Party Planner

One month ago, Ada's birthday party was easy: she'd have an exact replica of her older sister's fifth birthday party. Oops: our favorite clown is in Hawaii this week. But that's OK, she had another idea, anyway. "I want an Alton Brown party!" Oops: this TV celebrity doesn't know you as well as you know him. But two weeks ago, Ada's birthday party was still easy: we'd go to Whole Foods for one of their cooking parties and I wouldn't even have to clean my house. Oops: Whole Foods had a massive kids' event last Saturday and no birthday parties were held all weekend. This is when things got a little complicated.

Alton Brown hosts a science-themed cooking show on The Food Network called Good Eats. He's also the host/food historian/scientist/commentator for Iron Chef America, but Ada doesn't watch that show. (Good Eats is a show we occasionally watch together while I nurse her baby brother.) It turns out that not only does Alton Brown not regularly perform at children's birthday parties halfway across the country, but also he's not a popular children's party theme. There are no canned party-in-a-box options to purchase. There aren't even Alton Brown-themed party hats. What to do? Here's Ada's 5th Birthday Alton Brown Party, for your amusement.

We decided on a Saturday morning party from 9-11, at which guests could wear pajamas (so that Ada could wear her favorite footie pjs). First came the homemade invitations (since I couldn't exactly order Good Eats invites):


Could you tell that's supposed to be an egg with bacon?

Ada was turning 5, so allowed 5 guests plus herself and her sister (4 guests came, for a total of 6 little girls). As they arrived, we greeted them with homemade name tags so that all the adults would know the children's names - the girls are now old enough that not all the parents needed to stay! A first. The girls went into the dining room and began decorating colorful aprons that would also serve as party favors.


When they'd finished their aprons they washed hands and divided themselves into two groups (by the color of their nametags). The Red Team stood on stools at the kitchen counter with Paul, making vanilla cupcakes. The Purple Team sat at the dining room table with me, making monkey bread.


As the projects baked, Ada opened her presents. Then all the girls sat in the family room to watch me standing behind the kitchen counter making a fool of myself demonstrating yeast and gluten while baking bread. (Thanks to Kristy for taking pictures. Thanks to my sister-in-law for the loaner lab coat and glasses!)



We secretly had three loaves of bread going so that the girls could see the mixing/kneading stage, the risen stage, and the baked stage in short order. After scraping dough from their hands, the girls divided back into their baking teams. The purple team decorated freshly baked cupcakes at the kitchen table while the red team made fruit kabobs in the dining room. The teams then switched stations, and when everyone was done the kids sat down together to eat at the dining room table.



Between activities there was time for free play in Ada and Ellie's room or taking turns flying Paul's remote controlled helicopter. I think it all went remarkably well! THANKS to Paul for co-leading and for making so many of my ideas come to life (including the cupcake toppers and laundry basket of gluten). Many, many thanks to my parents for making the 300 mile drives (separately!) through ice and white-out conditions to be here and to take care of Teddy during the party.



Today was Ada's birthday proper and she got to pick all the food: doughnuts for breakfast, mac and cheese for lunch, and tacos with re-fried beans for supper. Then more presents and it's all over for another 364 days! (Here she's opening a cookbook from her sister.)

Disneyland 2011: Privations and Pratfalls

We had a wonderful, fabulous time at Disneyland. And I'll write a more detailed trip report than anyone wants to read. But our misadventures make a funnier tale.

T-3: One child develops a fever.

T-2: Paul gets called out of town on a last minute business trip right before our vacation. By leaving his meeting early he can get home at 11:00 PM the night before our trip. We leave the house at 4:30 the next morning. Yes, 5 hours after he returns home. This sucks because, a) he's exhausted, and b) I need to do a great deal of the packing and preparing by myself with the "assistance" of three small children.

T-1: I try on the custom-designed shirt we've ordered for each of us (yes, we are a family who matches clothes each day at Disney. why not?) only to find that - lo and behold - it's shrunk at least two sizes after its custom dye job. Everyone else's white shirt is fine, but mine is thin, skin-tight, and the Mickey ears form an unfortunate ring-around-the-breasts design. So . . . I drag two children - one still with fever - out to shop for another shirt to go under the disaster shirt, figuring that if I layer 3 shirts together I can make myself into a featureless sausage casing, in this case a preferable alternative. (It works, more or less.)


Trip Day 1: "Ma'am, that beeping sound means that you've been randomly selected for additional screening." I pride myself on making it through security without slowing down the line at all, no matter how many electronic devices or small children might be in my party. Today is no exception, except that Teddy and I are "randomly selected for additional screening" on this trip - in both directions! The helpful TSA lady brings me my bin after my infant and I are cleared . . . and somehow I become permanently separated from my clear plastic baggie of lotions, medical ointments, sunscreens, etc. I don't realize the oversight until we're in the air.

Trip Day 2: Safe! While waiting in line for a map I notice Paul and the children greeting Mickey Mouse. Hooray! I skip the line and sprint across rain-splattered asphalt to rejoin my family for photographs. Oops! Slick spot. I slide LOUDLY into a metal trashcan as though I'm stealing home. Over a week later, my knee still hurts a bit. My pride has recovered somewhat.


Trip Day 3: Please don't call child protective services. Ada's on-again/off-again fever strikes and she falls asleep in the stroller. Ellie really wants to paddle canoes.(Did you know that you can do this at Disneyland? Win!) So I find a shady spot alongside a wall, Paul parks the stroller with Ada inside it, and I hop up on the wall and cover up modestly to feed the baby and let him nap on my lap. After a quiet, relaxing interval, Paul and Ellie return. Paul brushes past the stroller, whose brakes are apparently not engaged, and . . . the stroller rolls across the slanted walk and crashes into the landscaping 10 feet away. Ada (not seat-belted) tumbles out into a bush, wakes abruptly, and begins crying. We discuss the episode later that afternoon. She thinks I'm kidding and has no memory of the fall whatsoever. Whew. "That would be scary," she says.


Trip Day 4: We wake early. Eat granola bars in our hotel room and pack without incident. We check out well ahead of schedule and try (for the second time this trip) to find our way to the beach with GPS or a detailed map. (Head west! Water must be here somewhere!) We travel on deserted highways and stumble upon a Starbucks immediately before finding beautiful, deserted Newport Beach. We watch the sun rise over the water for a bit, then head to the airport. We return the rental minivan, navigate security, and arrive at our gate, still ahead of schedule. Nothing goes wrong! Uneventful trip and a perfect travel day. The only weirdness is that somehow we watched sunrise over the ocean in California.

"Shared" Hobbies

Me: You'll be interested to know that Meg won Design Star.

Paul: Oh, Good! Everything she sewed had such a nice, flowing -

Me: It's a home design show.

Paul: Right! I mean, all the wood she cut had such a nice, flowing -

Me: It's more of a decorating sort of show.

Paul: Of course, I mean her curtains -

Me: Now, that just sounds dirty.

I love this man. :-)

Also . . .

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME: Teddy is taking a morning nap *in his crib* for the first time in his life. Alleluia!

Reality Summer

All that middle-of-the-night time I used to waste sleeping, all those evenings we used to go out together for family walks, bike rides, and ice cream runs? I'm now home with the baby during those moments, and I've filled the time with television.  Or, as I like to say: I've replaced sleep with TV and exercise with doughnuts.  This too shall pass. But in the meantime:

• 1) Project Runway. Welcome back! I've missed you so.
  
• 2) So You Think You Can Dance - dance - dance - dance - dance. I wish some of the costumes and routines were a little less overtly sexual, and I definitely need my volume control for Mary Murphy's enthusiastic responses, but this is a family favorite. The girls love "playing" the show as we watch it. Ellie is the host, Ada is a dancer, and Paul and I are the judges. I'll call the finale right now: Sasha, Melanie, and Marko. My vote's with either of the first two.
  
• 3) MasterChef: yes and no. I love the premise of the show (home cooks competing like professional chefs!) and the challenges. The whole program is great except for the judging. Ramsay can be a bit too foul and mean and Joe Bastianich can be a bully and worse. He chose one woman who is obviously intimidated by him and he just beats her down, over and over again. Sure, you have to be tough to succeed in that business. But whatever his justification, what he does to her is way past constructive and borders on sadistic. Hell's Kitchen - hell no.
  
• 5) Design Star: delightful as always, dahlings.
  
• 6) Food Network Star: what fun!
  
• 7-11) Chopped, Iron Chef America, Heat Seekers, Chefs vs. City, 10 Dollar Dinners: why, yes, I've finally discovered the Food Network. (While we're at it: a nod to Bravo for Top Chef Masters).
  
• 12-16) But I haven't given up HGTV, either: Selling New York, Property Brothers, , Bang for Your Buck, Extreme Living, My Backyard's Gone Disney, etc. I have, however, tired of the constant marathon of House Hunters and House Hunters International. I'm also fairly certain that I'm an expert at home staging though I'm not planning a move.
  
• 17) I'm not so into America's Got Talent. And I hear there's this other show like it that's all about singing. I don't watch that one, either.

I have, on the other hand, been watching Primer Impacto and Aqui y Ahora in an attempt to slow the atrophy of my brain. Spanish-language newscasts show lots more dead bodies than network English-language American news programs. The competition is fierce. The basket is no picnic. And the clock stops for no one. Your time starts now. To clarify! I watch 1-2 of these shows per "day," while I'm nursing the baby. With Ellie I watched all of The West Wing followed by the entire series of NYPD Blue. With Ada I watched a lot of Ellen.

On the Move

I don't like to post that we're going out of town before we leave, since that seems to me like an invitation to come over and eat all our dog food.

But now that we're safely at home I'd like to share that so far this month we've been to Wyoming - for Paul's parents' retirement party - and Indiana - for a gathering with my family.

Teddy and I flew to Wyoming while Paul and the girls drove out with Paul's sister, her husband, and their turning-4-year-old. The car wouldn't quite carry all 8 of us (including 4 car seats) so we figured we'd save the two-month-old the trauma of a 1000 mile road trip. It was a lovely weekend with 23 of Paul's family members and 100+ of their closest friends(!). Congrats to my in-laws!

Ellie flew back with Teddy and me so that she wouldn't miss the first day of summer school. Teddy and Ada and I spent the rest of the week at Vacation Bible Camp. Last week we had a few days of "down time" for playdates, a birthday party, a creek stomp, more summer school, and a dance recital. Then we struck out on another trip.

This weekend we drove to Brown County, Indiana, for my family's annual summer getaway. (We usually go to the beach in South Haven, Michigan.) We stayed in this amazing "log cabin." Amazingly, we all fit: in the great room, around the massive dining table, and in the 5 bedrooms. Each bedroom had its own en suite bathroom. This is the way to keep families close-but-not-too-close. By "my family" I mean my parents, my two sisters, our three husbands, and all the grandkids. The current tally is 7 children ages 7 and younger, three of whom are infants.

All this just to say:

I'm from Indiana and a proud Hoosier. Woo hoo!

But I went to college in Missouri and have lived here ever since. Woo hoo!

And what people from Indiana might or might not know is that people from Missouri use "Hoosier" as a derogative term meaning "white trash" or "trailer trash" or "tacky/classless/insert other offensive term here." It's so common I think many Missourians don't even realize that "Hoosier" refers to people from Indiana, let alone that we consider the name something to be proud of.

As we drove east along Interstate 70 we came to a (apparently non-ironic) sign that read, "Hoosier Country Club." It sat in front of a trailer park. I wish we'd stopped to take a picture.

Instead:

Professional Model

A couple of weeks ago a friend emailed me asking if I'd like to participate in a photoshoot for a massage therapy textbook. She was in need of a pregnant model for the maternity chapter.

I agreed and we went back and forth a little bit. I was thinking: I like this friend, I want to help out, I like to maintain connections with my former employer (the textbook publisher), photoshoots are fun and it would be neat to be on the other side of one (rather than as the organizer), I like being pregnant, and, hey, cool, someone wants to take pictures of me! Plus, it was a paid gig.

Then I got a follow-up email that included information for all the models, including instructions on attire. "Female: Dark colored sports tank or bra and fitted shorts, or Tankini, without huge logos." Hah hah hah, she obviously didn't mean me; that's for the other (non-maternity) models. I emailed to verify, then packed an assortment of clothes. I figured I'd be in yoga pants or leggings with a tank top.

All those seasons I've watched of America's Next Top Model really came in handy. I knew what to expect and was prepared. I was on time, I had a variety of clothing options in various colors, I had a ponytail holder and comb in case those were needed (and they were). I enjoyed hanging out in the back of the room chatting with the other models, editors, massage therapists, and the author's son. I enjoyed the craft table. I liked the green room just fine. And I certainly didn't mind watching the model ahead of me as he worked (he was a very very fit young man).

The photoshoot was in a professional studio. We were set up in a large, concrete room, dimly lit with tables and cords stretched out all over the place, people clustered around the outside edges (mostly at the back near the door). One corner of the room contained a raised wooden floor with a massage table, a folding screen, and lots of bright lights. The photographer stood nearby, perched on a ladder overlooking the set.

All too soon, it was my turn to model. The author (and massage therapist) scanned through my clothing and then selected a plain black sports bra and maternity swim suit bottoms (basically, large shiny underpants). !!!

!!!

I changed in the green room, wrapped myself in a tablecloth, and headed out to the stage, still thinking that I'd mainly be on the table, "draped modestly."

Not so much. The author wanted a series of shots of the massage therapist greeting the pregnant lady then helping her up onto the massage table. Without the wrap. Are you imagining this scene?!

!!!

I had a moment to decide. I could walk out and leave them without a model. I could be a prima donna and argue for more clothing. Or I could just go with it and be a good sport. Again America's Next Top Model came to my rescue and that's exactly what I did. I dropped my drape, apologized for my cellulite, and cracked wise as I posed in front of friends and strangers in little more than my underwear.

The shoot went well, I think. I hope. And then . . .

"OK, we're ready for the husband, now."

Say what?

My "husband" came out of the green room, took off his boots, and climbed up onto the massage table behind me. The author placed a pillow between us to support my back (loved her a little bit right then) and asked me to lean back against him, relaxing. He reached around to rest his hands on my belly and both of our shiny silver "wedding bands" shone in the floodlights. The baby kicked at him and probably freaked the guy out.

We practiced relaxing and he "learned" how to position his hands to help me with backache in labor. Very soon, it was all over.

I never did catch his name.

You Can't Fight Gravidity

In July I could walk out my front door and run five miles without stopping. Today I walked two miles and think I might have overdone it a little.

You can't really complain about being pregnant. Heck, I practically apologize for it when I'm talking to a friend who's struggled with infertility or miscarriage. There are so many women who'd love to be where I am now, either because they can't get pregnant, have lost a pregnancy, or miss the days when they were pregnant. I absolutely get all that.

But pregnancy's not all wine and roses, either. (Actually, it's not wine and roses at all. Because people look at you with loud disapproval if you drink wine while visibly pregnant. And roses smell pretty strong. I can't handle scents like that in my current state.) Let's take a moment to contemplate the use of senses in that parenthetical and consider how I could have gracefully included "touch" to hit all five.

I've mentioned that I knew I was pregnant almost immediately due to nausea, exhaustion, intolerance for altitude (and onion rings) and intense craving for protein every couple of hours.

From there I moved on into worse nausea and exhaustion and protein cravings plus some fun bleeding issues. I gave up all types of exercise for napping and snacking . . . and still managed to lose nine pounds in just a couple of months.

I've since gained them back with interest and am fully enjoying my elastic waistband pants. But there are new joys for the third trimester.

Skin. Holy cow. Didn't I get large enough the first two times I did this? Heck, my belly's so striped I already look like a zebra (a really, really sexy zebra, obviously). But some days I feel the baby pressing off my spine and push-push-pushing against my abdomen. The skin stretches and burns and there's nothing I can do to soothe it.

"Round ligaments." I don't even know what that really means. I thought ligaments generally connected bones to bones. But I know what I feel and let me try to explain that. It's the middle of the night and I'm fast asleep. Then maybe my husband shifts on the bed or I take a deep breath or the baby rolls over or who knows what but my uterus gently begins to pull to one side. I wake up and I know what's coming. OH MY GOD SOMEONE'S STABBING ME IN THE SIDE WITH A STEAK KNIFE PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP. Nothing makes it stop until I find a neutral position - which varies, incidentally - and sit/stand/lie there shaking and whimpering for a several minutes as the pain gradually subsides to manageable levels. I also experience "round ligament pain" if I shift direction too quickly or do something unwise during the day like sneezing without getting into the proper position. These are modifications I've quickly made to my motor plans. But I can't figure out how to stop my uterus from shifting around inside me while I sleep. (No, the maternity pillow prop doesn't help.)

Heartburn. But only when I eat or drink anything I enjoy.

Extra body hair and skin pigmentation. But how much do you really want to know about me, anyway? Surely not nearly this much. So I'll leave out everything to do with the lower end of the digestive track and won't go anywhere near the "h" word for now.

Congestion. At the moment I'm recovering from a nasty cold. But I've felt stuffy since August. I wake up in the morning, eager to relieve the pressure in my clogged sinuses, but nothing comes out when I blow my nose. This is because of edema in so many of my tender tissues and is unrelated to bacteria, viruses, or allergies. It's all hormones, baby. My husband would say that I snore when I'm pregnant, too, but we don't believe him.

Edited to add: Relaxin. (Not to be confused with "relaxing.") My most pressing complaint at the moment has to do with the fact that my pelvis is spreading to allow the baby more room to escape. Have you ever slipped and fallen into the splits, straining your groin? I've felt that same sort of pain with every step I've taken for the past week or so. It's increasingly difficult to walk normally without devolving into a splayed-legs waddling but I will persevere!

Blah blah blah contractions, blah blah blah nothing fits anymore, blah blah blah I need to pee whenever I stand up or cough or have a funny thought, blah blah blah what's happening to my dainty little ankles, blah blah blah did my eyesight really just get worse blah blah blah is that my cervix attempting to communicate with me, blah blah blah those are tender, dadgummit, blah blah blah and so forth.

I enjoy being pregnant, I really do. And I am so fortunate to have experienced three healthy pregnancies. But I can't say I'm really sad (yet) that this is my last time.

Showering with Young Children: A Survival Guide

Episode 1

In December we had an ice day off from school. Unfortunately, it was neither snowy nor particularly icy in our district - just one of those days where school was called off as a precaution, I guess - so I ended up at home with two young children on the last morning I'd expected to have to SHOP BY MYSELF before Christmas.

Hastily reorganizing my plans, I decided to start my morning with a shower. I gave the girls a little extra breakfast and turned on PBS Kids, reminding them to come find me if they needed me.

After a while, Ada joined me in the bathroom. This was not unusual; she frequently comes in for a visit whenever I'm out of sight for a few minutes. "Hiya, Ada, how're you doing?"

"Um, I'm fine, Mommy, but Ellie went outside to play with those neighbor boys."

Indeed she did. Wearing only a nightgown. No coat, no shoes, certainly no mittens or hat. I thought over my options briefly as my hair conditioned and foam dripped slowly down one partially shaven leg. I recalled that we live on a quiet, safe street, that Ellie is 7 years old and allowed outside on her own to play with the neighbor boys (though generally not unclothed), and that this was a lesson she could probably learn on her own for a few more minutes.

Sure enough, by the time I'd finished my shower, she was back inside. We went over the ground rules again, touching heavily on the parental notification aspects of the leaving the house routine.

"Ellie, before you go outside to play, what do you need to do?"

"Put on shoes!"

True.

Episode 2

Shortly after Christmas I found myself needing to shower again. This time I went over all the ground rules - save one - carefully with both girls. Then I waited until Ellie was immersed in some quiet play in her room and I knew I had a few moments to myself. I leapt into the shower.

After a while, the bathroom door opened. "Hiya, Ada, how're you doing?"

"Um, I'm fine, Mommy, but I think I can't work the TV remote right now."

"Oh, that's OK, I think you've had enough TV, anyway. Why don't you play on your own for a few minutes; I'll be out in a bit."

When I turned off the water, I listened carefully. I could hear Ellie still playing in her room with the door closed. I whipped my hair up into its towel turban and headed down the hall toward the family room to check on Ada.

She was sitting on the couch, right where I'd left her, but now accompanied by an adult-sized person.

It was our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gustafson.

"One moment please." I returned to my room to apply glasses and clothing. While I was at it I moisturized and smeared product into my hair, oddly unhurried about returning to my company.

"I though Ada told you I was here, but I didn't want to disturb you so I decided to wait." Well, if I had to appear fully naked in front of a neighbor, I'm glad it was her.

The one rule I didn't stress with the girls that morning was not to let anyone into the house. Nana and Grandpa were in town visiting and might have returned to the house at any time. I didn't want the girls to leave them out in the cold if that were the case. I don't think Ada would have let in a stranger, but our neighbor babysits sometimes so is both known and safe.

Didn't seem to phase her a bit.

Episode 3

The day before the girls returned to school, I tried again to shower while parenting. This time I carefully went over ALL the rules and made my expectations very clear.

The talk must have made an impression, because both girls joined me in the bathroom. Ada popped in and out for friendly little chats, but Ellie pulled open the shower curtain and tried to climb right on in with me. Once I'd dissuaded her from that course of action, she sat on the edge of the tub, pants getting soaked, and asked a stream of questions along the lines of "What are you doing, Mommy?" and "Why are you doing that, Mommy?"

Friday morning both girls went to school and I took a fabulous, delightful, no one else in the house no one bothering me no interruptions relaxing hot shower. And it was good.

Ten Years

I neglected to mention it on the blog, but a couple of weeks ago Paul and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Ten years is a long time!

2000	2010

Bloody Sunday

President George W. Bush Covers U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday. (Awesome editing!)

This week brought to you by financial planning, family budget meetings, and freelance freelance freelance. (I'm trying to put in 5 solid hours each day in my "free" time without interfering with my TV parenting time. The spring class I was taking just ended tonight, too. It's been a time management logistical puzzle!)

"You're Crazy"

Last Thursday I ran in a pair of bright green Hometown High School Physical Education shorts that are helpfully emblazoned with a giant "L" so everyone can see my size at a glance.

Naturally, I don't condone stealing of any kind, and certainly not from public schools. But gym shorts are sort of a special category. At my high school, gym was required for what seemed like forever. And you couldn't buy your own uniform (unlike at my first high school) but you had to wear one. This put girls at the mercy of the woman working behind a little half door in the middle of the locker room. Every Monday she'd look at you, determine your size (student's input not requested or heeded if offered) and hand you a uniform for the week. Every Friday she'd watch you closely to insure that you dropped all components in the laundry bin.

I got the impression that she hated her job or else delighted in making us suffer because she was always handing me these nasty little polyester size smalls. They looked more like cheap, unflattering volleyball bloomers than gym shorts. Toward the end of my high school career the school invested in a few longer, looser-fitting cotton gym shorts. These were obviously in high demand! I rarely got them, and always wanted to keep hold of them when I did.

But I'm no good at stealing. Fortunately, I have two little sisters, God bless 'em. But honestly I have no idea how this particular pair of shorts made it home, so I cast no aspersions. I was just glad to find them in my drawer one morning last week while searching for non-wicking attire to wear in the rain.

I graduated from high school in 1993. What this means: the 18-year-old elastic was completely shot. No problem, I figured. They never had very much stretch to begin with. Other than the wide elastic waistband, the fabric itself has no give whatsoever.

As long as I keep moving and keep my glutes firing, the shorts should stay up just fine. Hah.

Naturally, at the furthest point of my loop, the shorts started to go. I rolled the waistband and kept moving. Then I rolled it again. Again. The shorts were now as short as their polyester predecessors and still sliding.

Good thing Thursday's run was a short, easy workout. I spent about a mile running comfortably, another mile yanking up my shorts every few houses, then walked the last half mile while staying decently clothed. (Apparently it's the bouncing up and down of my running style that encourages clothing to slither from my body.)

Moral of the story: stealing never pays? But I still love these shorts. So maybe I'll just invest in some new elastic.

(Today's blog post title thanks to a telephone repair dude I met en route. It's raining lightly, everything slick and yucky, and he's standing outside loaded down with electronics, probably about to climb up some big pole. But I'm crazy?! Maybe so, because no one's paying me to run. Anyway, he said it with a smile.)

Newsflash: I'm a Nerd

JOHN WILLIAMS IS THE MAN! A Star Wars-themed four-part a cappella musical tribute.
Performed by Corey Vidal (vocals by Moosebutter)

Kid Power

We're all about polling data in our house. You never know when it will come in handy. A few weeks ago, people were still asking me if I was pregnant all the time. (Since then I've started wearing snugly fitted shirts and the questions have diminished in frequency. Also my abs are getting strong from sucking in all the time.) Given recent public interest in my (non)gravid state, I asked the girls if they'd ever want a new baby in our house.

They each thought for a moment.

"Not today," Ellie replied.

"No baby," Ada said. "I want a brother. A BIG brother, not a baby brother. His name's Calvin."

So there you have it. The children have spoken.

Souvenir

"I've got a bone to pick with you!" my mom said on the phone this afternoon.  "Do you remember a long time ago you gave me a bag of toys to donate? I left it in the back of my car and forgot about it for months and months.  Today I took it into the principal's office and dropped the whole thing into the treasure chest."

The treasure chest is for kids who get to choose special prizes.

"Later an email went out to the whole staff asking who dropped off the bag of booty.  There was something off in the tone of the email, but I replied letting her know that I'd left the toys.  She asked me to come down to the office so she could show me something."

Oh, no, I thought.  What on earth did I leave in that bag?!

Rewind two and a half years to our vacation in Scotland with my parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, and niece.  We spent our last full day in Edinburgh and I did some souvenir shopping along the Royal Mile like every other tourist in town.  At one shop, as I was buying a soccer (foot)ball covered with Scottish flags for Ellie, I noticed a hilarious little impulse item on the counter.  "What a fabulous gag gift," I thought.  "Maybe for the couple who are watching our dog."

After we got home it occurred to me that it was not an appropriate gift for anybody.  At some point I must have dropped it into a bag of things to take with me on a visit to my parents' house, thinking we could all get a laugh out of it.  And then forgotten it, because . . .

"What was in the bag of toys?" I asked my mom.

"A whisky flavored condom!"

Oh, no.

"Can you even imagine if some child had taken that home as his prize?  From elementary school?"

Fortunately, my mom's principal has a great sense of humor.  And checked the toys one-by-one before emptying my mom's bag into the treasure chest.

"She checked it out and warned me that it is indeed expired so is no good unless I want more grandchildren."

White Powder

Late at night. Exhausted. Stayed up to watch the Olympics, now ready to pass out in bed. Start thinking about tomorrow's schedule and how to fit in everything I want to accomplish.

This is the way mistakes are made.

Head for the bedroom. Catch sight of self in darkened mirror, contemplate how I like the way the bottom of my hair looks the day before I wash it but dislike how the roots lay flat against my head.

Wonder if there's anything I can do about that. See a bottle of Shower to Shower powder on the dresser. Think: talc absorbs moisture, including oil.

The more I think about it, the more I'm sure I've heard of people doing exactly this. So tired. I figure: best case, it looks great and I've learned a new trick. Worst case, I wash my hair first thing in the morning.

I pour a little Shower to Shower powder into my hand and pat the crown of my head, step into the bathroom, and flip on the light.

I've aged ten years. I suddenly remember the context in which I've heard of people powdering their hair. It's to look older on stage, or to appear a proper 18th Century English gentleman.

Crap.

Oh, well, too tired to care. I go to sleep. In the morning: hey, it worked! Powder's gone and hair looks great! Ego took a bit of a hit, though.

Because We Can

I'm adamant that we not start celebrating Christmas before Thanksgiving. Ellie's choir is working on their Christmas show, but other than that we don't sing Christmas music or watch Christmas videos. And our house is still decorated with pumpkins and turkeys and leaves, browns and oranges and yellows.

But this year . . . I don't know. I'm feeling a little ready.

Today we watched Shrek the Halls for the first time - but certainly not the last - of the the season.

As always, I wonder what's the song at the beginning of the Christmas Eve dance party in the swamp. I'm taking about the very first hard beat followed by, "Yipee yah yah yah yah yah-oo! o-o!"

Shockingly enough, googling the lyrics didn't get me very far.

So I did what any curious and competitive wife might do: I challenged my husband to a Google-off!

It was much harder than you might think the find the answer.

And I won!

Of course, by the time I solved the puzzle, Paul had moved on to playing Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii (the girls were playing downstairs and we a few minutes before dinner was ready). So it wasn't really much of a competition. But still: success!

(For the curious, the song is Because We Can by Fatboy Slim. I've never seen Moulin Rouge.)

Credit to AvatarsDB for the image.

Take, Eat

A kindergarten teacher gave her class a “show and tell” assignment. Each student was instructed to bring in an object to share with the class that represented their religion. The first student got up in front of the class and said, “My name is Benjamin and I am Jewish and this is a Star of David.”

The second student got up in front of the class and said, “My name is Mary. I’m a Catholic and this is a Rosary.”

The third student got in up front of the class and said, “My name is Tommy. I am a Presbyterian, and this is a casserole."

I found this here.

The congregation to which we currently belong does less with casseroles than others I've attended, but I like the spirit of this joke. This is where Christian community is for me, for my family of faith. In sharing a meal together. In smothering a hurting/mourning/celebrating/busy family with hot dishes. When a new baby is born, we take over a blanket and a casserole and the message is this: when things get rough, we are here for warmth and comfort and nourishment. We learn together, worship together, play together. And we always bring food.

As we serve, we say: "Come, share this bread with me."

What's Sexy?

What's sexy?  Sharing NaNoWriMo with a writing spouse.  Taking a break to watch our favorite TV show.  Writing some more.

What's not sexy?  Snotty noses.  Toenails long and sharp enough to draw blood. 

But I still love you, honey.  From a slight distance, but I still love you.

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Pastors

I'm a PK (preacher's kid).

"Pastors are easy to love, but they're hard to get home. From the minds that brought you Before He Speaks comes a new offering of musical satire."



Thanks to Rob for the link!

Protect Insurance Companies PSA

Did I say that I was done with health care reform posts? Surely not.

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

And there's more where that came from!

(Facebook friends, the embedded video probably didn't come through. But it doesn't matter. I'm sure you've seen it before! After all, your favorite social networking site and mine is where I found the laugh.)