About missemtoo

I'm a mom, piano player, substitute teacher, wife, and Starbucks addict living outside of Rochester, NY.

Dr. Spock didn’t know everything…

Posted on September 17, 2013 by missemtoo

Those moments right before you tuck your kid to sleep are supposed to be their magic minutes. They’re sleepy, they’re cozy, they’re just a bit hazy, like maybe they’ve visited the dentist and received too much Novocain – which, in turn, results in darling and cuddly conversations, delightful musings, and oodles of freely-given hugs.

At least, that’s the theory.

But ever since getting stuck sunny-side-up in the birth canal and requiring an emergency c-section (after many hours of no-epidural pushing, thank you very much), despite being expected to be an “easy” delivery, Annie has taken theories into her own hands and ~~mangled~~ molded them into something much more Annie-appropriate. “Annie” does not appear anywhere in the dozens of parenting handbooks I purchased (pre-kids, naturally), and so we’ve been learning this parenting thing on the fly.

Which is not to say that her bedtimes aren’t very special, indeed.

As Nick tucked her in last week, Annie suddenly began peppering him with questions about his father’s recent death. Not just any questions… but specifics. How did he die? Where? When? Nick did his best to answer, using kid-friendly language that would placate her but not scare her. All appeared to be going well until the gears began turning in Annie’s head just a little too hard.

See, Grampa Bill is really the only person Annie has lost (thankfully), and her other firsthand knowledge of death was formed by our dog, Madison, who was gently put to sleep – at our home – in June. Annie had been at Grampa Bill and GranMary’s house only a week before Bill passed away, and had seen the hospice nurse coming and going, so it makes sense that she’d make a medical-personnel-housecall connection. Still, Nick was unprepared for her to screw up her darling little face and innocently ask,

“So, did the doctor come and put Grampa Bill down?”

Ah, six year-olds. So adorable.

Don’t let the bedbugs bite!

———————————

Bedtime, three nights later…

Okay, sweetie. Sweet dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.

“Mommy, wait.”

Yes, Banana?

“What does the word ass mean?”

Excuse me?

“Ass. What does it mean?”

Ummm… Where have you heard that word?

“I don’t know. Just around.”

(Thanks ever so much, Cake Boss.)

“So, what does it mean?”

*silence*

“WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”

Uhhhh… Donkey?
(I wish I could say I’m joking, but I actually said this)

“Ass means donkey?”

Yes. Yes it does. Sometimes, that’s another word for donkey.

“Interesting. So, instead of saying donkey, I could just say…”

Well, actually, I think maybe you’ve heard people use it to mean ‘butt.’

“Butt??”

Yes. Like your bum. Your behind. It means that, too.

“That’s funny!”

I can see why you think that.

“Does it mean anything else?”

Well…. I guess it kind of means ‘jerk,’ too.

“What do you mean?”

Some people use that word to call someone a jerk.

“Like, you’re a jerkish ass?”

That’s not exactly what I was thinking, but sure, I guess so.

“Jerkish ass. I like that!”

I understand why you think so, but actually, you shouldn’t use that word.

“Which word? Jerkish or ass?”

Both.

“Oh, okay. Goodnight, Mommy!”

Goodnight.

——————————–

What Annie’s bedtime lacks in terms of cozied-up musings is made up for by way of the best hugs on the face of the planet. Our girl is strong, y’all.

The parenting books do not prepare you for this. Which is probably why they’re gathering dust on the shelves of our bedroom. I’m just fine with that; they were undoubtedly written by jerkish asses, anyway.

Oh, and all you bedbugs? I’d think twice before biting Annie.
I bet she bites back.

Bugs, Sweat, and Tears

Posted on September 12, 2013 by missemtoo

I am not cut out for the heat.

It’s not even so much that I don’t like it (although that’s definitely true) as much as it doesn’t like me. Just looking at a thermometer with a temperature above about 85 degrees makes me break into a sweat — and I don’t mean a glisten or a sheen or a bit of perspiration, but a full-on, pouring-down-your-back (and especially your front, ladies, am I right?) flow of salty, sticky SWEAT. It stings my eyes, it makes my hands unable to swipe the front of my iPhone (and then I cannot obsessively check my email, which is clearly an issue), and people aren’t exactly lining up to purchase my eau de gym socks fragrance at the mall.

First world problem? Yes. Absolutely.

But I still am not cut out for the heat.

Which is not to say that I stay inside all day when it’s hot, hovering in the air-conditioned splendor like a hermit crab, because I do, in fact, venture out – sometimes for things that have to be done (putting out the trash cans) and sometimes for things that need to be done (getting an iced latte). But I sweat like a leaky pig and complain about it (usually in my own head) the whole time.

It’s really not pretty.

The past two days have seen unusually high temperatures here in Western New York. They’d be ungodly just about any time of the year, but were especially unexpected mid-September, after several weeks of lovely, warm-but-not-hot days. And, really, it wasn’t so much the heat as it was the humidity. People joke about places like Vegas and “it’s a dry heat,” but it’s absolutely true. 100 degrees in an arid environment feels infinitely cooler than 80 degrees when the humidity is at 100 percent.

Yes, I know that where you live, it was over a hundred degrees, and your heat index was almost 200, and there are places on the planet where people would offer their firstborn children to the gods if they could experience just one day of temperatures like these.
I’m not saying any of that isn’t true.
I’m just saying it was damn hot here.

And, good grief, the humidity has been here in full force the last couple of days, like she was ashamed of herself for skipping out on the early September party and decided to make up for it by bingeing and getting sick all over the front seat of the car. GO HOME, HUMIDITY. YOU’RE DRUNK.

As I walked the girls to school on Tuesday morning, we met up with our beloved crossing guard, Mrs. H, at the same time as another family. I could see that Mrs. H felt just as droopy in the extreme temperatures as I did, but she still managed to greet us with her trademark smile. She then said something to all of us about how freakin’ hot it was, to which the other mother replied – before I could get a word out – “Yes, isn’t it just amazing! It feels like you’re all cuddled up in a warm blanket!”

So. Apparently there are those of us who are not cut out for the heat, and those of us who are clinically insane. I’ll give her “warm blanket,” but my blanket was smothering me, not cuddling up, thank you very much.

You know delightful it is, keeping the windows open all summer, allowing the breeze to waft through, eschewing the harsh blast of air conditioning coming through the vents? Yeah. Me neither. As soon as the indoor temperature rises above 73 degrees, we all begin collectively wilting, so our A/C is running from approximately May through September.

Do I love the summer evening air drifting through the trees? Yes, I do. And if I want to be a part of it, I’ll sit outside and enjoy it. But sweating inside the house is simply not an option. This is why air conditioning was invented. And also Frappuccinos.

Realizing that it was likely impossible to teach the dogs how to use the toilet in just one day, I knew I’d have to let them go out back to do their business, but elected not to throw the ball or even let them stay outside very long. Which was probably a wise decision, because less than five minutes after I’d let them out, I went to check on them and found them like this:

hot dog2
Did I mention that I’m covered in fur?

Cannot… keep… tongue… in… mouth…

That evening was the annual back-to-school picnic, and I might have considered not going, but I’d promised that I’d take photos for the yearbook. Plus, I didn’t otherwise have a plan for dinner and we’d already paid for pizza, and at $398 per slice, I was bound and determined that we’d at least make a showing.

Because what’s better on a billion degree evening than eating piping hot slices of pizza outside in the sun?

As we approached the school, I could hear the DJ’s music, but noticed that the playground was suspiciously underpopulated; perhaps we were one of only a few families ~~stupid~~ brave enough to make the trek…? And then I saw everyone, pressed up against the side of the school where the late afternoon sun had mercifully created some shade in which to hide.

We dropped off the brownies we’d made (Wegman’s gluten free, holla!) and the girls got their slices of pizza, then flopped on the ground while they tried to wipe the sweat from their faces and force the food in their mouths. (The snow cones, however, went down without any complaint…) The parents and teachers, on the other hand, were mostly standing – probably because we recognized that the lack of inertia would cause us to permanently dissolve into puddles (and also grass and dirt tend to stick to you when you’re sweating more than Miley Cyrus at a Disney convention) – all with the same glassy-eyed stare. Occasionally, our sense of civility and politeness would take over, and we would actually approach one another, each conversation always beginning with some form of, “SWEET JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH IT IS HOT!”

After melting for thirty minutes, I decided I’d better make good on my promise to take some photos for the yearbook, so I shuffled off to capture the kids in their back-to-school revelry. As I did so, the sweat – which had been just resting there, acting like a little water shield – began freely cascading everywhere, until every single surface of my body was covered. I reminded myself that it could be worse – I could be one of the parents who signed up to actually hand out the pizza (on the blacktop without the merciful cover of the shade by the school), or one of the Cub Scouts volunteers at the folding table under the unyielding sun, or, like, actually living in a location where it’s hot and humid all the time and air conditioning doesn’t exist) – and made myself continue snapping photos of red-faced children who looked like they’d popped water balloons over their heads.

When the kids get the yearbooks next June, just looking at the Back To School spread is going to make everyone spike a fever.

I was lifting up the camera up to take another shot when I felt… something… on my arm. I thought maybe it was a stray hair, so I attempted to brush it off – but that didn’t remove the tickly, skin-prickling feeling. I let go of the camera to more firmly get rid of whatever it was that clung to me, and then noticed that it wasn’t just my arm that was affected… No, both arms, my hands, my knees, my shins, and my face – essentially every single inch of exposed skin – were covered (and when I say covered, I mean covered) with gnats.

Don’t adjust your screen… Those little dots in the background? The ones that look like drops of water or maybe smudges on the camera? Bugs. Gnats. SWARMS OF GNATS, every single one.
See also: the families in the shade pressed up against the school.

The ridiculous heat and humidity had hatched these little devils, and they were had descended upon the school grounds like plagues of locusts. Being very small, they were no match for the coating of sweat that encased me, and, upon flying into me – or upon my walking through them – they became positively glued to my skin. I attempted to rub some of them off, only to have my entire hand covered in little bitty gnat guts.

After managing to remove most of them from my arms, I hurried toward the few areas that seemed bug-free, passing Ella on the way, who looked up at me and said, “Uh, mom, you have all these bugs on your forehead…” Thank you. I’m modeling a new fashion statement. Do you like it?

By the end of the evening, the girls had had a marvelous time in spite of the heat, and as always, it was – truly – nice to hang out with the other school families. I’ve said it before, but I mean it: our school and community are utterly amazing, and we are truly lucky to be a part of it. I just wish Mother Nature wasn’t such a bully.

Today, it is twenty degrees cooler than it was yesterday, and tomorrow is expected to see another twenty degree temperature drop. Sure, the roller coaster is going to get us all sick, but I, for one, will not be sad to see the 90-degree days go.

If you ~~are clinically insane~~ do miss the heat, feel free to come on over. I’ve got plenty of warm blankets for you to cuddle up in.

Which will come in handy, because the A/C will probably be running until at least Columbus Day.

Forgotten, but remembered..

Posted on September 11, 2013 by missemtoo

Since school began last week, I have spent some time each day looking through old photographs to find pictures of my father-in-law. Part of this is because his memorial is coming up, and part of it is simply because it helps me to feel closer to him. I’ve always loved photos, wasting roll after roll of film to take “artsy” pictures in the days before digital photography was invented, creating my own scrapbooks before I’d even heard of Creative Memories, and saving nearly every photo I’ve ever taken or been given.

Which means that locating photos of anything specific is a daunting task, indeed. There are boxes of actual prints, boxes with film negatives, scrapbooks and photobooks, dozens of floppy disks bearing helpfully descriptive labels like “Snow” (which can only be viewed on a laptop that is at least fifteen years old, is missing three of its keys, and whose “A” button no longer functions), folder after folder of digital photos on external hard drives, and troves of photos I’ve uploaded to a minimum of six sites online. I recognize that this sounds absurd, but going through old pictures is exhausting, man.

The discoveries, however, have made the search process worthwhile. Nick with his permed hair (I’m not even kidding); the rodeo we attended in Colorado; the cross-country trip my brother and I made when I graduated from college; the one of me with Harry Connick Jr. (I believe I sent it out to friends and relatives that year for Thanksgiving, with the caption “I’m thankful for this…”) – and, of course, many photos of Bill.

I remembered a lot of them, but some were true gifts – ones that I didn’t even know I’d taken, that were likely glossed over because they weren’t “good” pictures. While I’ve forever loved taking photos, it’s only now, finding these, that I’m coming to truly be grateful for the bazillions of pictures I’ve stored up, because each one – even the ones where no one’s smiling at the camera, where something’s blurry, which might even have been taken by accident – perfectly captures him just as he was, and gives me a brief glimpse into a long-forgotten memory, and that makes my heart so very happy.

It was while going through these tomes of photos that I came across another collection of pictures that I didn’t remember taking, this time of a visit Nick and I had made to the Statue of Liberty in March of 2000. Except they weren’t just of Lady Liberty, but of the vista surrounding her… including this:

It took my breath away, quite literally.

At the time, Nick was completing several months of training in NYC, and I visited him once or twice from our apartment in Denver; we must have made the journey to Liberty Island during one of those trips, although I don’t remember doing so.

I do remember where we were a year-and-a-half later, on the day that life changed. Our new apartment was less than thirty miles outside of Manhattan, and I remember the blue of the sky; the silence of the trains; the roars of the fighter jets; the whirls of the helicopter blades; the “All Circuits Are Busy” recording as we frantically called our many friends and relatives both in the city (to see if they were okay; miraculously, they were) and across the country (to let them know that we were okay).

I remember, in the days and weeks that followed, walking through the dust and ash that covered so much of Manhattan, extending a great deal farther from Ground Zero than I had thought possible. I remember the smells, though I wish I could forget them. I remember the posters of the missing, hung from every available telephone pole or fence post. I remember the view from one of our best friend’s Battery Park-facing windows, and how horrifically empty it now was.

I remember reading the New York Times’s “Portraits of Grief” – every single one – feeling, somehow, that the very least I could do was learn a little bit about the lives of those 2500 (plus) who were killed, wanting to get to know them individually, rather than just lumping them together as so many, anonymous victims.

And I was struck by how often the biography mentioned something along the lines of, “The last words s/he said to me that morning were ‘I love you.’” Or, heartbreakingly, “I forgot to say ‘I love you’ that morning.” It seems like such a little thing, but since that time, I have made a point of (trying to) never – ever – leaving Nick, the girls, or my family and friends without telling them that I love them. No matter how brief the conversation, even if it’s just an “xo” at the end of an email, no matter how angry or frustrated I am, I tell them that I love them. Because, well, you just never know. Plus, a little extra love is always a good thing.

(Ironically, the only other trip I remember taking to the Statue of Liberty was with Bill [and his wife, Mary] in the winter of 2002 or 2003. To my dismay, I don’t have photos of that visit, but I remember that it was bitterly cold… and that we were happy.)

So much changed on that Tuesday morning twelve years ago, far beyond the new rules for air travel and the ever-present “If you see something, say something!” signs that are all around Manhattan. Yes, of course, I will never forget. But I will also remember – the sights, the sounds, the smells – but more than that, how we all, however briefly, came together, supported one another, and held fast to hope.

And how very much we loved.
More than anything, I am still remembering that love today, and always.

Who wants to eat some cake?

Posted on September 10, 2013 by missemtoo

If you’ve ever watched Cake Boss – even one single episode – you know that this is the line that Buddy utters each and every time he delivers a cake, before brandishing the cutting knife and disassembling the latest awe-inspiring 23-layer creation.

We watch a lot of Cake Boss at our house (along with Next Food Network Star and Chopped and Restaurant Impossible and Mystery Diners and, yeah, so we like food, what can I say). There are only so many times I can sit through part of My Little Pony without wanting to claw my eyes out; the girls and I do So You Think You Can Dance, but we’ve yet to convince Nick to join us; and we’d probably be arrested if we held family-wide showings of Homeland. And so, aside from the occasional game show (a la Minute to Win It), there really are very few shows that all of us enjoy equally.

I know – Cake Boss is hardly the pinnacle of wholesome family entertainment. There’s at least one “ass” in every show, there’s a heckuva lot of yelling, someone is usually throwing a temper tantrum, and while I’m all for pulling pranks, I’d prefer that they not include buckets of flour dumped off of our roof. Plus also… the grammar. OH DEAR GOD, THE TERRIBLE GRAMMAR.

But what Cake Boss lacks in terms of properly conjugated verbs and accurate pronoun usage, it makes up for in happiness. The Valastro family genuinely loves to make cakes – and to make others happy making them. Their work ethic is deeply admirable, and the creativity shown in each episode is off the charts. They problem solve, take responsibility for their mistakes, demonstrate the value of giving back to others, and put let everyone know the importance of family. So, yes, we’re fans.

Plus also? Um, CAKE.

We got into Cake Boss several years ago, just as it was taking off, and managed to visit the original store in Hoboken the very day that Buddy and crew were flying to Chicago to be on Oprah, thereby launching them into megastardom.

carlos7
See? Hardly even a line out the door.

carlos9
Eying the many treats (Annie is even wearing her official Carlo’s apron – ordered straight from the store before they had a website).

We got to chat with Mauro when we placed our order. He asked the girls if they liked the Sesame Street episode. They were so starstruck, I believe they just mutely nodded their assent.

Seeing Carlo’s and religiously watching Cake Boss episodes not only inspired the girls and me to want to eat cake, but to learn to make it, Buddy-style (albeit on a considerably smaller scale). We (okay, I ) practiced with various recipes, finding the yummiest ones that were also durable and carve-able. Fillings and frostings were tested. A homemade fondant recipe was perfected as I pored over baking sites and subscribed to decorating blogs. For years, my Christmas and birthday wish lists have consisted of cake pans of all shapes and sizes, specialty food dyes, luster dust, fondant tools, scads of adorable aprons, and even a steamer and an airbrusher. Hey, I may be a (very) amateur cake maker, but I have got the goods, man.

Two summers ago, as their interest in the show reached a fever pitch, the girls had a Cake Boss-themed birthday party.

bday cake
Drop lines can kiss my patootie.

We now watch the show much less obsessively, making fancy cakes only a few times each year, but we’ve still got all of the stuff, so when the cake-making mood strikes, we’re ready. At the beginning of August, Ella decided that she wanted to make a cake all on her own – and drew up the plans to prove it.

This hung on the refrigerator for at least four weeks, taunting us with the reminder that we’d yet to follow through.

I was supportive of the idea, but August threw us a big ol’ curveball, and the cake just never got made. Much to my surprise, Ella took this in stride, mercilessly not declaring me the Worst Mom Ever for preventing her from letting her inner Cake Boss shine… but when she asked last week if she could instead make a “Back to School” cake, I decided that it would be a perfect way to give her some quality attention (something that’s a bit lacking these days as I’m still in a this-can’t-be-real fog) and maybe make her really happy.

Plus also? Um, CAKE.

Annie decided that she wanted part of the action, and they eagerly partook in the Recipe Reading and the Ingredient Mixing and the Cake Baking. And then, when it dawned on them that the frosting and fondant weren’t magically falling from the sky, they decided they’d had enough cake baking, thank you very much, and left the cakes on the counter for three days.

Ah, short attention spans. How I love thee.

At last, yesterday afternoon, after maybe hearing that if they didn’t finish up their cakes, they wouldn’t be able to make any others for a really long time and what about the starving children of the world? they agreed to frost and decorate their cakes.

By themselves.

With no help from me.

Which is always a great idea.

back to school cakes4
Ella chose to cover her cake (which is a single round topped with four cupcakes) with fondant, then add school-themed decorations. Yellow = pencil. Of course.

Annie rolled out the fondant and then decided that it was too much work to cover the whole cake, so she used cookie cutters and just slapped little fondant shapes right onto the cake. The orange-y little squiggle? Also a pencil. Of course.

At long last, the cakes were finished, and each girl asked to photograph her masterpiece.

back to school cakes1
Ella opted for my big camera and took twelve rapid-fire photos of her cake.

Luster dust FTW! My favorite part is the sheet of notebook paper on the top, complete with holes on the left side.

The baker in her element.

Annie opted to use my iPhone to capture her masterpiece.

So, there’s a lot of luster dust here… and a dolphin on the top (impaled by the candles)… and the orange pencils… and “lots of polka dots because they’re fun.”
My favorite part? Hard to narrow it down.

Apparently, we’re also serving Annie’s head alongside her cake, but whatever.

So… We’ve still got a ways go to in the cake decorating department, but hey, at least they’re super-excited for the start of school. Maybe they’ll learn some baking skills along with woodworking. I’m all for bringing back Home Ec and Shop, people.

After dinner, the girls eagerly dug into their creations, and declared them delicious.

Annie? Why do you have candles in your cake?
“Because it’s a CAKE.” Duh.

back to school cakes11

And Ella? The candle?
“It’s a crayon, so it goes with my theme.” Obviously.

I have to admit… Luster dust aside, they actually tasted pretty darn good.

What? Of course I tried them.
One, I’m supportive of all of my children’s endeavors, naturally.

And also? Um, CAKE.

One day at a time

Posted on September 6, 2013 by missemtoo

If you asked me what I liked best about being a parent, I might reply that it’s incredible seeing these beings who Nick and I created turning into actual, amazing humans. Or maybe something about what fun it is to watch them be sisters together. Or how great it is to have an excuse to watch Aladdin any time I want.

But, really, one of the best things about being a parent is the ability to tease my offspring, give them a hard time, and generally pester them all day long. As Ella’s embarrassment threshold has lowered, with instant looks of shock and horror the moment Nick or I do something that doesn’t suit her, we have become all the more determined to dance in public, call her by her code name (Vanessa Stinkbottom), and kiss one another when other people are watching (oh mah gah).

Lest you worry that we’re causing permanent damage, a) we never act up for too long, b) she plays along gamely, and c) she always knows that we’re kidding. We talk about it with her and make sure that we’re not actually torturing her. Plus, we’ve volunteered to pay for her future therapy, so it all evens out in the end.

As we were driving home from the lake on Labor Day, both girls were in rare form. They’d been at the lake for five days visiting with their Grandma and Pops, as well as their Uncle Taylor and my grandma, Phoofsy, while Nick and I were out of town, and they’d had a marvelous time. The end-of-summer festivities had filled them to the brim, and they were melancholy about returning home and starting school a couple of days later. That melancholy met up with their general apprehension about new classes and teachers, and created a delightful combination that might be described as complete and utter freakishness.

Hands could not be kept to selves. Feet could not be kept to selves. Voices were impossible to lower. It was just too much, this end of summer nonsense, and they were not to be contained.

At first, we ignored them, understanding how they were feeling and appreciating that they couldn’t just kick back with a glass of wine and let it all out. But as their tomfoolery gave way to pokes and kicks and pinches and screams, we could feel the change in the air, and knew that if we didn’t do something fast, one of them wasn’t getting out alive. To get their attention, I told them about a friend’s Facebook post: her sons had been playing the Quiet Game at bedtime, and had been silent for a good ten minutes when she checked on them (hoping they were asleep)… heard one brother fart… and other say, “You lose!”

Annie and Ella thought this was maybe the most hilarious story ever, and were intrigued with the Quiet Game. This isn’t something we’ve played with them too much, in part because we really haven’t needed to, and in part because I, personally, hate losing, and keeping my mouth shut is not exactly one of my strengths (in case you hadn’t noticed). Given their level of bat-shit-craziness, however, Nick suggested that we play right there in the car and see who could be the quietest for the remainder of our drive. Thrilled that we’d be playing with them (thanks so much, Nick), the girls were immediately sold, and the game began.

For the first minute or so, everyone just sat still, which was lovely and all, but pretty boring, quite frankly. I knew that my chances of winning would increase dramatically if I could do something to get the girls to make sound, so I decided to do what typically elicits the loudest protests: make a fool out of myself and embarrass them. And so the seat dancing began. With gusto.

I looked back in the rearview mirror to see Ella’s eyes widen with horror, then flash with indignation as she realized that if she told me to knock it off, she’d be out of the game. Nick immediately picked up on what I was doing and began epically rocking out in his seat as well.

Not ones to let us get the upper hand, the girls quickly upped their ante. Feet were pressed against the backs of seats, knowing that we couldn’t tell them to put them down. Spare car socks were plucked from their little pockets and chucked in our direction. They made faces at one another and stuck their tongues out at us.

Windows were lowered and feet were waved out of the car. I honked at every house we passed (including several where we knew the occupants, thereby exponentially increasing the embarrassment potential). I raised the stereo volume to deafening and opened all of the windows. Nick removed his shirt and hung his bare torso out the window. When I came to a stop sign, he leaned over and we locked lips for an absurd amount of time.

By the time we arrived home, the car was a complete disaster… but no one had uttered a word. It had probably been the rowdiest version of the Quiet Game, like, ever, which was kind of the opposite of what we’d originally intended, but which wound up being just what all of us needed — Nick and me, especially.

This past week has been incredibly difficult, to say the very least. Everything is surreal; it is simply impossible that Bill is gone, and that we are going on without him. There are moments when it’s hard to breathe, when the crushing sadness of it all threatens to overcome me, and I wonder how anyone survives a loss like this. And I know that Nick is feeling it so much more deeply than I am, and his sadness makes my heart ache and my stomach hurt.

But, with kids, you cannot wallow in your sadness. That’s not to say that we feel the need to completely stifle our emotions – we don’t, and we’re real and honest with them when we’re feeling sad – but we also don’t want to scare them or make them sad. And also, I don’t want to be sad around them. I want to enjoy them, to laugh with them, to be with them – really with them – and not lost in a surreal cloud of grief.

At times, having Ella and Annie makes all of this more difficult. Frankly, it’d be nice to occasionally have the chance to just stay in bed, or to not stop my tears because I hear them coming down the stairs. Grieving and parenting are not good bedfellows.

But, on the other hand, Annie and Ella make all of this so very much easier. They’re not bogged down with sadness, and seeing them continue to laugh and live and just be kids makes my spirits lift every time. When they’re around, I pull myself out of my sadness and focus on them…

… and the bean and tomato salad Ella created last week from our garden…

It was actually quite tasty, especially served on the Mickey plate.

… on Annie taking my hand and skipping with me through Target…
I know the picture is wicked blurry, but that’s what happens when you take a photo while giddily skipping through Target.
Bonus points for our skipping embarrassing Ella to no end.

… on Ella finally deciding to have me change her earrings (five months after she got her ears pierced), and flashing the most enormous grin ever – after crying about it for a good twenty minutes – on the night before third grade…
9.03 giddy earring changer
Mickey Mouse earrings FTW!

… on Annie losing her first tooth on the first day of first grade…
9.04 first tooth
Well timed, kiddo.

… on the final boat ride before school begins, and jumping gleefully off the back of the boat…

I know these coming weeks will be far from easy, but with these girls around, I know that I’ll have something to smile about every single day.

Especially if we play the Quiet Game. Next time, they’re going down.

All smiles after the first day of school.
I may or may not have toasted with a glass of Pinot. What happens at home stays at home, y’all.

Move over, Jackass

Posted on September 5, 2013 by missemtoo

The start of school smells good. I don’t just say this because today was one of the most perfect days, weatherwise, we’ve experienced maybe, like, ever, nor because of the girls’ fresh, clean, new school stuff, all of which comes with its fresh, clean, new smell… New backpacks, new supplies (erasers, I heart you), new clothes, new lunch boxes… Each has its own crisp aroma, un-stained, not yet having taken on the stank of leftover spaghetti or forgotten sneakers.

Beyond that, however, there’s still the geeky kid in me who always loved the start of school each year, and that kid sits eagerly beside the teacher in me, who met the beginning of each September with equal parts trepidation and exhilaration. Yes, the year holds the possibility of something dreadful, of birds pooping on your head while you wait in line to go inside from recess (first grade, true story; Sarah Tallman was kind enough to help get the poop out of my hair while everyone else laughed), of classmates who are tyrants hiding behind polo shirts and jeggings, of parents who think that little Junior deserves special treatment and plays the not my child card every. single. time. But there’s also the promise of new friends, of clean notebooks and smooth desks, of games at recess and giggles during library, of field trips and science experiments, of fall and cinnamon and hay rides.

A month in, school begins to take on the metallic, pungent smell of tiny, sweaty bodies who defy logic and seem to need deodorant, despite being only eight. But the start of school? Those first, unblemished, ripe-with-promise weeks? They smell great.

Each year, as the girls begin school, I try to do something special for them – a fun first day breakfast, a treat when they come home, a dinner of their choosing, notes in their backpacks – something to make this day stand apart from the other 179 days of the school calendar. This year, with the (very) recent loss of my much-adored father-in-law (there will be more to say on this in coming weeks – I promised Bill it would be so – but right now, I need to wait and process and grieve, and think about just what I’d like to write), I have had to cut myself a break and be patient with my lack of focus… but I still want to be doing these special things. Not for any grander purpose, not because of any outside pressure, not even because of expectations that I may have inadvertently raised in my children, but simply because they make me happy.

And, I’m learning, that’s a pretty damn good reason for doing most things.

Except watching Real Housewives (of Anywhere). Or wearing Uggs year-round. Or preferring dark chocolate to milk. There are rules, people.

I’m also learning what I can and cannot do, and I’m learning to be okay with it. Which isn’t such a novel concept, except I recently read two seemingly opposing blog posts and found myself agreeing with basically everything they both said. Which means… thinking. And growing. And learning. Or something. And all that jazz.

First, I read this post, and loved it not only because “Pinterest Bitches” is a fabulous phrase and they worked “explosive diarrhea” into their narrative, but also because, hell yes! Crazytown! A stitched-together pencil caddy? “Yay school” and a little globe? Have we all gone insane?? Reading that post made me feel instantly better about getting the time wrong for Ella’s meet-the-teacher day, and going to Target yesterday in biker shorts and a dirty Zumba t-shirt.

But then I read this post today. Michelle had me with “braless in the drop off lane”(and also made me feel a little like maybe she was stalking me with the whole, Does Emily pause before posting about finally, finally having her depression under control because she knows there are other moms still struggling? thing), but also got my attention by mentioning, despite her house never being company-ready, that she does throw “Pinterest worthy” parties… both of which sounded awfully familiar. (Not because the parties I throw are necessarily Pinterest worthy, but because I, um, did post photos here specifically so I could put them on Pinterest.)

So… It seems that the Pinterest Bitch would be… me.

Conundrum, no?

The more I’ve thought about it, however, the more I’ve decided that the dichotomy not only makes sense… it’s okay. It’s good, even. It’s just me; it’s who I am. It hurts no one (except myself, when I stay up too late making Looney Tunes birthday cakes or getting pancake batter ready to go for the first day of school). It’s a bit nutty, but that’s fine. It makes me happy.

And it’s high time that I reconcile what I can and cannot do, and become okay with it. Or, as Michelle puts it, it’s high time that I “quit being a jackass” to myself.

I can make cute first-day-of-school breakfasts with pancakes shaped like school buses and the girls’ current grade numbers.
Don’t worry; Annie eventually received more than 1 cut-up strawberry. We are all about equity in this house.

I can make brownies for when the girls come home from school, with their newly-begun grade levels powdered-sugared onto them.
Notice how these are the corners? I ate the gooey middle piece. It was delicious.

I can send my kids off to school, and welcome them home from their first day, with a bang (a bang that is created with the help of boxed mixes from Wegmans, but a bang nonetheless), and they love it, and I love it, and it’s just the way it goes. I cannot, however, manage to keep our fridge and cupboards stocked with actual necessary food, so when my kids request a sandwich with pepperoni and cheese, they’re going to get some pepperoni and a torn-up cheese stick instead.

Yep. Real lunch from last year. Super proud moment.

School bus pancakes. Cheese stick sandwiches. Pretty much me in a nutshell.

I can send my girls to school each day with a joke in their lunch boxes (or a joke told over the phone)…

“Ellen” and her Facebook page FTW!

… But I cannot organize the papers in the kitchen – nor manage to replace the window shade that’s been broken for at least two years – to save my soul.

I know you’re jealous. Just keepin’ it real.

I can make number signs the night before and pose my adorable children in front of the house on their first day…

ella first day 3rd
HOLY CRAP, she has gotten so absurdly old.

… But, for the life of me, I cannot get ahold of the weeds that are overtaking every spare space in our garden, in the yard, and on the sidewalk.

The foot-tall “bushes” to the left, in front of the bricks? Yeah. Weeds. Every last one.

It used to be that both sides of this coin bothered and embarrassed me. I didn’t want to admit that I studied hair blogs so that I could send the girls off to school with cute and fancy ‘dos, because that somehow felt like something I should be ashamed of – as though admitting it would somehow be showing off, or trying to put other non-hairdo-ing parents down, or saying that I had too much time on my hands, or making a judgement one way or another.

And yet, I also didn’t want to admit that the third seat of the car is so filled with dog fur, we cannot have people ride there without producing a towel for them to sit on. That was also something to be ashamed of, an admission that I cannot keep everything together, that I let some things go.

But lately – and quite uncharacteristically – I’ve been going easy on myself. I’ve come to realize that I don’t always have it all together (a shocker, I know, I know), not even in a scattered sort of way, and that’s okay. I’ve certainly never felt that I’m Super Mom, but I’m coming to see that my priorities are just that — my priorities — and that automatically makes them different from everyone else’s… but it doesn’t make them bad or wrong, nor something to be bothered by or ashamed of.

Again, to paraphrase Michelle (can you tell I really liked her post?!), I’m being a good parent. I’m loving my kids. I’m doing the best I can.

And it makes me happy.

I’m going to scour Pinterest for ideas and then send my girls to school with Halloween-themed Bento boxes – because it makes me smile – and doing so says nothing about anyone else who thinks that Bento boxes are as absurd as The Real Housewives. It says only that I like them, and that’s okay.

I’m never going to knit the girls a scarf, nor make them fabulous scrapbooks, nor send them to school with stitched-together pencil caddies, because that’s just not my bag… which is also okay. And I will always have a perpetually messy stovetop, because making Halloween-themed Bento boxes takes priority over stovetop scrubbing (plus also, hello ADHD), and that says nothing about people who do prize a gleaming kitchen. It only says that I don’t, and that’s okay, too.

Some things I can do.
Others, I can’t.
Or maybe I just don’t. Either way, it’s okay.

I’m going to give myself more of a break, cut myself a little more slack, and allow life to slowly come back together, without rushing it or being impatient with myself when I need to take a little more time. I’m going to do the things that make me happy, and worry far less about the things that don’t (except for, like, mowing the lawn and paying bills, because when I let those slide, it doesn’t work so well), and I’m going to stop apologizing for both. And I’m going to encourage everyone around me to do the very same.

In short, I’m going to quit being a jackass to myself.

Last Hurrah

Posted on September 3, 2013 by missemtoo

For the past five years, on the day before school begins, we’ve had an official family Last Hurrah. It’s never anything particularly momentous (last year, we got ice cream; two years ago, we went on a hike), but it’s a way of putting a parenthesis around the end of summer, giving us one more opportunity to have some lazy, delicious fun before the ~~glorious~~ ~~OH THANK GOD~~ ~~incredible~~ predictable routine of fall gets underway.

This year, we’d already planned to go out for dinner tonight, and asked Ella and Annie if they’d like to declare that our Last Hurrah. WRONG. Wrong. Very, very wrong. “Um, Mom, it’s just eating food out at a restaurant.” It seems that their idea of “lazy” and “delicious” fun diverges slightly from mine. And also requires more actual parenting and stuff. Damn it.

When asked what they’d like to do for their Last Hurrah, the girls mulled over several possibilities (painting nails? going to a waterfall? doing a craft?) before settling on the most obvious choice: making something with wood. Because, duh. Who doesn’t want to Make Something With Wood to mark the end of summer?

And so we found ourselves at The Home Depot, waiting impatiently for the orange-aproned helper man to saw ten-foot boards into 6″ and 12″ segments.DOES THIS NOT LOOK LIKE FUN??

Once home, the girls enlisted our neighbor (and one of their best friends) in their scheming, and immediately got to the work of Making Something With Wood. Edges were sanded…

That pile of wood pieces is still in the garage. Thank God it’s still warm enough to park the car in the driveway.

Hammers were wielded…

No fingers were harmed in the Making of Something With Wood.

Paint was procured…
Yes, the little “shelf” in the back does take after Pisa.

And, a few hours later, they proudly displayed their creations:

A “shelf” for our neighbor’s soccer awards. I hear she’s got four trophies she’d like to put atop these boards. That should be neat.

Annie’s “little table” for holding “little parties.” Paint on the garage floor is just for kicks.

There was much grumbling as we pulled them away from their workshop so that we could head out for dinner (“But the legs aren’t painted yet!!”) until I assured them that tomorrow, after school, if they actually make it through the first day alive and still have the energy to pick up the paintbrushes and hammers, they can finish their projects. Won’t that be fun.

Nick and I decided that our version of Last Hurrah would take place at The Melting Pot, which, although the opposite of “lazy,” was certainly a delicious end to summer.

We had a particularly awesome server who asked – twice – what grade the girls were going into, and then presented them with dessert plates displaying said grade.

First grade or bust! En garde!
Except I kind of mean it. I hope Annie’s teacher got a good night’s sleep.

Okay, if I’m being honest, I think it’s pretty damn cool that our girls chose to bash hammers into nails and Make Something With Wood. I love how they’re not afraid to get down and dirty, how the allure of pounding something to smithereens is difficult to ignore, how they don’t hesitate to make a shelf even though they have no idea what they’re doing, how little they care that the shelf is so lopsided the trophies will probably slide right off, and how awesomely they use their imaginations. They looked at fall’s fast-approaching sunsets (um, how is it already almost dark at 7:30?!?!) and said, HELL NO!, and gave summer one last fabulous go.

Their backpacks are waiting by the front door. Their carefully-chosen clothes have been laid out. Water bottles have been filled. They’re ready. Tomorrow, they’ll head off to school, eagerly anticipating what this year has in store.

Personally, I’m hoping for a few lessons in geometry and physics, because if I’m getting a “shelf” for Christmas, there’s definitely some room for improvement.

Skyward Bound

Posted on August 28, 2013 by missemtoo

Yes, it’s true. I’m on a flight, heading back to Minnesota, updating this blog from 30,000 feet. Technology, you sexy vixen, you.

Yes, it’s also true (for those of you who have been keeping track), that Ella, Annie, and I returned from Minnesota a mere 48 hours ago. Nick is the frequent flier in the family, not me, and my immediate return to the land of 10,000 lakes is not for pleasure, nor for business, but borne out of necessity and love. Without being ridiculously vague, I will simply say that our family is going through a very difficult, private matter, and we have been traveling a lot lately. I have been asked to discuss this in future posts, but for now, it is enough to say that I need to be on this plane, to travel across the country once more over these cotton candy clouds, to be by my husband’s side.

I also decided, given that the cost of an emergency cross-country ticket is already larger than a mortgage payment, a tiny splurge would be appropriate, and I needed – for the first time ever – to purchase a first class seat. Yes, needed. I felt it in my bones, just how I knew our current house was the right one for us (despite having never set foot inside before purchasing it) or how I knew that Milli Vanilli was too good to be true. When you know, you know. I needed first class.

Thing is, despite flying at least a half-dozen times a year myself, first class and I are not exactly familiar with one another. Have you ever seen Big Business, the 80s comedy with Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin where they play twins (each named Rose and Sadie) switched at birth, with one set growing up in the country and the other in the city, and then the country twins show up in the city and act like the bumpkins they are, ogling the sky scrapers and taking about “Goin’ to the meetin’”? No? Well, you’re not missing much, but the point is that right now I am country Rose and Sadie, and first class is my meetin’, it could not be more obvious that I am not in my element if I taped my Disney World “First Visit!” button to my forehead.

As is absolutely typical of me, I arrived at the airport later than I’d planned, which made me more disheveled than usual (although, considering it’s Rochester and the airport is totally small and manageable and I had first class priority – can I get a what what! – it took me a mere twelve minutes from the time I stepped foot in the airport to go through security and arrive at my gate). Still, I even found time to purchase my travel standby – a bottle of water – and sauntered onto the plane feeling quite smug… until I saw the lovely mini water bottle waiting for me at my seat.

You get water bottles in first class. Who knew?!

I was aware, of course, that you get free drinks in first class, and I decided to take advantage of that immediately. I asked what white wines were available, and the lovely flight attendant immediately brought me two bottles for my perusal, including my favorite, Pinot Grigio.

I know it’s not actually possible to drink your troubles away, but hey, this isn’t a bad start…

What I did not realize is that the lovely flight attendant would serve me the wine in the plastic cup rather than in the mini wine bottle, which meant that I reached out and tried to take the bottle from her, resulting in a very awkward tug of war across my seat mate. Keepin’ it classy.

After receiving my wine, I made myself comfortable, doing the crossword in the Delta Sky magazine (yes, I’m that geek) and adding items to my never-ending To Do book. I vaguely registered that someone was standing in the aisle, talking, and paid her no attention – because who would be talking to me – until my seat mate gently tapped me on the arm and I realized that the “someone” was the lovely flight attendant, and the “talking” was actually her saying, “Ms. H? Ms. H? Can I get you a beverage for after we take off?”, which totally weirded me out, because since when do flight attendants refer to you by name? Considering that I had downed the Pinot before the plane even left the ground (truly so unlike me, but hey, desperate times, right?), I decided that perhaps a Diet Coke would be more appropriate for my second drink.

Although I have flown first class once or twice before, I have never done so alone, meaning that Nick has always helped me navigate the ins and outs of the seats. This may sound unnecessary – they’re airplane seats, after all, how complicated can they be? – except that the tray tables don’t fold down from the seats in front of you like they do in coach; they magically rise up from the armrests and fold across your lap. When the flight attendant brought me my Diet Coke, I nonchalantly attempted to pull the tray table up and out of the armrest, because I have so done this before, especially one-handed while holding a drink that’s in a cup made out of glass instead of plastic, this is no big deal, I have totally got this… Until my armrest wrangling and Diet Coke sloshing became so disruptive, the gentleman beside me pulled out this nifty little tray thing and said, “Why don’t you just put your drink here?”

Mini drink holders! How cute is that! First class, you are so clever!

You totally know this guy is thrilled to be sitting next to me.
Especially because I thought it was so awesome that the lovely flight attendant offered us snacks, including a banana, I decided to take a photo of it. A photo. Of my banana.

They really let anyone into first class these days, don’t they?

I also chose a little bag of peanuts, which I decided not to photograph because, hello, boring… But that’s kind of a shame because, as I opened them, they flew across my keyboard and skittered onto the floor below, so now I can never document my bag of first class peanuts. If only they had popcorn, I could really make a good showing. The cleaning crew will really appreciate the work I’ve done here.

When the lovely flight attendant came around again asking me – by name – if I’d like anything else to drink (good grief, they are so attentive up here!), I decided to get my mortgage payment’s worth, and ordered a margarita. This may ultimately wind up being a bad idea, but I have both a) successfully used the little drink tray and b) finished the drink without spilling, so that’s something, anyway.

Surprisingly delicious!

We still have an hour to go in this flight, so only time will tell what other disasters adventures I will encounter, but so far, first class has certainly proved to be an enlightening experience.

In a few days, I’ll be flying coach again, but for now, I will sit back, enjoy the Great Lakes out my window, and try to not act too much like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she first encountered the opulence of Richard Gere’s life.

On second thought, feeling like Julia Roberts, even for a moment, isn’t such a bad thing. Just this once, I want to forget it all, and feel like Cinderfuckin’rella.

p.s. Did you know that the seat pockets in first class are held on by velcro? And that, if you root through your enormous backpack mid-flight and then attempt to put said bag back under the seat too vigorously, you can peel the velcro entirely away from the seat, resulting in all of the contents — including the in-flight magazine, barf bag, Sky Mall magazine, safety card, two water bottles, a camera, and an iPad — to fall out onto the floor? Well, consider yourself warned. You’re welcome.

Eavesdropping

Posted on August 27, 2013 by missemtoo

Last week, the girls and I flew to Minnesota to visit Nick’s family (and to go to the state fair – yeah!). It was the first time in quite a while (maybe ever?) that I’d flown solo with both children, and although Ella and Annie are seasoned fliers, I was a bit nervous about how things would go.

Based on outward appearances, I certainly can understand why other, (usually) childless fliers look warily at my children – or any children – when we travel. I have been both the parent of a sobbing, thrashing little beast and a bystander, watching a toddler melt down and fling Goldfish at the passengers in row 24. Kids and flying can be a disaster, especially when their parents blatantly ignore them or don’t seem to be aware the Little Junior is speaking at a volume generally reserved for sports stadiums. I get it.

(Ranty tangent: That said, flying with disastrous children is no worse than – and often vastly preferable to – hordes of middle schoolers on a band trip, anyone attending a bachelor or bachelorette party [hi, Bridesmaids], the business traveler who has 100 decibel “work” conversations on her cell phone every second that we’re on the ground, the giant in the seat ahead of me who reclines his head into my lap, the passenger next to me who thinks that not one of our 94 minutes together can be filled with silence, the passengers who raise the volume of their conversation so that they can be heard above the safety instructions, the guy whose music is so loud I can hear it through my own headphones, the person who hasn’t bathed in at least a week, the man who did bathe – but in cologne, the person who brought the vat of Chow Mein, the poor lady with the cold who sniffles and clears her throat every 46 seconds, the arm rest hog, and anyone who finds the tiny bottles of liquor “cute” and decides that it’s a good idea to drink four or five or ten. At least crying babies aren’t deliberately being rude. Plus… Benadryl, people.)

Anyhoo, I get that the mere sight of kids can cause other passengers anxiety, perhaps none more so than the frequent fliers who are Important and have Somewhere To Be and don’t want to be held up by anyone who is not an Expert Flier like themselves. Nick, actually, is a frequent flier (although he has empathy for families with kids… okay, probably mixed with some dread…), and so we are usually fortunate enough to use the priority security lane. The look of annoyance and disgust when we join the other “important” travelers in the faster lane – and then proceed to dump our shoes and sweatshirts and computers and Seat Pets and liquids into six plastic bins, ultimately placing a minimum of fourteen items on the conveyor belt – is priceless… But not as priceless as the look of bewilderment and shock as we snag our scanned items back off of the rollers, put them back on our bodies, and load them back into our carry-ons before the guy ahead of us has had time to put his belt back on. We are security line ninjas, people.

One of our flights had seats three abreast, meaning we could all sit together, but the other had only double seats. Despite being ninjas and generally very well behaved on flights, Ella and Annie are hardly perfect, and I was wary of them sitting beside one another rather than beside Nick or me. They, however, were not only not wary; they were psyched.

If we give you thumbs up will you leave us alone?

After we all got settled in, I tried to relax and just let them be, and my attention turned to the conversation being held by the passengers in front of me. The woman in the window seat was maybe in her mid-sixties, petite, and white. The gentleman sitting beside her was younger, quite tall, wearing an awesome straw hat, and black. It struck me immediately what – in our current American society – an oddly matched pair they were. Not that it should be odd, or unusual, or uncomfortable – or anything at all – for a middle-aged white lady to be conversing with a younger black man… But, let’s be honest, it often is.

As I eavesdropped on their conversation (truthfully, it was more just listening, ’cause they were chatting quite loudly), I learned that she was returning home to Minnesota for a high school reunion with dear friends. He was from Alabama, headed to Minnesota on business. From what I could hear, they had nothing in common – no obvious shared interests, no shared hometown, no children of the same age, no professed mutual love of baseball or movies or rescuing kittens – but, man, were they enjoying talking with one another! One of them would say something and the other would physically rear back to have enough room for a full-bodied laugh, their joyous sounds rushing into the space above, settling playfully over all of us around them.

Our flight had already been delayed for over two hours due to mechanical delays (asked the girls, “Does anyone ever leave O’Hare on time?”). Now, sitting still longer on the runway, the collective passenger anxious-seat-shifting began. As I admonished Annie for the second time to stop opening and closing her window shade (“But Mommy, at least I’m not kicking the seat!” True, baby. But you’re going to make everyone around us have a seizure), the man in front of me raised his hands to the ceiling, verbally pleading, “Come on already! I just want to get up in the air!”

His newfound buddy laughed, chiming in, “Me, too! Let’s get going already!”

They both paused for a moment; then she added, more quietly, “I like going up, but I hate coming down. Landings scare the daylights out of me. I always pray that it’ll be all right.”

Without missing a beat, her seat mate reached over and put his large black hand gently on top of her small white one. “You go on ahead and pray, but I promise everything will be all right.

It’s okay. I’m here. I got’chu.”

Minutes later, we began to taxi, and the rest of the flight passed uneventfully, just as he’d said.

Would that we all could have that experience, no matter where, no matter why.
Would that we could have someone, anyone, who says – and genuinely means – It’s okay. I’m here. I got’chu.

Throwback Thursday: State Fair! Yeah!

Posted on August 22, 2013 by missemtoo

Every August, we make a point to visit the Twin Cities and Nick’s family when the Minnesota State Fair is taking place.

Sometimes, we visit the animals (especially the birthing barn).
Hello, baby goats! I mean kids. Hello, kids!

The girls almost always get Fair Dos.
mnaugust94
2009

2011

Yes, it takes at least five washings and almost an entire bottle of conditioner to remove the spray and color, but it’s totally worth it.

We explore the finer arts of butter sculptures and traveling information trailers.

I am home!

We devote a good deal of time to both the Kidway and the Midway rides.

Ella in 2007 (age 2.5), becoming one with the motorcycle.

2011

mnvisitfairfun
Click on it to see it larger…

But mostly… we go for the food.
We eat…
fairfood
Click on these, too. Unless you’re completely grossed out. I’d understand.

And eat…

mnaugust145

And eat…

2012

All. Day. Long.

To be fair (hooo boy, I am hilarious), we don’t each consume all of the above in their entirety; rather we get, say, one order of cheese curds and split it amongst six of us — so although we do purchase an obscene number of foods, we aren’t actually rolling out of the fairgrounds each year.

Besides, we’re usually too bone-tired to roll, anyway.

State Fair day is also the girls’ annual “Yes Day,” inspired by the book of the same name, where we say “yes” to pretty much everything they request. Cotton candy for breakfast? Yes!!! Soda, maybe even twice in a day? Yes!! Purchase that bracelet, even though it looks super-cheap and is likely to break as soon as it’s put on? Yes! Yet another ride, even after we’re ready to fall over from exhaustion and being surrounded by the masses of other exhausted, sweaty, sugar-highed Minnesotans? Yes. (The yeses lose their exclation points after a while…)

It is one of the most highly-anticipated days of the year, and although I have to practically cross-train and visit a priest to make it through the day, And no matter what else is going on in our lives, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Today, we head to the fair again. I am planning to start my day off the same way I did last year: with bacon ice cream. BECAUSE, YES.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Author Archives: missemtoo