Just call me McGyver

We’ve been experiencing an unusually cold winter in the ROC.

Wait, stop me if you’ve heard this one before…

The snow amounts, on the other hand, have pretty much been status quo – which is to say a lot. Like, we’re gonna reach our usual 100″ a lot. We live around the corner from our elementary school, so close, in fact, that Ella and Annie walk to and from school each day. A little while ago, I noticed that the snow was so deep, it was standing well past the top of Ella’s boots, meaning that she was arriving at school looking like she’d accidentally walked past a snow-making spigot at a ski hill.

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She miiiight also have deliberately sashayed through some higher banks just for effect, but nonetheless: white-out. Or, as my long-ago kindergarten buddy who lives in Stockholm called them, “Swedish legs.”

A few days later, Ella began complaining that the inside of her boots was wet. I chalked this up to tromping through a couple of feet snow each day, plus recess, and threw her boots in the dryer. (I’m probably not supposed to do this, but I was in a hurry and also kind of desperate; when your kid is getting hives on her feet after walking home from school, you might embrace the dryer, too. And some Pinot, but that wasn’t making the shoes any less wet.) It took more than one cycle, but at last the inside of her boots felt dry, so I set them out overnight and off she went in the morning.

After school, she declared that her feet felt wet all the way to school. I chided her – she must have been mistaken. They might have felt cold, but I’d double-checked them the night before and they were dry, dry, dry. Unless someone had accidentally poured the Pinot in them, it was simply impossible that they were wet before she even got to school.

They were, however, good and wet by the time she was home from school – not just a little damp, but wring-it-out wet. Was snow sliding down into her boots while she played? Did she take them off at recess and dump water inside? Why on earth were they so damn wet? She turned down all of my suggestions, and so I, once again, set about drying her boots that night, even going so far as to Google ideas on “how to dry wet boots.” After removing the inner liners, stuffing her boots with newspaper three times over (the newsprint absorbs dampness; who knew?) and running them, again, through the dryer more than once, I was certain – absolutely positive – that they were DRY.

But the next afternoon, you guessed it… Wet. Soaked. And she hadn’t even gone outside for recess that day. Completely stumped, I asked her to take off her boots so I could examine them – for what, I wasn’t sure, but I was sure that something wasn’t right.

Upon looking them over, I discovered this:

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Um, yeah. So maaaaaybe that’s why the shoes were a little… leaky.

Miraculously, we had some spare time that afternoon, so we rushed out to four (yes, FOUR) shoe and department stores… but nope. No dice. Either they were all sold out (’cause, you know, it’s the middle of winter, and most people already have boots) or they were super-uncomfortablre, an unfortunate side effect of Ella’s broken foot. I might have been able to order some online, but they wouldn’t appear instantaneously, nor could we be guaranteed that they’d fit. Our best best was to find another time when we could shop in person for shoes… which meant that Ella needed to continue wearing the ones with the four-inch holes in the heels.

(Side note: I did suggest that she wear several pairs of socks and some rain boots, but she would have none of that. Apparently, ’tis better to have freezing, wet, hive-y feet than to wear rain boots to school in the dead of winter. Or something.)

Because I couldn’t just send her to school like that – with gaping holes in her boots – I decided that I would do something to help. I do have a (small) crafty side, and I’ve got a great relationship with Gorilla Glue… and so, ten minutes later, BAM! Problem solved!

Eat your heart out, MacGyver:
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Why, yes, there are two layers of Gorilla Glue and Superglue on each shoe, as well as three layers of silver duct tape. Of course I let them dry overnight – what do you think I am, stupid?

I’d been fairly convinced that Ella would see these monstrosities beauties and decide that rain boots made a lot more sense, thanks very much… But no, she was quite excited to wear her patched-up boots to school. I crossed my fingers all day long (not really, ’cause that would be really awkward) hoping that she wouldn’t come home with soaking wet feet AND ugly, taped-together shoes… And, amazingly, she she got home, she informed me that they’d stayed dry all day long.

WHO IS THE LAZIEST ROCKIN-EST MOM EVER!

Our afternoon and evening were booked solid that day, but by the following afternoon, I decided that the taped-up boots weren’t really cutting it anymore, and so while Annie was at chess club, Ella and I booked it over to L.L. Bean. I usually shy away from buying the girls “good” winter boots because I know that they’re just going to outgrow them in, like, five minutes, but in this case, I was willing to purchase almost anything so long as they fit and didn’t, you know, have holes in them.

Plus also, perhaps the least expensive boots are prone to the heels falling apart. Hm.

On the first try, Ella found a pair that not only fit, but that she liked (AMEN), and we were out of there in five minutes flat.
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An added bonus to her new boots is that they come up higher than the old ones, so her Swedish legs are a thing of the past.

Which is probably good, because it sure as hell doesn’t look like winter’s ending any time soon.

Have I mentioned that yet?

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Let’s get away from it all

If we took a holiday…
Took some time to celebrate…
Just one day out of life
It would be (it would be), it would be so nice.
– “Holiday”

Thanks, Madonna, for so eloquently summing up our recent vacation experience.

In my last post, I’d told you that we were heading out of town and I’d fill you in soon – today seems to be a good place to start.

We needed this holiday. No; I mean, we neeeeeeded this holiday. The months (years?) leading up to Bill’s death were not exactly easy. As anyone who’s lost someone important to them – especially to a disease like cancer – knows, it’s emotional whiplash. You can’t figure out which end is up, you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, you’re constantly on edge, every phone call is tinged with anticipation, you literally make yourself sick with worry, and then there’s the damn sadness that’s hovering around. It. Is. Exhausting.

Couple that with our completely insane autumn and winter, with work changes and school changes and after-school activities and work travel and birthdays and holidays and and and OMG MOST OF THIS IS GOOD STUFF BUT IT DOESN’T MAKE IT LESS TIRING. We needed a break. We needed to well and truly get away, just the four of us, to do something fantastical and new and inspiring and really freakin’ fun.

Nick and I had been toying with the idea of a Disney cruise for a couple of years. When we found an unbeatable deal on a three-day cruise to the Bahamas that perfectly aligned with the girls’ February break, we jumped on it – and then added a day at Universal to visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, plus a trip to the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique in Downtown Disney just to really gild the lily.

We don’t take family vacations very often – we travel a helluva lot, but the vast majority of that is to visit family (which, while great, isn’t always a “vacation” in the truest sense of the word) – and on the rare occasions when we’ve done so, “escaping the cold” hasn’t really been among our priorities. As a foursome, we live for winter, and the snow in Rochester is right up our alley, so I’ve never had a longing to go somewhere warm before spring finally blooms. Even this year with our endlessly, unusually cold days, I was excited to get away, but I didn’t think I was excited to be someplace warm… until we were surrounded by the Orlando heat and humidity, deliciously blanketing us with tropical bliss, and suddenly there was nowhere else I wanted to be. WARM WARM WARM. Amen.

Our trip is now complete, and… well… I can’t quite find the words (nor the time) to adequately describe how utterly incredible it was, nor how much it meant to all of us, at least not today. And so I’ll show you a few photos instead, to give you a glimpse into pure, unadulterated joy.

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There’s lots more to say – and I will, in the coming days – but for now, these will suffice.

While we were on the trip, it was as though time stood still; every minute was both magically extended and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick, as though we’d been transported to another dimension. We are now firmly back to reality. When we landed last night, it was 18 degrees, and we had to shovel fresh snow off the driveway this morning. Today, it feels almost as though our six-day sojourn never happened, a very bizarre space/time continuum.

But it did happen. And it was so totes amazeballs.

Just six days out of life… and they were so so SO SO SO SO ridiculously nice.

A kingdom of isolation

I love winter. There is no sarcasm involved in that statement – I truly love it. I love the white blanket that the snow drapes over every tree branch and vista, filling our world with crystalline glitter. I love the excuse to drink hot chocolate any time you feel like it, and the chance to cozy up on the couch in one of our absurdly thick, warm blankets. I love fires in the fireplace just because, I love the way fresh snow squeaks under your boots, I love velvety red scarves tucked into jackets. I love the way fresh snow smells, the crispness of your breath on a cold morning, and finding new, hot Starbucks drinks to add to my menu. I love not having to shave, not having to worry about your hair because it’s going to be smooshed under a hat anyway, not picking up dog poop for weeks at a time because it’s hidden under the snow and I can’t find it (which means no one can see it so it’s not really there, la la laaaaa), and not washing the kitchen floor, like, ever* because it’s just going to get mucked up again in three minutes.
*exaggeration. Slightly.

Love. Me. Some. Winter.

This Rochester winter is on-track snow-wise (nearly 80″ so far, on our way to our typical 100″), but in terms of temperatures, it has been SO DAMN COLD this winter. Yeah, we get snow, and I’m used to that (hell, I’m one of the weird ones who even enjoys that), but this winter’s bitter, biting cold — the cold the keeps the kids from playing outside, the cold the unexpectedly closes schools, the cold that leaves you chilled to the bone nearly all day long — has really been a challenge.

In case you’ve been wondering just how cold it is (and, oh, I know you were), Canandaigua – the lake on which my family has a house – has actually frozen over this year. Big deal, you think (sarcastically, I might add). But it is a big deal. When my grandmother, who grew up in Rochester (and who, you may recall, is nearly ninety-four) says she cannot remember a time when the lake has frozen completely over, you know that it’s a pretty crazy thing. Even without my grandma’s extensive knowledge, you’d know it’s a big deal because Canandaigua is not only long (15.5 miles) but deep — 276 feet at its deepest spot, to be exact. For that much water to freeze over, it’s got to be effin’ COLD, y’all!

Tuesday was a bit nutty at our house; Nick was finishing up a whole slew of things at work (having not been at work on Monday due to our country’s festive celebration of our Presidents’ many achievements) and the girls and I were in a manic packing frenzy to get ready to go out of town on Wednesday. (More on that later…) Still, we made a point to find time in the afternoon to pick up Phoofsy and bring her down to the lake with us so we could see this tundra-like spectacle for our selves.

To say it was otherworldly is a ridiculous understatement.

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Taken at the north end of the lake, looking out over the vast expanse of white…

The wind was absolutely wild.


Couldn’t keep it  in heaven knows I’ve tried*

*if you have no idea what’s going on here, you need to see Frozen. Or at least google “Let it Go”. Fo’ real.

We then decided to attempt to venture to our house, because passing up the chance to see our own beach redone in Elsa’s magic was just not happening. I say “attempt” because our house sits at the end of a long private road, half of which is unplowed, and the last part of which is uphill. We knew it would be an adventure, but hey, if you can’t add a little adventure into your February break, what good are you?

When we got there, we discovered that there was still a good foot of packed-down snow on the road, but forged ahead anyway… until the car got stuck. We managed to back up and re-drive and inch our way forward, with Phoofsy, as usual, being an extremely good sport about our “exploring.” When we were still two houses away, it became clear that we could go no farther – but there was no way that we were going to come this close and not go down and check things out. And so, despite the snow being up to the girls’ mid-thighs at some points, we hiked the remaining distance to the house (this time, Phoofsy wisely chose to take the pass, and remained in the car).

After arriving and checking things out, the girls soon announced that they were getting awfully cold, and their cheeks were becoming really itchy – as their stellar mom, I’d forgotten to give them their antihistamines that day. Whoops. If you’re allergic to the cold, falling through the ice is probably a pretty quick way to go into anaphylaxis. So, we didn’t stay all that long… But, hot damn, am I glad we made it.

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For perspective, here’s our typical summer view…
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boats at night

And here… is Tuesday.

A kingdom of isola-e-tion…

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Here we stand, in the light of daaaaaay!

In the end, the cold did bother us anyway, so we hightailed it out of there and back up to the warm car where Phoofsy was waiting. I later learned that this was the first time in her life that she’d had the opportunity to see the lake like this, so to say that I’m glad we took her… doesn’t quite cover it.

This brutal winter’s cold may not have been good for much, but it did bring us this potentially once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And that is pretty freakin’ cool. Literally.

A Sporting Chance

Having not grown up near any of my grandparents, living only ten minutes from my grandmother for the past six-and-a-half years has been a novel, and excellent, experience for me. It’s especially fantastic that Ella and Annie have the opportunity to grow up with their great-grandmother (whom they call Phoofsy) just around the corner. She’s been the girls’ “important person” at school Halloween parties, attended soccer games and dance recitals and swim meets, joined us for each and every birthday or holiday celebration, and has endured enjoyed countless impromptu “shows” in our living room  (“Oh, another rendition of ‘Let It Go,’ but this time you’ve got a full costume change built into the performance? Isn’t that neat!”). She even watches the girls for me every Thursday when I teach piano.

Plus, you know, there’s the lake – where Phoofsy lives from Memorial Day until Labor Day and where we spend at least half of our summer days. Annie and Ella have spent eons more time with Phoofsy since we moved here than I did in the previous thirty-plus years of my life. Which is cool in its own right, but which is really super because Phoofsy kicks ass.

There are plenty of great-grandparents who, understandably, aren’t exactly firecrackers. Not Phoofsy. She may be a few months shy of ninety-four (and she doesn’t mind that I’m sharing this with you), but she’s got a more active social life than I do. She’s played bridge online for years and has a Facebook account that she uses daily, commenting on our photos and accidentally “liking” pages that then continue to appear in her feed. (“Why do I keep seeing pictures of this Lady Gaga? She dresses very strangely…”) We used to email but now we Facetime. She also reads this blog and is okay with me calling her kick-ass. (Right, Phoof? ‘Cause you totally are.)

While all of the above is true, one of the best things about Phoofsy is that she is a tremendously good sport. She has hula hooped in our garage and downhill skied standing on the Wii board. She gamely wears Rainbow Loom bracelets to bridge and has attempted to catch broccoli in her mouth when it was flung at her by the chef at the Hibachi restaurant.  She even refused to take the pass we offered her when we played our ridiculous Lake Game last summer, and thus wound up wearing a life jacket inside the house and going all the way down to the dock – in the dark – and trying to hit the raft with a piece of shale.

And so it was no surprise, really, when she was over the other night for Nick’s birthday, took notice of the hockey gear he’d brought inside to warm it up before his game, and then proceeded to try on the various garments to see what they felt like.

It started innocently enough: “Do you really have to wear these enormous things?”
“Yes, Grandma. They protect my hands.”
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Side note: Phoofsy is always impeccably dressed
Side note two: I knew I’d have to act fast to get these photos, so I didn’t turn on the flash on my phone, meaning that they’re blurry. But that’s okay, because their bodacious awesomeness more than makes up for their poor quality.

Knowing he was already halfway there, Nick’s eyes took on an impish gleam as he suggested that, so long as she had the gloves on, she might as well wear the helmet, too.
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“It just slides on like this… Oops, your glasses are in the way – no, you can’t reach them because of the gloves… Here, I’ll take ‘em off… One second, just about there…”

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Annnnd this just became one of the best moments of my life.

Weighing the success he’d had, Nick decided to press his luck even further and get really cheeky.
“But Grandma – that’s nothing. You should see what I have to wear when I play goalie!”
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“You have to hold a stick, too? AND try to catch a puck? But these are already heavy as lead!”

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“Can you believe that your dad has to wear all this? How does he even move?”

Which prompted Ella to join the fray…
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She would like you to know that it wasn’t bedtime; she was wearing her robe because she was cold. Which makes total sense, ‘cause her closet isn’t full of at least two dozen sweatshirts or anything…

And finally… the pièce de résistance… The goalie stick.
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Bring it, Oshie. She’s ready.

I loved getting together with my grandparents as a kid; each visit was eagerly anticipated and memorable. I didn’t miss living near them because I didn’t know anything different.
But I’m damn glad that my girls do know something different. We may not live near any of their grandparents, but we live near their Phoofsy, and the wonder of that cannot be understated, nor can it be fully quantified.

When we’re out and about with her and people discover that we’re her only local family, they always remark how lucky she is to have us nearby. That’s probably true; after all, we’re happy to shovel her walkway in the winter and we’re generally awesome people. But I’m always quick to point out that, really, we’re the lucky ones. It’s not everyone who has the ability to spend time with their grandmothers or great-grandmothers, and it’s exceptionally rare to spend time with one who is as good a sport as Phoofsy.

Just wait until we decide to take up skydiving. That will really be something.

Twenty-one and thirty-nine

Today marks the twenty-first consecutive year that I have celebrated Nick’s birthday with him.

That first year of college, our friends and I were determined to celebrate first thing… but we still needed to get to class. After a series of unusually large snowstorms, Connecticut was blanketed in white, so we loaded up bagels, OJ, and other accoutrements and went for a sledding breakfast at 7:30 in the morning.

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Happy 19th!
This may not look impressive, but given that we all lived on campus and didn’t have cars, we must’ve put forth considerable effort into procuring the supplies necessary to make this birthday breakfast happen.

I’m sure I did something absolutely fabulous for Nick’s 25th birthday when we were out in Colorado – going to the mountains, exploring Breckenridge – but it seems to have slipped both of our minds as of right now. For his 26th, I told him we could either go to the NHL All Star Game or get a dog… He chose the latter – and we wound up with a birthday present that lasted a dozen years.

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Sweet Mads shortly after coming home.

We were married shortly thereafter, and as with his 25th, I’m sure Nick and I celebrated raucously for his remaining 20-something birthdays… and then we had Eleanor.

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OMG the amazing hair.

To show I hadn’t lost my mojo, I surprised Nick and flew Bill in for his 30th. (He was probably so tired from having a two month-old, he couldn’t really enjoy the visit, but hey – it’s the thought, no?!)
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There was a story here involving some misplaced luggage on my behalf (who, me?), but I cannot recall it; would that Bill could remind me.

Nick’s early thirties’ birthdays were filled with the girls dressing in his favorite Wild gear… wildfordaddy
Damn cute fans.

And providing cookies with candles.
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Freakishly, Nick doesn’t really like cake. Or dessert. Or sweets.
I KNOW.

For his 35th, I decided to surprise him with “thirty-five hours of celebrating,” which involved getting his boss’s approval for him to miss work…
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Real men wear pink birthday crowns when their daughters surprise them at work.

… then having his friends meet us at a sports bar to watch Olympics hockey, getting a babysitter for the girls so we could go to to a hotel overnight, and checking out a local microbrewery.

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Cheers!

Next year, forty (holy shit, FORTY) will be epic. But this marks Nick’s final 30-something birthday, and our plans are… simpler. Yeah, we totally destroyed the sake challenge at the local Hibachi place on Saturday with the girls, but the rest of things have been decidedly low-key — coffee from a new Keurig machine, shows on a new Apple TV, homemade gifts from Ella and Annie, lunch at a new burger joint, and having my grandmother over for dinner.

But that’s okay (right, babe? Nick? Bueller?). After twenty years of celebrating, sometimes it’s good to just sit back a bit and enjoy life right in front of us. Plus also, we’re going on a Disney Cruise in four days (omg omg omg!), so it’s not like we don’t have some excitement on the horizon.

Besides… It’s not so much the birthdays that matter, but the stuff that happens in between – and our in betweens have been pretty damn fantastic. Happy Birthday to the man I adore, the one who’s made twenty-plus years the best imaginable. I can’t wait to celebrate twenty-one more with you, babe. xoxo

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Celebrating last year with his bearded hat and a Charleston hooker.
For real. 

 

No celebrating? No problem.

Nick and I stopped “doing” Valentine’s Day years ago. Actually, I’m not sure that we ever “did” it (although I do give him Valentine’s Day-themed boxers every year; I’m romantic like that) because Nick has always maintained that it’s a silly holiday drummed up to make money and “you should show someone you love them all the other days of the year, not just Valentine’s Day.”

Okay. I get his point. I mean, I was all girl-silent angry over it for a few years (“No, really, it’s FINE… Yes, I’m sure… Wait, you didn’t get me anything? WTF?”) but I’ve gotten over it. Really. For one thing, it’s been twenty years (OMG), so I’m either holding the world’s most fabulous grudge, or I’ve moved beyond. Also, once we had children, I had other ways to channel my Valentine’s Day energies.

(And, to be fair, Nick really does do a pretty good job of holding up to his end of the bargain. The girls get little tokens from every business trip he takes, and flowers will magically show up at the door if I’m having a bad day. He routinely buys stuff for us “just because” [occasionally to my chagrin – *cough* $40 Swatch watches five days after Christmas *cough*] and takes each of the girls out regularly for special Daddy-daughter dates. Our own dates are pretty good, too. So, he really does walk the walk.)

It’s not Valentine’s Day itself that is such a big deal; it’s any excuse to celebrate. I am all about taking anything and turning it into something more than just ordinary, not for any greater purpose (and certainly not to achieve some sort of goal or be Super Mom; if you’ve seen the coating of dust on all of the furniture, the Karo syrup that spilled in the cupboard at least two months ago but I was too lazy to clean so now it’s hardened into a half-inch layer of shellac, the boots my daughter wore to school this week that were DUCT TAPED together, or the rug in our living room that is literally threadbare, you know that I’m not Super at all that much). No, I simply do it because it’s fun. FUN!!

First day of school? Par-tay! Last day of school? Fiesta! St. Patrick’s Day? Let’s do a leprechaun-themed treasure hunt! Mardi Gras? Time to make beignets! April Fool’s Day? Better watch your step. Cinco de Mayo? Bring on the Mexican food! If I could think of a way to make Arbor Day more fun, you can damn well believe I would.

Life is just too freakin’ short not to find moments to celebrate, to break up the everyday activities, to be silly and make something special.

So I’m not at all upset that Nick and I don’t “do” Valentine’s Day… because I get to do these instead:

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The hearts are hung up after the girls have gone to sleep on the 13th, so it’s all VALENTINE’S WORLD when they wake up.

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Nick gets tired of bumping into these pretty much the moment that I hang them, but I think they’re fun. I don’t mind not getting chocolates so long as I can hang shit from the door frames – fair compromise, no?

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Lunch. With hearts. And lots of red food.

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No, the photo isn’t discolored; the pancakes are pink.
And I made them last night and then nuked them this morning. I don’t have that kind of time before work, people. 

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But I do have time for this, because it took maaaaybe three minutes. 
Such is life when you spent two years addicted to hair blogs.

What I did not have to do this year were the girls’ valentines. (Grammar tidbit of the day: it only has an apostrophe when it’s Valentine’s Day, as in the day belonging to St. Valentine. And it’s only capitalized when it’s a proper noun; the cards the kids bring home from school in droves are simply valentines. Just learned that last night myself; you’re welcome.) For the past several years, Ella and Annie have elected to send their classmates photo cards, meaning that I take photos of them, design the cards in Photoshop, print ’em out, and get ’em ready for the girls to sign.

2013
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A mini Snickers was taped to her hands…

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 She gave these along with Pop Rocks…

2012
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Yup. Taped a Hershey’s Kiss to her hand.

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Ella wrote her classmate’s names on the hearts.
Never mind that she looks naked.

2011
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Looks like I’ve had a thing for those decorative hearts fonts for a loooong time…

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I had to literally throw them into the center of the heart in order not to trample it, but whatever. It was done in the name of the art, man.

But this year? They wanted to do it ALL. And so, despite practically having to tie my hands down to keep from interfering, I let them… from Photoshopping their cards to cutting them out to attaching (and, in Ella’s case, making) the various accoutrements to stuffing them in their classmates’ bags.
Are they just how I’d have designed them? Nope.

They’re better.

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Her Photoshopped card…

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The final product that made its way into her friends’ valentine bags.

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That’s still only some of the Rainbow Loom stuff she has lying around…

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 The actual finished cards, front and back.

Tonight, we’ll have a dinner that we *love* (get it? SO CLEVER) and either watch the Olympics or Despicable Me 2 (the only real gift I’m giving to the girls) and even though it won’t be romantic, it will be filled with fun and joy and love.

And chocolate. We have chocolate cupcakes. Don’t worry.

Flashback Friday: I can’t resist including this photo taken for Annie’s first Valentine’s Day, where I didn’t realize until after I’d uploaded it that Ella’s pigtail makes it look like Annie’s wearing a bodacious wig.
SO. AWESOME.

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p.s. You can bet your butt I’m putting this on my Pinterest page. I can’t begin to come up with any of these ideas on my own, so if this helps anyone else not to have to reinvent the wheel, let’s do it. I’m a giver.

Guess I should’ve just walked to the mailbox

Before Ella was born, and despite the bazillions of books on babies that I’d read, I felt really alone and clueless. Enter the December 2004 message board on one of the popular All About Baby websites (specifically established for moms, like me, of babies born in that month – I thought I’d state the obvious for you).

Even though I wasn’t (and am still not) a message board person, I soon became a regular poster there. Because I didn’t personally know any other moms with December ’04 babies (and I didn’t want to be phoning my pediatrician every twenty minutes), the women there became my sounding board, my reference library, my dear friends, and my lifeline. They were able to answer my every question – Is your baby’s hair totally businessing in the front and partying in the back, but also with a bald spot? How do you put your baby down for a nap without having to dance a two-step? What flavor Gerber Puffs do you prefer (yes, I assume you’ve eaten them… and tried the formula. And probably the breast milk)? Amazingly, they were genuinely interested in the minute details of babydom that even Nick tired of quickly. She reached for an object today! She is droolier than usual! I can snap a onesie using only one hand!

We shared everything with one another… and I do mean everything. I can tell you more about these ladies’ living room furniture, bra sizes, and candy preferences (Reese’s versus Hot Tamales is a very real rivalry) than I can about many of the women I know “in real life.” Nine years and countless birthdays, weddings, separations, deaths, and the birth of many other children later, I consider approximately twenty of these ladies to be extremely close friends – but now we talk to one another on Facebook.

Last week, one of these Dec04 mamas asked if anyone was interested in exchanging valentines – just one, not to the whole group, like a Secret Santa except Secret Cupid (and except it wasn’t a secret). It sounded like fun so I agreed – certainly Ella and Annie could put together a valentine and I could pop it in the mail; all we had to do was get an envelope in the mail on Monday, Tuesday at the latest.

Naturally, as Monday night rolled around, I realized that I’d completely forgotten about said valentine… and if I wanted the girls to actually contribute (which I did), they’d have to do their part after school on Tuesday, meaning our envelope wouldn’t get into the mail until Wednesday.

I am such a good friend!!

After the girls finished their contributions, including several Rainbow Loom bracelets, I decided that a plain envelope wouldn’t do – I’d need to use something larger. I also decided that this called for Priority mailing, which promised a Valentine’s Day delivery; score! I printed out the postage at home and sealed everything up. All I had to do was put the package in the mailbox yesterday morning.

It seemed chilly yesterday when I loaded up my bags to head to school, but I didn’t think too much of it; this winter has been so bizarrely cold, it’s all starting to blend together. I let the car warm up a bit, and then, after backing down the driveway, I rolled down my window to put the package in the mailbox… but when I attempted to roll the window back up again, it wouldn’t budge.

Frozen. Solid.
And frozen open.

As the cold began to seep inside, I glanced at the dashboard and noticed the temperature: five below.

stuck window3
The car is in Drive but I was stopped, promise.

There was nothing I could do about it – I had to get to work, like, now. I couldn’t warm the car up anywhere. I couldn’t trade cars with Nick. I just had to go. OH GOODIE. And so I did, window down, heat blasting, looking like an absolute moron with my window all the way open when it was five degrees below zero.

Now, you might wonder why the car was parked outside to begin with, given that we have a lovely two-car garage… And that is because, over the weekend, the cable on my garage door broke, sending the door crashing to the ground and rendering it unusable – so I couldn’t park my car inside and had to leave it on the driveway instead.

Yes, I see the irony in the fact that my window was stuck open because the garage door was stuck closed.

Thankfully, I had loads of cold-weather gear in the car, so I was able to don a hat, scarf, and gloves to protect me against the gale that was rushing in through the wide-open window. If it was five below without the windchill, do you know how cold it was with forty mph gusts blasting into the car? EFFING FREEZING, LET ME TELL YOU. Even with the heat pouring in at its highest temperature, it was like standing outside in a snowless blizzard while trying to use the hairdryer.

stuck window1
Don’t mind me… just admiring the view… La la laaaaa….

Thinking that, eventually, the full-blast heat would melt the frozenness of the door and the window would unstick and roll up again, I kept one hand on the wheel and one firmly on the window’s up button (I had to keep trading hands because the one at the window risked frostbite after about twenty seconds). I also thought that perhaps I could somehow rattle the window out of its frozen grasp, so at every stop sign or light I would pound furiously on the door and then open and close it as firmly as I could.

Yep. Opening the door at a stop sign. And pounding on it. WITH THE WINDOW OPEN IN NEGATIVE FIVE DEGREE WEATHER. I’m sure that didn’t look weird at all to the drivers in the cars behind me.

After a few minutes, the window did start to move… approximately one inch. And that is how it sat for the remainder of my drive to work.

stuck window
Hello, sir. Why, yes, my window is open on this chilly February morning. How are you today?

By the time I arrived, my hands and feet were so cold, I had to pry them open in order to gather my belongings and hobble into the building. There was no way I could operate the remote lock on my key fob without removing my gloves – which was not going to happen – but hey! It didn’t matter anyway, because THE WINDOW WAS WIDE OPEN. See anything you like? Then come on over! Help yourselves! Just don’t try to crawl in and warm yourself up because I can promise you it is NOT WARM inside the car.

I’d worried that I’d have to engage in some crazy mechanics to get the window operating again, but miraculously, after it sat in the sun for four hours (and the ambient temperature warmed up to a balmy 17 degrees), it unfroze and just rolled right back up, almost like it was mocking me. Oh – were you cold this morning? PSYCH!

The important thing is that I got the valentine in the mail. Sure, if I’d remembered sooner, none of this might have happened… but then I wouldn’t have this endearing story to share, would I? And I also wouldn’t be me. So, there’s that.

As always, we Dec04 mamas pull through for one another, even if it means freezing to death on our way to work. It’s all good, though; I know they’d do the same for me.