Jehovah's Witnesses and Sneaky Daughters and Pointless Blabber

Hoping for inspiration to strike yesterday, I uploaded a handful of photos from the holiday weekend.  Tree planting with Nana and Grandpa; the first swim of the season; a gooey s'more.  I thought seeing the photos all in the same place would spark an idea.  Something to write about and share.  And as soon as the photos appeared, fate intervened in the form of Jehovah's Witnesses knocking on my front door.

The same, sweet lady has been visiting us for several years now, so we're friendly and ended up chatting for a few minutes.  We talked about how we're getting ready to put our house on the market, about tricks for home staging, about the kids and the state of motherhood.  About life and peace.

After she left, I finished up a few chores, played with the kids, nursed the baby.

When I finally came back around to the computer, I saw that someone had published my weekend photos.  Not me, who'd been busy with everything else.  Not Mia, who'd been busy chasing the neighbor boy around the house. 

It could only have been this wild-child.  This Lauren-child, who loves to practice her computer-mouse skills, who loves to type on her 'blog' and who loves to sneak away with forbidden things.

So I did what any good blogger would do, and deleted the evidence.  Pulled down the post of pictures, hoping that an empty post -- no title, no words -- wouldn't confuse the whole world.  (Because I'm that sure of my importance...)

But now, for lack of anything better to do with them, I'm reposting the photos.  Because they are cute reminders of our fun weekend (and our diaper-swimming boy).



You can thank Lauren and her sneaky-happy-button-pushing ways, and you can thank the Jehovah's Witnesses, and you can thank Memorial Day Weekend.

Just don't thank me -- because I am clearly fresh out of creative inspiration, so you've been left with pointless blabber.

But if you can't do pointless blabber on a Friday, when can you?!

Where Breastfeeding and Cavorting Amoebas Intersect

In 2006, Mia nursed every two or three hours in 45-minute sessions.  There was no keeping her from breastfeeding.  It didn't come completely naturally to either of us, but suckle she did, until I was sure all I EVER accomplished in a given day was the feeding of my baby. 

In 2008, Lauren nursed every three hours on the dot, for about 20 minutes.  She was efficient, she was calm, and she was attentive.  Our breastfeeding relationship was less snuggly -- she stopped using nursing to fall asleep early on -- but more comfortable.  Easy rhythms, easy smiles.

Now, in 2012, Landon nurses every four hours for no longer than 4 minutes per side.  He is super speedy and desires to be ANYWHERE other than latched to my breast.  He needs to roll, sit, and play.  He needs to look around and be included in life.  Breastfeeding isn't a snuggle-fest in the least for us, as he won't sit still for longer than 7 minutes total.

I've got one arm supporting his head and back, and one arm pinning his hips to my lap.  We are on minute two of Operation: Keep The Baby Latched.  Minute two of Operation: Keep Mom's Nipples From Resembling Pulled Taffy.  (I apologize for that visual...)

We are in my grandma's old, pink rocker-recliner, and I try keeping his attention with crazy-animated-mom face.  My eyebrows are wiggly worms.  My eyes are flying saucers.  My mouth is a cavorting amoeba.  (It occurs to me that I look disgusting...)  I sing about itsy spiders and little lambs, and when those don't work, I switch to Lady Antebellum.  Still, he begins to roll over, letting go of my breast at the last possible second in order to gain a better perspective on the upholstered arm of the chair.  Apparently, it's enthralling.  He burbles and thhhhhiiiiizzzzz's at it while I pat his back, stymied. 

I've tried a million ways to keep Landon latched on for a few more minutes of milk.  His weight has really fallen down on the growth chart for the past two well-baby checks, from 80th percentile at 2-months to 20th percentile at 6-months.  I shouldn't be terribly concerned, I think, because that's where the girls always hovered, and he seems perfectly content after his turbo-boosted feedings.  He might be a little angry at a slow release on one side and a gushing overflow on the other, but between the both of them, my milk-makers seem to keep him satisfied.

But when three minutes of nursing leaves me feeling inadequate, I panic. 

I've quarantined us in his quiet bedroom for nursing sessions; no visitors are allowed, whether it be an adoring sister, a gushing father, or a long-lost relative whose dying wish is to watch baby Landon suckle contentedly.  NO VISITORS ALLOWED.  Because as soon as he hears a whisper of a presence, the breastfeeding is over.  Done.  Abandoned. 

I've used a beautiful nursing necklace to keep his attention front and center.  For the first day or so, this helped us reach the ever-elusive 5-minute mark, but after that, he merely used the necklace as a lever to help him roll over faster.  Fist gripping beads, arm flexing mightily, body flipping speedily.  When I could keep him from twisting over, he began shaking the necklace, perhaps in rebellion, creating a pretty, little tourniquet around mama's neck.  I still like the necklace, and so does he, for teething.  But for nursing, it's choked.

Now, I'm down to brass tacks.  Amoeba mouths.  Peek-a-boos behind my curtain of hair.  I find myself longing for a leisurely, wholly inconvenient 45-minutes of suckling with this squishy boy. 

And I can't quite decide which part seems the most desirable to me: the quiet cuddles or the absolutely emptied breasts.  The eyes focused on mine for half of the day, or the guarantee of plenty of ounces and calories. 

So I settle down for a few seconds of breastfeeding, and I pack the chair with diversions.  Today, it's the singing, blinking glow-worm.  Tomorrow it might be a stimulating baby iPhone app.  (Do they make those?)  Maybe next week, he'll find a way to take the breast with him on grand adventures.

I believe that's called a bottle.  We don't have one of those, though, and I'd hate to spend my time snuggling with a breast pump, which will probably draw even less milk than my speedy baby. 

Sigh.

A Demonstration on the Differences Between Boys and Girls

Mia is standing on the front sidewalk, ready to ride off into the almost-sunset on her pink and white scooter.  She's quite a good scooter-er, now.  Speedy and fearless with her hair flying backwards, a super-hero cape of many strands.  The boy from two houses down is on his new bike.  He is her neighborhood playmate, and a sweet, energetic boy.

Their conversation is definitely worthy of eavesdropped attention, but I make myself known, instead.  (This time.)  I park myself on the top step and listen to the way Mia's voice changes from dependent and questioning towards confident and knowing.  She holds her own with this second-grader.  I marvel at her assurance.  Was I ever so outgoing with kids at that age?  I must have been -- I did have friends and I remember being wildly silly -- but the overwhelming feeling I get when remembering childhood is one of personal insecurity. 

But Mia, she is strong and tall and straight.  The boy, I fancy, is in love.  How could he not be?  (Probably all kinds of ways, but when I see my girl, I fall in love, myself.  She is exquisite.  Even on this day, with tangled hair and a mouth stained red from too much Valentine's candy.)

He is telling her about his bike -- a truly wonderful story of generosity and hope: bikes were donated to every child who used to attend a now-demolished, tornado-destroyed elementary school.  I smile and shake my head.  The outpouring of gifts and time and love our community has seen is powerful to behold.  And we behold so much of it, every day.

He talks about his old scooters, his Valentine's Day party, his long-ago trip to the hospital for the flu.  Somewhere in the middle of medicine and overnight nurses, his eyes light on our pumpkin.  You remember, right?  The pumpkin I talked about doing away with a month ago?  The one that's been sitting on our front stoop since before Halloween? 

That pumpkin. 

Feel free to imagine its state of decay, because I'm not sharing a current photo.  Perhaps the shame from our laziness is a deterrent..  Anyway, you're welcome.  It's not a pretty sight, with its orange faded to a putrid, foggy yellow on top, just where a few slight snowfalls have dampened its crown.  It's begun to cave-in like the lip of a too-wide volcano. 

"What do you think of our pumpkin?" I ask.  There is a twinkle in my eye.  If I'd asked this question to my daughters, which I have, the response I'd receive, and have received, would be a mixture of dramatic, downturned faces and belligerent declarations of disgust.  Super fun to watch.

But this boy.  He is not a girl. 

He stares at the lump of softening, pulpy matter, eyes wide with appreciation, and then...

"Can I shoot it?"

I am left completely speechless at the pure, unabashed boy-ness of his response. 

I feel a great and pressing urge to brush up on my boy-survival skills now, if you'll excuse me.



Note: Said boy later proceeded to carry the rotting pumpkin to the woods beside our house as a valiant favor.  How should I thank him?  Fresh cookies?  A round of BBs for his gun*?  Free access to all future rotting organic matter?

*I have no idea if he does, in fact, own a pumpkin-slaying weapon.  Maybe he wanted to shoot it with a light-saber.**

**Do light sabers shoot?

NoteII: See above reference to brushing up on boy-survival skills.  I need help.

Justin's Hey Girl

Because tomorrow is Valentine's Day.

And because I laugh for hours (hours) at the Ryan Gosling jokes.

And because my husband is super hot.

(SUPER. HOT.)

And because today is a snow day and these photos have a little bit to do with snow.

I have decided to share a bit of bloggy fun, Hey Girl style.

That is, Justin style.

It's my early Valentine's Day present to you all, my dearest friends....

After I made these the other day, I quickly posted them to Facebook because instant gratification makes me happy.  My handsome Justin kind of gets the Ryan Gosling jokes, and better still, he plays along. 

See Exhibit 1.  My Bigger Picture Captures photo of last week, where the prompt was 'Sweet'.  I happened to knock over a BRAND NEW strawberry milkshake, and snapped a quick photo.  See what happened next?

My friend Brook gets it.  I think Justin gets it.  (I don't think most of my Facebook friends get it.)  I hope you get it!  Because Valentine's Day Eve deserves some laughs!

Baby on Aisle Three

The hardest part about shopping with a baby (one who isn't being worn in a sling) is that at the end, there is no place to put the FOOD in the cart.  Still, even though the cashier always looks at me crooked when I attempt to fill 2 square feet of storage space with 4 square feet of groceries, I don't mind.

I like a challenge.  And I like to pretend I'm baby-shopping. 

I'll take THIS one, please. 


What was your day like today?  Any cramming of impossible amounts of goods into tiny spaces?  Any baby-shopping?

A Little More and She Would Have Been a Pixie For Real

This business of bedroom sharing has led to an abundance of stuff all shoved into one small space.  Toy bins are double parked and shelves are overflowed.  The closet is a nightmare.

But the girls seem to love their shared space, so we persist.  Well, okay: they actually have no choice.  It's either bedroom sharing or one girl moves into the bathroom.  Which I understand will happen anyway upon adolescence, so we'll forestall it as long as we can.

So the bedroom is crazy.  And on days like the one in question -- a day that will live in infamy -- when Lauren is having a 'nap' alone while her sister is at Kindergarten, she seems to make a bigger mess than both girls would do together.  I imagine her to be compensating for her sister's non-presence with a bit of toy-overkill. 

This day, I opened the door to 'wake her up' and was met by the single WORST mess I've encountered at this point in my motherhood.  Granted, nothing was oozing or bubbling or bleeding...but the toys.  They blocked the door's swing so I could only peek inside helplessly. 

Immediately, I saw that my sweet darling Lauren was trying to hide something.  She sat crouched over a small object in the midst of the rubble, eyes wary, an excuse ready on her pretty lips.  So I shoved in, worried about the stress on the door's hinges from my super-mom strength (hee), to discover the object of her secrecy.

And that's when I realized that the mess was the least of our problems.

For there, in her perfectly formed and innocently soft hand was a pair of red-handled, preschool scissors.

It's true.  She cannot be trusted with scissors.  Not that I allowed her to have them in the first place, only I wish I knew when and how she'd snuck them into her lair bedroom.

And I'll tell you the sad, sad truth:

It was ALL I could to to keep a straight face while explaining the consequences of her illegal activity. 

My mouth simply would not stay stern. 

This one...

This one is going to keep me on my toes.

And I love her to little bitty bits.



Now, tell me: should we go with bangs?  Or a super short and sassy bob?  Because we lost our time machine in all the mess of the bedroom, so there ain't no goin' back...

The Healing Properties of Hot Cocoa and Generosity

As a reward to ourselves for having a successful yard sale on Saturday, where success equals we didn't have to pack it all in because of rain, we headed downtown to our favorite restaurant for dinner. 

This restaurant is lovely for many reasons, one of which is its cozy atmosphere.  But that's not why we go there any chance we get: we go there for the food.  Mmmm....Mmmm....food.  Sadly, the state of my consumption lately is such that I'm not allowed (on punishment of probable upchucking) to eat as much as I'd like.  There's simply no space left in my midsection to spare for such a passing whim as food.  Still, I try.  I'd like to think it's because I'm no quitter.  But it's probably because I'm just a gluttonous fool.

We danced our way down the sidewalk towards the restaurant's front door early in the evening, before the crowdedness could begin to intimidate us and our enthusiastic children.  And dancing is probably the most correct description of our forward motion.  Mia stepped along joyfully while Justin tried to modulate his steps to hers.  Lauren bounced and twirled and went in all different directions at once, while I waddled behind.  I don't move forward so much as I zig and zag.  It's tiring.

On one perfectly ill-placed step, I watched Mia, with all her sweet happiness at going to a restaurant, thud her toe into a raised snippet of sidewalk, and land squarely on all fours.  I think she might have bounced, so forcefully did the sidewalk rise up to trip her dainty feet.  The scream was terrifying.  I zig-zagged forward as fast as I could, only to see two bloody knees and a wailing face.  My baby...

Justin carried her to the nearest bench -- the one that sits directly beside the restaurant's front door -- and we assessed the damage. 

Really, as a mother, I've seen my share of cuts and scrapes.  It's usually the fault of concrete or asphalt, with the occassional gravel thrown in for good measure.  This one, a concrete-induced malady of shredded proportions, was bad, and made me wish I had girls who loved sturdy jeans instead of cotton dresses.  Blood pooled around her skinned knee and began to roll down her leg immediately.  She screamed with each intake of breath.

My mother-in-law and I headed inside to look for a first-aid kit and some wet towels, hoping to find at least a band-aid.  The manager kindly offered us our choice of band-aids, gauze, sterile pads, and peroxide, and followed us back outside to see how he could help.  He stood by (with much good nature in the face of both a screaming and bloodied child) and passed me materials as I needed them, trying to talk Mia out of her terror.

And then, like a magical wizard with tricks up his sleeve, he offered the words that would be our lifeline back into the realm of calm: "Do you think a big cup of hot cocoa would make you feel better?"

Yes!  I was about to say.  I'd LOVE a hot cocoa!  But since everyone was looking to my injured child for confirmation, I knew I should keep my mouth shut.  She nodded her tear-stained face and burrowed into Justin's shoulder.  The shoulder-burrow is the surest sign of healing, you know. 

With bandages in place and tears drying up, we finally entered the building.  Our table was waiting, our seats were ready, we were hungry.  A feirce injury will do that to a family.  We ordered our favorites and sat back to chat before dinner arrived.  Mia was engrossed in her coloring page, Lauren played with a small rubber frog, and everything was perfect.  The candle in the middle of the table glowed as fairly as any moon on a sweet autumn evening, throwing our previous upset into softened shadows.  Mia was better.  In fact, she was so much better that she talked at-length and in-depth about each detail of her fall.  (And she played this conversation on repeat for the next day and a half.)

Around the corner, with a smile on his generous face and his hands -- BOTH hands -- full of giant mugs of hot cocoa, came the manager.  If the candle was the moon, glowing peacefully, the cups of cocoa were shooting stars, forcing ooohs and aaahs from around the perimeter of our table.

This gentleman, this shining example of scrape-healing knighthood, placed the cups before each of my daughters with a flourish.  He accepted thanks with reserve.  He went back to his business with purpose. 

And forever sealed the restaurant as among the very best our town has to offer. 

You know all the news stories of children and families being discriminated against for their less-than perfect restaurant behavior?  The stories that leave me sad for the state of understanding and hope and learning and acceptance?  This was so far the opposite of that story.  We were welcomed -- screaming, bloody, upset, waddling (ahem), flustered -- as a family, and shown the utmost care and generosity. 

My daughters, if I do say so, were well-behaved that night, as is becoming more and more common with their maturity and understanding.  Dinner was delicious, the cocoa was the perfect balm for the accident, and the night was glorious.

Especially since they couldn't finish their cups of cocoa, and I had to step in with offers of help. 

Now, we're drawing straws as to who will take one for the team next time we go out to dinner.  Sweet cocoa will be the death of our integrity, it seems.


If you're ever in Joplin, make sure to visit Red Onion Cafe.  Tell them Sarah The Heavenly sent you.  They won't have a clue what you're talking about, but maybe they'll take pity on your apparent madness and offer you a cup of cocoa.  And be sure to have the Smoked Chicken Dip for your starter!  That's an order.

Mad Clown

Of course, I'd be upset, too, if I had an obnoxious mother taking a picture of me while I was on the commode.  But really, that face deserves to be preserved for the sake of her future, you know?

Happy Friday, all!

Fancy That

You can lead a toddler...

To a fancy dinner....

But you can't make her eat.

Hope your Valentine's Day was as happy as ours!  (And maybe even -- if you were very lucky -- free of meltdowns!)

Bigger Picture Moment: Pants Optional

It's a summer evening in 2005, and I'm standing at our kitchen sink with my forearms submersed in bubbly water.  It's like I'm playing house: we don't have kids yet (although there's a baby Mia brewing in my ever-expanding belly); I bake muffins a few mornings a week; I revel in the task of keeping our home cozy and clean.  I sing myself a song, perhaps, as I scrub the dishes that won't fit into our sparkly-new dishwasher, and I gaze out the window at the glorious world.

I am insanely happy, looking forward to a lifetime of that same insanity with my caring, gentle, gorgeous husband.  As I scrub last night's hamburger helper (newlywed alert!) from a skillet, that husband rounds the corner into the kitchen.  He comes up behind me and I brace myself for a hug or perhaps a wayward grope. 

Instead, I am surprised by my soft pajama pants being tugged down to my ankles.  Justin laughs criminally, knowing my hands are occupied with soap suds and dishes, before darting away into the other room.

I've been pantsed, and my bare backside shivers in the air conditioning.  It is moments before I can rinse and dry my hands enough to pull my pants back up and seek retribution.  But within half a second, I know that I can't wait for this baby girl to bring some feminine camaraderie to the house. 

------------

It is a February afternoon in 2011.  After stripping down my daughters from their snow-wetted gear, I'm in the laundry room switching things from the washer to the dryer.  I still love playing house, trying to cozy-up the joint, but it takes quite a bit more effort and forethought these days: time is always short.  In the bedroom, I hear Justin laughing with his girls -- a 30-year-old daddy with 5-year-old and 2-year-old daughters.  Girly, frilly, sometimes dramatic daughters. 

I smile at the sounds of their laughter and wonder how my life ever became so full, so blissfully insane.  I spread a damp sweater across the ironing board to dry, before leaning back over the dryer to check for more. 

Suddenly, I hear the patter of tiny, girly feet behind me, and a conspiratorial giggle from the hallway.  Before I think to wonder what joke is being perpetuated, my soft leggings (which -- of course -- are so clingy that they grab hold of my underwear) are pulled down.  My backside is bare once again. 

My sweet, darling Mia -- the one who was to save me from boy-ish pranks -- can barely breathe for laughing so hard, but she somehow manages to scream Pantsed Ya! before dashing away to hi-five her dad.

------------

The insanity knows no gender boundaries around here.  And it's a good thing I can embrace insanity -- pant-less or otherwise. 

We're sharing our Bigger Pictures -- our simple moments that show us the truths of our worlds -- over at Alita's place today.  Stop by to share your own and visit others! 

The Case for Sauceless Spaghetti

Spaghetti night is always a good time....

 until somebody gets a noodle wrapped around her arm.

But it's also good for practicing your twirling...

and perfecting your inhaling. 

Noble endeavors for a humble (necessarily sauceless) meal.

Mr. Freeze: The Sexiest Man Alive

One of the coolest things about being stranded at home with a grown man in a blizzard...

is that he takes very seriously a dare to wade into the deep, thick snow in order to obtain an accurate measurement of our Snowpocalyptic accumulation.  He sizes up the options.  He discards the simple idea of walking, instead opting for...

one giant, boredom-fueled leap into...

18 inches of snow in our eastern yard.  In our northern yard, there are 19 inches.  In our southern yard, there are 23 inches.  I don't know that I've ever seen so much snow from one storm...

but I DO know that I've never seen a sexier sight than this man shoveling snow.  Is there anything more attractive than this?  (It's really a rhetorical question -- because nothing is more attractive.) He's giving me the shivers.

And I'm not even playing in the snow.

The Path to Diversion

After Lauren's nap -- that time of day when she is enclosed in her bedroom, quietly NOT sleeping -- I usually enter the room gingerly.  I expect to accidentally stub my toe on a wayward farmhouse or impale my tender arches upon some pokey princess figurine. 

I am rarely surprised at the mess.  It sprawls in a garish combination of primaries and pastels across the carpet in maps of secret toddler activity.  Here, a shelf is emptied, proving a marathon reading session.  There, a bucket overturned, spilling plastic nativity pieces before an empty stable. 

The stuffed-animals are a given; never a nap goes by without them being flung to all corners, weaving a path of destruction or creation: their intended pattern is in the eye of the beholder.

But on this day...Lauren's sneaky playfulness caught me off guard in its unexpected ending. 

Settled perfectly cozily in a toy bucket, book on her lap, animals scattered far and wide, my Lauren was engaged in quiet rest. 

But never in her cozy, warm bed.  No, never there.  Who could endure such boredom?!

Bad Odds

There was one, single library book in sweet Lauren's room yesterday at nap time.

One library book, among twenty or thirty home-owned storybooks.

One book, illustrated by my very favorite children's book illustrator: Alison Jay.

One story that's been ripped to shreds, torn to pieces. 

That one library book is now marred and scarred -- maligned and taped -- forever.

Though it is still beautiful,

There's no guarantee that the library will see beyond the miles of tape to the much-loved book beneath.

Sigh.

How much cash should I have on hand when we go to return it?

Snow!

On December first, Mia rushed to the window and peered out hopefully.  She gazed right.  She stared left.  She frowned.

Mama!  It's WINTER time, and it's supposed to snow at winter!  When will it snow?

I did my best to explain weather patterns and unpredictability and technicalities, such as they may be, but still -- winter started with a disappointing bang.  Mia's eyes registered understanding, and I railed against the weatherman.  Where was our snow?

December passed uneventfully.  A few days ago, it was in the 50's and brightly sunny.  I held little hope for January.

Until yesterday morning.  We woke up to the slightest dusting of white over our dead grass and unraked leaves, and honestly, I was already content with that amount of snow.  It was snow, even if it looked like a thick, patchy frost.  Soon, though, it got even better: thick, fat flakes fell heavily, and our mismanaged leaves were suddenly disguised by wet snow.  And okay -- it may never have exceeded more than half of an inch of precipitation, but it was snow.

Finally! 

We headed out for a few minutes of reckless clothes-wetting before going to school, which is a magical feat I attribute solely to my camera: the promise of good photo-ops is just about the only thing that would get me out the door early, of all things. 

The girls both had their warmest winter clothes on -- for the most part.  Pants, which, for them, is a step above their usual attire of skirt plus tights. 

Their shoes collected clumps of new snow with each step in the grass, and when I realized that this would make their feet wet for an entire morning of preschool, I loaded them into the car.  It was still a wonderland around us -- blowing snow made the world white and exotic.  I kept my camera ready for any safe-shot -- snow!

We never turned on any music; the silence outside required silence inside.  Except for our own squeals of excitement and glee: snow!  Mia begged me to drive faster, but I wanted to savor the slowness.  Gaze around me.  Appreciate the white.

I appreciated it right up until my tires started sliding downhill at the next stoplight. 

We've had so little inclement weather since we've had this vehicle, that I had no idea where the 4-wheel-drive switch was, or even how to make it work if I DID find it.  But that never crossed my mind as I saw the rear bumper of the car before me getting closer too fast.  I might have been going 15-mph, which gave me plenty of time to consider my options:  I could pump the brakes (but I didn't know if that advice was outdated...); I could let myself bump into the car in front of us (which would be a big, expensive headache -- though probably not terribly unsafe); I could pop the curb to my right, and drive onto the snowy grass of a residential yard (and hope to avoid the sturdy oak tree planted dead-center). 

I chose the grass. 

We popped the curb, and as soon as my tires hit rough grass, slowed to a stop.  We missed the oak tree.  Traffic moved on.  The big, fancy SUV behind me was sliding too, so I waited until it stopped, then pulled back into the road -- going less than 2-mph.

Again, Mia begged me to go faster.  Do you think I acquiesced?

Friends, I did not.  I crawled us the rest of the way to school, explaining in multiple ways why jumping the curb and driving through some poor soul's yard wasn't fun, but my daughters' giggles overruled me: Mom so doesn't know what fun is all about.

And, though I apparently don't know how to drive in a dusting of snow, I still love it. 

Tell me about the snow -- or lack thereof -- where you are!

Those Characters From Heavenly House

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.

Silent Night (Almost)

Christmas Eve conjures up certain mental images for me -- every year, the same.  It's a well-lit kitchen with baking projects happening simultaneously:



sugar cookies, cinnamon rolls, breakfast casserole, dinner rolls.  It's Christmas carols played on low volume in the other room. 



It's dressing up in our Christmas finery, and posing before the Christmas tree.  It's bundling up and heading to Christmas Eve service at church, and trying to keep the kids quiet in the pews. 

It's standing in the darkened sanctuary among a circle of celebrating neighbors, each of us with a tiny twinkling candle, singing Silent Night into the glimmering darkness.

This year, that moment came with a new twist.  Mia, at five-years-old, wanted her very own candle.  And I, filled with Christmas Eve bliss, agreed that she was old enough to try.  As the congregation slowly filed around the outer edges of the room, singing, she held her unlit candle with determination and pride.  She danced quietly, waiting for the light to pass from candle to candle around the circle.  Finally, she held perfectly still while her daddy tilted his light to hers, lighting her candle for the first time. 

Her smooth cheeks glowed with a shy smile, her eyes glittering in the reflected flame.  She stared at it with wonder.  Tears filled my own eyes as I marveled at her grown-up participation, and then....

She screamed.

A tiny drip of melted wax had touched her fist, and before any of us knew what was going on, exactly, she reacted decisively.

Thwack! went the burning candle, thrown forcefully to the carpet by my betrayed daughter.  The candle's flying arc swooped another few hot drops of wax onto Mia's fingers, and her scream became a howl.  The 50 year old carpet of the sanctuary floor put out the candle's flame with ease (-- I'm sure it's seen worse). 

Silent Night went on, while Justin rescued Mia by hauling her into the hallway. 

Maybe next year, I thought as we left church that night.  But Mia spoke up as if she'd been privy to my thoughts:

I'm never EVER going to hold a candle again, mama.  It's just too dangerous!

It was a memorable Christmas Eve -- not Silent, for sure.  But Night, I've learned, so rarely is.  Especially not when there are preschoolers and toddlers around.