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.

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.

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.

Roger That

Posted on August 19, 2013 by missemtoo

A few weeks ago, on a whim, I told the girls about the FAO Schwarz piano scene from the movie Big. They were intrigued, so we watched the clip on YouTube, after which I began describing to them other favorite scenes — Tom Hanks chewing the baby corn, spitting out the caviar at the office party, hitting his head on the bunk bed when he first discovers that he’s an adult — and was extremely disappointed that no one has taken the time to illegally upload those clips to YouTube. After rummaging through our old movie collection, I finally emerged victorious with Big… on VHS. Awwww, yeah.

I decided to show them the entire movie (minus the love story part, which kind of accounts for half the movie, but whatever), and they watched with rapt attention, finding it as funny as I hoped they would. It didn’t dawn on me that Big would impact our lives in any significant fashion, until – about 0.84 seconds after the movie finished – Ella rushed over to the piano and attempted to play “Heart and Soul.”

When I was a teenager, I attended a camp (an amazing all-girls camp up in Algonquin Park, Canada, called Tanamakoon) where music was highly prized. There was a weekly music night, which was as enthusiastically attended as a homecoming game, and for which you had to sign up as a performer many days in advance to ensure that you had a spot. We sang songs every morning before breakfast, each day waiting for Assembly to begin, after dinner each night, and throughout the day as campers completed various activities… and we sang them in spontaneous harmony.The camp musical was put on in an awesomely-outfitted open-air theater. Boom boxes and mix tapes were as essential as life jackets and bug spray. Tanamakoon breathed music.

In the lodge was a beautiful, weathered grand piano. Save for music night, it wasn’t played too often, but campers and staff alike would regularly plink out ditties as they passed by. Despite Tanamakaoon’s love affair with music, “Heart and Soul” was forbidden on the grand piano – in part because the propensity to play it with gusto might harm the instrument, and in (larger) part because hearing it 293 times each day would drive everyone insane.

Now I understand why.

I thought that “Heart and Soul” might be Big‘s only lasting impact (save for the girls gnawing away at baby corn like frantic mice)… but then, as their birthday party approached, Ella requested a pair of walkie talkies. Inspired by Josh and Billy, Ella thought that perhaps she could communicate with our next-door neighbor, who happens to be one of her best friends. It seemed innocuous enough, so after reading reviews on Amazon, I bought a pair and wrapped them up for the birthday celebration.

Ella responded with great enthusiasm, even agreeing to share them with Annie (I’d written on the package that this was to be a joint gift). I was pleased with her reaction, but was not anticipating that Nick might respond with just as much, if not more, excitement. (That said, given that he practically ripped the girls’ first Lego set out of their hands a couple of Christmases ago, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.)

Nick immediately got to work teaching the girls the finer points of walkie-talkie use: how to turn them on, how to turn them off (even more important, lest the batteries die), how to actually speak into them, how to actually listen to the other person speaking rather than immediately jumping in and talking simultaneously, and a few other walkie talkie particulars (“handles” were discussed, although none was decided upon. When they are, I am formally claiming “Lady Mama-Lade”).

They then began trying out the walkie talkies, testing their range, hiding in one room of the house while trying to sneak up on the other. It soon became clear that the girls were having some difficulty ending their communications with the word “over,” and Nick took it upon himself to fix that situation.

“Whenever you finish speaking, you need to say ‘over.'”

“Why?”

“So the other person knows you’re done.”

“Won’t they know I’m done because I stop talking?”

“No. You need to say ‘over.'”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Here, let’s test it out. You go downstairs, and I’ll talk to you.”

“I still don’t see why…”

“Just go! We can’t stand next to each other and talk!”

“Okay, okay………”

“Are you there? Do you read me? Over.”

“I’m not reading anything. I’m just in the dining room.”

“Over.”

“What?”

“You didn’t say ‘over’ when you were done. Over.”

“I don’t want to say it.”

“Over.”

“What?”

“Say ‘over’ when you’re finished! Over.”

“I’m not saying ‘over.'”

“You just did!”

“Over.”

The walkie talkies were put away for the duration of the birthday party, but managed to make an appearance right before bedtime. By that time, in their post-party haze, Annie and Ella were practically walking into walls and speaking in tongues, exhibiting the same glassy-eyed stares as college freshmen who’d just pulled their first all-nighters, so I assumed that they’d pass out quickly. As I was tucking them into their beds, I heard Nick casually tell them that they could use their walkie talkies, but “don’t talk too long.”

It so happens that, to punch-drunk six and eight year-olds, “too long” is a relative term.

Forty-five minutes later, and a good ninety minutes past their usual bedtime, I happened to be walking by their doors when I heard a peculiar beeping sound coming from Annie’s room. Thinking that perhaps her clock-radio alarm was going off, I crept into the room, hoping to silence it before it woke her… and caught her guiltily slipping the still-warm walkie talkie under her pillow.

I didn’t even have to say anything; apparently, my own glassy-eyed death glare spoke volumes. After giving Ella the same stare-down, the walkie talkies were remarkably silent for the rest of the night.

I wonder how Nick will react if I get them model airplanes.

Over.

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.

Sugar pie, honey bunch

Posted on August 6, 2013 by missemtoo

When my extended family visits the lake every year, everyone wants to hang out together – in part because we only see each other one week a year, and in part because we’re awesome (duh). Understandably, Ella and Annie never want to miss out on the action, and we try to include them as often as possible… But there are times when those of us over the age of 18 would like to do our own thing, where maybe we can eat meal without having to watch our language or have anyone physically adhered to the entire left side of your body while informing you that she’s changed her mind, she doesn’t like rice anymore.

Sometimes – especially when their next door best buddies are around – the girls don’t mind not being included in the grown-up fun. Other times, however, they put up a bit of a fuss. Yesterday was one of those days. It was lovely out, a perfect summer morning, and my cousins informed me that they’d like to have lunch at a restaurant that we get to by boat.

Not many complaints with this as your morning view.

The girls think that taking the boat to a restaurant is the coolest thing ever (probably because it is), and I knew that they’d be bummed to be left behind. As I explained to them that they’d be staying at the house, I played my first card: the baby. See, one of my cousins and his wife have recently had a baby boy, and when I suggested to Annie and Ella that perhaps they could “help” their great aunt, Marti (who is my aunt and also the baby’s grandma) watch their itty bitty second cousin, their faces lit up. I could tell that a bit of disappointment still lingered, however, and I wasn’t sure how to erase it.

And then it dawned on me: a junk meal contest.

Last month, when my other aunt visited the lake, she had spirited the girls away one morning and given them an “Auntie Breakfast”: leftover cake, cookies, and Diet Coke (something they are normally allowed to have, like, never). Despite the fact that their sugar high still hasn’t entirely worn off, I told the girls that perhaps they could challenge Great Aunt Marti to see if she could create a lunch that would top Great Aunt Lisa’s breakfast.

Bingo.

They raced toward Marti, so excited they could scarcely get the words out. “Aunt Lisa…breakfast…cookies… Mommy said…it’s a challenge…. can you… lunch…” Marti listened, looking slightly like she’d been physically attacked, and then gave them a look of supreme smugness as she said, “Girls. You are looking at the sugar queen!”

Game. On.

I briefly questioned the wisdom of allowing them to consume something that would be even junkier than cake, cookies, and Diet Coke, but then decided that a) two meals out of an otherwise healthy lifetime will barely even register, and b) it’s worth it to enjoy a lakeside lunch with my cousins and have neither child pinching her sister, playing with the gum under the table, or complaining that these chicken tenders are the wrong shape.

When we arrived home, Ella and Annie were literally jumping up and down with excitement (and sugar) to tell me what they’d eaten for “lunch”: chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon bears, ice cream, Diet Coke, and loads of chips with Heluva Good dip. This exceeded even my highest expectations, and Marti was declared the unanimous winner (which is slightly terrifying because it means that Lisa will undoubtedly feel the need to reclaim the title next summer).

After a relatively relaxing afternoon, the girls came down from their sugar rush, fell asleep quickly, and actually slept in later this morning than they have in quite a while. When they learned that Nick and I would be working at the PGA today, they were initially bummed that they would, again, be left behind… Until they discovered that they’d be with
Great Aunt Marti all day long.

Suddenly, they seemed very eager to get us out the door.
I can’t imagine why.

Throwback Thursday: A Dog and her Girls

Posted on August 1, 2013 by missemtoo

I had a dream about Madison the other night. It seemed so real that when I awoke, I momentarily forgot that it’s been nearly two months since she left us.

Perhaps that dream occurred because I’d been looking through old files on my computer and came across these, from the spring of 2008 when Ella was three, Annie was one, and Maddy was a spry young seven.

Sand burial.

Sharing secrets.

Sunlit cuddles are always awesome.

I hadn’t seen those photos in years – maybe since they were taken – but they made me remember, despite how the girls often ignored her, and how she resented them usurping her position on the priority list, that they really were buddies, once upon a time.

I hope Maddy’s basking in the sun, wherever she is, feeling warm not only from the rays, but also with the knowledge that, truly, she was loved.

And I hope someone’s petting the heck out of her, our attention seeker who could never get enough. ‘Cause otherwise, eternity’s an awfully long time for her to hold a grudge.

We have some work to do here

Posted on July 31, 2013 by missemtoo

Last spring, I became acquainted with the current production of Matilda the Musical (I say “became acquainted with” because, in the span of one week, at least five different people sent me, or posted to Facebook, links to various songs from the London Matilda production. Universe, I heard you: sometimes, you do, indeed, have to be a little bit naughty). In my continued quest to bring culture to the girls’ lives (shall we see how many hyper-links I can include in one paragraph?), and in keeping with their love of Broadway (that’s four!), I showed Ella and Annie the above clips from Matilda, as well as every other clip available on YouTube.

Small children with British accents get me every time.

We agreed to make it our goal to see Matilda the next time we’re in NYC, but in the meantime, the girls rented the movie Matilda from the library. I haven’t seen it yet, but given that it features that adorable little girl from Mrs. Doubtfire, my fingers are crossed that it’s good – even if she doesn’t have a British accent.

We were quite busy this past weekend, out and about and not taking the time to watch the movie (maybe because we were too preoccupied seeing Monsters University in the theatre; that’s just a hunch), and I was feeling slightly nervous that we wouldn’t find time to watch it before it’s due back at the library later this week. (I could try to renew it, or even just keep it past its due date and willingly pay the fine… but, given that we’re already purposely holding onto an overdue library book because the girls are totally into it but we’re not done with it yet and there aren’t other copies available but we’ve already renewed it as many times as we can, I figure I can only toy with karma so much.)

When the courtesy call came two days ago reminding me that I had a haircut appointment scheduled for this week, I was initially frustrated because I knew I’d have to bring Annie and Ella with me. I then realized that this was the solution to our problem: the girls could watch Matilda on my laptop while I got my hair cut. This would both a) ensure that the movie was actually viewed prior to its return date, and b) thwart attempts by my children to open the styling products for sale by the checkout counter.

It took me a good 20 minutes to locate the headphone jack splitter (because I’d rather have my offspring pour volumizing gel all over themselves than turn the sound up on an electronic device – while out in public – without headphones; why do people not understand this premise?!?!), but I finally found it and we were ready to go.

On the way to the salon, the girls peppered me with questions about the movie… and it was then that I finally realized just how “cultured” our daughters really are.

“Are the same songs in this that are on Broadway?”

No, sweetie. It’s just a movie.

“But which songs are there?”

There aren’t any. It’s just a regular movie.

“They made a movie of the Broadway show? Like that one with the lady* in Peter Pan?”
(*the Mary Martin stage version)

No. The movie came first.

“It did?”

Actually, the book came first. There’s a book – Matilda. By Roald Dahl.

“ROLLED DOLL???”

Not really, it’s… never mind. Anyway, he wrote the book Matilda. We should read it; I think you’d like it.

“His name is ROLLED DOLL?”

And enough kids liked the book that they turned it into a movie.

“Is the movie happening right now?”

When you say ‘happening right now,’ what do you mean?

“The movie. Is it still happening? Right now?”

Ummmm….

“Matilda the movie! Are they doing it now??”

Do you mean is the movie being filmed right now, today? As in, are the actors acting their parts and are they making the movie today?

“YES, THAT’S JUST WHAT I MEAN!”

Well, aside from the fact that you’re holding the DVD, so that would be some kind of weird voodoo magic, no, the movie was made a long time ago.

“How long ago?”

I don’t know. At least fifteen years.

“Wow. That’s SO LONG ago. Is the little girl still alive?”

Uh, I think so? ‘Cause she’d only be, like, twenty-five?

“Oh, good. And what songs does she sing?”

We’re still talking about this? She doesn’t sing anything.

“Why not?”

Because it’s not a musical. It’s just a movie.

“But…”

There’s no singing. It’s just a regular movie.

“But Cinderella sings.”

Yes, I know, but…

“And Tiana sings.”

I understand that, but those are Disney cartoon movies. This is a movie with real people.

“They sing songs in the movie Annie.”

True, but that’s a movie musical, so…

“And in The Sound of Music.”

Which makes sense, because it’s also…

“And Mary Poppins. And Enchanted.”

Wait a minute. Is it possible that the only movies we’ve shown are ones with singing in them??

“Ummmm…. We just saw Monsters University! That didn’t have singing!”

Okay, right…

“And Despicable Me 2! They don’t sing in that!”

So… movies with singing and cartoons. That’s where we stand? This is all we’ve shown you?

“But those are good movies, Mommy!”

That may be, but it’s kind of horrifying that we haven’t introduced you to any other kinds of movies.

“WAIT!! I know!!”

What?

“We’ve seen The Princess Bride! A lot of times!”

YES! A real movie! THANK GOD. We have not completely failed you.

“Oh! And Indiana Jones! We saw ALL of those!”

A questionable move on our part, but still, yes. Indy definitely doesn’t sing.

“And there are all those snakes! And that guy’s face melts off!”

Again, questionable parenting. But I did show you Big. That didn’t have any singing in it.

“He ate the baby corn! And they played the piano with their feet!”

Yep, I remember. You’re still playing “Heart and Soul”, like, 186 times a day.
So… Cartoons, Disney movies, musicals, and 80s classics. It’s a start.

“I’m going to play ‘Heart and Soul’ as soon as we get home!”

That’ll be fun. Speaking of 80s classics, do you remember The Goonies?

“THAT UGLY MAN IS SO FUNNY!”

I know, right??

“See, Mommy. You’ve shown us lots of movies.”

Thanks, baby. We’ve totally broadened your horizons. I feel much better about myself now.

“AND DON’T FORGET ABOUT GHOST BUSTERS!!”

I think we’d better stop while we’re ahead.

Fore!

Posted on July 24, 2013 by missemtoo

Last week, we took our first (of what is supposed to be five) family golf lessons. I realize that, to many folks, this will likely sound like a specially designed form of torture (believe me, I realize this), but after listening to Nick talk it up for several weeks, I decided that maybe it could be – at the very least – tolerable.

My father and stepmother are both avid golfers (seeing Grand Meg’s name on the big ol’ plaque as the club champion many years running has given Ella and Annie a huge kick – which is good, because my name is surely not appearing on any golf trophies soon), and Nick’s dad has been known to swing a mighty fine set of clubs, so you might say we come by the game naturally. In reality, while Nick really likes golfing, he only hits the links a handful of times each year (and, as such, could use a few pointers), and I have only golfed a full round once in my life (that is, if you count hitting the ball 20 yards, becoming annoyed with the lie, picking the ball up and walking it closer to the hole, accidentally chipping onto the green, declaring it a “gimme” and pocketing the ball, hole after hole, as a full round of golf).

Still, Nick found a course close to home with a highly-recommended pro who agreed to teach all four of us at a very reasonable price. Rather than purchase full kiddie sets of clubs that the girls might never use again, he wisely borrowed two sets from a friend (I believe he called them “adorable,” a term generally reserved for wide-eyed baby animals, dancing children on Ellen, and, occasionally, my stepmother-in-law). Given that the only golfing the girls have done previously is of the miniature variety (and even then, they’d become bored after about the 11th hole and proceed to try to stop the windmills from spinning or use their putters as swords), I was skeptical that they’d be interested in learning the ins and outs of “real” golf. Yet again proving my that my parental instinct isn’t worth diddly, Annie and Ella were ecstatic at the prospect of lessons – and, although I couldn’t quite ascertain why, I figured — inexpensive lessons; free clubs; nice instructor… What could go wrong?

Pre-lesson and looking spiffy. What, you don’t golf in a tutu skirt?

As luck/Mother Nature would have it, our first lesson fell on the hottest day in the history of the earth. Okay, technically we didn’t set any records in western New York, but it was hot. Ungodly hot. Melt-your-face-off, “No, kids, it’s too hot to play outside today”, get-sweaty-by-just-thinking-of-being-outdoors, how is it even possible for people to survive without central air? hot. Plus, there’s the whole humidity thing, where the air feels thick, almost tangible, like you’re wearing a damp, full-body invisible sweater. While standing on the equator.

In other words: the perfect day for spending an hour in the middle of an open field facing directly into the sun that was shining its menacing little sunbeams straight at you.

As the girls helped gather up their gear, I began to understand why they’d been so ecstatic about these lessons: accessories. Shiny, bright white golf balls. Bags of cute, day-glo tees. And, best of all, brand new golf gloves. If I’d known this family adventure would bring about shopping, I would have agreed to it a long time ago.

After a little coaxing (and some instruction on how to carry awkward bags that are nearly as large as they are), they even agreed to carry their own clubs to the driving range.

Our adorable little sherpas.

Within only a few steps, however, it became clear that the heat was getting to them. Nick tried to snap a shot of the girls jauntily carrying their bags to the course, but instead got this gem, wherein they look like maybe they’re marching to their own deaths:
Yay! Family golf lessons!!

At that exact moment, when it became clear that even one more step might result in heat exhaustion, the golf pro turned up and offered them a ride to the driving range on the cart with him. The girls accepted with the same enthusiasm they’d shown when we first took them on Splash Mountain in Disney World, and I then understood the second reason they’d been ecstatic for the lessons: riding in tiny motorized vehicles is badass, hella fun. Point one for our instructor.

Once we arrived at the range and the girls responded with rabid enthusiasm when he asked us if we’d like to hit a few balls, the biggest reason for their ecstasy became clear: they were being permitted to smack a ball with a stick. Deliberately. As far and as hard as they could. Being totally aggressive and using this metal object to whack one of our shiny, bright white balls out onto that expanse of green (while wearing a brand spanking new golf glove), and we don’t even need to pick them up when we’re done?? SIGN. ME. UP.

It was pretty much uphill from there, as the pro walked Nick and me through the basics of our swings and showed us tiny corrections we could make to our posture, hand grip, etc. He stated things clearly and was extremely friendly, although I admit that I didn’t exactly hear all of what he was saying because I was too busy feeling like a cast-member from A Time To Kill, a movie where not even the gorgeous Ashley Judd and delicious Matthew McConaughey can distract me from the fact that they are sweating out the equivalent of their body weight in every scene. When the sun disappeared behind tiny puffs of cloud, or when the warm wind kicked up, it was surprisingly tolerable, but when the air was completely still and the sun beat down incessantly upon us, I found myself sweating so profusely and being so aware of the perspiration cascading down my torso, I wondered aloud if I might actually die before the lesson ended. So I might not have used my best listening ears.

The girls, however, were having a dandy time, swinging away with all their power, shouting at us to watch them every single time they set up next to the ball (“Watch me, Mommy!” “Look at this, Daddy!” “No, watch me again!” “Watch me this time, Mommy!” “Daddy, make sure you keep looking!”), hanging from the golf cart roof, camping out in the shade of the trees behind us, positively chugging the ice water that the pro had kindly provided for us (point two!), and wiping their brows with an ice-water-drenched towel. About halfway through the lesson, as I walked over to get a sip of water and revive myself, Annie whispered to me, “This is awesome already!”

Nick, who did not seem to be suffering from the heat as strongly as I, followed the pro’s instructions and almost immediately began hitting better shots. Despite sweating so much I could hardly open my eyes, I did actually manage to internalize some of the tips the instructor was giving me, and was pleasantly surprised that my own swing was improving; perhaps this would, in fact, be just as awesome as Annie had declared (three points!).

Then, as she stepped up to hit another ball, she motioned me over, obviously distressed. I had opened my mouth to ask her to please stop whining when she held up her un-gloved hand and showed me one of the gnarliest blisters I’ve seen in a long time.

Thankfully, it doesn’t look so bad here, but trust me, it was icky.

Naturally, being a stellar, always-prepared parent, I had no band-aids on me, nor anything else to cover her open wound. Hence, she couldn’t swing the club again (the pro had warned her that doing so would seriously irritate her already-very-sore finger), and that, combined with the stinging pain, sent her into a crying tailspin. “But I was just having fun and now I have to stop!”

Ella, meanwhile, had been cheerfully dousing herself with ice water – pouring it down her back (“Check it out – my shirt is ALL WET!”), dumping it on her head, and dragging the freezing water towel across her forehead. Because it was so absurdly hot — and, in what is, again, a stellar parenting move — Nick and I somehow didn’t put two and two together to realize that covering oneself in ice water + no antihistamine medication = hives, when your child is allergic to the cold. At first, I just thought that Ella’s rosy cheeks were due to the heat, but when she began to complain that she was itchy everywhere, it finally dawned on me that she was having a full-on allergic reaction.

Weird allergies are a blast.

We limped back to our car (actually, our super pro took pity on us, so we all — all five of us — piled onto the single-seat golf cart, like some sort of golfing clown car; point one million!), one child wailing about her mangled finger, one scratching furiously and moaning that every single part of her was itchy, and we adults — who had shied away from dousing ourselves with water — looking as though we’d walked through a car wash.

In spite of the heat, the blister, and the hives, however, we all agreed that – somehow – it had been really fun. If I were to play another round of golf this week, I’m confident that I’d still pick up my ball and walk it down the fairway, but, to my surprise, I enjoyed myself greatly and am very much looking forward to the other four lessons.

Next time, we’ll make sure Ella is properly medicated. And Annie already has a golf glove for her right hand. I’ll bring band-aids and towels, so the sweat won’t be in my eyes. We’ll be prepared, by gosh.

And then, what could possibly go wrong?

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Tag Archives: parenthood