We are a house of girls -- and one boy.
We play dress up and tea party, we swoon and giggle, and we know all of the My Little Pony characters' names. The boy takes this torture rather well, considering his love of athletics and rough-housing and de-pantsing jokes; he is stoic. He's discovered some previously unknown possibilities for making girly games into more suitably boyish games, and -- all in all -- he's happy. In fact, he's so happy that he swears he'd remain this happy if we never, ever bring a blue-bundled, vertical-peeing, heart-melting boy home from the hospital.
(This is a touchy subject, so I'll veer now into more comfortable territory...)
One of our most beloved characters as a family of 3girls + 1boy, is Strawberry Shortcake. (That girl's so sweet, just like her name!)
Over the past 2 or 3 years, we've amassed quite a venerable stock of bakery-named dolls and all their tiny accessories, and -- accordingly -- become aware of the characters' individual traits and preferences. Our token boy professes a kinship with Huckleberry Pie, the lone male among several sweetly scented females; it's not difficult to see why Justin's sympathies lie in that direction.
But the reason we all have so much fun with those bobble-headed cartoon kids (with never a parental advisor around for all that baking?) is because we've started naming ourselves like them. This is normal, right? With names like Blueberry Muffin, Gingersnap, Lemon Meringue, and Orange Blossom, we have to find fitting (scrumptious) titles for ourselves, as well. When we stumble across something particularly delicious with obvious male overtones, Justin claims that baked-good as his pseudonym: Peach Cobbler* -- Pecan Pie** -- Chocolate Mousse.
Of course, when he claims a new name, we all must follow suit. Very often, Mia will call herself Hot Cocoa -- Caramel Brownie -- Sugar Cookie. Lauren as well: Maple Blondie -- Berry Jam -- Krispie Treat.
All of this is well and good, until we come off of a holiday that's been miserably, wonderfully full of decadent desserts. After two weeks of sampling oodles of goodies, we're all a little sick to our stomachs at the thought of sweets. (Well, yes, you're right -- that's false: Justin and I are sick to our stomachs. The girls are ready for more, always.) In fact, our holiday eating was so over-indulgent this year, that the mere thought of donuts is enough to make me grimace in distaste. I know.
Needless to say, both of us are trying very hard to get back into our exercise routines this week. It's necessary, as evidenced by an overabundance of curves in all the wrong places.
After my run last night, I steamed into the house, red-faced and wobbly: that first jog after Christmas is painful. Justin was getting Sugar Cookie and Maple Blondie into their pajamas, wrangling their wired and tired bodies closer to bed, and I offered what assistance I could. Most of that came with a great effort not to sweat all over their clean jammies. As I settled Blondie in for a story, the other two bustled into the bedroom: they had an immensely hilarious announcement to make.
Okay Mia -- tell mama what new name we came up with for her...Justin prompted.
She giggled and jumped around -- MUFFIN TOPS!
My loving, adoring, sweet-hearted husband almost choked, he was laughing so hard. Or it could have been the way I glowered at him that choked him up so admirably and forced him to back quickly out of the room...
Any guesses as to what my New Year's Resolution will be?
* Please don't make me explain why this has 'obvious male overtones.'
** Seriously, don't make me.