then one of the teachers said, "Look, Max! Look who's here!" and Max turned and started slooowwwlllyyy walking up the path towards me, his little face crumpling and an hour and twenty three minutes worth of tear tracks painted on his cheeks. "Maaaammmmaaaa!" he wailed, looking and sounding utterly bereft and betrayed, and threw himself into my arms. I feel like that expression on his face is going to poke me right in the heart every time I think about it for the rest of my life.
Less melodramatically, Max did recover quickly, especially when he learned that I had purchased him a guilt-induced juice smoothie at the store, and he was quite cheerful the rest of the day. Every day since, though, he has asked me if "we are going to preschool but it is not a day when you go away but it is a day when you stay?" Today was supposed to be round two of Operation: Max goes solo, but, predictably, he is taking a nap right in the middle of what is supposed to be school time, his first nap in what feels like twenty gajillion years and exquisitely timed. I haven't quite decided whether we will go late today or wait until Friday. I will keep you posted, as best and as promptly as I can in these trying times.

So, About That Disneyland ...

Wow. It's been twenty million years, hasn't it? I don't even have a coherent excuse to offer, either. Disneyland was tiring, we are gearing up for a new school year, both for me as a teacher and for Max as (stifled sob) a new student. Plus, and I say this with love, Max has had some 'tude lately. A full time job's worth. With unpaid overtime. It recently occurred to him that he will only be two for a couple more weeks, and he has an entire year's worth of Terrible Twos to pack into those weeks. But anyway. Disneyland! The epic Tillman Adventure!

Our friend Mike, who loves Disneyland, looked at our pictures from our trip eagerly, and then, much less eagerly, said, "But there are no pictures of Disneyland. These are just a bunch of pictures of you guys standing around." It's not entirely true -- we got some pictures of the kids going on rides, or in front of Disney-ish scenery, and my in-laws have since sent me some of their pictures, filling in some of the gaps. But it is true that I didn't get as many pictures as I hoped, and that a lot of the ones that I did get don't really show the Disneyland setting off to full advantage. But when you are travelling with four children under the age of three, and you are in a really crowded and stimulating environment, it turns out that you are very, very maniacally busy, and you have both hands full a lot of the time. And both feet. And the moments when you have the camera and the ability to use it are the moments when you are sitting and eating lunch, or sleeping in the hotel room, or doing other things that are taking place in Disneyland but look like they could be taking place anywhere. Therefore, to set the scene, I am starting with this picture of Maggie showing off some Disney merchandise.

Maggie's love of her cousin Sophia was not diminished by three days of togetherness. There were drooly kisses, baby-babble conversations, and much mutual gazing.

Max and Joey were extremely excited to see each other (sorry about the blurriness, but as usual, the boys they do not stay still for God or anyone). They got along beautifully for about 86% of the trip, even with the irritants of no sleep, crazy over stimulation, and hot temperatures. By the last day, they were getting slightly snarky, and we learned at some personal cost for everyone that it was no longer advisable to put them in the double stroller together by the afternoon of Day 3. Still, though, Disneyland is a lot of excitement and stress for a young person, and I think that their cousinly bond held up remarkably well for a remarkably long time.

I think that this was the sort of picture that caused Mike to complain, and truly, there is not much to demonstrate that we are not just standing in a crowded train station somewhere. We were watching the pixar parade. I look cheerful, but I was actually in terrible pain. Max is heavy, and he was off-center because he was more interested in getting a good view than in sparing my neck, and he was pulling on my hair. I suffer for love, people.

I have a picture of my sister and I on the Dumbo ride from when we were little, and I was really hoping to get a shot of Max and I on the same ride. Sadly, we took Max on a traumatizingly scary ride on our first evening, and after that it was very difficult to persuade him to trust us and go on any rides at all. (Pirates of the Caribbean, and I know, you're thinking well, duh! Why would you even consider taking a three year old on that ride late at night? but I haven't been to Disneyland since I was seven, and I think I got the Pirates ride sort of mixed up with the Fairytale Town ride, and so I thought it was a much more jolly and lighthearted romp, and then about three seconds into the ride I saw the skeletons and the cannons and the fricking Davy Jones ghost and I realized that I was laying the foundation for my poor son to have life-long night-terrors, but by then it was too late, and all I could do was chant, "it's not real, they're just pretend, see, it's like a movie, don't worry, ha ha, it's just a funny pretend movie, see?" while Max clung to Ian and I and his eyes got saucer-like.) So Joey went on Dumbo while Max observed him with detached interest. This is the stationary Dumbo, which is climbable but not part of the ride, and which Max did condescend to pose in.

Yep, Stationary Dumbo. We live right on the edge, folks. Right on the edge.

Ian persuaded Max to help him try to take Excalibur out of the stone. Neither of them could remove the sword, so our whole 'king of all Britain' plan is basically shot. Nuts.

See how we all have matching shirts? I hope you do see, because I think this is the only picture of all of us in our shirts. Mighty cute as we are, the shirts were of this heavy, not-very breathable cotton, and it was super hot in Disneyland, so we all wore them for 1/3 of one morning. There were matching hats, too, seen as modelled by Maggie in shot #1, but the heat and the fact that I have big hair that was poorly and unattractively corralled by the hat forced the hat to cancel its appearance in this picture. It also occurs to me that this is another one of those pictures that Mike complained about. You have only my word for it that we are in Disneyland at all, and not in any crowded shopping mall courtyard. But who roams around in matching Disney shirts like a band of weirdoes anywhere but Disneyland? Lots of people, probably. Sigh.

Ian's parents bravely offered to watch all four grandchildren so that Ian, Jean, Josh and I could go on the California Adventure ride. The ride was really neat -- you fly over scenic parts of California, which sounds stupid when I write it out like that, but it's cool -- you really feel like you're flying over the ocean and the mountains and the vineyards, and they blow pine scents or ocean scents or citrus scents at you while you fly, to match the scenery. Max started crying when I left, which I mercifully didn't know until later. My sister-in-law took this picture, and what amuses me is how everyone is smiling and/or indifferently eating puffs except Max, who is red with rage. Apparently he recovered a few minutes later, and watched the Electric Light Parade with Phil and Elaine, but when I returned from the ride, he said very reproachfully, "I was CRYING, Mama. You were lost, and I was crying 'Mama! Mama!' like that but you were lost." Guilt-tripper.

Joey met Mickey Mouse, and got his picture taken hugging Mickey. Max decided that, when dealing with freaks with giant mouse heads, discretion is the better part of valour, and opted to stare incredulously at Mickey from the sidelines, instead.

Although he was reluctant to go on any ride with Ian or I after the Pirates debacle, Max did agree to go on the Autopia ride. Twice. I think that technically, people his size are not supposed to man the wheel of the ride, but Max was smuggled into the driver's seat once the proper authorities were out of sight.

Max and Grandpa take on the teacups.

This is one of three or four shots I have of Max sleeping, in various locations in or around Disneyland. It has taken us this long and counting to get back to any kind of normal routine. I am not kidding. When we got home from the airport on Saturday night, we changed Max's diaper, wiped his face, put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and put him in bed, and not only did he not wake up, but he didn't even twitch.

Maggie liked the people-watching at Disneyland, and the fried chicken, and she loved the three days of uninterrupted Sophia time. She got frustrated by how seldom she was allowed to walk around, though, and she was overwhelmed by the crowds and the lights and the fireworks and the heat, so she clung to me like a very heavy barnacle for much of the trip. She has been coping with the vacation hangover by going on a food strike, and deciding that the time in her life when she nursed constantly all day and all night was a good period and should be revisited. We are finally getting back into a solid food eating, sleeping at night life, for which I am profoundly grateful.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Disneyland '08. Next up will be Max's first day at school (without me there), and also his birthday party, which is going to have a Chicka Chicka Boom Boom theme and which is going to be the event of the season. Anticipate the pictures amongst yourselves.

In Which Ian Is Forced To Disembowel A Plush Toy In The Dead Of Night

Yeah, yeah, Disneyland. It's coming. Last night's tale of epic toy bug-slaying adventure takes precedence, though, because it is humorous. (To me. Ian found it somewhat less funny, even going so far as to accuse me of a lack of respect for the severity of the situation, but his sense of humor goes to bed earlier than the rest of him.)

Yesterday, Maggie had to have a round of vaccinations, and being fresh off of vacation, Ian was unable to take time off to accompany me to the doctor. Gallantly, but with a sense of dread weighing down my heart, I rounded up the offspring, took them to the doctor, and presented Maggie's chubby dimpled thighs for needling. I was anticipating all hell breaking loose -- Maggie crying about being poked, Max crying because he witnessed the poking, me crying because my life has somehow escaped the boundaries of my control, and then all of us spending the rest of the day crying because once you've gotten started down that path, you might as well keep walking. Much to my surprise, however, the appointment actually went off without a hitch. Maggie cried during the actual shots, but was quickly and easily comforted. Max was fine with Maggie getting shots, once he had reassured himself and everyone around him that he was not next in line for a needling. Maggie slept more than usual throughout the day, but she never developed a fever or soreness. I sent a breezy, self-congratulatory email to Ian, expressing my surprised delight at the smoothness of it all. Ian came home, we ate dinner, we got ready for bed. I cheerfully reminded myself not to be so pessimistic in future endeavours.

Here is where you should insert the ominous music into the movie of my life, the music that means that a sinister shadow is stalking our oblivious heroine.

Maggie developed a slight fever just before bed, which was quickly squelched by a dose of Tylenol. She went to sleep peacefully, slept angelically for about three hours, and then began fussing. I attempted the usual soothing techniques. Fussing escalated to squawking. Squawking quickly became yowling, at which point it occurred to me that Maggie was hot like the sun. I took her out to the living room, gave her more Tylenol, and watched the Muppet show with her while we waited for the fever to subside. It took a very long time. We staggered back to bed at a million o' clock, a.m., I closed my eyes, and that is when, from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room, I began hearing a very strange sound.
"What the hell is that noise?" I asked loudly. Ian muttered something about how the only thing he could hear was me. But then it came again, "YYYYYYYEEEEEeeeeeeeeaaaaaaa". A sort of high pitched, mechanical-sounding whine, just loud enough to make it difficult to ignore. Ian thought it was the air conditioner. I didn't think so. Ian thought he could go back to sleep in spite of it. I didn't think so. Ian thought I was keeping him awake unnecessarily. I disagreed. Finally, after much lively discussion, I remembered that I had accidentally thrown a stuffed bug, the kind that makes a sound when you squeeze it, into the washing machine with a load of laundry that afternoon. I further remembered that the bug had been known to make a sound very similar to the one we were now hearing. Unfortunately, I did not remember exactly where I had chucked the bug after discovering its presence in the load of laundry. Even more unfortunately, Maggie was sleeping nestled against me, so Bug Battle '08 had to be delegated to Ian. It took Ian a long and grumbling while to find the bug, which continued to let out increasingly warped and forlorn buzzing sounds at irregular intervals. And then, of course, there was the question of what to do with the Godforsaken thing once it was found. From the comfort of the bedroom, I heard Ian swearing in a low and heartfelt monotone. I heard several gruesome ripping and scraping sounds. The mechanical buzzing increased in volume and urgency until it was a veritable chorus of the damned. Then it petered out into silence. There was a thud from the vicinity of the kitchen. Ian got back into bed.
"So, you found it then?" I queried timidly.
"Oh, its dead now", said Ian grimly. I laughed. Ian did not.
In the morning, when I had made my decidedly unrested way into the kitchen, I beheld the aftermath of the massacre, which I have now shared with you all. I would have included the voice box, which Ian apparently ripped out of its downy innards, but it was too crushed and grisly, and this is a family blog. RIP, Small Plush Bug. Via con dios.

In Which I Wish My Sister Much Joy

My sister Jillian is getting married today. Every part of me wishes I could be there to see it happen, even the parts that are worn to a ragged nub by Disneyland. Jillian and Tom, I love you so very much, and I wish you every kind of happiness that exists and is in my power to wish. Enjoy your wedding day, and every day that comes after.

9

Nine years ago today, Ian and I agreed to spend the rest of our lives together. Formally. The actual decision to spend our lives together, if in fact we decided it at all rather than simply accepting the foreordained, probably took place shortly after we met, somewhere around 1993. Ian, sans vous, je ne suis rien. I love you.

Random But Hopefully Useful Pieces Of Information

Thanks, Everyone, for the birthday love! I had a really awesome birthday, and the usual post-birthday let-down has been completely abated by the fact that we are leaving for Disneyland tomorrow morning, so I am a happy 31 year old. Ian made breakfast for me yesterday, I worked at the preschool in the 100 degree heat (no, thank you, Global Warming), and then my parents babysat while Ian and I went out to dinner with some friends of ours. Between us, our friends and we (can that possibly be grammatically correct? and is that even how you spell grammatically? Is grammatically even a word? Help.) have 6.5 children, so this was our first childless dinner together (not counting the fetus, who sort of goes wherever his mom goes right now) in years and years. And it was great fun. My friends brought me flowers, and then this old man at the next table asked why, and then he insisted on leading the entire restaurant in an extraordinarily loud round of "Happy Birthday". It was weird and embarrassing, but also sort of friendly, but possibly slightly more embarrassing than it was friendly.
Anyway, we are leaving for Disneyland in the morning, so we will once again be outside the blogosphere for awhile. Fret not, however, but be of good cheer. This is our last trip for the foreseeable future, and there will be cute pictures of frolicking cousins to look forward to, and we have a list provided by Godfather Mike of Disneyland must-sees, so our trip will be comprehensive. Plus, tomorrow is Ian and my 9th anniversary, and I have provided a small slide show for your viewing pleasure. Seeya on the flip side.

Happy Birthday Chelsa

It's Chelsa's Birthday today. Chelsa is a great writer. I am not a great writer. I will simply say that the two days this year that we spent apart were the longest days of my life. Even when I am feeling down, I can look at Chelsa and think "at least I have an awesome wife who seems to be fond of me". That makes me smile.

Also, check out this vintage picture of Chelsa from Granny's facebook page. Doesn't she look familiar?