(Not so) Easy Rider

Posted on August 21, 2013 by missemtoo

One of the hardest parts of summer is the lack of opportunities to actually accomplish anything. While I enjoy the myriad chances for fun that only summer seems to bring (boat rides at the lake, fresh veggies and fruits picked straight from our yard, water parks, consuming ungodly amounts of ice cream, drinking wine on the dock because wine and dock), I struggle balancing those experiences with the usual, run-of-the-mill chores (and even maybe occasional moments to myself that don’t involve hiding in the bathroom with my iPhone).

It’s not so much that we’re having such a blast every minute, I don’t get around to the laundry… but more that Ella and Annie can reliably play well together for approximately twenty-three minutes. After that, one of them is a) bleeding b) trying to wrestle the stuffed Chihuahua she won at the amusement park out of the dog’s mouth c) on the floor complaining that she’s absolutely starving, despite having eaten just an hour ago, or d) all of the above. Everyday life stuff is just really hard to accomplish in twenty-three minute bursts.

This includes exercise. During the school year, I have a pretty predictable exercise routine that fits in nicely between school and piano. In the summer, I have to cobble together whatever I can – which, recently, has meant sometimes getting up before Nick heads to work and going for a short run or a bike ride.

Absurd. I know.

This is absolutely not how I pictured myself, and not something that I ever wanted – but sometimes life doesn’t go just the way you planned to, no? About a year ago, I accidentally became one of those people who actually crave exercise. No one is more horrified by this than I am. Although, for years, I’ve worked out enough to be healthy, it was never something I wanted to do – it was something I needed to do if I wanted to continue regularly consuming Caramel Macchiatos and eating two desserts nightly.

Unexpectedly, I found an exercise class that I loved and somehow got hooked and something changed and insert some kind of scientific blah blah blah about metabolism and whatever and now, when I don’t exercise for a few days in a row, I start to feel all weird and skin-crawly (no, I don’t have lice. I checked). Whereas before I’d blow off working out at the slightest provocation (there’s a 5% chance of rain plus also it’s time to test the smoke alarms… Guess I can’t run today – bummer!), I now feel compelled to get out and do something, which is so annoying.

Let this be a warning to those of you who are considering starting to exercise.

That I have not only continued biking but come to actually enjoy it totally shocks me. I think a large part of this is due to my being able to carry on full monologues as I bike, something that’s difficult to do while running, awkward while doing Zumba, and impossible while swimming… but that’s neither here nor there.

When I set off on the bike last week, it was misting ever-so-slightly outside. The forecast called for rain later in the day, but the radar was clear, so I decided to go for the ride anyway, figuring I’d enjoy the cooling effects of the mist. About ten minutes into the route, I discovered a dirt trail leading off of road, and I opted to take it, hoping to find a new path that I could travel regularly. Shortly after turning onto the trail, I rode past some deer who didn’t even move as I ~~whizzed~~ coasted by.

No, I didn’t process this photo to make it blurry; I just took it, you know, from a moving bike.
Also, passing fawns on my morning ride? Awesome.

I was still in my communing-with-nature fog when I noticed that the mist wasn’t really mist anymore, but actual drops of water. As in, rain. Within a few minutes, the rain changed from a drizzle to an outright downpour.

And it so happens that biking in the rain isn’t as romantic – or as easy – as it sounded in my head.

Taken from the driveway, where you can’t see my shrivel-y fingers, but trust me, they were.

Despite – nay, because of – my helmet, the water on my head would pool together into enormous blobs, eventually becoming so heavy that they’d plop right into my eyes. I’ve never been great at administering eye drops, so this constant assault caused me to frantically blink, which kinda makes it hard to see. I’d attempted to wipe the water with my hands, but a) they were also covered with water, so the point was moot, and b) the road was suddenly slippery, and I’m not exactly what you’d call a “steady” biker under ideal conditions, so letting go of the handle bars wasn’t exactly helpful.

By the time I arrived home, barely squeaking in before Nick absolutely had to leave to get to work on time, I was completely soaked through and my fingers were prune-y. I spent at least five minutes – and burned more calories than I had on the ride – trying peel myself out of my workout clothes (which aren’t exactly known for being, um, forgiving).

Sooo… perhaps I’m not cut out for this nature-communing bike ride stuff.

Yeah, the deer-spotting was really cool.
But maybe next time, I’ll change the smoke alarm batteries instead.

FOILED again

Posted on August 13, 2013 by missemtoo

Despite the fact that “Annie” ended weeks ago, not a day has gone by when Ella and Annie haven’t sung one of the songs, acted out scenes from the show, or – when I’ve asked them to clean their rooms or maybe clear a single dish – referred to me as Miss Hannigan. This play-acting has been especially rampant when they have friends over, with their wardrobes being pored over to find the perfect “orphan” dresses and full musical productions being put on in every room of the house.

Last Friday was no different. They’d invited a friend over for a movie day (which had been strategically timed to coincide with the day I’d set aside for near-constant birthday party preparations), but only got about twenty minutes into “Annie” before the pause button was hit and they’d hidden away in Annabelle’s bedroom, rehearsing the opening of the show line by line. By line. By line. By every. Single. Word. For. Word. Line.

After a good two hours’ worth of rehearsals (which was a goldmine as far as birthday preparations were concerned; hooray for uninvolved parenting!), they invited me upstairs for a “performance.”

I’m just now realizing that the tape used to hold these signs is medical tape, which they’d been expressly forbidden to use for anything except, like, medical stuff. Awesome.

The production was fairly elaborate, with multiple roles for each girl, two musical numbers, and carefully choreographed dance scenes. The highlight of the show was the finale of “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” which featured the three of them somersaulting, in time, off of Annie’s bed and onto the “orphan bedding” (aka piles of blankets, sheets, and pillows) below.

As they scrambled about, calling simultaneously upon their inner Gabby Douglases and their Little Orphan Annies, I happened to notice, amongst the chaos, a package of birth control pills under Annie’s bedside table.

Perhaps I should clarify: this is not “a” package of birth control pills but my package of birth control pills. And before it gets all weird and TMI-ish, I will tell you that, although we are absolutely done having children, I take them to help control endometriosis, rather than as pregnancy prevention. If I ever become pregnant again, Nick will be seeking a lawyer, if you know what I mean. Okay, now it’s become all weird and TMI.

It might have been prudent for me to, I don’t know, pick up the pills or hide them away or maybe talk to Annie about not playing with medicine, but honestly, the only thought that went through my head was, “Huh. So Annie’s got birth control pills under her bedside table. Keepin’ it classy.” I assumed it was an old, empty package — only the outer blue sleeve, not any actual pills — and chalked it up as just one of the many odd and inappropriate items that Annie’s got squirreled away in her bedroom (this very morning, I found a pair of scissors in her sheets).

The following night, after Nick and I had collapsed following Saturday’s birthday party, I vaguely registered that the girls were playing upstairs, but was so grateful that they were playing nicely and independently, I didn’t care if they were boring holes in the walls or tying sheets together to shimmy out the window (has anyone actually done this?). Perhaps I should have, however, because – several hours after bedtime – just as I’d exited Annie’s room after placing a kiss on her cherubic cheeks, something in the guest room caught my eye. So I stopped in… and found this:

Why, yes, that is the entire contents of two of Annie’s dresser drawers, piled in a jumbled heap on the floor by the guest bed.

It seems that Friday’s “performance” had inspired them, and they’d decided to create an entire doll orphanage, with – naturally – piles of clothing on the floor to better simulate the orphan experience. After an exceptionally long day filled with birthday party festivities and general exhaustion, I can’t even begin to tell you how delightful it was to discover this little surprise. I actually contemplated pulling a Miss Hannigan right there and then and hauling their butts out of bed – at nearly midnight – to clean that dump until it shone like the top of the Chrysler building, but I decided that doing so might require a visit from CPS. And also, the girls don’t really know what the Chrysler building is.

To my even greater delight, it turns out this wasn’t the only surprise awaiting me. As I reached over to turn off the light on the bedside table, I ran into this little crime scene:

Guess that birth control package wasn’t so empty after all. Surprise!!

Turns out, somehow, my brand new pack of birth control pills had fallen into the garbage, where Annie had found it and assumed that I didn’t want them anymore. While I can follow that logic, I’m a little more stumped as to why she thought it would be a good idea to push the pills out of their foil packaging and all over the bedside table. Hey, y’all, six year-old logic is wacky.

So… not only did we have to have a talk about how it is never, ever okay to play with medicine, not even medicine that is in the trash and comes in adorably fun pop-o-matic packaging, but I also now have the super-fun task of attempting to put the pills back in the correct order, lest I wind up totally stomach-achy all month. Awesome! I love puzzles!
(But don’t worry, I can’t get knocked up, because Nick… Okay, okay. TMI. Moving on.)

The girls may be the ones performing “Hard Knock Life,” but I can assure you that, in this case, ‘steada treated, I was definitely the one who was tricked.

You Never Know What You’re Gonna Get

Posted on July 8, 2013 by missemtoo

We spent last week at the lake with some of my extended family – a dozen of us in all – a “stolen” week, as Nick called it, because the weather was supposed to be horrendously thunderstorm-y every single day, but somehow, only one day was too rainy to be on the dock. When we’re down for just an afternoon or a weekend, I (try to) keep the girls and myself eating relatively normally — fruits and veggies, snacks devoid of too many unpronounceable ingredients, dessert food reserved for dessert. But when we dig in for a longer stay and my relatives are in town, I officially give up and accept that my aunt will give them chocolate chip cookies and Diet Coke for breakfast, my mother will sneak them candies and sips of iced tea throughout the day, and my cousins will invite them to help finish off entire family-sized bags of potato chips in one sitting. It’s still totally “everything in moderation” with 51 weeks mostly on and one week ridiculously off, right?

I prefer to save myself for Doritos. There is a reason that I don’t keep them in my house, and it is because they are filled with crack and made by the devil. I believe I ate my weight’s worth in Doritos last week, although I did manage to save room for several Magnum bars. And Fourth of July cake (for breakfast). And about half a cup of Helluva Good french onion dip. Daily.

During these weeks together, everyone is in vacation mode, where calories don’t matter and bacon is a food group, and it becomes a snack free-for-all, a mob mentality frenzy to see just how many Pringles or donut holes or Cheez Doodles we can load into the pantry. It is also every person for him or herself, because with twelve people sharing a kitchen, that organic lemonade you purchased just for you, or the leftover chicken salad you were planning to eat for lunch, magically disappears the moment someone else decides it looks tasty. Unless you put your name on it (which I have done, quite literally), it’s fair game.

I do sometimes try to show a little restraint, to ascertain the item’s intended-for consumer, if only because I’m hoping karma will smile kindly on me the next time and save me the one remaining perfectly ripe peach I’ve been eyeing. Hence, when I opened the refrigerator last weekend and discovered a beautiful little blue chocolate box containing just one of its four original specialty chocolates — a bon bon in the exact same shade of robin’s egg blue as the box — I simply closed the door and walked away. Surely, by leaving only one chocolate in the box, someone was saving it for themselves… Also, I could eat the Magnum bars in the meantime. Moderation, people.

When the little blue chocolate was still sitting there the next afternoon, however, all bets were off. I took the candy out of the box and examined it, saying aloud to my cousin, “I wonder what’s in this?” (because a blue-coated chocolate doesn’t exactly scream out caramel [yay!] or cherry [omg, no] or nougat [maybe]). A sniff didn’t provide me with any clues — it just smelled, you know, like chocolate — so I broke it in half and was delighted to discover that it was a perfect combination of milk chocolate and mint. I’d love to say that I savored each morsel, but really, I scarfed that puppy down in a single, satisfied bite, threw away the little blue box, and went on with my day.

It was only much later, after the kids had gone to bed, that my grandmother began to ask about the chocolate. “I just can’t imagine where it’s gone! I gave the rest away when the ladies came for bridge last week but I was saving that one for myself.” When asked why this particular piece of chocolate was so important, she replied that it was a Godiva chocolate, and never in her life had she had a piece of Godiva chocolate (ninety-three years is a long time to wait for Godiva, y’all), and she just wanted to know what it tasted like — but more importantly, she simply wanted to know who ate it.

At first, I didn’t answer because she hadn’t actually asked me the question (I was in another part of the house and was informed by a cousin that my grandma was making inquiries), so it totally wasn’t lying because I wasn’t saying anything at all. An hour later, while we all played cards and my grandmother again bemoaned the mysterious missing chocolate, I feigned ignorance because, quite frankly, I wasn’t so eager to confess being the culprit – and really, I was doing her a loving favor because ignorance is bliss, no? Several hands later, however, I could avoid her inquiries no longer, and admitted that yes, I had taken and eaten the candy. The little blue chocolate. The specialty Godiva chocolate, the one she had been saving. I had taken away the one opportunity she’d had in her entire life to eat a piece of Godiva. I also might have admitted to clubbing baby seals, allowing hair feathers to become popular a couple of years back, and not properly recycling my batteries, but I don’t think she heard me.

Because they’d become a bit giggly during The Great Chocolate Interrogation, slipping me sideways glances and trying not to laugh as I sat, silent, pretending not to hear my grandmother asking plaintively why someone would deny her this one pleasure in life (she didn’t actually say this, but, c’mon, her one shot at Godiva chocolate!), and also because they’re just awesome like that, my aunts and my mom were not about to let me take the fall — at least, not alone. The moment I ‘fessed up, all three of them piped in, “Actually, Mom… I ate the chocolate.” “No, I ate it.” “Really, Mom, it was me!“, which successfully muddied the situation and offered me a small reprieve. (Are they not wickedly fabulous?!) My cousin, however, was more than happy to chime, “But Emily! I saw you eat it!”
Way to be a team player, dude.

In all of the laughing and confusion (and maybe because she was starving, having not eaten the chocolate), I truly don’t think my grandma knew that it was I who’d been the thief. Nevertheless, I vowed to rectify the situation, adding “Godiva chocolates” to the family shopping list that had been lying on the kitchen counter.

“FOOD” pretty much sums it up.
Doritos. Word.

As it turned out, I had an errand to run, and so I was the designated shopper, a task that is usually reserved for at least two people because the amount of food necessary to feed all of us for a week requires more than one cart (the chocolate chip cookies alone can fill an entire bag. I’m so not kidding). When just one person is doing the shopping, however, you’re forced to stuff the cart to the brim, utilizing every single square inch of available space — and some unavailable space — like some sort of grocery store sherpa.

The Godiva is in there somewhere…
Yes, the paper plates are balancing on the beer. That’s called ingenious.
And yes, the paper towels are leaning precariously and might have fallen off twice. That’s called stupid.

Because my grandma’s box of chocolates had been a “fancy” collection, I wasn’t able to find its duplicate at the grocery store, and so instead I bought her a bag – an entire bag! – of multi-flavored Godiva truffles. White! Milk! Dark! With so many amazing choices, surely she’d never even miss the little blue mint one that I’d stolen from her.

Upon arriving home, my grandma was presented with the glorious, new, gleaming bag of truffles. She looked at them, seeming puzzled, and I assumed that she was simply taking time to revel in this incredible moment. At last, Godiva for me! Then she looked up at me and said, “What are these for?”

I told her that I was giving them to her. Just for her. Because I’d eaten hers, the one special chocolate. And I was trying to make up for it with this enormous bag of delicious chocolates. Paying it forward. Improving my karma.

She paused, chuckled, and then handed the bag back to me and said, “Oh, Emily! If I’d really wanted that chocolate, I’d have eaten it already! Besides, don’t you think that Godiva is awfully rich for someone with diabetes?”

If anyone would like some Godiva truffles, they’re in the fridge at the lake. An entire bag. Truffles. Delicious. Be sure to put your name on them, though – just use a sticky note; we’ve got plenty – unless you don’t mind sharing.

But save at least two for me, please. I think I’ve used up all my karma for a while.

Golden Slumbers

Posted on July 2, 2013 by missemtoo

For quite some time, Ella and Annie have been begging to have a sleepover with our next door neighbors at the lake (girls who are significantly older, but with whom they get along famously). They’d never slept over at anyone’s house before, and I wasn’t sure how it would go… But, with us visiting our family’s lake house this week, last night seemed as good a chance as any to give it a whirl. The girls were thrilled. (And, hey, it would ~~mean that Nick and I wouldn’t have to share a room with them~~ give them a chance to develop a little independence. Win, win!)

I expected Annie to maybe struggle a bit, both because she’s the youngest and also because she gets scared at the slightest provocation (taking her to Brave may have scarred her for life; her resulting determination to use bows and arrows in the house may have scarred me for life). I decided it would be a good idea to walk her and Ella next door, check out where they’d be sleeping, visit briefly with their friends’ mom, and give a few reassuring hugs before I returned home for a night ~~of freedom~~ with my family.

After dropping off their overnight bags (they’d been instructed to bring only necessities, so naturally they each brought 286 stuffed animals, two changes of clothes, several blankets, a bag of toiletries, and maybe 63 books), we went upstairs and I chatted with the mom. Then, to my surprise, Ella pulled me aside and whispered that she didn’t think she could do this. (Just when you think you’ve got your kids down, bam!, they let you know what a presumptive idiot you are.) She was too nervous, it wasn’t her own bed, what if she couldn’t fall asleep??

I talked to her for a minute, reassuring her that I thought she’d be fine — but if not, she could come home anytime. This seemed to placate her, and after I gave her a hug, I turned to do the same with Annie – but she’d already run off to play, dismissing me with a single hand wave. So much for my natural motherly instinct.

Like everywhere east of the Mississippi, it had been raining basically all day, and the ground was absolutely soaked. On the way over, we’d eked our way up the (normally grass, now mud) hill between our houses, and so I gingerly started the short journey home, taking painstakingly slow stutter steps to avoid my feet sliding entirely out from under me.

Yeah. You know when you’re holding something, a towering pile of boxes or library books or plates you’re balancing for the circus, and you feel them start to go off kilter… and you try to recalibrate, to calm the swaying, to stop the inevitable, but suddenly you know – there is just no doubt – that everything is going down, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it?

Yup. Behold: the inevitable.

Shorts, legs, shoes and forearms (where I’d tried to brace myself): covered with mud.
It should be noted that this photo was taken by my mother, who promptly put it on Facebook, saying I’d “hurried” down the hill. Ahhh, family…

It took a good thirty minutes to remove the mud and the stench, but when I finally did, I rewarded myself with a nice big bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream (with homemade fudge sauce, FTW!), half expecting Ella to come walking in any moment… But, for a solid two hours, the doors stayed blissfully closed. I’d just settled in to savor a glass of Sauvignon Blanc when my phone chirped all-too-happily at me to alert me that I had a text. It seems that Ella had borrowed our neighbor’s iPod and just needed to check in…

8 year-olds and hyperbole = BFFs.

The texts continued for a good half-hour, and although it is endearing being loved so so so so much, it’s even more endearing when your child powers through her first sleepover and actually falls asleep. After a couple of “I might come home but I’m not sure” exchanges, I told her that either was fine — stay, or return — but that she really needed to get some sleep. Amazingly, she agreed, and the texts stopped… so I assume that she fell asleep shortly thereafter. Or perhaps she robbed a bank and then wrote the great American novel – but hey, I didn’t hear from her… so yay, sleepovers!

Although both of my girls usually awaken early, there’d been talk amongst them and their buddies (who, as middle-schoolers, tend to go all Edward and [post-gruesome-Renesmee birth] Bella if they see the sun before noon) that they’d try to sleep until 9:00. I said a prayer to the sleep gods that maybe their friends’ habits would rub off on Annie and Ella, hoping they’d all get some decent shut-eye, and then went to bed myself. Despite the rare opportunity to sleep in ourselves, Nick and I both got up early today – and, as I looked down at the neighbors’ beach shortly before 8 a.m., I saw all four girls, pajama-clad, groggily dipping toes in the lake and checking out the foggy morning. Sleep gods, you totally slacked on this one.

Around 10:20, they finally came home, having had a marvelous time and looking surprisingly zippy.

Ella’s eyes are closed probably because she’s trying to concentrate on corralling the stuffed animal tribe she brought with her.

I girded myself for the exhausted meltdowns that I was sure would come today… But, again, both girls completely disregarded my superior parental instincts and had a great, cheerful, not-at-all cranky day. They pushed all the way through until 8:00, when I began to notice that they looked a little droopy as they ate their dessert, so I encouraged them to move along and head to bed. They brushed and washed and pajama-ed, protesting that they were just fine, not tired at all… But, a mere three minutes later when I came to check on them and say goodnight, they were both completely zonked, already snoring away.

Looks like mother does (occasionally) know best. Holla!
I’d definitely recommend not following me home, however. At least not after it’s rained.

Not As I Do

Posted on June 18, 2013 by missemtoo

Like many second graders, Ella raised caterpillars/butterflies this year (hers, inexplicably, was named “Cookies”). During the ~~captivity period~~ larval stage, she kept a journal, in which she was encouraged to include both facts and fictional elements. After the butterflies were released, she brought the journal home over Memorial Day weekend, and I was pleased to see how much she’d used her imagination. I was also struck by the frequent pop culture references she’d woven into her narrative, especially the ones where she had only a vague idea what she was talking about…
No, she doesn’t have a Facebook account. And following strangers? WTH??Twitter/Facebook mashup, perhaps?

Then, I arrived at a chapter of her journal that contained mostly dialogue (albeit without any quotation marks, making it read like a very disjointed poem), a conversation between “Cookies” and another caterpillar friend, about heading to a restaurant called Nectar for something to eat and drink when they came out of their chrysalises. It was cute and charming, until I stumbled upon this delightful morsel:

“Fine…”
“Yes! Yes! I got you to go!”
“But Cookies, the only drink is alcoholic nectar. Gross! Okay, I immediately regret going.”
“Why? Nectar’s good!”
“No, not that.”

It’s always super fun when your second-grader mentions alcohol in a caterpillar narrative. No wonder her teacher was looking at me like that when I came in as the Mystery Reader.

What’s particularly amusing/ironic/bad karma is that I don’t drink very much. I mean, yes, I sometimes enjoy a glass of wine, and on special occasions, we’ll create fun drinks for us and our guests to enjoy, but I’m hardly what you’d call a lush. I didn’t drink at all – not one drop – before college, not because I had a moral problem with it, but because my friends and I ~~were dorks~~ just never got into it. Even as a college freshman, drinking wasn’t my thing; my roommate declared that “my” song was Adam Ant’s “Goody Two Shoes,” because I neither drank nor smoked. In fact, it took until May for me to actually get drunk, and on that occasion I called my mother — not to “confess,” but because it somehow seemed like a good idea to check in with her while I was hammered. (On the other hand, given that Natty Lite, wine coolers, and Boone’s were the most accessible alcoholic beverages on campus, I was probably wise not to imbibe too often.)

Now that things like Pinot, Sauvignon Blanc, and Cosmos have become part of my vocabulary, I have a drink more often, but still very rarely in large amounts. So infrequent are these bouts of over-indulgence, friends who have actually witnessed such occasions trade stories like they’re talking about the war (“I remember where I was when ‘Thriller’ first aired/the Challenger exploded/baby Jessica was pulled from the well, but do you remember where you were when you saw Emily get drunk???”). So it came as more than a little surprising that Ella featured Cookies talking about alcoholic nectar.

It finally dawned on me that she must have been recalling some recent conversations we’d had about drinking. A couple of months back, Nick and Ella had read Because of Winn Dixie, where one of the characters is a recovering alcoholic. Ella’d also just had the perennial favorite Drugs Are Bad lesson from the school nurse, after which she’d asked us about what it means to be drunk. I told her to call my mother. Plus, there are times when we go out to eat and Nick or I will order an alcoholic beverage and the girls will ask for a sip, a request we’ll (obviously) decline. When they were little, we’d simply say, “No, sorry, this is only for grown-ups,” but now that they’re old enough to understand, we explain that there’s alcohol in the drink, so it’s off-limits. At least until they’re tall enough to reach the top of the liquor cabinet and refill the bottles with water so we don’t know what’s missing.

Mystery solved, I reassured myself that surely her teacher wouldn’t think of us negatively — if anything, she’d get a chuckle out of it — and patted myself on the back for my excellent parenting skills. Right about then, I heard knocking at the front door and asked one of my offspring to open it. Because it was Memorial Day weekend, Ella and Annie had been in and out all day playing with the neighborhood kids, one of whom now stood at the door. I called out a hello, thinking that she wanted to play with the girls, but she then made it clear that she needed me: in the coming-and-going commotion, a door had been accidentally left open, and our ~~jackass~~ dog Joey had gotten loose and was running in the street. Knowing what a pain it can be to corral Joey, I immediately headed toward the neighbor girl and stepped outside, thanking her for holding the door for me. She looked at me a bit quizzically but, being polite, said nothing and came with me to help grab the dog.

It was only then that I realized why I couldn’t exactly “grab” Joey, nor even answer the door myself: my arms were too busy holding these.

Memorial Day strawberry margarita, anyone?

At least Cookies’s caterpillar buddy thought that alcoholic nectar was “gross.” Maybe I’m doing something right after all.

Back on the saddle again

Posted on June 11, 2013 by missemtoo

I like a good bike ride as much as the next person. If by good you mean “along a beach,” or with a purpose, like to get ice cream.

I do own a decent bike, and Nick and I completed a (short) triathlon a few years back (for the record, not that it matters at all, not even in the least, I totally beat him). But still, I haven’t viewed biking as exercise or a fun excursion, but rather primarily as a mode of transportation. From home to the nearest Starbucks.

And yet, now that our six year-old has mastered riding her two-wheeler sans training wheels (cue trumpets and confetti cannons), it has become our “thing” to take family bike rides.

Have you ever tried to ride a bike and take a photo with your cell phone? Not as easy as it sounds.

Annie’s two-wheeler mastery is annoyingly timed because, about a month ago, I injured my hip/hamstring/glute and have essentially been unable to do any of my usual forms of exercise… but I am allowed to bike. And since I’ve been going stir-crazy (not to mention having gained five pounds in three weeks because, hello, that lemon pound cake isn’t going to eat itself), I’ve hesitantly decided that cycling is better than nothing. Hence, when the girls rode to a birthday party down the block, I decided I would do a more challenging bike ride 30 minutes before the party’s end, then swing by and escort them home.

It was a beautiful day and I was feeling good. When that half-hour was up, I cruised to the birthday house a few minutes early so I could check my phone and jauntily confirm just how far I’d traveled and how many calories I’d burned. And that’s when I did the double take: 6 miles in 30 minutes. SIX. MEASLY. MILES. I’m not so good with The Math, but I’m pretty sure that 6 miles in 30 minutes means I was biking a 5-minute mile.

The man who won the 2011 New York Marathon ran a four-minute and 47-second mile. He ran faster than I biked. FOR TWENTY-SIX STRAIGHT MILES. (Hell, to even qualify for the 2013 New York Marathon, you need average a 6:18 mile.) We don’t have to discuss the calories I expended on my apparent “jog” around the park, but let’s just say it didn’t exactly cover the lemon pound cake.

I scowled as I put the phone away, but tried to congratulate myself for getting out there and at least doing something. Just moving made me feel better than I had in weeks.

And then I got off the bike. And suddenly remembered the other reason I don’t like cycling.

I walked into that party looking like I hadn’t spent thirty glacial minutes on a bike, but several agonizing days on a pony. A big, wide, angry pony. Thankfully, I’m friends with the party hosts, so I was able to hide my awkward gait from the other pick-up parents by limping behind the party table and helping to clean up the cupcake-decorating supplies.

At last, table cleaned, I could put off the inevitable no longer: we’d have to ride home. On our bikes. While carrying party bags and favors and Ella’s leftover cupcake.

The entire experience was so traumatic, I decided that it warranted some therapy.

My therapist’s name was Peanut Butter Tracks. I highly, highly recommend her.

The joys of motherhood

Posted on May 22, 2013 by missemtoo

As seen on Facebook:

Hey! So have you ever come home and entered the kitchen only to have your daughter say, “Mommy – I think somebody did something in here…” and then you look over on the counter and notice that there is a puddle of wet, red glop at least 2″ thick by 2′ round? And then you see that a the pulpy red mess isn’t human or animal but is actually watermelon guts, and at first you think, “Holy crap, the dog must have jumped up on the counter and clawed his way into the watermelon…” but then you notice that the melon has a clean slice running down it (and why would a dog crack into an unscented, unopened watermelon??) and you realize, “Holy crap, that watermelon must have had a rotten spot and it became so spoiled that it just burst itself open and exploded its insides all over the counter”??

And because it was a *rotten* watermelon, the insides aren’t spongy like watermelon is supposed to be, but are instead all congealed and gelatinous and now oozing all over the entire counter and onto the floor? And also because it was rotten, the entire kitchen is now enveloped in this thick, gag-inducing SMELL… OMG THE SMELL… And you’re actually concerned that maybe you won’t be able to clean it up because your stomach is bottoming out but if you don’t, who will? because your husband is on an airplane and it is STILL LEAKING AND SMELLING and you have a piano student coming to the house in 30 minutes?? So you hike up your If-Mama-Can-Wipe-Butts-And-Catch-Puke-In-Her-Hands-Surely-She-Can-Clean-This-DISGUSTING-WATERMELON-AWFULNESS pants and manage to get rid of the mess?????Anyone? ANYONE???

No? Well. It was SOMETHIN’ ELSE. Truly.
The joys of motherhood just overfloweth in my kitchen, lemme tell you.

Annie wasn’t wearing her coat when I arrived to pick her up from school. Normally, I’m an if-you-don’t-want-to-wear-your-coat-that’s-fine-but-no-complaining-if-you-freeze-to-death kind of mom, but for some reason — maybe because it was a little chillier than normal? — I told her to please put on her coat for the walk home. Well, it must have been a rough afternoon in kindergarten, because there was NO. WAY. she was putting on the coat. She was too hot. She didn’t need it. It would make her backpack uncomfortable. Tantrum mode, right there in the school lobby.

Admittedly, it wasn’t that cold out, so I could have backtracked on the coat thing. And, if she’d been even the tiniest bit reasonable, or polite, or just not a screeching maniac, I might have rescinded my directive. But when you do the full-body I WILL NOT LISTEN TO YOU dance and thrash around on the lobby bench and yell loudly at me about HOW UNFAIR I am, well, let’s just say that I don’t care how nutty my original request might have been: the gauntlet had been thrown, and that coat was going to be worn, sohelpmeGod.

I played it cool, didn’t raise my voice, only gave her one or two you-are-embarrassing-me-KNOCK-IT-OFF-AND-STOP-BEING-A-LUNATIC looks before I sat down on the bench beside her and — totally pulling out one of my awesome parenting strategies — proclaimed that we could just wait here for as long as it took for her to put on her coat. About three minutes into the wait, however, as she continued to freak out beside me, and after I’d checked my email and Facebook twice, I realized that I was the one being punished and that I didn’t want to sit on this freakin’ bench anymore — I wanted to go HOME. So, parenting strategies be damned, I got up and told her I was leaving (wait — another parenting strategy, holla!) and, lo and behold, Annie both followed me AND grudgingly put on the coat.

Given that she scowled and stomped and whined for the duration of the walk, and considering her lovely display in the school lobby, I decided that a brief time-out was in order when we arrived home. I instructed her to sit on the stairs and, in a couple of minutes, told her that I would tell her when she could get up.

As I was taking off my own coat (chilly outside), I heard Ella’s voice from the kitchen. She sounded fairly perturbed, so I headed that way pretty quickly… And then the smell hit me… (See above: Facebook disaster.)

According to the comments I received, this apparently has happened to other people, which made me feel slightly better — but also made me feel horrible for them, because I totally mouth-breathed for a good 10 minutes while I cleaned up, and I imagine they must have felt similarly disgusted.

At first, I just stood looking at the mess, because how in the HELL do you clean up piles of gelatinous watermelon??? You can’t pick it up with your hands (OMG). You can’t use a sponge. You can’t sweep it away. You can’t even call the dogs to come help, because if it was rotten enough to explode into your kitchen like an angry gremlin bursting out of an egg, surely it was gross enough to cause canine dysentery or something. More than once, I actually said, out loud, “I don’t know what to do,” which was really comforting to Ella, who stood feet away watching the disaster ooze all over the counters.

I finally decided that the only way to fix it was to use paper towels to push the goo into a bowl, then dump the bowl into the sink, and repeat the process (many, many, OH SO MANY times) until everything was gone, then run the disposal like crazy and disinfect the counter a few hundred times. All while not breathing through my nose because throwing up would definitely have made the situation more complicated.

Did I mention that I had a piano student arriving at the house in 30 minutes? Yeah. Good times.

At long last, the mess was contained and I’d stopped dry heaving and I went to get Ella a snack. It was then that I noticed that Annie was still seated on the steps in what had become the longest time-out in history. Not sure which parenting strategy that was.

I’d love to say that, since then, Annie hasn’t pitched a fit over her outfits again. But that would just be silly. I will say, however, that since then, no watermelons have entered the house, nor will they anytime soon, unless they’re accompanied by freshness guarantees and nose plugs.

The joys of motherhood very literally overfloweth, indeed.

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