Rushing? Too Slow?

Corey went to an in-home daycare just before he turned one. It was a fabulous place, but took about half my earnings to keep him there. A year later, he was able to go to nursery school where Grandma (AKA Saint Margaret of the Children) was the director. It was good in terms of academics and potty training and excellent for my wallet. Nursery school on the family plan cost the same as about seven days at the in-home daycare.

On the other hand, within about a week Corey learned about Power Rangers, guns and fighting. And he found out what it felt like when a cute little red headed girl with an equally fiery personality chomped on his arm. A few times.

Preschool was at a private Christian school (yes, my son heard the word of god. No, no lightning strikes at pick up or drop off. I am not surprised). Academically excellent, this place was more expensive and the parent population was older and more professional, which seemed to translate into calmer classmates. Only by then, genetics and environment and who knows what else combined to begin giving hints of what was in store from my beloved son. And the preschool had one teacher who insisted that the children move from one room or space to another with their hands clasped on top of their heads.

Like mini criminals being taught to assume the position.

Whether it's fair or rational or not, I associate preschool with the start of Corey's problems. The place where testing would show that he was functioning academically like a seven year old, but where brief observation would point out glaring deficiencies.

Apparently I harbor a grudge against preschool.

Having Grandma care for our girls in her home, teaching them their letters and numbers, shapes and colors, and keeping them away from those yucky kids with foul mouths and hurtful hands...

I won't lie, it has been a dream come true.

For the better part of two years, Madelyn has been talking about going to preschool. We told her she could go when she turned four.

And then we made her wait another four and a half months until the new year started up.

I got referrals from no fewer than three sources and ended up with a list of about 25 places in the cities around my job.

Looked at online reviews, made a few calls and narrowed it to six.

Note to preschools and daycare centers everywhere: If you have an outgoing message instead of a person answering you're phone, it's a no. If your outgoing message talks about your "curriclium," it's a hell no.

Presented the list to Margaret, who chopped one off.

Tom, Margaret and I came up with a list of questions aside from the ones I'd used to grill whomever answered the phone at each site.

Yes, I did organize the questions into four categories and make a spread sheet so we could do forced scoring after each visit.

Note to preschools and daycare administrators everywhere: Your teachers should acknowledge the parents of their potential future students. Ignoring us and/or scowling in our general direction will not encourage us to leave our special snowflakes with you.

Special note to Montessori schools: If you spend "the first two hours doing paperwork with the kids," then you are not a Montessori, regardless of how many fun looking wood toys you have sitting off to the side. And if you are the owner of said school because you "fell into it while going to medical school" and then "decided to go for it while pursuing a criminal justice degree and working on computers" you really don't have the focus we are seeking. Also, "ingredience" is not a word. It's bad enough that you charge $165 a week and make the parents provide meals and snacks. At least have the decency to spell check your damn list of demands.

Do I seem overly harsh? I probably am. As I say, I hold a grudge against preschools and day cares everywhere. I didn't even know it until recently.

Madelyn started preschool last week. She had a "free day" to check it out toward the end of August.

We signed Mad up to go twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays. Of course, school started the week of a holiday, but I'd rather her be shorted one day than miss the whole week.

She and I had a few good talks about school. One went like this:

"Blah blah blah and then Mama will come pick you up after lunch."

"You're going to leave me there?"

"I am. Well, I mean... you'll see that the other parents don't stick around. I could stay if you're not comfortable with me leaving you, it's just not how most people do it."

"I'm comfortable with you leaving me."

"Well, alrighty then."

The free day went well enough. There was a cash register to play with, and Madelyn decorated a dog tracing with little pieces of brown yarn.

(Saint Margaret of the Children says that she would never make a tracing; children should be allowed to use their own imaginations. In case you were wondering. Rowr!)

But when we picked her up, she burst into tears.

Because Mama left her.

Wednesday morning, Fynn left with Daddy in the wee hours and headed off to Grandma's. I'd taken her with us on the free day and it was hard to explain to her why Sister was over there doing that while she was supposed to stay over here with me.

Madelyn and I had talked a few times about how I would stay for a little while, until she was comfortable, and then I would go to work and return after lunch, but before the other kids went to nap. She seemed to get it.

She would venture off for a few seconds and then come back for a quick hug or to ask a question. This checking in reminded me of her crawling and toddling stage when she was just starting to explore away from me. Once she was settled in, I repeated our plan.

"I am going to work. I'll be back after you eat lunch, but before the other kids go to nap."

And then I left after a smooch and a hug.

At some point in the morning, her teacher got a break. Who knows if she pointed out the new adult in the room or not or said that she would be back? Most of the kids have probably been "going to school" for years already. Probably at that same place.

Madelyn was upset and crying when Ms. Juanita came back.

And then, there was this point where the kids had to come in from playing at the playground outside.

Oh, the tears!

Well, listen. I know my girl. This is the one for whom there are "let's not have a meltdown" discussions before during and after a trip to the park.

But Ms. Juanita actually seemed to attribute all of Mad's crying (off and on for two hours) to the fact that, you guessed it...

She missed Mama.

Here's what I don't get: I am not the one she clings to at home.

She has mostly stopped asking Tom to go to the potty with her in the past couple weeks. Me? Months ago. Yeah, because I make her head off on her own and then show up when she's almost done.

At night when she calls downstairs to say she needs someone to go with her? I ask her to feel around on the wall and flip the switch.

"Now you can see where you're going. Go ahead and go."

I am that mom. Not the coddling, babying, delaying independence type of parent at all.

But when I went into her room and the teacher said, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. She's crying. She wants her mama." And then my girl runs over to me sobbing with swollen, red eyes and a red nose...

I scooped her up and was rocking her in a toddler sized chair and whispering little words of love into her hair when Tom walked in (a total surprise to Mad and I that momentarily made the sobbing start up again).

We decided to try again on Monday. Sunday evening I took her out to get new school shoes. She talked about not wanting to be left at school. About feeling sad and missing me.

"Daddy and I really want you to try again."

She hung her head and quietly said, "I know." Like it was her duty as our daughter to go and do this terrible thing, but she would. For us.

Monday morning I suggested she wear a particular shirt.

"Do you see the word right there? Do you know what it says?"

"Yeah, what's it say?"

"It says peace. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, what's it mean?" (We have never had a problem with her saying no. She says yes to everything.)

"It's a calm, good feeling that means everything is going to be okay. It's how I want you to feel while you're at school."

With tears welling in her eyes, she said, "I just don't want to go. I don't want you to leave me there."

I opened my mouth to say something wise.  All that came out was, "You do not have to go."


That afternoon I spoke with Ms. Juanita about Mad's time in class last week on Wednesday. No surprise to me, she did great on all of the schoolwork. (During and around the crying, she did all of Wednesday's assignments, plus made up for being out on Tuesday. This is our girl who thinks reading is good, spelling is fun and counting her money is awesome.) Mad did well socially, too. She played with the other kids and had no problems sharing.


Although he denies it, I suspect Tom was pretty upset with me for not making her go on Monday. Or something. We were all upset for maybe different reasons, I guess.

I have strong feelings about what the right thing is to do here.

To me, she is simply not ready. This is a girl who knows what she is thinking and how she is feeling, and she knows how to express herself clearly. I believe that should be respected. (Plus, why are we paying for her to be tortured eight hours a week? I think we could at least wait until she's a teen to do that. Makes a lot more sense!)

Unless I'm wrong. Because there is this history with me, my kid and preschool. Going through all the prep work to find the right place for Mad made me realize that. And if there's one thing that having your first two kids 15 years apart can teach you, it's that some of those times when you thought you made the best decision... you did not.

Or, as I said to Tom, I am prepared to stand my ground on this one. I will fight to the bitter end. However, I don't want you to just agree with me.

Yeah, because that's not crazy talk.

This is probably not much of a surprise, but Tom and I didn't rush into a decision regarding Madelyn and preschool. We discussed with one another and with others. We weighed options and tried to discern which freaking way would be the best one for Madelyn.


Note to jackasses everywhere: The statement, "She's gonna have to learn sometime," is asinine. She is four. In our world, preschool is an option. As long as that's true, she does not have to learn it right now.

Also, I am not kidding when I say that my motto for this school year is, "I have a limited tolerance for jackassery." Forewarned is forearmed.


We talked with Madelyn. Mostly I stayed back from those conversations because I wonder if I'm projecting something that she's picking up. I hope not.

Somehow in all the brouhaha between Monday and yesterday, Madelyn decided that she would go to school again. But she would bring her stuffed rocket.  She changed her own name to Rocket, too. (Yes, again.)

It was all going so well. Right up to the point when I called Tom. I was there and I'm still not sure what happened. We ended up going straight to Grandma's house.

I floated the idea of trying again later.

"Maybe we can try again when you're a little older, like four and a half or in the spring."

"Maybe when I'm five."

"What about when you're four and a half?"

"What about when I'm five and a half?"

So... that went well.

The Real Poop

Since late winter or early spring, Fynnie's been gearing up for potty training. I was actually looking forward to it. I had three goals this summer, potty train Fynn, get her to take naps in her own freakingbedbyherselfsoIcouldactuallygetthingsdonearoundhere *ohm* and learn to french braid Madelyn's hair.

Summer ended three weeks ago for me, and I'll tell up front, I'm one for three. French braiding and potty training are not on my current horizon.

We started off with converting her crib to a toddler bed. I will not say that Fynnie is a difficult child. Really, she's not. But she happened to be born after her rule loving, get-it-right-the-first-time big sister, over whose successes Tom and I would often high five as if we'd really had a hand in it.

Yes, karma spent the first 28 months of Mad's life preparing to backhand us into reality. Success.

But making the switch went pretty well. That was the big one. I put it at the top of the agenda because I just could not spend one more entire summer nursing Fynnie through naps (or holding her in nursing position while she snoozed and drooled in my lap with her spidey senses working around the clock to make sure "her booboo" didn't find its way back inside my bra).

It's not as though I can snuggle her, put her down and walk away, but I can eventually walk away, and that's what matters to me.

Next up, potty training! I was kind of excited. Fynnie was kind of excited (about the promise of getting "canny" every time she used the toilet), too!

With Madelyn, we did the half naked method. It worked great, and I could see no reason why we wouldn't go the same route for Fynnie.

Except that, oh yeah, my girls could not be more different from one another if they were born on opposite sides of the earth to completely different parents.

The big hold up getting started was our schedule. Because of my allergy shots (which are a waste of time happen close to my work), I did not take several weeks off in a row. I worked every Tuesday. The girls went to Grandma's every Tuesday.

And good friends of ours who were expecting twins dropped their two older girls off at Grandma's one day a week, too, but not Tuesdays. So the girls were also there on Wednesday or Thursday each week.

And, because I now actually have something of a life up here in the High Desert, the girls and I often had other places to go.

Three weeks into my summer "vacation," we made plans to start potty training on Thursday morning, with a goal of being done with day training by the end of the weekend.

Mad was essentially done in two days, which I blamed more on me and trying to get started the first day I was home alone with her and her one month old baby sister.

In advance of that, I was occasionally letting Fynnie run around the house half naked, and she was occasionally using the toilet.

The Tuesday night before potty training, we came home and she had a good try on the potty. I let her run around while I went outside to spend five minutes in the garden.

Coming back in, I found my very upset little girl had pooped on the floor.

I was glad she was upset, honestly; it meant she got it.  But I also tried to reassure her that everything was okay.

As we came out of the bathroom from cleaning her up, I saw that our dog, Maisy, had eaten the poop.

But not before walking through it.

Aaand that's when Tom and Madelyn got home.

Two years ago Madelyn somehow managed to train our big galloop of a dog to race back and forth from the door to the back of the house whenever someone gets home.

Over and over.

This is the point where I'd say Fynnie really freaked out.

She'd been upset before, but this scene and the yelling at the dog and the mess all over the place and the smell... I am wondering if she is not scarred for life.

No joke.

Potty training? Over.

For the past six weeks or so, the main focus is what can we do to make Fynnie poop?

She used to go 2-3 times every morning.

Now? It can be three days.

We've altered her diet to the point that she sometimes cannot help but go.

She thinks dried apricots are "gums" and that all the other special treats she gets are the new "canny."

She can spend a day and a half randomly squatting and looking scared. When it can no longer be avoided, I find myself holding this crying, sweating, grunting, shaking little girl. I whisper softly in her ear and tell her it's going to be okay, she's going to feel so much better when this is over and I'm so proud of her for working so hard.

At this point she's pooping every 1-2 days. It's better, seems less painful, but it's still upsetting her.

I'm not sure how to help her move past this.

Did you ever have a kid who withheld poop? How did you help them overcome it?

Help!

Wonder

When Corey was a baby and toddler, I was going from being in a badly chosen marriage and into single parenthood. And living with my mother.

My son was my life, no doubt. But a big part of that life was simply putting one foot in front of the other. I had tunnel vision that was focused on making it through this day. This hour. This minute. My ultimate goal? I said it often.

I just want peace.

As a young mom, overall I was pretty good. But I lacked that sense of magic and awe that parents really should have about their kids. I remember feeling like people lied when they said, "It goes so fast."  Several times the words "they grow so fast" seemed like a terribly false thing.

The fact that I spent all of my waking, and most sleeping, moments almost exclusively with my son for his first 11 months made it harder for me to see how he changed from day to day and week to week.  The things he did that were advanced, I just figured they were normal.

It wasn't long after Corey was in nursery school that I started getting the reports. The calls. The list of problems that had to be dealt with straight away.

Memories of a very few people saying, "You must be so proud of him because... ."  "Isn't it amazing how he... ?"

Only I don't remember why I was supposed to be proud or why he was so amazing.

There's a great mother of the year admission for ya.

I do, however, remember the thoughts that filled my head during these times that I should have been embracing.

They often started with "Yeah, but... ."

It wasn't always like this. And I'm not saying I was never proud of Corey. There have been times that he accomplished things or attempted something I never thought he would. And I was present and aware and so incredibly proud.

It was just that I was stuck in this one-foot-in-front-of-the-other thing and I couldn't get out.

Madelyn's start, on the other hand, was so full of love and happiness. Well, obviously not the part where she started out in NICU.  But the pregnancy was textbook perfect, and bringing her home and living life with our new little girl; it was exactly the way I wish all kids could start out.

Sure, there was this quiet desperation that please, don't let anything take her from me, always in the background of my mind. But she was the center of the universe for Tom, Corey and I.

We oohed and ahhed over everything she did.

Her mere presence could calm tensions between any of the rest of us because, really, who wanted to shatter the spell?

She was amazing and wonderful, the smartest and strongest and most beautiful baby ever born.

Wouldn't you want to live in a world where people thought that about you?

I would look at her and think, "I made that, whoa."

And then along came Fynnie. These days Mad and I call her Fee Girl, which is Fynnie Girl the way Mad used to say it.

Fee Girl is the sibling Tom wanted Mad to have. I was perfectly happy not to have any more kids after I got the daughter I always knew was out there waiting for me.

But it wasn't long after I became pregnant with Fee that I was in love with this little being growing inside me.

That pregnancy was, by far, the hardest.

Morning sickness that starts at 17 weeks? Evil.
Being pregnant with a torn hip muscle? There are no words.
Heart burn and random vomiting while driving? Painful and embarrassing.

Not to mention that I sat around so much during that pregnancy that I lost a lot of muscle tone. People weren't sure I was pregnant even at the end.  Maybe I was just that fat.

Awesome, right?

And then there was the labor. With Pitocin and no pain meds. (If you're contemplating doing that and ask me if it's possible, I will say yes. And I will bite my tongue so hard that you may see blood dripping out of my mouth. If you ask if I recommend it, I will say HELL NO.)

Fynn is my snuggliest baby. She is the one who makes hearts melt. The one for whom attachment parenting was created.

These are all wonderful things, but for the longest time I had a hard time seeing that they rose to the same level as the wonder of Madelyn.

There are some extenuating circumstances here.

Like I'm about 98% sure I lived through undiagnosed postpartum depression.
And that I didn't feel as close to Tom (or Corey, really) during Fee's pregnancy or newborn days.
And that, although the whole "let's have another child" thing was Tom's idea, he wasn't as interested in the pregnancy or newborn development in the same way that he had been with Mad.

In his defense, the man was working full-time and trying to get his own business off the ground, which meant working four weeknights and all of one weekend day after his other job. The man was probably living through that one-foot-in-front-of-the-other tunnel. I don't discount that or blame him (now. I did.)

All of this is to say that it took me a long time to find the wonder of Fynn.

But I did.

I have it.

Sometimes I look at her and I think to myself,

"How did you make this person?

How is it possible that she is here?

How is she possible?"

And I am grateful for this awareness while she is so young.  Because it is what every child should have, this wonder at their very existence.

Dear Jason,

You are the cutest six year old boy in our neighborhood.  Your sister, whose name I never really caught?  Equally adorable.  Maybe more so with those shoes and that hair.

Jason, there are some things we need to clear up.  This is serious.

Okay, yes, I do laugh every time you and your sister manage to weasel your way into our house while Tom is standing at the door trying to block you.  We both know he's just trying to put off being direct when he gives you a time to check back, especially since you can't quite tell time just yet.  (Between you and me, he does the same thing with the dog.  I hope you catch on quicker!)

The way you just pushed in so you could check out our clock and made Tom hold up his hands out to show you what 5:00 looks like?  That was five minutes ago and I'm still laughing.

But the way you're ringing our doorbell every 10 minutes or so because you don't know what time it is?  Annoying!

And the way you're hanging out in our front yard, climbing on the window ledge and peering in our windows?  Creepy.  You may want to get that under control before you hit middle school, little dude.

I Do Not, I Swear!

Madelyn:  "Mama, why do you have a hairy heinie?"

Me, gasping for air and feeling up my own cheeks, "What?!"

Mad:  "Right there, your hair."

Me, trying not to laugh or sigh too loudly with relief:  "That is not my heinie.  Heinies are in back."

Throwin' 'Em Off The Trail

Today I decided to never again say, "Mama has to go to the potty," while walking behind my girls toward my bathroom. 

Instead I will say, "Mama has to go stand right next to the tub."  Having them head seven or eight feet in the wrong direction?  Brilliant.

Jerk

Tom became an uncle today.  His sister-in-law delivered a baby after five hours of pushing, and with forceps assistance.  My heart went out to her.

It happened that my mother-in-law was able to reach me and give me the news.  When Tom and I met back at home, I told him what I'd heard.  His remark?

"Well, she is so... you know, little."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"You know.  She's so petite."

Giving him the look that should clearly express, "I pushed both of your daughters out in a combined total of about 15 minutes.  Tread carefully."

Tom either did not read me correctly, or he is a complete and utter jackass.

"How Did You Get Through It?"

That was what my very pregnant friend, Maija, asked me the other day.

It was when Madelyn went into the neonatal intensive care unit, or NICU, after she was born.

It came up because Maija is recently home from a nearly three week stay in the hospital, where she and the doctors successfully stopped her twin daughters from arriving two months early.  Now home and just under four weeks away from her due date (and less than two from when the doctors would be happy for them to arrive), emotions float just under the surface.

"How did you get through it?  I don't know how I could do it.  How could I leave them at the hospital and just walk away?  I don't think I could.  I mean, how did you?"

As I listened to Maija, my immediate response was, "I was very strong.  I did what I had to do.  You will, too."

But as she spoke I remembered wanting answers to those questions.  Over four years later, I remember them like yesterday.  That line of questioning is, plain and simple, unnecessary self-abuse.  It's as if the very act of leaving the hospital without your child is the first act of bad parenting you are carrying out.  Abandonment at the very outset of this mommy and me relationship.


What kind of mother does that?  I asked myself that question a lot before I walked out of the hospital without Madelyn.


Oh, I was terribly hard on myself.  Pretty sure I'm not the only one who has felt that way.  Of course we know that it is healthier for some babies to stay in the hospital, in those damned plastic boxes.

Beyond the questions about how to get over that incredibly high hurdle, there was the matter of getting through every minute between birth and going home.

When it came to actually answering Maija's question, I gave her the truth as I now see it.

I handled it like a crazy person.  I did.  I smiled and nodded every time the nurse came to let me know that, no, Madelyn still wasn't stabilized, but they'd let me know as soon as she was.

"No, spending some time on oxygen didn't quite work like we'd hoped.  The neonatalogist will be in to speak with you and your husband soon.  We might be able to let you see her and hold her in the nursery before she is transferred to NICU."

"Here's a photo I just took of your daughter (covered in wires and tape and little gold heart shaped stickers).  She's beautiful.  I don't say that to everyone.  Sometimes I just say, "Whoa, hey, it's a baby!"  Hopefully we'll get you over to see her soon.  You won't be able to hold her, but you might be able to touch her foot.  Hopefully."

The crazy person in me came out smiling and full of energy and trying to act like everything was fine.  It was fine and I was fine and I could do it my own self, thank you very much.

What did I do after 36 hours of labor, including more than three at 8+ centimeters, and delivering an 8 pound 3 ounce broad-shouldered baby?  I walked from Labor and Delivery to my new room in Maternity.  Carrying some of the rather obnoxious quantities of personal belongings we'd schlepped to the hospital.

Other nurses protested as my nurse and I passed their station.  If I could have worn a top hat and tap shoes, I would have jazz handed my way from one department to the next.

"She should be in a wheelchair!  Why is she carrying her things?"

And there I was, smiling and waving, even laughing a little at them, "I feel great.  It's okay.  I can  do this."

And clearly, I could.  Some of why I could had to do with giving birth naturally and all the amazing things a body does for a woman whose just given birth.  But a lot of it was just me literally putting one foot in front of the other.  Getting through this minute while I tried to come up with a plan for the next one.

Away from the nurses and doctors, I let my true feelings out.  Breaking down on the phone to my aunt in Wisconsin because no one else was available.

Tom was with Madelyn, where he belonged.

My mom and Corey had gone to her house to sleep off the all-nighter they'd just pulled with me.  They left before we knew how serious the problem was.

Nancy, who left the same all night labor along with Mom and Corey, went and picked up her husband and took him on what turned out to be his last trip sailing until his ashes were buried at sea the following year.

Honestly, it has only just occurred to me that I could have used that energy to go be with my daughter and husband.  Isn't it strange how the brain works?  Why didn't I get that?

The other thing about having this experience with Madelyn is that it never goes fully away.  No, I don't sit around silently weeping about it.  I don't wake up in the middle of the night catching my breath.  I don't even think about it often.

But if I read or hear a story about someone going through a similar situation (or worse... and we got off comparatively easy, so the stories are worse), the memories come and tears will probably flow.  The feelings of that time are right there.

Back when my water had broken with Fynn and Tom pulled our car up to the hospital, my mood made a sudden shift from giddy to somber.


This was the place where we left our first daughter.

Apparently I am not alone in carrying these thoughts and emotions.  Maija recently witnessed something that brought back the equally traumatic experience of the birth of her first daughter.  She and her husband contained themselves because that's what people do, and because their young daughters were with them.  And also because the father was standing next to them in the hall as his wife was raced down the hall for an emergency C-section, and who wants to be the jackass who falls apart in front of him?

Having read hundreds of birth stories with happy and sad endings, I am fully aware that four days in NICU is hardly anything at all.  And coming home isn't guaranteed.  I'm sure Maija knows that emergency C-sections happen all the time, and that they don't always end with a beautiful child to raise.

We get it.

All the same, it's pretty safe to say that the births of our first daughters were some of the most difficult times of our lives.  I am amazed at how emotionally tied to that experience I am more than four years later.  I probably will always be.

Ballet-Slippered Foot In Mouth

Madelyn, after making her vast selections for tonight's first tap and ballet class, to the clerk at the dance supply store, "Are you going to have a baby?"

Clerk, physically recoiling in shock but trying to laugh it off, "Um, no I'm not going to have a baby."

Me, "Mana, we never ask about a baby unless we already know there's a baby."

Mad, "Oh."

Me, to the clerk, "You do not look like you're going to have a baby."

Madelyn, "I have a baby in my belly."

Goldilocks

As I reheated yesterday's dinner for the girls' lunch today, "Fynnie, do you want your beans warm or cold?"

"Um," hands in the air for emphasis, "I wan' dem jus' wight."

Yes.  Of course.

Against all odds, her newly converted toddler bed (complete with pre-chewed rail, a gift from her big sis) is just right.

Or she has been messing with us since Saturday.  

I Am Going to Be a Grandma

Does that give you a little shock?

It's not so bad as all that.

While in Boston, Madelyn declared that there is a baby in her belly, and she'll get married when she's "taller, maybe five."

Our second full day in Boston was Tom's brother's wedding.  It was lovely.  Heartfelt.  Full of love and tears and laughter.  I learned that Tom's and Matt's faces show emotions the same way.  Beautiful.

Madelyn danced with her daddy at the wedding.  I didn't see because I was off with Fynnie somewhere.  The dance must have been something.

Later that day, Mana (as Fynnie and I now call her), reported that she had married herself during that magical dance.

Now she has 10 babies in her tummy.  Ask what she's having and she'll tell you, "A boy."

It's the new math.

Last week the girls and I were driving home.  Up, up, up to the top of the Cajon Pass before descending into the Mojave Desert, an SUV was stuck in the number three lane (third lane over, counting from the fast lane).  A very pregnant woman was standing on the shoulder, too close to the truck lane, trying to wave drivers away from her car.

I pulled over about a quarter mile up, picked up the pregnant woman's guy at the call box (a California godsend if you are out of cell range when an emergency happens) and drove in reverse back to his girl.  The plan was that I would get behind his car, let him out and have him steer while I pushed his vehicle off the 70 mile an hour highway.

I asked him to let the woman know I would be squeezing past her, because I didn't want to freak her out, this woman who was 39 weeks pregnant.  I just wanted her off the highway.

Just then a Highway Patrol officer pulled up, took over and sent me on my way.

As we drove away, Mana asked, "You didn't want to freak her out?"

"No!  She's going to have a baby very soon.  You do not freak out the pregnant lady!"

"I'm going to have the baby in my belly soon, too."

Fynnie, "I ha- baby soon, too!"

Mana, "Did you hear Fynnie say she's having a baby, too?!"

"I did."

"Well, she didn't marry herself!"

Is there really ever a wrong place to be a frog?

Make Way For Ducklings

On our first full day in Boshum, Tom's mom and dad took us to Boston Common.

Fynnie thinks Gramma Judy is pretty smart.

Our girls are young and relatively inexperienced in the pleasures of the park.  They've been to playgrounds, something that our desert community has in abundance.  But a place like Boston Common?  Not going to be found in the HD.

Boston Common has a merry-go-round.  Madelyn and Dadelyn went around and around.  Daddy gets dizzy and queasy on spinny rides, but making this memory with his daughter was worth it.

Gramma and Grampy have been to Boston Common before, and knew all the best places to go.  Grampy isn't able to walk much, so he parked himself under various trees throughout the day.    Apparently the frog pond we walked next to is often open for splashing.  We're guessing the recent (non-flooding!) storms made it too dirty; no kids or dogs were allowed to splash around that day. 

Fynnie and I did not get the memo about the day's color scheme.

Remember how much Mad loves frogs and ducks?  Despite our attempts to encourage Fynnie's love for elephants, she is all about the fwogs, too.

That play area in the background?  Tadpole Playground, of course.

See a frog, be a frog!  

See a fish, be a fish!

See a turtle... ah, c'mon Mama!

I love this photo for the look in her eyes.  And for the fact that her hair isn't a crazy mess.

If Madelyn could sum up her greatest disappointment about our trip, it's that we only went to Boston Common once.

Did you ever read Make Way for Ducklings?  This is that place.  That is the island.  

Gramma made sure to give the girls their own copy of the book when we returned to the hotel that night.  I attempted to read it over the exhausted screaming, but we only got so far.

"Yes, Mama made me quack like a duck while she took my picture."

"She made Fynnie do it, too, bahaha!"

"I yike to quack like a duck!  Cack cack cack!"

"Somebody, put me out of my misery!"

"I put you out mizzy!  Cack cack cack!"

Traveling With Kids

Madelyn picked out her travel attire early in the morning the day before we left.  Striped shorts, dirty socks with sandals, tutu, butterfly backpack with her name, velour hoody, undershirt with multicolored hearts (not shown) and a balloon.  Perfect! 

We used both of Fynnie's car seats.  The newer generation of Britax Boulevards have some features that make them easier to adjust than Madelyn's.  Mad doesn't care about that.  She's just glad that Fynnie didn't choose to sit in the coveted pink seat.

Speaking of which, Fynnie didn't get to sit in her black and gray seat on the way out.  Why?  Even though Tom had a couple conversations with people about our seats and the use of car seats on the airplane, no one bothered to mention that two car seats cannot be placed in the same row.  Since Fynn's under two, she could be a lap rider.  Yes, we could have forced them to find us another set of seats.  It was not worth the hassle.

This is not how Fynnie entered the plane.  There was a collective sigh of relief when her screaming and crying stopped after a couple of minutes.  It was replaced with periodic shouts of, "We fy-y big jet wocket ship Boshum!  Bash off!"

Virgin America has touch screens and remotes for every seat!  (The downside of leaving for the airport in the 4:00 A.M. hour - Mama doesn't care about bedhead... until she sees the photos later.)

Madelyn, who aspires to be Doc McStuffins, makes sure her friends practice safe travel, too!

Some highlights from our flights out and back:

• Tom has now changed several diapers at 36,000 feet.  He reports that it is easier to change a diaper mid-flight than it is in the baggage claim area restroom at Logan, where the changing station angled down, forcing him to brace Fynn while changing an especially messy diaper.
• I have not changed any.  Every time I enter an airplane lav there is turbulence.  It ain't right.
• Yes, I know how lucky I am.
• The free word game on Virgin's system is lame.  How is it that "etc." an acceptable word, but "tine" and a host of similarly simple words are not?
• Being forced to fly out of LAX because the city of Los Angeles owns the much more convenient but ridiculously overpriced Ontario Airport, made it clear to me why people think Californians are jerks and asshats.  Almost every person we dealt with at LAX was minimally helpful at best.  
• The flight attendant crew on our way out were the whiniest bunch of "professionals" I've ever encountered.  I'm sure the head whiner thought she made things better after complaining about one of the other families with toddlers in front of me by saying, "But not you.  You get it.  Your kids are under control."  That was the luck of the draw for us.  I'm guessing the woman does not have kids or she would know that.
• Just as expected, the flight out was better than the flight back.  Aside from every experience being new on the way out, Tom and I sat a few rows apart, so there was no teamwork for us, and the girls weren't able to entertain one another.  However, the people at Logan were so much more helpful, even giving us a luggage cart and pre-loading our car seats (not installing them, however, they saved that special hell for Tom while I wrangled the girls), that we were a lot more relaxed than we would have been otherwise.
• Whoever suggested gel window clings as a mid-flight distraction, I love you.  Ditto for the Dollar Tree, where I stocked up on garden scenes.
• People who recline their seats into the face of a toddler in her car seat and then twist around to give her dirty looks and loud sighs when she pushes on the seat should not be surprised when said toddler's mama leans forward to "pick something off the floor" while remarking that "yes, it was a jackass thing to throw a hissy fit because the big dumb man took up all of your room."  It turns out that Mama doesn't care if the big dumb man is well over six feet tall and 300 pounds.  Tolerating fits is not something I do well.
• Although she hardly nursed at all on the way out, Fynn nursed most of the six and a half hour flight back.  This probably made Big Dumb Man happy, and did not appear to disturb the lovely lady next to us.
• Overall, both flights were smooth.  Although it was cloudy when we arrived in Boston (which in my mind is now called Boshum), the flooding storm I'd been warned of did not rear its ugly head.

Trifecta (AKA The Perfect Storm)

Fear of flying

+

"Hey, did you hear there's a storm in Boston?  Something about flooding?"

+

My period

=

Clear and present danger.

Yes, Tom has been alerted.  It's only fair.

Me. On A Plane.

I hate flying.

I don't hate it enough to avoid doing it.  I hate looking like a big baby more than I hate flying, apparently.

I hate flying and I hate the stupid things people say to me about flying.

"Stop giving your fear energy.  Planes crash because people thought too much about it.  They brought it upon themselves."

Um, okay.  I watched The Secret.  File it right there with religion.  I just don't get most of it.

"Just pray about it.  Bring the angels around you."

Dude, do you even know me?  Wait, you do.  I do not try to push my lack of belief in god or angels on you.  Why do you do this?

"Drink.  Heavily."

Yeah, I'm not a big drinker.  I'll be partially responsible for two kids and their massive freaking car seats.  Oh, and I anticipate Fynnie will try hard to nurse her way through our six hour flights.  When she's not otherwise shrieking her head off, trying to antagonize her sister (with that adorable devilish look in her eyes) or doing exactly the opposite of whatever she's asked, instructed or commanded to do.

"If it's your time to go, it's your time to go."

Okay, fine.  If it's my time, I'll go.  But I don't want to.  I want to live.  I want to see who my girls are as they get older.  I want to see Corey take some major turns for the better.

And what about my girls, who'll be with us?  I don't want it to be their time.  And I don't want them to have such devastation as life without their parents.

What about Corey, who will not be joining us on this trip?  He's a wreck on his good days right now.  How would he cope with knowing we're no longer here if he decides he wants us or needs us?  And, honestly, what would happen if he had access to our life insurance?  Not like it's a lot, but it's more than he's ever going to see sitting around Grammy's house all day.  I totally foresee my mom's home being overrun with the latest in video game and tech gear.  And more junk food.

One of the things I try to have done before going on vacation is to make sure all of the photos are edited and sent off to my mother-in-law.  (Not even possible this time, ugh!)  As far as she's concerned (I hope), it's so that I have less to deal with when we get back.  But in the forefront of my brain is the idea that I want her to have everything possible before we go.  Same reason I'm hoping to get the bathrooms cleaned ASAP.  And, yeah, it's the same reason I wonder if I should toss certain things before leaving.  I mean, seriously, who wants to come across that while packing up someone's house?

It's at the head of every action and thought.  It's stupid and it sucks.  And I know it's wasted energy. I understand that the months of thinking "What if?" since booking the flights are moments upon hours I cannot get back.

But knowing it and making it stop are not the same.  The only cure is to go and to return.  To file another trip.  I've logged a lot of miles in fear.  Lame.

The upside?  Always looking for it.  There are a few highlights.  One, since we are flying with the girls, I will continue to avoid projecting my fear to them, thus not giving into all out panic.  Two, since we are flying directly across the country, we'll be up higher and hopefully have less turbulence than we have had on shorter flights.  Three, no one I've talked to has said that flying into Boston is bad.  Huge difference compared to flying into Vegas, for example.  On the other hand, no one I've talked to has actually flown into Boston.  Their stories are all anecdotes from others.

And then there's the fact that we'll be off on another family adventure.  A bizarre one where, two days before we leave, we still have no clue where we're staying or where the unnamed hotel is in relation to the airport.  We do have a room.  Somewhere.  And plenty of plans for the short time we'll be there.  Not that we know what the exact plans are aside from the wedding.

And should when we return, I will look back on this trip fondly.  As I usually do once the sense of free falling through the sky and slamming into the ground is no longer relevant.

Coffee Slob

I cleaned my car last weekend.  Not only did I remove armfuls of crap toys, books, colored pencils and expired coupons, but car seats were pulled out and the vacuum and shampooer were employed.

I have washable seat covers for the front seats.  The seat covers look fabulous, as usual.  Underneath?  Not so much.

Why?  I'm a coffee slob.  Yeah no, not snob.  I don't care where it comes from.  Gas station or schmancy shop?  Fine, as long as it's reasonably strong and there aren't grounds in my cup.  Oh, and that nastiness known as soy milk?  None of that, thanks.

Coffee is the primary stain on both front seats in my car.  Sometimes while hopped up on caffeine (or not), I take corners and turns quickly.  And I figure that one perk of a four-wheel drive vehicle is that I don't have to slow down for dips and bumps in the road.

So why am I surprised to have found coffee splashed on the back side of the divider between my car door and Fynnie's?

Speaking of Fynnie, the area around her car seat now has 98% less yogurt crusted onto the fabric.

As I cleaned, I thought about the mailer we received recently from the Toyota dealership where we bought Tom's car.  The one where they offered to buy my Escape Hybrid for just over $17,000.

It wasn't exactly a laugh that came out of my throat as I thought about pulling into the lot and asking for my check.

On the upside, my car has been smelling quite good lately, despite having coffee and yogurt flung about.

Have I mentioned I now make my own laundry detergent?  I do.  One of my local mommy friends told me how.  Right before I went and purchased some cloth diapers from her.

Not only that, but I have learned how to change baking soda into washing soda (especially good to know if you refuse to shop at WalMart, which everyone assures me carries washing soda), a key ingredient in homemade detergents.

Yes, that was me just now wondering if I really need to shave my armpits ever again.  I probably do since I time the use of cloth diapers around Fynn's fairly regular schedule.  Oh, and we only use them on the weekends.  So, yeah.  Not quite the hippy earth mama I'd like to think I am.

I have all of the ingredients and materials to make the liquid detergent, too.  It's a bit more complex than the powdered detergent.  And will require that I wash out the two five-gallon buckets that I picked up from another mommy.  Who makes the most exquisite cakes.  With frosting that comes in five-gallon containers.  (She has five kids, people, give the woman a break!  It's still frosting!  And did you see what she does with it?!)

It's the frosting inside those containers that is keeping me from opening them and cleaning 'em out.  I mean, I'm sure it's 100% processed crap that no one in their right mind should eat.  Like the Twinkies factory tube that still had "edible" Twinkie goo in it half a century later, those bits of leftover frosting are not breaking down.

What do I care?  I love frosting.

So for now, one of the liquid detergent ingredients, Fels Naptha, is sitting under the passenger seat of my car, smelling quite fresh.  I had figured that Fels Naptha was going to smell like the homemade soap a relative made when I was a kid.  I believe tallow was an ingredient.  Nope.  It's really lovely.

Which is good.  Because since washing out the interior of my car less than one week ago, I have treated the girls to their first ever sundaes *splash* and dumped coffee all over the console while not taking out a cyclist *splishity splash*.

In almost unrelated news, I am sitting in Fynn's room.  I usually leave my computer in here because I use it while we're nursing or she's napping in my arms (still).  She's downstairs with Daddy right now and I've snuck back up for a few minutes.  Madelyn just woke from her nap.  She popped her head into see me, went across the hall and turned off the laundry room light before coming in here and straightening Fynn's fishy lamp.  Then she came over to snuggle.

I know she's my kid because I was there when she was born.  But I have a cousin who would be willing to claim her, I'm sure.  They could live together happily in a home where everything is in it's place and nobody's car interior is covered in coffee, yogurt and ice cream sundaes.

How Are The Kids?

This question came up recently.  My answer, with more details, was this:


Ugh!
Seriously?  If you were pissed because I said you will have to get a job in order to get things from here on out that you don't take care of anyway want or need, I wonder what you thought when I took you to Goodwill to find some clothes for jury duty.  On the upside, I spent less than ten bucks on  a pair of man pants, two dresses and some short overalls for Madelyn and a donation for the troops.
Back to the downside, what do you mean you came shopping for pants and didn't wear boxers?!?  Dude.  Oh wait, maybe it was my offer to buy you some man panties that made you decide to go straight home?  Or was it the way I didn't get so excited about your free-through-this-guy-on-the-Internet computer repair tech training that's going to help you become a department manager at Staples?


Haha!
Well, this could be either of the girls, but in this case I'm thinking about how Mad and I had to have The Talk.  You know, the one where I explained, "Listen, when we see Aunt Carol with the baby in her tummy, we're going to talk about how beautiful she is and how lovely.  Even though you've been especially interested lately in how my body pushed you out, we're not going to talk about that with her.  Okay?"
For further clarification, I am not referring to the conversation my 21 month old wee bebe had with her father recently, wherein she asked, "Chase boys?"
And in no way am I referring to this conversation with Fynnie Fynn:


Me:  What happened to your diaper?
Fynnie, one hand on her bare heinie:  Um, wew (well)... dipey *mumble mumble* cyimb!"
Me:  Your dipey came off because you were trying to climb?
Fynnie:  Yesh.

Here's the crappy cell pic to use for blackmail later illustrate my point.

Aw!
Again, could be either girl.  However, this is about Fynnie asking to be carried like a baby.  She hasn't let it happen in months now, and it only took place because she was copying her big sister, who would give just about anything to be the baby these days... while still maintaining her position as the leader of the pack, of course.  Fynnie let me carry her down the hall and into her room, all the while looking up with a satisfied little smile.  I had the same smile, I'm sure.  That would be a change from the days when I regularly carried her like a baby.  I'll forever think of those days as the time when I just barely made it through.

I Probably Think That Song Is About Me

A couple weeks ago I fell at work.  It was one of those "where are the cameras?!" moments that had me sailing down the hall, arms outstretched for what felt like 20 feet.

Am I surprised that I fell?  No.  Only that it's been so long since the last time.  Oh, and that I didn't have an audience.  The last time I fell on the job was about eight years ago.

At a mixer for several local chambers of commerce.  To be specific, I was in a business that provided non-emergency medical transport.

From the top of the stairs to exactly halfway down.

Why halfway?  Because this office was in a converted house circa mid-19th century.  The stairway was narrow and I'd "saved" myself by using the handrails on both sides.  Only my hands slipped and I went bumping (loudly) down the stairs on my knees with my arms hung over the rails.

Until I hit the brackets that held the handrails to the wall.  Halfway down.

My body jerked forward, but did not dislocate my shoulders.  I stood up and declared, "This is not an emergency and I do not need medical transport," before limping off into the sunset.

I was clumsy as a kid, too.  My mom says there were two reasons she put me in gymnastics.  One, because I watched the '76 Olympics and Nadia Comaneci without moving, totally rapt.  And two, because she figured I might learn how to fall more gracefully.  I'm going out on a limb and saying her reasoning was pretty sound.

Still, I bonked a lot.  Photos of my childhood show knees with huge bloody scabs and legs and arms full of bruises.  How many times did I have toes taped together until the breaks could heal?

Let's not even get into the fact that I have a scar on top of my foot from stepping on a piece of glass.  My mom said it was only possible because we're Polish.

I ran into things with my face, too.  Two black eyes at the same time?  Check!  Yep, pretty exciting times being me.

I was a tomboy.  (What?!)  I never really considered myself vain.  I mean, there was a time when I appreciated my looks (and now I can appreciate that they are fleeing and leaving crepe-y, wrinkled old lady skin in their stead).  I went three years without mascara, eye shadow and lipstick (the most makeup I ever wear) because I couldn't take anything for my allergies.  It wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Whatever.  I'm vain.  About my teeth.

If you knew me when I was a kid, you would not be able to guess such a transformation would take place.  In my home, oral hygiene was completely optional.  I had yellow sweater teeth* for a long time.

*Sweater teeth may alternately be known as bread teeth, depending on whether or not it looks like a person has just eaten bread.  Ever notice how bread clings to dirty teeth?

(Ever notice that any time people bring up oral hygiene or teeth in general, people close their mouths and run their tongues along their teeth?)

My sister and I, we of the mutant crowded teeth, had a longstanding wish fulfilled at age 14.  An orthodontist in a neighboring (bad) town (the sort of place you wouldn't like to visit) ran a coupon in the paper.  Fifty percent off!  And they took payments!  With a coupon from the neighbor's paper, we had a two for one deal.

One requirement before the appliances were installed (why are they called that?) was a trip to the dentist for X-rays.  Between my sister and I, more than one-third of our teeth had cavities.  I have a vague recollection of our parents asking us to choose between fillings and braces.  My sister had an extra set of eye teeth and my front teeth formed two-thirds of an isosceles triangle.  It was a no brainer for a couple of young teens.

A few months before my braces came off, a hygienist showed me how to brush my teeth.  There was something about those little circular motions that stuck with me and I've been doing it ever since.

The first time I went to the dentist was 12 or 13 years ago.  I had the same number of cavities as I'd had at age 14.  And little dark, hard spots on my teeth.  Oh, I was a beaut!

I smiled behind my hand.  It took one coworker pointing that out and the rest of them encouraging me to go to the dentist for me to finally put on my big girl panties and go.

The dentist scheduled me for four visits, deep cleaning and filling cavities in one quadrant at a time.

A weight I didn't fully understand I was carrying, lifted.  How often was it in the back of my mind?  I felt freer and instantly quit the habit of covering my smile.

I have not missed a dental appointment since then.  One time, I showed up a week early by mistake.  In fact, I go every five months because those pesky allergies often make me a mouth breather, which is a great way to get more nasty goo on my teeth.

Seven years ago Nancy mentioned that one of my front teeth was starting to turn colors.  My front teeth were in pretty bad shape anyway, with little chips out of the inside corners.  But now one was dead from all that bonking.  It was turning brown.  I had a root canal and a month of internal bleaching to get it back to a normal appearance.

The day after my home run-like slide down the hall at my office, I sat in the dentist's office steeling myself for the first step in getting a crown on that same tooth.  I guess the root canal had made it more brittle, and there was a fracture running from top to bottom.  Going to the dentist doesn't usually stress me out in the slightest, but I'd forgotten to find out what to expect until about four hours before my appointment.  No one I asked had any experience, or if they did, it was decades old and they didn't really remember.

The receptionist had to fill in for the regular hygienist for a few minutes.  She tried to reassure me that the end result would be worth it all.  But she was very clear that I would not like the process or the temporary crown.

I did not enjoy at all the numbing injection in the roof of my mouth, the sound and scent of my tooth being "shaved down, like a peg," or the fact that I realized my dentist has yellow and brown teeth of his own.  A lot of them.

Add to that the sensation and *gag* sight that caused me to say, "I'm kind of a gusher, huh Doc?"  (I tried to reassure myself later, asking the hygienist if it's normal to bleed that much.  After a long pause, she said, "Ummm, well, it's... not... uncommon."  Yeah, okay.)

I did take a peek at my peg of a tooth before the temporary crown was placed.  It was too depressing.  Imagine a front tooth about one third its normal width and length and the gums around it purple and blue.

Like I wasn't bruised enough already from my fall, right?

Doc figured out my tooth color and the hygienist went to work shaping the temporary crown.  When it was all done, I got to take a peek.

*sigh*

Sometimes the strangest things make me regret moving up here.  Like having a dentist whose teeth don't look well cared for.

Or the fact that my temporary tooth was way too narrow at the top (of course, flossing was a breeze, so there was that).

Or, what seemed like the worst part of all... it was yellow.  Why?

*ohm*

I felt more than a little down when I left the dental office that evening.  The receptionist had done her best to prepare me for what I'd see after the temporary crown was placed, but I was surprised anyway.

My face was numb, with blood spattered here and there.  My gums battered, my body and limbs equally bruised.  One tooth that looked like it belonged to Bubba the Lifelong Smoker.  It seemed to be placed a little askew, so the bottom right corner stuck out while the bottom left corner pushed in.  Could it get any worse?

Yes, it could.

As the numbness went away that evening, I noticed that my nose ached.  Really hurt.  Eventually I dared to look.  No, not in my 10X magnification mirror.  And what did I find?

A massive zit.  Which I foolishly attempted to pop.  Much like my mouth, it just bled.  A lot.  And left a scab that lasted three long days.

I soon realized that there were gaps on both sides of Bubba.  Big ones.  That caused me to blow bubbles when talking for more than a few seconds.

Okay, so the fact that I talked less over the past two weeks would not be deemed a problem by everyone.  I get that.

This evening I returned for part two.

Nervous?  Yes.  I believe I used the phrase "rising anxiety" to the dentist.

I turned on my MP3 player, set it to my birth playlist and tried to block everything out as he used a pair of pincers to remove Bubba.  It was uncomfortable and I was struggling not to imagine what would happen if he broke off my peg of a natural tooth.

In one of those moments that can best be described by most middle schooler's favorite word, I realized that I accidentally licked the dentist's gloved hand.  Awkward!

The next song that came up through my earbuds?


Apparently, using a phrase like "rising anxiety" and then bursting into uncontrollable giggles freaks out my dentist.

Bubba eventually came loose and my permanent crown was tried out.  The relief that swept over me at the pressure I felt when it squeezed into place bordered on ridiculous.  The ginormous gaps were gone.  The corners that had irritated my lip and tongue for two weeks?  Gone.  The unnatural thickness of Bubba?  Disappeared.

Were we done?  We were not.

I knew I was getting a filling on the other front tooth, but I hadn't heard about a cavity there. Normally I ask questions, but I had been silenced by fear and bubbles.  Well that other tooth was pretty banged up from years of abuse, too.  So the "filling" was really more of a filling in where the little chips had fallen out over the years.

I have two whole teeth.

That are reasonable tooth colors.

Bubble blowing will again require a wand.

I told my dentist I might sprout a happy tear.  He was glad to know in advance it would be a happy one.

One odd thing I learned tonight?  The process of oral coronation causes nasal acne.  That's right, I have a pimple so massive on the side of my nose that it hurts to flare my nostrils.  (I do it to entertain the girls.  It's a skill, I swear.)

Thank goodness I'm done.

Somebody, play my song!

Just Tonight I Have...

... said, "Madelyn, do not lap up the dog's water."

... heard, "Dad, I think I want to blow something up."*

... had a phone to each ear, a breast fully exposed with a small kidlet attached to it, two timers ringing and a partridge in a freaking pear tree.

*Okay, so she was talking about the bag of balloons Tom bought for Mad's birthday party.  You know, the ones where I told him, "Hey, we didn't remember to get balloons.  Can you grab a few while you're out?"  In my mind, "helium-filled" and "tied with a pretty ribbon" were unnecessary descriptors based on the last four birthday parties held around here.

Madelyn Rocket Frog Turns Four

Madelyn turned four a couple weeks ago. Can you believe it? Four is so much older than three, don't you think?

There were a few similarities between this year's party and last year's. In case you don't remember, we had frog cupcakes then.

We also had them now. (Yeah, I know "had them now"... it is what it is.)

You see frogs, right? (All smiling Muppets... er... frogs were done by Grandma Margaret. As usual, the nonplussed frogs were created by yours truly.

This year's party had a camping theme.  Although my dad's generous offer to bring over their fire pit was tempting, I opted for these insanely delicious s'mores cookie bites. (My version of the recipe calls for dark chocolate instead of sickeningly sweet Hershey's bars. Plus, dark chocolate has antioxidants, so these bites are healthy.)

I got the recipe here, although you can see mine bear little resemblance. The main difference, aside from the chocolate is that my pan was apparently 9 X 9. The extra inch in each direction meant less cookie on top. As far as I'm concerned, this is a serious win.

Our parties are developing quite the reputation for crafts and activities. Nobody pretends like I'm some amazing child party guru. They ask if they can rent out Grandma Margaret to come up with great fun that costs nothing.


Like the pine cone bird feeder. Okay, so you made dozens of these when you were a kid. In my sheltered (ha!) life, I only learned of them when Grandma Margaret recently said, "Hey, I was thinking... "  

Pine cone, peanut butter (just go ahead and accept now that the kids are all going to stick that spreader back into the peanut butter after licking it off... yes, even your beloved Princess Smooshy Face) and birdseed. Use a pipe cleaner to make a hanger and put it on the tree in your yard.  

Ours are buried in the full foliage of one of our plum trees, but they are already needing to be reseeded. The birds are happy.

Hand- and fingerprint trees are a lot of fun. (Bailey's is a weeping willow.) Be sure to tell the kidlets that it's not chocolate, even if it looks like it could be. I've said it before, whoever invented washable inks and paints is my favorite person. In the world.

No campsite is complete without a tree and a roaring fire. (I cannot stress how much better that fire looked in real life. Same for the tree. No matter how schmancy the camera, sometimes it just comes down to operator skill... or lack thereof.)

Madelyn, giving me her latest "Oh, you're taking my photo?" look. Bonus:  A little Fynnie in the lush landscape that is our perpetually awesome backyard.

Last year at this point, Madelyn looked just as excited. And then we gave her ice cream and she passed out. Over the course of the past year we have taught her about breathing exercises to calm herself and that ice cream should be enjoyed slowly with small bites. Although she and I did buy ice cream for the party, it never made it out of the freezer. What?! She didn't even notice.

Not that Madelyn didn't make my heart jump into my throat anyway. Why she threw her head... and hair!... forward while blowing out the candle, I'll never know. But she didn't catch on fire and we did not find any other reasons to seek specialized medical treatment. That, my friends, is a successful party!

Fynnie may or may not have gotten hold of three or four cupcakes. All we know for sure is that we found three of them sitting outside with the frosting and candy faces eaten away.

This, my friends, is Fynnie's thinking face. Ask her a question and this is what she will do. Usually while saying, "Um..."

I'm pretty sure she's planning her next party.  Not to worry, Grandma Margaret is all over it!