Two hours left until I'm officially a "thirty-something."
When did that happen?
In the tradition of her father, Lily just couldn't wait to present me with her birthday card. It is, by far, the best card I've ever received. I love the new style of noses she's going with, and the hair is cracking me up. The girl's got a gift, I tell ya.
I have many, many ideas in my head; A few come out as planned and others totally bomb. This one worked just as I had hoped (And it almost never happens that way.)
This is a shelf I put together in Evan's room. It's just two brackets with a couple of books sitting on top. Someday (if I ever get around it it,) I plan to have a whole bunch at varying heights. It's cheap, super easy and looks really cute. It would also be fun in an office with dictionaries, a bathroom with thick magazines, a kitchen with cookbooks... Hmmm, that cookbook idea could look great in my kitchen. Project time!
Dear asshole in the baseball hat who came to my house,
You started off on a bad note by not only ringing the doorbell three times, but banging on the door as well. I heard you the first time but was feeding a sleepy baby. Now he, along with his brother, are up and crying. Thanks to you.
I do not want to buy a collection of encyclopedias. I do not care that Mrs. Jones up the street bought three. Or that Mr. So-and-So bought seven. Or that the weird lady at the corner got them for all of her grandkids. I don't know my neighbors and don't give a rat's ass what they own. Impress me some other way.
I get that you want your trophy or trip or whatever it is you are working towards, but I am not obligated to buy from you. If you were selling a single book, maybe I'd be in. Asking me to buy a series of 12 books 'ain't gonna happen. Rolling your eyes at me really doesn't help your cause.
Next time, see if the Mister is home first, because he is the sucker here. He's bought the newspapers and cookies and subscriptions and pizza coupons which aren't accepted. You'll have better luck with him. Or, better yet, skip my house altogether.
Now, be on your way and tell all my neighbors about that Scary Mommy who had the audacity to say no.
Buh-bye.
At some point over most weekends, I like to have the kids help me bake. Nothing beats the smell of something yummy cooking in the oven and the kids look so cute in their little aprons. Although I love to cook, I am notorious for poor baking. My brownies are always over cooked, breads are half raw, cakes fall... My problem is that I don't like to follow directions, and always think I can improve upon a recipe. With baking, that's not the best idea.
This recipe is fail proof, even by me. I always have the basic ingredients on hand, and just add what I feel like: Chocolate chips, walnuts, cinnamon, nutmeg etc. I always freeze bananas and just nuke them to defrost. You can half the butter and use a bit of applesauce too... No matter what they always turn out delicious.
Impossible to Mess Up Banana Muffins
* 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1 teaspoon vanilla
* 4 large mashed bananas
* 3/4 cup white sugar
* 1 egg
* 1/3 cup melted butter
* (add nuts/chocolate chips/spices etc.)
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all ingredients.
Scoop into muffin liners or greased tins. Bake for about 25 minutes.
Super easy. They are the perfect muffins to make when your husband casually mentions at 8:00 PM that you are having guests for brunch the next day. (Yup, that happened yesterday) Of course, that only means that you don't have to share with him, and get more for yourself. Enjoy!
For the record, I had really high hopes for this post. We are in Pennsylvania for the week spending time with family. The kids are having a blast with their super cool cousins and I'm thrilled to have help not strangling entertaining them. We all went out to a strawberry patch yesterday. I was really excited-- I hadn't been in years. It was a glorious day and the kids love strawberries. To top it off, the blog potential (are you sensing an addiction?) was huge. A winning combination, no?
I had the scene set out in my head: They'd happily pick the berries, their faces shining in the bright sun. Then, grinning ear to ear, they'd plop down on the grass, scarf down the sweet berries and be the picture perfect little red faced cherubs. The sky was blue. The fields were a vibrant green. The kids looked adorable in their matching polo shirts. Oh, the things I could write! The pictures I could share! It would be perfect!
Keep dreaming, Jill. Ben didn't crack a smile the whole time. He scowled and whined and refused to move unless carried. Lily insisted on de-stemming every berry before plucking them into the basket, thus ruining the gorgeous red/green contrast nature provided. Despite each adoring strawberries (and later that night stuffing their faces) neither kid wanted to taste a single one at the patch. I begged. I pleaded. I stuffed my face. No luck.
Not to fear, dear readers, I have a solution. I present you with "Stock Baby," my imaginary child for the day. Unlike my own, he cooperates for the camera. He is quiet, clean and costs a mere $250. He doesn't complain or need changing or bite his siblings. He is the perfect subject.
I'm thinking of leaving my camera at home today--I'm sure Stock Baby smiled more at the zoo than my kids will! So, get used to him; I think he's a keeper.
Before I had kids, I vowed that my children would never wear Crocs. They're ugly, overpriced, and trendy. I was going to resist.
That was the end of that. Period.
I didn't make it too far. When Lily was two and a half, she started complaining that she was the only girl at school who didn't have "those" shoes; "Everybody has them but me." Already, I thought? Shit. I had flashbacks of being the only one without cool denim in junior high. Without the rhinestone studded shoes. Without the pierced ears.
Could I be the parent who scars my offspring? Could I choose reason above my daughter's wishes?
Clearly, as illustrated above, the answer was no. Much to my (and Jeff's) chagrin, off to the mall we went. She was fitted with her first little purple pair. And much to my surprise, they looked pretty darn cute. I liked them. When Ben was big enough to wear them, we bought him a pair too. Their little feet looked adorable swinging together in those so-ugly-they-are-cute shoes. Life was good.
And then, there were Jibbitz. Some stay at home mom's goldmine. I refused to buy them. Three bucks for a stupid little plastic charm? I think not. I put my foot down. But, soon after I made that promise, her little Crocs looked naked to her. Why did all of her friends have the fun "thingies" and she didn't? Puh-leeease? I had a moment of weakness, and caved. A purple flower. I told myself that was it-- just one. But it wasn't. It was just the beginning. She now has flowers, characters, food... her brother has a colorful collection of marine life.
I am ashamed to admit that we are now a Croc wearing family. A hideous, flexible, holed, and bejeweled plastic footwear wearing family. Even Evan has a pair. I have 2 larger pairs waiting in the closet for when the kid's feet grow to the next size. I have a stash of Jibbitz for good behavior. I am pathetic.
The experience did come with a lesson though: First of all, I am a total sucker. And, second of all, pretty much anything can look cute when it's on the little feet you love.
Ever since Benji got his big boy bed a few months ago, Lily has been pestering us to have a "sleepover." Now that the days are long and lazy, with no reason to rush up in the morning, we agreed and have tucked them in together the last couple of nights. The site of them curled up sleeping next to each other is really heartwarming. Although they do bicker, pinch, punch, bite and scream, they really have a sweet little relationship (especially when we're not looking.)
Despite being the first born, Lily is a bit of a p*u*s*s*y. Sorry to use the word, but she is. Ben is the one who will dunk his head under the water. He's the one who will get the first twirl around the room. Or try to tackle the jungle gym. Or step into a dark room. Whenever the notion of sleeping at grandma's house comes up, it's always followed by, "Is Ben going to come too?"
Earlier in the week, Lily needed something in the basement and asked Ben to go with her (ok, "Ily!" he replied) Why can't you just go alone, babe, I asked? Her Response: Because I'm scared of the basement and Ben makes me brave.
And he does. She is willing to do so much more with him by her side. And, as their mom, it's pretty cool to see.
In most shopping plazas, in most suburbs, in most parts of the country, there can be found 3 stores: Marshalls (or TJ Maxx, if the case may be,) Homegoods and a Grocery Store. The combination of these 3 spots is magic. Many times my car seems to be on auto pilot to the strip mall here that houses them. When there's nowhere else to go, somehow, there I am. With the kids, they are enjoyable errands. Alone?
They are my utopia.
My plan of attack sans children: Go to the grocery store. Grab a coffee
at Starbucks. Leisurely roam the isles. I can go here first, because I'm
not buying milk or eggs or yogurt or and any other perishable necessities. I am here for fun, and there will be no sensible purchases. I might buy an exotic jam, or fancy olive oil or greeting card. What I buy isn't the point. I can actually read labels. Not have to escort children to the potty. Use a basket, rather than a cart. Not hear a chorus of "can we have this?" and "can we have that?" Not have to apologize to the checkout clerk for the little monsters by my side.
Next stop: Marshalls. First it's the kids clothes. I refuse to buy clothes anywhere else (except, maybe, Target. That's a close second.) The treasures you can find here are unbelievable. Baby CZ Cashmere for ten bucks? Yup, I snagged that up. Petit Bateau, Zutano, Kenzo? All here, if you look. Granted, you may have to dig through loads of crap, and it may take multiple visits, but that's the fun of it. Then it's onto toys to stock up on gifts. Home decor is next, and finally shoes and clothes. I end with clothes, because when in doubt, I buy. My closet is my dressing room, and if I need to return it, that's just another reason to come back.
And, finally, the best for last... Homegoods. A slice of heaven, here, in suburbia. Kitchenware, gourmet food, furniture, beauty products, candles, books, gifts... And all for prices better than wholesale. What more can a girl ask for? Cheesy 80s music? Got it. I could (and have)
spent hours here alone.
I come by this obsession for discount shopping naturally. On any given day, my mom has at least one bag of returns to a store in the TJX family. A few years ago, I ended up in an empty TJ Maxx parking lot with nobody but my mother. We, unbenonst to the other, had each arrived at 9:25, returns in hand, before the store even opened. It was hilarious and frightening all rolled into one.
Apparently, the family tradition continues. Lily loves accompanying me shopping. She seems to think there are three stores. The grocery store, Target and Marshalls. In her mind, anything can be found at one of those (she's a genius, my girl.) The other day she marched in, her doll wrapped in a towel, and happily announced "Don't you like Mac's robe? I got it at Marshall's!"
I laughed, and vowed to let her accompany me the next time I go. Going with her is a close second to going alone. Someday, maybe, it will even be first. Maybe.
What did we learn this week?
• That a little boy should not play outside near a hose.
• That dancing in the rain is is a great way to kill a half hour.
• That old friends with new babies are a really good thing.
• That Ben is capable of throwing a 45 minute tantrum over a cereal bar.
• That a rainbow is the perfect way to end a too long day.
(but you could have told all me that, right?)
I started this blog as a way to update friends and family with pictures and little stories about the kids. I felt like I was sending out too many photo filled e-mails, and didn't want to be that annoying mom who knows thinks that her kids are the cutest/most beautiful/funny/charming/entertaining little people in the world and can't stop writing about them.
Enter real life friend, Danielle. She introduced me to the world of blogging. Here, I can post as often as I want and people are free to come and go as they like. I was intrigued with the idea, but was totally unprepared for how much I'd love it. That it would become my children's 21st century baby books. That I would enjoy reading other mom's blogs and form these little cyber friendships. That I would have visitors from countries I've never heard of.
To top it off, some moms out there who I've never actually met have called me out and given me these awards. I just love wining things,
so I'm a happy girl. I'm taking their words for it that they are not actually fat, creepy men in basements impersonating innocent Mommy bloggers. They've convinced me so far:
Lipstick at the Mailbox has given me a "You make my day award."
She's even newer than I am, but is sarcastic, witty and pretty.
A winning combination.
Daisie, my favorite UK visitor, presented me with an award for excellence. She's so sweet and crafty and her comments always make me smile.
Stephanie (with the hunky chin-up doing husband) has awarded me with a creativity award. It originated in Spain, I think, and is "dedicated to many who nourish and enrich the spirit and creativity..." Me? I do that? 
Here are the (much abbreviated) rules that accompany her award.
• Choose 5 blogs deserving of this for their creativity, design & material.
• Each award should link to the giver of the award
• Link to the Arte Y Pico blog (the woman who began this award.)
• Post the Rules (I already broke them by abbreviating, but who am I to follow the rules?)
So, I am passing the torch to a five mommy bloggers who I check in with:
Mrs. R
Lit and Laundry
Mama's Losin' It
Classy Chaos
Momma's Tantrum
They are smart, witty and most of all real, despite just being on the other end of a computer screen. And they make me feel like I'm not alone on this crazy ride of Mommy-hood, on the days when it seems
there's nobody in real life around. And that's pretty amazing.
Clearly, Evan is as thrilled as I am to have the kids home all day long. For the next 3 months (why did I not enroll them in camp? Why, why, why?) We colored, danced, played, read, build a fort, and swam.
And then it was 10:30.
I'm going to be waltzing my way into school come fall.
As if I wasn't worried enough about those teens years, she's gone and done this. Lily presented me with the above drawing, along with the description: "It's me standing in my closet with all of my beautiful shoes around."
We've been dealing with the eye rolls, the yelling, the foot stomping, the tantrums over having to wear anything but pink dresses and the general manic moodiness.
Now, at age 4, she's fantasizing about a walk-in closet lined with
colorful footwear? (And also, apparently, about going blond?)
Boarding school in Switzerland, anyone?
I've mentioned my husbands taste in food a few times here (he doesn't have much, in case you missed those posts.) When I look at his childhood though, I really can't blame him. His mom hasn't cooked since 1985 (a New Year's resolution that she stuck to) and his Grandmother cooked most of the meals he fondly remembers. I love her dearly, but 90% of the ingredients in his favorite family recipes can be found at a gas station convenience store (for the record, she does make killer brownies from scratch.)
However, her stuffing consists of Ritz crackers, chicken & rice soup, an onion & canned mushrooms. Hawaiian chicken is salad dressing, onion soup mix and jelly. Salmon croquettes? Canned salmon. When Jeff's mother did cook, a dessert called "Yodel Pie" was her signature recipe, made almost entirely of one of the least nutritional foods on earth.
There is one concoction that I absolutely adore, and proudly serve at every party we host. It's called "Kahlua Dip" and consists of 3 ingredients that you can grab from a 7-11. Kahlua, Cool Whip, and Hershey's milk chocolate bars. When they combine, however, the result is pure magic. His family served this treat as as a dip with Pirouette cookies, but I prefer it as a mousse, garnished with raspberries and mint. It's also wonderful in those little chocolate cups as a bite-size dessert. (Or, better still, straight from the mixing bowl with a spoon. Because those calories don't count.)
How to make it: Grate 3 Giant Hershey's Milk Chocolate Bars (you only need about 2 1/2, so feel free to nibble.) Mix into 1 tub of Cool Whip.
Add 1/2 cup of Kahlua. That's it. It's best refrigerated overnight before serving. If you eat enough, you can get a nice little buzz and forget how exactly much saturated fat you just consumed. Perfect!
Lily: Who was the boy in Bima's tummy?
Uncle Matt, I reply.
Lily: Was he the only boy in her tummy?
Yes, Sweets, just me and Uncle Matt.
Lily: But Papa was inside of Bima too, right?
Oy.
Honey, let's just go play outside.
Lily's first food: Peas
Ben's first food: Sweet potatoes
Evan's first food: Book
(This should answer the question: What is the baby doing while I blog?)
Dear Readers, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the fabulous Miss Emerald, the first Barbie Doll I've purchased for myself Lily. I am so excited for her arrival. I cannot wait. For my daughter's sake, I mean.
Of course.
I love Barbie. Always have, always will. My oldest friend, Jess, and I played with our Barbie dolls for years longer than any other girls we knew. It was our dirty little secret, but we simply could not part with them. Mine (Kate,) had the minivan and the salon and the family with twins. Jess had the basement sink that we transformed into a spa, the tree with berries the girls dined on and all the best dresses. She'd drive me crazy mixing her Barbie (Courtney Whales,) with "Little People" furniture and Lego's (Hello? They are totally different scales! Duh!) And I'd drive her nuts decorating houses whose furniture outlined the rooms. But, we loved it and would play with them for hours.
I have always found Barbie backlash amusing. My Barbie lived on a farm (?) and jetted into the city to work as an ad executive. She had a booming career, a hot husband and drove a functional, yet pink, minivan. So, her dimensions were 36-18-38, an obviously unattainable ideal. She was also a doll. Did the Smurfs make me want to turn blue? Did I aspire to grow a "snork" when watching the Snorkles? Did I want to dress up as a Strawberry and draw black dots on my nose? No. She was a doll who brought me countess hours of entertainment. Never for a second did I want to be her.
Jess kept hers neat and pristine (and I'm willing to bet they are still in her basement.) Mine all had Mohawks and one arm by the time we sold them in our driveway for fifty cents. I've always regretted getting rid of them and welcome the opportunity to relive my youth through my daughter. I hope they bring her as much joy as they brought me. I hope she listens when I tell her that their hair will not grow back once it's cut. I hope she doesn't attempt to shorten the skirts, give perma-blush with a pink Sharpies and use push pins as earrings. None are a good idea, and I speak from experience.
Mostly, I hope that she is smart enough to hang on to hers, long after she thinks she should. Because, as I've learned, a girl never really outgrows her Barbie.
Edited on 6-18-2008 to add:
"Annabel Lena" arrived today. And Lily is mixing her with the plastic Disney characters. Breathe, Jill, breathe.
Once I get something in my head I become obsessed. Obsessed
with a capital "O" (as those who know me are well aware.)
Should you decide to try a bath bucket for yourself, here is the blank label I designed. It's yours for the taking.
At four and a half, she's already begun the eye-roll and the sing-songy three syllable "Mo-o-om."
I've said it before and I'll say it again; I live in fear of her teenage years. (And, for the record, I had the audacity to ask her to take off her wet bathing suit so she didn't track water inside. I am so annoying.)
For some time, I've been wanting to come up with a birthday present that was cute, original and useful to give as my token gift for the oodles of parties that the kids have. Something I could make ahead of time and personalize. Something that cost under 15 bucks. Something that the kids would enjoy and would invoke parental whispers about just how creative I am, and where on earth do I find the time? (Because, you know, it's all about me.)
I figure all kids can use more art supplies; I know we can never have enough. So, last night I put together my first (er, Cannon's) signature birthday bucket. It's filled with finger paints, watercolors, play-doh, paper, home-made crayons (remember those?) fabric balls and stickers.
I repackaged some of the junky looking supplies in cellophane and raffia.
I put a vintage "C" sticker on the front of the bucket along with some ribbon and decoupaged over it. Stuffed the bottom with bright tissue paper, went a little ribbon crazy, wrapped it up and voila! (Next time I'm going to make a personalized "Blank's Rainy Day Bucket" or "Blank's Art Bucket" label instead. Live and learn.)
Anyway, I had fun making it last night and and plan on perfecting them over the next few months. Next up: "Bath Time Bucket" complete with rubber ducky, bath paint and toys, bubble bath, wash cloth and duck soap. Stay tuned.
It's always so much fun when you can foresee years of future therapy before your very eyes. Twenty years from now, when Lily is battling claustrophobia and abandonment issues, at least we'll know the root. How wonderful.
Yesterday was our last day in Chicago, thank God. Jeff was working so Allison (our babysitter) and I had to get to the lobby with all of the kids/strollers/suitcases/carry-ons/dolls/bears/etc. We piled the unbelievable amount of crap onto a dolly. Allison tackled it while I carried Evan and pushed an overtired and fussy Ben in his stroller.
Lily walked ahead and pushed the elevator button for us. She hopped on as we maneuvered the uncooperative dolly. As we turned it to get it through the doors, they began to shut. These were not friendly, accommodating doors that react to an arm trying to stop them. They were pissed off and disgruntled; They ignored our prying hands and angrily snapped shut with Lily screaming inside.
We could hear her crying fading as the elevator began it's decent down 50 floors. We watched as the elevator stopped. 44...39...37...34...
Visions of Lily getting off at a random floor and wandering around terrified us. If she got off, how would we go about finding her? I booked it down to the lobby, in the hopes that she would arrive there. The alternative was just too overwhelming to consider. 8 long minutes later, she arrived. Red, tear stained, and hysterical, but all in one (physical) piece.
My poor little girl.
The fabulous day continued with pouring rain at the outdoor zoo, a hell-ish airport with the most lay-off deserving United workers ever, flight delays, an hour long taxi on the runway, the clear development
of pink eye, tonsillitis and coughs all around.
But, we're back. We slept in our own beds (for 3.5 hours, but who's counting,) got to see Penelope and have all the comforts of home. It's going to hit 105 today. We're off to the doctor's and have food shopping, unpacking and laundry to do. But that's ok. I'll take it.
There's no place like home. There's no place like home.
There's no place like home!
Picture this:
• Michigan Avenue, Chicago
(we all tagged along on Jeff's week long business trip.
Great idea, in theory. In theory.)
• Thunder, lightening and pouring rain
(what happened to the 80 degree sunny forecast?)
• Me, frizzy haired and exhausted
(thanks to 3 kids up and ready at 3:57 am.
Damn humidity and damn central time zone)
• Evan strapped on me in the Baby Bjorn
(dribbling slobber and spit up all over me)
• My one hand pushing Ben's stroller
(and swerving all over, because it really needs to be pushed with 2 hands)
• My other hand and grasping Lily's hand as she tries to run away
(because an hour and a half in American Doll store just isn't enough)
I fully expect the city of Chicago to see a drop in unplanned births
next March due to the sight of us.
Even as a baby, Lily was quite svelte. No rolls, no dimpled hands, no skin folds, no double chin. In comparison, Ben was a pretty hefty kid, or so I thought. I was so, so wrong.
Evan has redefined the term "chubby baby" for me. He bears a striking resemblance to the Michelin Man, and is impossible to carry comfortably for more than ten minutes. He weighs as much as 80 sticks of butter. As much as four large bags of sugar. As much as a turkey big enough to serve 22 people.
Yup, a whopping 20 pounds and not even 6 months. I think he carries it quite well, though. The skin folds are very useful for catching slobber. And those hands are so yummy to chomp on. The feet are pretty delicious, too.
It just works for him. And it works for me too; I love finally having a little pudge ball.
(And, yes, It has been noted that he has more cleavage than I do. Thanks.)
