In the year 2011, I resolve to watch more movies.
I know. WHOA.
It's just that I am so tired of always being the person at work who has that confused look on her face when everyone is talking about going to see the latest movie. People have been talking incessantly about some dude named Ryan Reynolds and I have no clue who he is. (I have been informed I may be the last living straight woman on earth who does NOT know of Ryan Reynolds.) Maybe I could pick him out of a line-up (or a center spread of People magazine) if I didn't live in a cultural vacuum.
I'll start slow, don't worry. My sisters and I might take the kids to see Tangled this weekend. Charlotte let me borrow her copy of The Joy Luck Club oh, about six months ago, maybe I'll sit down to watch that.
What's that you say? Ryan Reynolds stars in neither of those films?
Damn.
Happy 2011, everyone. May all your resolutions be as lofty as mine.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
I'm dreaming of a new career
Abby is still here and I am becoming spoiled.
For the past two weeks, on Wednesday evenings, we have had Date Night and gone out for a nice, grown-up dinner. Last night Alisa joined us and we wandered the aisles of Barnes and Noble as well. It was like a dream.
And speaking of dreams, I think I may have discovered my dream job. While flipping through the Holiday Baking edition of Cook's Illustrated magazine, I began to wonder why in the hell I chose nursing as a career, instead of writing for this brilliant periodical. For those of you who have never picked up an issue, the writers essentially choose a bunch of recipes, test about 60 different ways to make them, then write essays (witty, entertaining essays) on how they came to the perfect, say, cinnamon roll. Or pumpkin pie. Or cranberry nut bread. Chocolate bundt cake, lemon cheesecake, crescent rolls, say it with me now....yuuuummmmy.
I can practically see it now...my tiny apartment kitchen becoming a test center for new and brilliant forms of coffee cake, Zoey as my sous chef, a flour-coated notebook containing our scribbled notes for exactly how much baking powder went in to this particular batch.
Maybe someday.
For the past two weeks, on Wednesday evenings, we have had Date Night and gone out for a nice, grown-up dinner. Last night Alisa joined us and we wandered the aisles of Barnes and Noble as well. It was like a dream.
And speaking of dreams, I think I may have discovered my dream job. While flipping through the Holiday Baking edition of Cook's Illustrated magazine, I began to wonder why in the hell I chose nursing as a career, instead of writing for this brilliant periodical. For those of you who have never picked up an issue, the writers essentially choose a bunch of recipes, test about 60 different ways to make them, then write essays (witty, entertaining essays) on how they came to the perfect, say, cinnamon roll. Or pumpkin pie. Or cranberry nut bread. Chocolate bundt cake, lemon cheesecake, crescent rolls, say it with me now....yuuuummmmy.
I can practically see it now...my tiny apartment kitchen becoming a test center for new and brilliant forms of coffee cake, Zoey as my sous chef, a flour-coated notebook containing our scribbled notes for exactly how much baking powder went in to this particular batch.
Maybe someday.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Cookies (finally)
You all will be happy to hear that my cookie press came out of hibernation yesterday, and a double batch of Spritz miraculously made their appearance in my kitchen. They left behind a trail of cookie dough and sugar sprinkles that required eventual mopping of the floor, but I'm quite satisfied overall and I think my cookie press was happy to escape its box.
Yes, inanimate objects seem to be developing their own personalities. It;s a sign of craziness. Or a clue that Christmas is two days away. Maybe in January I will stop thinking my little-used kitchen appliances are begging to be put to use. The waffle iron hasn't said anything about being parked in my pantry for nine months. Just so you know.
Anyway, I attribute this burst of Christmas baking to the fact that I have a helper elf in my house right now, and no, it's not Joe. My sister flew in from Colorado last Saturday and oh, the beauty of having another adult in the house to talk to! Someone who can discuss life at a level higher than 'what bath toys are we going to play with tonight?' Someone who can pluck my preschooler from her high perch on the desk, grabbing for her scissors, while I sit on the phone with an insurance company! She also brings me coffee at work, has gone to the grocery store twice already in less than a week at my request, and when we went out for a grown-up dinner last night, she dressed me up and even plastered me in make-up that did not make me look like a hooker. She's pretty amazing.
Anyway. Christmas cookies. They're here, and now I feel a bit more prepared for the holidays.
Was that a collective sigh of relief I just heard? I thought so.
Yes, inanimate objects seem to be developing their own personalities. It;s a sign of craziness. Or a clue that Christmas is two days away. Maybe in January I will stop thinking my little-used kitchen appliances are begging to be put to use. The waffle iron hasn't said anything about being parked in my pantry for nine months. Just so you know.
Anyway, I attribute this burst of Christmas baking to the fact that I have a helper elf in my house right now, and no, it's not Joe. My sister flew in from Colorado last Saturday and oh, the beauty of having another adult in the house to talk to! Someone who can discuss life at a level higher than 'what bath toys are we going to play with tonight?' Someone who can pluck my preschooler from her high perch on the desk, grabbing for her scissors, while I sit on the phone with an insurance company! She also brings me coffee at work, has gone to the grocery store twice already in less than a week at my request, and when we went out for a grown-up dinner last night, she dressed me up and even plastered me in make-up that did not make me look like a hooker. She's pretty amazing.
Anyway. Christmas cookies. They're here, and now I feel a bit more prepared for the holidays.
Was that a collective sigh of relief I just heard? I thought so.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Helping hands
So I keep this ratty old toothbrush in the bottom drawer of my bathroom sink, for scrubbing nasty bits like toilet stains and fuzzies on bathtub drains. In fact, it is so rare that I do scrub nasty bits like these, I had kind of forgotten the toothbrush was in there any more.
Until I found it last night, lovingly placed right on top of my own toothbrush in the top drawer.
*GAK*
I can only imagine Zoey rooting around for something (a tampon, maybe?) in the bottom drawer, finding the toothbrush, thinking for sure that Mommy had simply misplaced it, and returning it to where she thought it belonged. So helpful, those preschoolers.
The toilet toothbrush was thrown away, and a new toothbrush for my mouth was scrounged from the hall closet. There was Lysol, and there was hot soapy water, and order was again restored to my bathroom.
Until I found it last night, lovingly placed right on top of my own toothbrush in the top drawer.
*GAK*
I can only imagine Zoey rooting around for something (a tampon, maybe?) in the bottom drawer, finding the toothbrush, thinking for sure that Mommy had simply misplaced it, and returning it to where she thought it belonged. So helpful, those preschoolers.
The toilet toothbrush was thrown away, and a new toothbrush for my mouth was scrounged from the hall closet. There was Lysol, and there was hot soapy water, and order was again restored to my bathroom.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Letter to Joe
Dear Joe,
Today I was at Grandma Heather's house and I was excellent. I wanted to tell you because you didn't see me there. I got to see Grandpa Alex, too.
Love, Zoey
My daughter has adopted Elf on a Shelf as her new religion. She was so concerned Joe hadn't observed her good behavior all day, she frantically scrawled the above note to him before going to bed. She believes in him so wholeheartedly, I almost feel guilty.
Today I was at Grandma Heather's house and I was excellent. I wanted to tell you because you didn't see me there. I got to see Grandpa Alex, too.
Love, Zoey
My daughter has adopted Elf on a Shelf as her new religion. She was so concerned Joe hadn't observed her good behavior all day, she frantically scrawled the above note to him before going to bed. She believes in him so wholeheartedly, I almost feel guilty.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Elf on the Shelf
Attention everyone with young children: you MUST buy a copy of Elf on the Shelf, by Carol V. Aebersold and Chanda A. Bell, today. Seriously.
The book comes in a kit, complete with your own tiny elf, whom you must name immediately (we now live with Joe). Anyway, the story goes that Santa sends an elf to every house to scout out the Nice/Naughty list. Every night, after the children are in bed, the elf flies home to the North Pole to give his daily report to Santa, hang out with his buddies for awhile, then flies back to his 'home' for another day of watching how kids behave. He 'hides' in a new spot each day, so part of the fun is waking up each morning and finding out 'where is the elf now?'
I don't want to brag or jinx my luck, but Joe has been living with us for less than 24 hours and he appears to work miracles. Zoey completely believes he is flying home each night to tattle on her, and tries her very best to act accordingly. As she was ramping up for a bedtime-battle-tantrum last night, all I had to do was sigh and feign sadness as I reminded her that Joe was watching, and would surely be telling Santa all about this incident later on. The tears didn't completely disappear, but we did manage to avoid the time-out chair.
The biggest challenge is making sure your elf finds a new place to hide each night. I have a sticky note on my cabinet that says 'JOE'. The effort is completely worth the resulting decent behavior.
As the story goes, children may talk to their elves, but they can not touch them. Zoey chose the top of the refrigerator as Joe's first home last night, and I heard her throughout the evening, having sweet conversations with him:
'Joe, will you tell Santa that I really want a Disney Princess keyboard for Christmas?'
'See, Joe, I'm putting away the napkins right now 'cause Mommy asked me to.'
I love anything that fosters Christmas magic for children. An elf who reminds your children to behave seems like a win-win for everyone, right?
The book comes in a kit, complete with your own tiny elf, whom you must name immediately (we now live with Joe). Anyway, the story goes that Santa sends an elf to every house to scout out the Nice/Naughty list. Every night, after the children are in bed, the elf flies home to the North Pole to give his daily report to Santa, hang out with his buddies for awhile, then flies back to his 'home' for another day of watching how kids behave. He 'hides' in a new spot each day, so part of the fun is waking up each morning and finding out 'where is the elf now?'
I don't want to brag or jinx my luck, but Joe has been living with us for less than 24 hours and he appears to work miracles. Zoey completely believes he is flying home each night to tattle on her, and tries her very best to act accordingly. As she was ramping up for a bedtime-battle-tantrum last night, all I had to do was sigh and feign sadness as I reminded her that Joe was watching, and would surely be telling Santa all about this incident later on. The tears didn't completely disappear, but we did manage to avoid the time-out chair.
The biggest challenge is making sure your elf finds a new place to hide each night. I have a sticky note on my cabinet that says 'JOE'. The effort is completely worth the resulting decent behavior.
As the story goes, children may talk to their elves, but they can not touch them. Zoey chose the top of the refrigerator as Joe's first home last night, and I heard her throughout the evening, having sweet conversations with him:
'Joe, will you tell Santa that I really want a Disney Princess keyboard for Christmas?'
'See, Joe, I'm putting away the napkins right now 'cause Mommy asked me to.'
I love anything that fosters Christmas magic for children. An elf who reminds your children to behave seems like a win-win for everyone, right?
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Time
Ohhhhh, this time of year.
I feel as though I have lowered my Christmas-expectation standards considerably this year, and I am still not able to meet them. Cue the Christmas-holiday-induced depression.
Example:
Last year, not only did I make Christmas cookies, I made eight kinds of Christmas cookies. I had freezer space and TIME and I loved it. Everybody got cookie plates. I felt like I was passing a time-honored tradition down to Zoey, which gives any mother warm fuzzies. Of course, come to find out, everything else in my life was slowly spiraling out of control, BUT THERE WERE CHRISTMAS COOKIES.
This year? Not one batch. Not yet, and it's not looking promising.
Example #2:
Holiday decorations. They were everywhere last year. I love holidays lights. This year, not so much. I have a tree, compliments of Paul from work, and had he not literally shown up on my doorstep like Santa Claus, delighting Zoey to no end with his pine-scented delivery, I'm not sure we'd have a tree, either.
Yes, yes, I understand. I can hear you lecturing me from out in cyber-space and believe me, when I called my mother in tears last night, she put a voice to all your thoughts. Apparently what we're dealing with here are some unrealistic expectations. She assures me that not one person will care if I don't find time to make cookies. Zoey will not fall apart if we don't whip up a batch of cinnamon ornaments (in fact, she won't even notice). Believe me, I know. This year I have suddenly adjusted to single parenthood balanced with full-time work, and recently have the added baggage of cleaning up my father's messy house. I can list about eight companies from memory who are waiting for death certificates that I may or may not mail out before January. I am trying to commit more time to writing on this blog, which means I get up very early or stay up late to write, because I want to. I want to be more educated. Read more, listen to more NPR. This, perhaps, is the goal that tips me over in to the realm of tears. I look at the stack of magazines waiting for me on my table, or the line of NPR podcasts waiting to upload to my iPod, and all I want to do is cry.
Crying. It's how I roll this month.
So, last night, I found myself seriously contemplating whether I should go to my company Christmas party or grocery shop at Winco. There are only so many Zoey-free hours in a month, you know, and I feel like I need to take advantage of them. However, my Board of Advisors (thank you Mom, thank you Paul) informed me I'd be going to the party.
And I did. And it was fun. Far more fun than I had expected.
Just that few hours of relaxing and having fun with my co-workers was all I needed. Christmas cookies and what to do with my father's butter tub collection faded to the back of my mind. I got to dress up and dance with my friends. I didn't care that I had come by myself. Nobody cared, they are my friends and they love me whether I have a date or not. I don't have enough time to do everything I want, just like everyone else, but for a few hours, it's not what we were thinking about.
So thank you, again, to my family and friends who always pull me up when I am drowning in tears, and force me to do what is actually best for me. Mom. Abby. Paul. Grandma.
FancyNancyAlisaCharRikkiCarrieDebbieCindyKarenKatieKellyAmyMaggieWandaKendraKimRebeccaKateDrManamWarrenErinKelly.
And Winco? It's open 24 hours and, if you go at 11 pm, you pretty much have the whole joint to yourself.
I feel as though I have lowered my Christmas-expectation standards considerably this year, and I am still not able to meet them. Cue the Christmas-holiday-induced depression.
Example:
Last year, not only did I make Christmas cookies, I made eight kinds of Christmas cookies. I had freezer space and TIME and I loved it. Everybody got cookie plates. I felt like I was passing a time-honored tradition down to Zoey, which gives any mother warm fuzzies. Of course, come to find out, everything else in my life was slowly spiraling out of control, BUT THERE WERE CHRISTMAS COOKIES.
This year? Not one batch. Not yet, and it's not looking promising.
Example #2:
Holiday decorations. They were everywhere last year. I love holidays lights. This year, not so much. I have a tree, compliments of Paul from work, and had he not literally shown up on my doorstep like Santa Claus, delighting Zoey to no end with his pine-scented delivery, I'm not sure we'd have a tree, either.
Yes, yes, I understand. I can hear you lecturing me from out in cyber-space and believe me, when I called my mother in tears last night, she put a voice to all your thoughts. Apparently what we're dealing with here are some unrealistic expectations. She assures me that not one person will care if I don't find time to make cookies. Zoey will not fall apart if we don't whip up a batch of cinnamon ornaments (in fact, she won't even notice). Believe me, I know. This year I have suddenly adjusted to single parenthood balanced with full-time work, and recently have the added baggage of cleaning up my father's messy house. I can list about eight companies from memory who are waiting for death certificates that I may or may not mail out before January. I am trying to commit more time to writing on this blog, which means I get up very early or stay up late to write, because I want to. I want to be more educated. Read more, listen to more NPR. This, perhaps, is the goal that tips me over in to the realm of tears. I look at the stack of magazines waiting for me on my table, or the line of NPR podcasts waiting to upload to my iPod, and all I want to do is cry.
Crying. It's how I roll this month.
So, last night, I found myself seriously contemplating whether I should go to my company Christmas party or grocery shop at Winco. There are only so many Zoey-free hours in a month, you know, and I feel like I need to take advantage of them. However, my Board of Advisors (thank you Mom, thank you Paul) informed me I'd be going to the party.
And I did. And it was fun. Far more fun than I had expected.
Just that few hours of relaxing and having fun with my co-workers was all I needed. Christmas cookies and what to do with my father's butter tub collection faded to the back of my mind. I got to dress up and dance with my friends. I didn't care that I had come by myself. Nobody cared, they are my friends and they love me whether I have a date or not. I don't have enough time to do everything I want, just like everyone else, but for a few hours, it's not what we were thinking about.
So thank you, again, to my family and friends who always pull me up when I am drowning in tears, and force me to do what is actually best for me. Mom. Abby. Paul. Grandma.
FancyNancyAlisaCharRikkiCarrieDebbieCindyKarenKatieKellyAmyMaggieWandaKendraKimRebeccaKateDrManamWarrenErinKelly.
And Winco? It's open 24 hours and, if you go at 11 pm, you pretty much have the whole joint to yourself.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
We have a reader
Zoey has decided she's learned to read.
All this because, nearly every night, she grabs her copy of Bears In The Night, and 'reads' it to me before she goes to sleep. The words are simple, correspond blatantly to the illustrations, and boost the egos of preschoolers everywhere, I'm sure.
I love the look on her face when she points out a word or yells 'WHOOOOOO!' (her favorite pages have the obnoxious loud owl sounds on them) and then looks up at me, completely proud of herself. This is how it starts, right? Sure, she's not really reading the words on the page. She has them memorized. But she points to each one, pauses, looks at the picture...she's putting it all together in her brain. You can practically SEE the development, right before your very eyes.
Four is a fascinating age. She's like a tiny little science experiment with an occasional attitude problem.
All this because, nearly every night, she grabs her copy of Bears In The Night, and 'reads' it to me before she goes to sleep. The words are simple, correspond blatantly to the illustrations, and boost the egos of preschoolers everywhere, I'm sure.
I love the look on her face when she points out a word or yells 'WHOOOOOO!' (her favorite pages have the obnoxious loud owl sounds on them) and then looks up at me, completely proud of herself. This is how it starts, right? Sure, she's not really reading the words on the page. She has them memorized. But she points to each one, pauses, looks at the picture...she's putting it all together in her brain. You can practically SEE the development, right before your very eyes.
Four is a fascinating age. She's like a tiny little science experiment with an occasional attitude problem.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Singing and hand motions
Last night was the annual Christmas Program at Zoey's preschool.
Her class certainly won the award, in my opinion, for most enthusiastic ensemble.
Yes, what they lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in excitement and hand motions. They were one of few classes actually able to drown out the voice-over on the taped background music. I give all the four-year-olds credit for coordinating the words to Away in a Manger with hand motions, all while keeping their silver tinsel halos fixed firmly on their heads.
And there were COOKIES waiting afterwards! Cookies! Apparently nothing motivates a preschooler to cooperate and sing like the promise of treats after a performance.
Her class certainly won the award, in my opinion, for most enthusiastic ensemble.
Yes, what they lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in excitement and hand motions. They were one of few classes actually able to drown out the voice-over on the taped background music. I give all the four-year-olds credit for coordinating the words to Away in a Manger with hand motions, all while keeping their silver tinsel halos fixed firmly on their heads.
And there were COOKIES waiting afterwards! Cookies! Apparently nothing motivates a preschooler to cooperate and sing like the promise of treats after a performance.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
To My Four Year Old
Dear Zoey,
It is so hard to believe that four years have flown by since that early morning in December, 2006, when you flew in to the world. This morning I woke up at 5:13 a.m., which is the exact minute you were born. And I watched you sleeping next to me and thought...damn. How did this big girl get here?
Kiddo, this year has been one hell of a challenge. I will probably never know if I thought parenting a three-year-old was extremely challenging because three-year-olds in themselves are oh-so-challenging, or if the circumstances presented to us this year just made dealing with constant temper tantrums and assertions of will seem nearly impossible. Not that I can blame you. I had my own fair share of tantrums this year over having to leave our home and our old way of life, and I'm in my 30s. Life isn't fair, and that's a hard lesson to learn when you're still trying to master writing your own name.
In spite of all the crap, you have mastered so many big-kid skills this year it is astounding. You can write your own name now! You can help set the table, clear your dishes, feed the cats, spit out your toothpaste, and undress yourself completely...all skills you hadn't mastered at this time last year. You also believe you are fully capable of microwaving your own heat pack, answering the door for the pizza delivery person, and reading me bedtime stories. You refuse to believe you need help with anything, a trait that is equal parts endearing and aggravating, depending on what kind of day we're having.
Your speech has grown and changed so much in the past several months, I can hardly keep up with you...not a day goes by when I am not amazed at the questions you ask, the vocabulary you possess, the fact that you can now pronounce nearly all your r's and l's. Your Boston accent is fading and it makes me a little sad. You speak more like a grown-up and less like a baby every day. But just when I think you are so grown up, you will mix up a phrase or throw in a 'w' in place of an 'r' (where is the caw, Mommy?) and I am reminded of your babyhood all over again. You try so hard to sound like the big people in your life, but sometimes it just doesn't come out right. Some of my favorite phrases are 'it happens to the best of us' (used frequently, when discussing why accidents are not so traumatic, after all) and 'you know the drill' (used nearly every day, when trying to motivate you to do things like get dressed or get out of the car). You try and use these phrases as well, but instead you say 'it happens to the most of us, Mommy' or 'you know the fire drill'. So close. Also, since you spend so much time with Gigi, you have picked up a habit of speaking like a little old lady, which delights me to no end. Your favorite phrases to express excitement/disgust/astonishment are 'OH MY GOODNESS' and 'Well, good golly'. You throw in a 'good golly Moses' for good measure if you are particularly impressed with your circumstances. Your old-lady speak makes me smile. And feel relieved, because Mommy has a bit of a potty mouth and your expressions could be soooo much worse.
This year your imagination has taken off almost as fast as your speech. You play house with your dolls and Barbies and construct elaborate scenarios where, typically, someone involved is heading to the time-out chair. You love to be in charge, and to lecture your stuffed animals. I am not sure if this is a phase typical of all four-year-olds, or if you are going to develop an overall bossy personality. Not that I would have a CLUE where that comes from, if you did. Anyway. You re-create your favorite movie, Cinderella, using all your small princess dolls, and you firmly believe that wearing your t-shirt with a horse on it actually causes you to become the horse. Ditto with the Tinkerbell shirt. You frequently request that we play 'Queen and Princess', during which I am the Queen (naturally) and you are the Princess, and you haven't caught on yet that all I am doing is requesting you do everything I want you to do but adding about five 'royals' to every request. Example: 'Would the royal Princess Zoey place her royal tennis shoes by the royal door where they belong?' And, all decked out in your Cinderella dress and plastic high heels, you respond 'Yes, Queen Mommy!' I am wondering how long it will take before you catch on to what's really happening here.
And can we talk about your sleep habits for a minute, here? You still sleep with me, a habit you started when we moved in March and which doesn't bother me enough to want to change it and upset you further. You take comfort in being close to me. Totally okay with that. However, if you would just sleep a little bit more, that's all I'm asking! You need 10 hours of sleep per day, you know that (right?) and I know that. So, if you're up past 9:00, you must sleep in until at least 7:00. Trust me on this. Otherwise, we will all be miserable the following day.
You wake up grumpy nearly every morning. Disheveled and disoriented, your first question is always 'what day is it?', followed closely by 'what does that day mean?'. What you want to know is, am I staying home or going to school? There is always a brief meltdown at the prospect of getting up and ready for school, or your mood changes quickly to happiness at the thought of getting to stay home. Staying home means starting the day at your own pace...sitting on the couch with your hot milk, watching a cartoon, easing in to the day. You are much like me in that regard.
Now, the past year has not been all fun and imagination. We have had plenty of days filled with no cooperation, dragging your feet when asked to do anything, and multiple trips to the time-out chair. Nothing brings out your grumpy side like being cold, hungry, tired, rained on, or a combination of all these things. The rain, in particular, really pisses you off. When your pant legs get wet, it's all over for you. Total devastation.
You hate to help me carry things in from the car. You can be carrying only your blanket and teddy bear, while I am loaded down with a purse, your backpack, and four grocery bags, yet you complain loudly and passionately that you have the short end of the stick, here. I have had thoughts of deserting you in the parking lots more times than you know.
Oh, Zoey, I could go on and on about how much you've grown this year. You fascinate me, always, because here we have a child who's life has been essentially dumped upside down, and yet you continue to thrive and develop normally. Nothing seems to dampen your spirit for long, a quality I admire greatly in you. You are an incredible, smart, funny little girl and my greatest joy is watching how you grow and change every day.
2011 will be a very busy, entertaining year for us, I can tell. Your constant chatter and growth will keep it that way. You've come so far from the tiny baby you were four years ago. And yet, we have work to do, child. I still have to sell you on the wonders of peanut butter, Michael Bolton, and sensible shoes. Maybe by the time you are five.
I love you, Zoey. I love every bit of your wondeful, magical self.
Love, Mommy
It is so hard to believe that four years have flown by since that early morning in December, 2006, when you flew in to the world. This morning I woke up at 5:13 a.m., which is the exact minute you were born. And I watched you sleeping next to me and thought...damn. How did this big girl get here?
Kiddo, this year has been one hell of a challenge. I will probably never know if I thought parenting a three-year-old was extremely challenging because three-year-olds in themselves are oh-so-challenging, or if the circumstances presented to us this year just made dealing with constant temper tantrums and assertions of will seem nearly impossible. Not that I can blame you. I had my own fair share of tantrums this year over having to leave our home and our old way of life, and I'm in my 30s. Life isn't fair, and that's a hard lesson to learn when you're still trying to master writing your own name.
In spite of all the crap, you have mastered so many big-kid skills this year it is astounding. You can write your own name now! You can help set the table, clear your dishes, feed the cats, spit out your toothpaste, and undress yourself completely...all skills you hadn't mastered at this time last year. You also believe you are fully capable of microwaving your own heat pack, answering the door for the pizza delivery person, and reading me bedtime stories. You refuse to believe you need help with anything, a trait that is equal parts endearing and aggravating, depending on what kind of day we're having.
Your speech has grown and changed so much in the past several months, I can hardly keep up with you...not a day goes by when I am not amazed at the questions you ask, the vocabulary you possess, the fact that you can now pronounce nearly all your r's and l's. Your Boston accent is fading and it makes me a little sad. You speak more like a grown-up and less like a baby every day. But just when I think you are so grown up, you will mix up a phrase or throw in a 'w' in place of an 'r' (where is the caw, Mommy?) and I am reminded of your babyhood all over again. You try so hard to sound like the big people in your life, but sometimes it just doesn't come out right. Some of my favorite phrases are 'it happens to the best of us' (used frequently, when discussing why accidents are not so traumatic, after all) and 'you know the drill' (used nearly every day, when trying to motivate you to do things like get dressed or get out of the car). You try and use these phrases as well, but instead you say 'it happens to the most of us, Mommy' or 'you know the fire drill'. So close. Also, since you spend so much time with Gigi, you have picked up a habit of speaking like a little old lady, which delights me to no end. Your favorite phrases to express excitement/disgust/astonishment are 'OH MY GOODNESS' and 'Well, good golly'. You throw in a 'good golly Moses' for good measure if you are particularly impressed with your circumstances. Your old-lady speak makes me smile. And feel relieved, because Mommy has a bit of a potty mouth and your expressions could be soooo much worse.
This year your imagination has taken off almost as fast as your speech. You play house with your dolls and Barbies and construct elaborate scenarios where, typically, someone involved is heading to the time-out chair. You love to be in charge, and to lecture your stuffed animals. I am not sure if this is a phase typical of all four-year-olds, or if you are going to develop an overall bossy personality. Not that I would have a CLUE where that comes from, if you did. Anyway. You re-create your favorite movie, Cinderella, using all your small princess dolls, and you firmly believe that wearing your t-shirt with a horse on it actually causes you to become the horse. Ditto with the Tinkerbell shirt. You frequently request that we play 'Queen and Princess', during which I am the Queen (naturally) and you are the Princess, and you haven't caught on yet that all I am doing is requesting you do everything I want you to do but adding about five 'royals' to every request. Example: 'Would the royal Princess Zoey place her royal tennis shoes by the royal door where they belong?' And, all decked out in your Cinderella dress and plastic high heels, you respond 'Yes, Queen Mommy!' I am wondering how long it will take before you catch on to what's really happening here.
And can we talk about your sleep habits for a minute, here? You still sleep with me, a habit you started when we moved in March and which doesn't bother me enough to want to change it and upset you further. You take comfort in being close to me. Totally okay with that. However, if you would just sleep a little bit more, that's all I'm asking! You need 10 hours of sleep per day, you know that (right?) and I know that. So, if you're up past 9:00, you must sleep in until at least 7:00. Trust me on this. Otherwise, we will all be miserable the following day.
You wake up grumpy nearly every morning. Disheveled and disoriented, your first question is always 'what day is it?', followed closely by 'what does that day mean?'. What you want to know is, am I staying home or going to school? There is always a brief meltdown at the prospect of getting up and ready for school, or your mood changes quickly to happiness at the thought of getting to stay home. Staying home means starting the day at your own pace...sitting on the couch with your hot milk, watching a cartoon, easing in to the day. You are much like me in that regard.
Now, the past year has not been all fun and imagination. We have had plenty of days filled with no cooperation, dragging your feet when asked to do anything, and multiple trips to the time-out chair. Nothing brings out your grumpy side like being cold, hungry, tired, rained on, or a combination of all these things. The rain, in particular, really pisses you off. When your pant legs get wet, it's all over for you. Total devastation.
You hate to help me carry things in from the car. You can be carrying only your blanket and teddy bear, while I am loaded down with a purse, your backpack, and four grocery bags, yet you complain loudly and passionately that you have the short end of the stick, here. I have had thoughts of deserting you in the parking lots more times than you know.
Oh, Zoey, I could go on and on about how much you've grown this year. You fascinate me, always, because here we have a child who's life has been essentially dumped upside down, and yet you continue to thrive and develop normally. Nothing seems to dampen your spirit for long, a quality I admire greatly in you. You are an incredible, smart, funny little girl and my greatest joy is watching how you grow and change every day.
2011 will be a very busy, entertaining year for us, I can tell. Your constant chatter and growth will keep it that way. You've come so far from the tiny baby you were four years ago. And yet, we have work to do, child. I still have to sell you on the wonders of peanut butter, Michael Bolton, and sensible shoes. Maybe by the time you are five.
I love you, Zoey. I love every bit of your wondeful, magical self.
Love, Mommy
Monday, December 6, 2010
Hot Yoga
YOU GUYS.
Hot yoga is the most amazing yoga class you will ever take! Seriously. EVERYONE GO OUT AND SIGN UP FOR A CLASS RIGHT NOW. Even you menopausal women who hot flash every five seconds. You will feel right at home in this class, trust me.
I had my reservations about trying this style of yoga, but after several months of taking a weekly yoga class at the Y, I thought it was time to step up my game and see if I could hack it in a class that basically takes place with 20 other people in a sauna. Several aspects seemed intimidating...90 minutes of hotness...the hotness itself...and what does one wear to hot yoga, anyway? The website advertised many women wearing as little as possible and that just isn't my style.
But, as I have learned over and over and over again in 2010, that which seems intimidating and impossible on the surface is really not as bad as I imagine.
Yes, it was hot. Plenty hot. But the 90 minutes flew by, and even though I had completely soaked my tank top and shorts in sweat by the time we were down on our mats, I was still surprised to hear the instructor announce we were doing our last pose.
And when I walked out of that studio, I felt like a million bucks. The sore neck I had when I walked in to the class was miraculously gone, and my skin, after I showered off the salt, was glowing. During the class, because the heat stretches your muscles so well, I was nearly able to touch my toes...a pose I am never able to accomplish in my regular yoga class.
So, I highly recommend everyone run out immediately and find the hot yoga studio nearest you. You won't be disappointed.
Hot yoga is the most amazing yoga class you will ever take! Seriously. EVERYONE GO OUT AND SIGN UP FOR A CLASS RIGHT NOW. Even you menopausal women who hot flash every five seconds. You will feel right at home in this class, trust me.
I had my reservations about trying this style of yoga, but after several months of taking a weekly yoga class at the Y, I thought it was time to step up my game and see if I could hack it in a class that basically takes place with 20 other people in a sauna. Several aspects seemed intimidating...90 minutes of hotness...the hotness itself...and what does one wear to hot yoga, anyway? The website advertised many women wearing as little as possible and that just isn't my style.
But, as I have learned over and over and over again in 2010, that which seems intimidating and impossible on the surface is really not as bad as I imagine.
Yes, it was hot. Plenty hot. But the 90 minutes flew by, and even though I had completely soaked my tank top and shorts in sweat by the time we were down on our mats, I was still surprised to hear the instructor announce we were doing our last pose.
And when I walked out of that studio, I felt like a million bucks. The sore neck I had when I walked in to the class was miraculously gone, and my skin, after I showered off the salt, was glowing. During the class, because the heat stretches your muscles so well, I was nearly able to touch my toes...a pose I am never able to accomplish in my regular yoga class.
So, I highly recommend everyone run out immediately and find the hot yoga studio nearest you. You won't be disappointed.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I'm back. Pretty much.
Hey, here's to the first post in, what, over two weeks?
Yes, 2010, I admire your dedication to sucking right up 'till the very end. You weren't going to let me off the hook with two easy months before ringing in the new year, were you?
While contemplating a timeline of 2010 in my mind, it was quickly decided that I won't be sending out Christmas cards this year. Because, as a good friend pointed out, you just CAN'T send out cards saying '2010 sucked even more than 2009!'.
The past several weeks have been a blur of my dad's funeral, work, cleaning out so very, very much of dad's stuff (deadline looming: we have to have it all out by January 1), and keeping up with Zoey. Ah, Zoey. The person who keeps me grounded in reality, and the only reason I am not personally cancelling Christmas this year. Because four-year-olds make this time of year magic no matter the crappy circumstances surrounding them...there are still Christmas programs to attend (will Zoey finally understand before Thursday that 'The Cattle Are Lowing' is not an actual song, but only the second verse in Away In A Manger?) and gifts to track down as Santa's #1 helper.
And, this weekend, I have a break! My mom took Zoey Friday evening and won't be bringing her back until tonight. This has cleared up plenty of time to accomplish some things on my to-do list, and my first Hot Yoga class is looming later on this morning...wish me luck. If I don't pass out from heat exhaustion, I will try to blog more on the experience later. For now, I'd best be googling the address of the yoga studio so I know where I'm going.
Yes, 2010, I admire your dedication to sucking right up 'till the very end. You weren't going to let me off the hook with two easy months before ringing in the new year, were you?
While contemplating a timeline of 2010 in my mind, it was quickly decided that I won't be sending out Christmas cards this year. Because, as a good friend pointed out, you just CAN'T send out cards saying '2010 sucked even more than 2009!'.
The past several weeks have been a blur of my dad's funeral, work, cleaning out so very, very much of dad's stuff (deadline looming: we have to have it all out by January 1), and keeping up with Zoey. Ah, Zoey. The person who keeps me grounded in reality, and the only reason I am not personally cancelling Christmas this year. Because four-year-olds make this time of year magic no matter the crappy circumstances surrounding them...there are still Christmas programs to attend (will Zoey finally understand before Thursday that 'The Cattle Are Lowing' is not an actual song, but only the second verse in Away In A Manger?) and gifts to track down as Santa's #1 helper.
And, this weekend, I have a break! My mom took Zoey Friday evening and won't be bringing her back until tonight. This has cleared up plenty of time to accomplish some things on my to-do list, and my first Hot Yoga class is looming later on this morning...wish me luck. If I don't pass out from heat exhaustion, I will try to blog more on the experience later. For now, I'd best be googling the address of the yoga studio so I know where I'm going.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Homework
Zoey has taken, lately, to homework. Paper comes out of the art bin (Mommy, grab the paper with no lines!), her box of crayons, markers, highlighters, a big sturdy book from her collection to place the paper on. She lays out on the livingroom floor, flat on her belly the way her Auntie Abby likes to study, and she writes the letters she knows. A handful...Z, O, E, and Y, of course, although at times she tells me she wants an A or an F in her name, so her printed name looks like ZOEA. (I took out the Y, Mommy. I can put it in later.) I think she is trying to incorporate the Letter of the Week from preschool in to her name, experimenting.
This morning, while watching Elmo's All-Star Alphabet, she was thrilled to learn each letter comes in an upper case AND a lower case. Thrilled, I think, and a little disgruntled.
"Mommy! I didn't know each letter has a big and a little! I can only write the big ones..."
So we lay down together on the floor. I write out as many upper and lower case letters as I can fit on one page, and she is happy to trace them. Underneath each one, she attempts to write it herself. Proud of herself when hers mirrors mine, frustrated when it does not. Like last week, when she was attempting to copy our address (Mommy, I need to write directions for Quincy to come to my house, you write and I will trace our abbress...) and got stuck on the numbers seven and five. There were tears. Not happy with simply tracing, but wanting it to look RIGHT.
I worry, a little, about these outbursts. Being a neurotic, anal-retentive perfectionist myself, I can spot one a mile away, and I am wondering if Zoey is a perfectionist in the making. I tell her she doesn't have to know all the letters and numbers just yet, she's only three...some three year olds can't even write their names yet! And that's okay, she'll learn all the letters and numbers soon, she can keep practicing, and we sit together, again, we write our address. Again. We do this until she grows bored and decorates the address with stickers. I do not want her feeling pressure to learn things, and feeling as though she needs to do them just so.
And yet.
There are so many worse ways for a child to turn out. She could be lazy. Not interested, even a little bit, in writing her name. Hyperactive. Content to follow. Instead of her teacher pulling me aside to tell me Zoey is one of her best listeners, I could be hearing about all the time-outs she sat in through the day. Zoey has never been in time-out at school, seems mortified that I would even ask.
Wanting it done right. I can work with that.
She's moved on from her alphabet tracing, and is coloring in all the letters with her blue highlighter, so nearly every letter looks like a block. She watches the alphabet show out of the corner of her eye. She seems happy.
This morning, while watching Elmo's All-Star Alphabet, she was thrilled to learn each letter comes in an upper case AND a lower case. Thrilled, I think, and a little disgruntled.
"Mommy! I didn't know each letter has a big and a little! I can only write the big ones..."
So we lay down together on the floor. I write out as many upper and lower case letters as I can fit on one page, and she is happy to trace them. Underneath each one, she attempts to write it herself. Proud of herself when hers mirrors mine, frustrated when it does not. Like last week, when she was attempting to copy our address (Mommy, I need to write directions for Quincy to come to my house, you write and I will trace our abbress...) and got stuck on the numbers seven and five. There were tears. Not happy with simply tracing, but wanting it to look RIGHT.
I worry, a little, about these outbursts. Being a neurotic, anal-retentive perfectionist myself, I can spot one a mile away, and I am wondering if Zoey is a perfectionist in the making. I tell her she doesn't have to know all the letters and numbers just yet, she's only three...some three year olds can't even write their names yet! And that's okay, she'll learn all the letters and numbers soon, she can keep practicing, and we sit together, again, we write our address. Again. We do this until she grows bored and decorates the address with stickers. I do not want her feeling pressure to learn things, and feeling as though she needs to do them just so.
And yet.
There are so many worse ways for a child to turn out. She could be lazy. Not interested, even a little bit, in writing her name. Hyperactive. Content to follow. Instead of her teacher pulling me aside to tell me Zoey is one of her best listeners, I could be hearing about all the time-outs she sat in through the day. Zoey has never been in time-out at school, seems mortified that I would even ask.
Wanting it done right. I can work with that.
She's moved on from her alphabet tracing, and is coloring in all the letters with her blue highlighter, so nearly every letter looks like a block. She watches the alphabet show out of the corner of her eye. She seems happy.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I am lame and this explains why
Hey, want to know what's more lame than going to bed at 8:30 on a Saturday night? Setting your clock back the following morning and realizing you actually went to bed at 7:30! Like an old person!
See, it would be one thing if I were normally a very hip and trendy person who typically stayed up until at least 10:00 every night, and just this once needed an opportunity to replenish her sleep bank. The type of person who has a social life and knows where the fun is happening on a Saturday night. I am not this person. On a typical Friday night you can find me at the local Redbox, renting the latest Dora movie, or at home mopping my bathroom floor. And, as these two activities will completely wear me out, I will typically be in bed sometime around, oh, 9:30, which is so totally late for me and look how exciting I am!
Adding to the lame factor yesterday was the Killer Respiratory Virus that finished sweeping through my house, claiming me as it's last victim. I talked to my mom on the phone yesterday morning, when I was still pretending I was going to carry on with my normal Saturday routine instead of crawling back in to bed and dying, and she promptly hung up with me and called my aunt to come pick up Zoey. And please hurry, I can hear her adding, because Zoey has had enough trauma in her life this year, and do we really need her to witness her mother dying a slow, tortured death as her lungs collapse and expel themselves through her nostrils? No. No we don't.
(I think we can all pause here and thank the uinverse that I am rarely stricken with whatever respiratory bug comes along, as it clearly makes me a wee bit melodramatic.)
Anyway. My aunt came to retrieve Zoey and I spent an additional four hours in bed. Then I got up, went to the store for milk, and was so completely exhausted from the experience that Zoey and I crawled in to bed together at 8:00. Or, 7:00, really. LAME.
I hate losing an entire day to being sick, especially a Saturday. Now I have to play catch-up all day! Winco shopping, a trip to Target, am I even going to make it to yoga? Would anyone want me to join them in yoga class anyway? And don't even talk to me about the laundry that is piling up...I managed to empty the dishwasher yesterday evening and that was monumental.
So, here's the bonus! When you go to bed at 7 p.m. you bounce out of bed at 6 a.m. ready to attack the world! Sort of! I stripped the bed of all virus-ridden linen, which is currently cycling through the washing machine. Next I plan to Lysol every door handle and non-porous surface in the house, and that's just while we bide our time waiting for Target to open. Does anyone know what time that might be?
Standing in front of Target with your preschooler, waiting for it to open on a Sunday morning: also lame. Welcome to my life.
See, it would be one thing if I were normally a very hip and trendy person who typically stayed up until at least 10:00 every night, and just this once needed an opportunity to replenish her sleep bank. The type of person who has a social life and knows where the fun is happening on a Saturday night. I am not this person. On a typical Friday night you can find me at the local Redbox, renting the latest Dora movie, or at home mopping my bathroom floor. And, as these two activities will completely wear me out, I will typically be in bed sometime around, oh, 9:30, which is so totally late for me and look how exciting I am!
Adding to the lame factor yesterday was the Killer Respiratory Virus that finished sweeping through my house, claiming me as it's last victim. I talked to my mom on the phone yesterday morning, when I was still pretending I was going to carry on with my normal Saturday routine instead of crawling back in to bed and dying, and she promptly hung up with me and called my aunt to come pick up Zoey. And please hurry, I can hear her adding, because Zoey has had enough trauma in her life this year, and do we really need her to witness her mother dying a slow, tortured death as her lungs collapse and expel themselves through her nostrils? No. No we don't.
(I think we can all pause here and thank the uinverse that I am rarely stricken with whatever respiratory bug comes along, as it clearly makes me a wee bit melodramatic.)
Anyway. My aunt came to retrieve Zoey and I spent an additional four hours in bed. Then I got up, went to the store for milk, and was so completely exhausted from the experience that Zoey and I crawled in to bed together at 8:00. Or, 7:00, really. LAME.
I hate losing an entire day to being sick, especially a Saturday. Now I have to play catch-up all day! Winco shopping, a trip to Target, am I even going to make it to yoga? Would anyone want me to join them in yoga class anyway? And don't even talk to me about the laundry that is piling up...I managed to empty the dishwasher yesterday evening and that was monumental.
So, here's the bonus! When you go to bed at 7 p.m. you bounce out of bed at 6 a.m. ready to attack the world! Sort of! I stripped the bed of all virus-ridden linen, which is currently cycling through the washing machine. Next I plan to Lysol every door handle and non-porous surface in the house, and that's just while we bide our time waiting for Target to open. Does anyone know what time that might be?
Standing in front of Target with your preschooler, waiting for it to open on a Sunday morning: also lame. Welcome to my life.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Showers
Dear Zoey,
I love you. Of course I do. One of the things I had always loved about you, in fact, was your hesitation when it came to showering. You are a good old-fashioned soak-in-the-warm-tub kind of gal. Or, you were. As of last week, the shower--that beloved realm of the house you never set foot in, thus ensuring me at least ten minutes of uninterrupted semi-peace per day--has become your new playground. Just when I think you are content to work your puzzle or color a picture or even sit happily in front of the TV so I can sneak off and inhale the scent of my Dove body wash, I can hear you coming down the hall, yelling out 'I have a surprise for you, Mommy!'
'Great! Is your surpise that you are going to get dressed while I'm in the shower, like I asked you to? I left your clothes in the hallway and--'
Before I can finish calling out directions from the steaminess that is my shower, the curtain is yanked back and with all the flexibility of a track star clearing a hurdle, here comes your tiny naked body yelling 'SURPRISE MOMMY! I'M GETTING IN WITH YOU!'.
Surprise indeed.
And, for as anti-relaxing as the entire experience ends up being for me, I can't help but watch you and smile. Or maybe I'm crying and almost banging my head against the wall, it's hard to tell. I want you to leave me alone and yet I don't mind that you are here. You request shave gel for you legs and rake a plastic toy, standing in as a safety razor, through the foam. You shiver and accuse me of hogging all the hot water. MY hot water. You set up elaborate scenes on the ledge of the tub, involving toy frogs and washcloths and full cups of water that are bound to spill all over the floor. And finally, when I wave the white flag and trip over you as I leave the comfort of the warm water, you announce you will stay in the tub 'just to warm up, and I'll get out after you get dressed'.
Ten minutes of peace while showering quickly morphs in to ten minutes of peace while getting dressed and brushing my teeth.
You hop out sooner than I would like you to, actually, and shiver your way out the door to find your clothes. You leave your towel on the floor and don't even get me started on the underwear that are still lodged inside your dirty pajama pants. You trail a mess and plenty of chatter and love and joy everywhere you go, and despite the fact that I can not escape you even for one second, I would not trade you and the magical age you are right now for anything in the world.
I love you. Of course I do. One of the things I had always loved about you, in fact, was your hesitation when it came to showering. You are a good old-fashioned soak-in-the-warm-tub kind of gal. Or, you were. As of last week, the shower--that beloved realm of the house you never set foot in, thus ensuring me at least ten minutes of uninterrupted semi-peace per day--has become your new playground. Just when I think you are content to work your puzzle or color a picture or even sit happily in front of the TV so I can sneak off and inhale the scent of my Dove body wash, I can hear you coming down the hall, yelling out 'I have a surprise for you, Mommy!'
'Great! Is your surpise that you are going to get dressed while I'm in the shower, like I asked you to? I left your clothes in the hallway and--'
Before I can finish calling out directions from the steaminess that is my shower, the curtain is yanked back and with all the flexibility of a track star clearing a hurdle, here comes your tiny naked body yelling 'SURPRISE MOMMY! I'M GETTING IN WITH YOU!'.
Surprise indeed.
And, for as anti-relaxing as the entire experience ends up being for me, I can't help but watch you and smile. Or maybe I'm crying and almost banging my head against the wall, it's hard to tell. I want you to leave me alone and yet I don't mind that you are here. You request shave gel for you legs and rake a plastic toy, standing in as a safety razor, through the foam. You shiver and accuse me of hogging all the hot water. MY hot water. You set up elaborate scenes on the ledge of the tub, involving toy frogs and washcloths and full cups of water that are bound to spill all over the floor. And finally, when I wave the white flag and trip over you as I leave the comfort of the warm water, you announce you will stay in the tub 'just to warm up, and I'll get out after you get dressed'.
Ten minutes of peace while showering quickly morphs in to ten minutes of peace while getting dressed and brushing my teeth.
You hop out sooner than I would like you to, actually, and shiver your way out the door to find your clothes. You leave your towel on the floor and don't even get me started on the underwear that are still lodged inside your dirty pajama pants. You trail a mess and plenty of chatter and love and joy everywhere you go, and despite the fact that I can not escape you even for one second, I would not trade you and the magical age you are right now for anything in the world.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Finish this sentance: 'Zoey was running across the playground when...'
My cell phone rang while I was on my lunch break yesterday. The name of Zoey's daycare came up on caller ID.
Fever, vomiting, or head injury?
Head injury. Black eye, to be more precise.
The all-too-familiar opening line: 'Zoey was running full-steam across the playground when...' This time, she managed to connect her face with the side of Donovan's skull at a speed of, guessing by the swelling, at least 30 mph. I promised to run across the street to take a look at the damage. I love it when these phone calls coincide so easily with my lunch break.
So, I zipped over to daycare and found Zoey waiting in line for the bathroom with a huge ice pack covering the right side of her face. Ms. Yvonne, the bathroom supervisor, looked grateful I was there, especially as Zoey tripped over her own two feet getting out of line and over to Mommy. I'm not sure if it was the tripping over the feet or the Mommy sighting that did it, but I could tell it was Game Over for Zoey's day at preschool. Over. Done. Hosed.
I sat down with her to assess the damage. The entire right side of her face was puffy and a nasty shiner was already forming over and under her eye, halfway down her cheek.
Me: Zoey. Honey. Tell me what hurts.
Zoey: *sobbing* Mommy. My whole face. It just hurts.
Me: No kidding...what does Donovan look like?
Zoey: I don't know! (Shooting me a look that says 'Who f***ing cares, lady, could you get me some Tylenol? I have a little headache here.)
So I collected jacket, artwork, and a child who looked like she had been in a bar fight and headed for the car. Back to work, so I could at least clear my spot at the lunch table and clock out.
Turns out, a whopper of a black eye is nothing a large ice pack and a dose of Motrin can't handle. By 4 pm, we were out at the playground and Zoey was happily riding her Dora bike with the neighbor boy. She was sound asleep by 8 pm and I only woke her up once to make sure she knew who I was and where she was at. (She was not impressed by this.) Satisfied she probably wouldn't suffer brain swelling during the night, I was asleep shortly after 9 pm.
This morning, there seems to be a lingering headache and, apparently, the force of the trauma to her head has knocked loose her need to sleep in until 7 am. 6:15! It's when all the cool kids get up. And ask for ice packs.
Fever, vomiting, or head injury?
Head injury. Black eye, to be more precise.
The all-too-familiar opening line: 'Zoey was running full-steam across the playground when...' This time, she managed to connect her face with the side of Donovan's skull at a speed of, guessing by the swelling, at least 30 mph. I promised to run across the street to take a look at the damage. I love it when these phone calls coincide so easily with my lunch break.
So, I zipped over to daycare and found Zoey waiting in line for the bathroom with a huge ice pack covering the right side of her face. Ms. Yvonne, the bathroom supervisor, looked grateful I was there, especially as Zoey tripped over her own two feet getting out of line and over to Mommy. I'm not sure if it was the tripping over the feet or the Mommy sighting that did it, but I could tell it was Game Over for Zoey's day at preschool. Over. Done. Hosed.
I sat down with her to assess the damage. The entire right side of her face was puffy and a nasty shiner was already forming over and under her eye, halfway down her cheek.
Me: Zoey. Honey. Tell me what hurts.
Zoey: *sobbing* Mommy. My whole face. It just hurts.
Me: No kidding...what does Donovan look like?
Zoey: I don't know! (Shooting me a look that says 'Who f***ing cares, lady, could you get me some Tylenol? I have a little headache here.)
So I collected jacket, artwork, and a child who looked like she had been in a bar fight and headed for the car. Back to work, so I could at least clear my spot at the lunch table and clock out.
Turns out, a whopper of a black eye is nothing a large ice pack and a dose of Motrin can't handle. By 4 pm, we were out at the playground and Zoey was happily riding her Dora bike with the neighbor boy. She was sound asleep by 8 pm and I only woke her up once to make sure she knew who I was and where she was at. (She was not impressed by this.) Satisfied she probably wouldn't suffer brain swelling during the night, I was asleep shortly after 9 pm.
This morning, there seems to be a lingering headache and, apparently, the force of the trauma to her head has knocked loose her need to sleep in until 7 am. 6:15! It's when all the cool kids get up. And ask for ice packs.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hug Time
Zoey and I curled up in bed tonight to read Hug Time, by Patrick McDonnell, together. An extension of the Mutts cartoon strip my sister Abby got me hooked on, I had forgotten I even owned a copy of this book until Zoey pulled it off the bottom shelf of a bookcase in the hallway.
'Mommy! Let's read this!'
A very, very sweet tale of a small kitten named Jules who travels the world in an effort to hug everyone and everything, he cozies up to great blue whales and tigers alike.
"But in the North Pole, Jules sadly found
What it would be like with no one around."
Zoey: Mommy? He's sad.
Me: He is. He feels all alone, but look! (Next page.) See the polar bear who comes out to give him a hug? That must make him feel better.
Zoey: Oh yes. He's on an ed-benture! (Adventure)
Me: You're right.
Zoey: But an ed-benture by himself is sad.
Me: Sometimes.
We finish the book and I massage Zoey's head and back, like every night. Curled up tight under my quilt, she is quiet. I think she has drifted off when I hear 'Mommy?'
Me: Yes?
Zoey: (sleepy and sweet) I would never go on an ed-benture without you.
Me: Thanks, bug.
And this? Is why I do what I do, every day, all day, forever and ever amen.
'Mommy! Let's read this!'
A very, very sweet tale of a small kitten named Jules who travels the world in an effort to hug everyone and everything, he cozies up to great blue whales and tigers alike.
"But in the North Pole, Jules sadly found
What it would be like with no one around."
Zoey: Mommy? He's sad.
Me: He is. He feels all alone, but look! (Next page.) See the polar bear who comes out to give him a hug? That must make him feel better.
Zoey: Oh yes. He's on an ed-benture! (Adventure)
Me: You're right.
Zoey: But an ed-benture by himself is sad.
Me: Sometimes.
We finish the book and I massage Zoey's head and back, like every night. Curled up tight under my quilt, she is quiet. I think she has drifted off when I hear 'Mommy?'
Me: Yes?
Zoey: (sleepy and sweet) I would never go on an ed-benture without you.
Me: Thanks, bug.
And this? Is why I do what I do, every day, all day, forever and ever amen.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Lights out
Zoey: MOM. You are leaving lights on everywhere!
(In my own defense, it was bath time. Lights were on in the hallway, bathroom, and her bedroom. Pretty much the three areas we frequent this time of night.)
Me: Oh man. What are you going to do with me?
Zoey: (Impatient sigh) WELL. I guess I will keep you. Just because you are my mom.
I thought this was quite generous of her, as it would have been a cold evening to be kicked out on front step.
(In my own defense, it was bath time. Lights were on in the hallway, bathroom, and her bedroom. Pretty much the three areas we frequent this time of night.)
Me: Oh man. What are you going to do with me?
Zoey: (Impatient sigh) WELL. I guess I will keep you. Just because you are my mom.
I thought this was quite generous of her, as it would have been a cold evening to be kicked out on front step.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Eye exam
I knew that taking my three-year-old along to Costco for my eye exam was a risky endeavor. But my appointment was at 4:20, and what was I going to do, leave her at daycare for who knows how long? I had an extra day off this week, and spent it doing nothing but boring errands. Still, I felt the pull to pick her up early, knowing full good and well she had enjoyed herself far more than I had all day.
So it was that, at 3:45ish this afternoon, we found ourselves wandering the aisles of Costco, waiting for my appointment. This turned out to be sheer genius on my part, as there are snacks lurking around every corner, for free! Philly Cheesesteak? Sure, try it. Apple granola bar? Even better. Vienna sausages, BBQ spareribs, wee little pumpkin bread offerings? A shame I defrosted chicken stock to make soup for dinner! Let's just graze the aisles of Costco and get a full meal!
Tummies sufficiently stuffed, we hit the potties on our way to the waiting room. As we sat in chairs in the hallway, I produced a brand new coloring book and a Highlights magazine from my purse. Parenting at it's best. And Zoey? Was being remarkably well-behaved.
They called my name and it was immediately obvious that nobody was taking kindly to my preschool sidekick. Which I could totally understand if, say, she was in the midst of a raging tantrum. But when I sat in the stool for my 'pre-exam' right in the reception area, the only words uttered by Zoey were 'Mommy, where can I color at?' She cozied up on the floor, out of the way of foot traffic, and colored to her heart's content as, I'm sure, her digestive system worked hard to stabilize her blood sugar.
Back to the waiting area chairs. Blessed art thou, oh holy trinity of Crayola, Elmo, and Look-and-Find.
Finally, we were called back to the exam room. Zoey was fascinated with all the equipment, yet did not touch a thing. The optometrist, a woman who clearly has no children of her own, appeared confused. 'Oh...is this appointment for you? Or your daughter?'
Well. According to the paperwork right there in front of you, with my name and birthdate, I think it's reasonable to assume I am the 32-year-old here for an eye exam.
I sat in the chair with the funky glass examiner pulled to my face, which Zoey immediately decided made me look like a great big owl.
Funny! Or...not. Okay, lady. Let's just get on with it.
I covered my left eye with the pirate eye patch and read the smallest print on the eye chart across the room. Then, the tedious part of the exam '...is this better? Or this? This...? Or....this?'
Boring.
Then we moved to my left eye, which has failed me on every occasion in the past and today was no exception. In fact, today was the first day I've ever been asked 'oh, is this your lazy eye?' I don't think so...IS IT?!? Anyway. I could barely see any of the print on the chart in front of me. It was embarrassing. Maybe I do have a lazy eye?
Which is promptly when Zoey jumped in to help me, calling 'oh Mommy, that's an E! And that's a G! Oooh, and a number 3!'
Now, while I understand this is on the same level as my sister Alisa standing behind our dad and flashing the correct number on my addition flash cards that I sucked at in first grade, I still thought it was sweet that she was offering to help. The optometrist? Not so much.
'Oh, sweetheart, don't help your Mommy. She needs to do this on her own.' Kind of tight-lipped and hissy, like maybe I was waiting for Zoey to jump in and help me. Right, lady. She's my seeing eye dog. It's why I had her--for her 20/20 vision.
Shortly after it was established that I am near-blind on my left side, I was able to talk Snarky Lady out of dilating my eyes. Honestly. I can't stand the staggering around in pain for hours after those horrid drops (another problem, the drops...anything near my eye freaks me out), when even the dimmest light can be migraine-inducing. I'd rather have my teeth drilled, and we all remember what a pleasant experience THAT was back in August, right? Anyway, maybe she let me off the hook because she figured a woman who lets her preschooler read her the eye chart might be the same crazy person who tosses that preschooler the keys to the car and shouts 'hey, Zoey, my eyes hurt! You drive!' Maybe she just wanted me out of the office. Who knows.
I paid my $65 for the exam and thanked everyone profusely for their help. I did not press my luck by taking Zoey to the optical counter to order my new frames.
She would likely pick the set that really does make me look like a blind owl.
So it was that, at 3:45ish this afternoon, we found ourselves wandering the aisles of Costco, waiting for my appointment. This turned out to be sheer genius on my part, as there are snacks lurking around every corner, for free! Philly Cheesesteak? Sure, try it. Apple granola bar? Even better. Vienna sausages, BBQ spareribs, wee little pumpkin bread offerings? A shame I defrosted chicken stock to make soup for dinner! Let's just graze the aisles of Costco and get a full meal!
Tummies sufficiently stuffed, we hit the potties on our way to the waiting room. As we sat in chairs in the hallway, I produced a brand new coloring book and a Highlights magazine from my purse. Parenting at it's best. And Zoey? Was being remarkably well-behaved.
They called my name and it was immediately obvious that nobody was taking kindly to my preschool sidekick. Which I could totally understand if, say, she was in the midst of a raging tantrum. But when I sat in the stool for my 'pre-exam' right in the reception area, the only words uttered by Zoey were 'Mommy, where can I color at?' She cozied up on the floor, out of the way of foot traffic, and colored to her heart's content as, I'm sure, her digestive system worked hard to stabilize her blood sugar.
Back to the waiting area chairs. Blessed art thou, oh holy trinity of Crayola, Elmo, and Look-and-Find.
Finally, we were called back to the exam room. Zoey was fascinated with all the equipment, yet did not touch a thing. The optometrist, a woman who clearly has no children of her own, appeared confused. 'Oh...is this appointment for you? Or your daughter?'
Well. According to the paperwork right there in front of you, with my name and birthdate, I think it's reasonable to assume I am the 32-year-old here for an eye exam.
I sat in the chair with the funky glass examiner pulled to my face, which Zoey immediately decided made me look like a great big owl.
Funny! Or...not. Okay, lady. Let's just get on with it.
I covered my left eye with the pirate eye patch and read the smallest print on the eye chart across the room. Then, the tedious part of the exam '...is this better? Or this? This...? Or....this?'
Boring.
Then we moved to my left eye, which has failed me on every occasion in the past and today was no exception. In fact, today was the first day I've ever been asked 'oh, is this your lazy eye?' I don't think so...IS IT?!? Anyway. I could barely see any of the print on the chart in front of me. It was embarrassing. Maybe I do have a lazy eye?
Which is promptly when Zoey jumped in to help me, calling 'oh Mommy, that's an E! And that's a G! Oooh, and a number 3!'
Now, while I understand this is on the same level as my sister Alisa standing behind our dad and flashing the correct number on my addition flash cards that I sucked at in first grade, I still thought it was sweet that she was offering to help. The optometrist? Not so much.
'Oh, sweetheart, don't help your Mommy. She needs to do this on her own.' Kind of tight-lipped and hissy, like maybe I was waiting for Zoey to jump in and help me. Right, lady. She's my seeing eye dog. It's why I had her--for her 20/20 vision.
Shortly after it was established that I am near-blind on my left side, I was able to talk Snarky Lady out of dilating my eyes. Honestly. I can't stand the staggering around in pain for hours after those horrid drops (another problem, the drops...anything near my eye freaks me out), when even the dimmest light can be migraine-inducing. I'd rather have my teeth drilled, and we all remember what a pleasant experience THAT was back in August, right? Anyway, maybe she let me off the hook because she figured a woman who lets her preschooler read her the eye chart might be the same crazy person who tosses that preschooler the keys to the car and shouts 'hey, Zoey, my eyes hurt! You drive!' Maybe she just wanted me out of the office. Who knows.
I paid my $65 for the exam and thanked everyone profusely for their help. I did not press my luck by taking Zoey to the optical counter to order my new frames.
She would likely pick the set that really does make me look like a blind owl.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Happy Birthday. Sort of.
I think I was born at 6:36 a.m. Or 6:46? Something like that.
So maybe it was Zoey's goal to wake me up at the PRECISE moment I turned 32, to kick me out of bed and demand hot milk.
And then proceed to whine and fuss until I actually DID remove myself from bed. Grumpily.
Although she did run out to the kitchen to start the coffee pot.
Then I asked her 'hey, what are you supposed to say to Mommy first thing this morning?'
'Sorry?'
*sigh*
Never mind.
So maybe it was Zoey's goal to wake me up at the PRECISE moment I turned 32, to kick me out of bed and demand hot milk.
And then proceed to whine and fuss until I actually DID remove myself from bed. Grumpily.
Although she did run out to the kitchen to start the coffee pot.
Then I asked her 'hey, what are you supposed to say to Mommy first thing this morning?'
'Sorry?'
*sigh*
Never mind.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Not fun.
Guess who decided to try coloring on the carpet last night, because she thought it might be fun?
Not me. Not the cat. He has a hard time opening the Rubbermaid bin of crayons.
I was picking up toys last night pre-vacuuming, while Zoey was or wasn't putting on her pajamas, when I saw what looked like a blue and yellow rainbow on the gray carpet right near the sliding glass door. Not an oops-I-colored-off-the-page scribble, but a pre-meditated rainbow.
Me: ZOEY. Get out here. NOW.
Zoey: (Skittering around the corner and stopping short when she sees me standing over the evidence) What, Mommy?
Me: What? WHAT? How about WHAT IS THIS?
Zoey: It's color crayon. On the floor.
Me: I see that! How did it get there?!
Zoey: I did it... (large brown eyes beginning to fill with tears as she watches me swoop up her beloved coloring book and crayons)
Me: *pointing*
Zoey: *wailing all the way to the time-out chair*
After a time-out lasting long enough for me to cool down and spray a generous amount of Resolve on the carpet, Zoey tip-toed back to the livingroom to hug me around the knees.
Me: What do you need to say?
Zoey: I'm sorry! I'm sorry I colored on the floor!
(This I considered to be progress, since her standard line following any time-out is 'I'm sorry for not listening'. While it applies to a vast majority of visits to the chair, it doesn't cover them all, and I get annoyed when she seems to be apologizing for whatever she thinks will get me off her back.)
Me: That was a bad choice, Zoey. I thought you were big enough to have your color crayons out in the livingroom, but I see I was wrong. From now on, you're only allowed to color at the table.
Her little face fell, totally crestfallen. One tweak to the rules, and she was heartbroken.
Motherhood brings with it so much power.
I'm kidding. It was actually a little sad to see her so broken up over not being allowed to color any place she chooses. But also reassuring, in a way--she knew she screwed up, and she felt bad.
Me: (after hugs and Kleenex) Zoey? WHY did you color on the carpet? You know that's naughty.
Zoey: Oh. I thought it would be fun. That's why.
At least she's honest.
Not me. Not the cat. He has a hard time opening the Rubbermaid bin of crayons.
I was picking up toys last night pre-vacuuming, while Zoey was or wasn't putting on her pajamas, when I saw what looked like a blue and yellow rainbow on the gray carpet right near the sliding glass door. Not an oops-I-colored-off-the-page scribble, but a pre-meditated rainbow.
Me: ZOEY. Get out here. NOW.
Zoey: (Skittering around the corner and stopping short when she sees me standing over the evidence) What, Mommy?
Me: What? WHAT? How about WHAT IS THIS?
Zoey: It's color crayon. On the floor.
Me: I see that! How did it get there?!
Zoey: I did it... (large brown eyes beginning to fill with tears as she watches me swoop up her beloved coloring book and crayons)
Me: *pointing*
Zoey: *wailing all the way to the time-out chair*
After a time-out lasting long enough for me to cool down and spray a generous amount of Resolve on the carpet, Zoey tip-toed back to the livingroom to hug me around the knees.
Me: What do you need to say?
Zoey: I'm sorry! I'm sorry I colored on the floor!
(This I considered to be progress, since her standard line following any time-out is 'I'm sorry for not listening'. While it applies to a vast majority of visits to the chair, it doesn't cover them all, and I get annoyed when she seems to be apologizing for whatever she thinks will get me off her back.)
Me: That was a bad choice, Zoey. I thought you were big enough to have your color crayons out in the livingroom, but I see I was wrong. From now on, you're only allowed to color at the table.
Her little face fell, totally crestfallen. One tweak to the rules, and she was heartbroken.
Motherhood brings with it so much power.
I'm kidding. It was actually a little sad to see her so broken up over not being allowed to color any place she chooses. But also reassuring, in a way--she knew she screwed up, and she felt bad.
Me: (after hugs and Kleenex) Zoey? WHY did you color on the carpet? You know that's naughty.
Zoey: Oh. I thought it would be fun. That's why.
At least she's honest.
Whiners: They're Everywhere
Alternate title for this post: GI Nurses Stand All Day. It's Just What We Do.
There's a highly annoying subset of the human species I work with on a daily basis. They possess the standoffish demeanor that implies they were born just slightly better than everyone around them, and it rubs me the wrong way. They walk in to a room and, no matter that you were talking to the patient on the stretcher first, they merely shoulder-check you and interrupt to start their own conversation. When a procedure room needs to be turned over, you can find them in the break room--pushing stretchers and bringing patients in to the room is for the lower class, after all. And please, don't interrupt them while they're surfing the internet on their iPhones! They might be getting an important message on Facebook!
And, above all, they were meant to sit down all day. Their holy tushies need padding, didn't you know?
Yes. Yesterday I was informed 'providing a rolling stool for us is really, like, the standard'. As in, standard of care. Right up there with infection control and ensuring correct narcotic counts at the end of the day.
The conversation went something like this, right around 3 pm:
Her Royal Highness: Wow...I'm glad I just work here per diem! If I were going to work in this facility full-time, I'd really need a stool to sit on during the day! (She says, as she stretches her young, athletic, limber legs up to the top of a stretcher.)
Amy: (leaning over a patient, applying abdominal pressure for what feels like the 40th hour in a row) Hmmm. We all stand up in the procedure room. You get used to it after awhile.
(Implied tone: GET OVER YOURSELF.)
HRH: But it's just so hard, standing all day! 10 hours is a long time to stand on concrete!
Amy: Yes. You people seem to really struggle with that.
HRH: Well. You know. Providing a rolling stool for us is really the standard.
Biteyourtonguebiteyourtonguebiteyourtongue.
See, some people just aren't worth the sarcastic comebacks you have at the ready, you know? Because they just don't get it. They truly believe they came in to this world as God's gift to creation, and we can't require God's chosen few to stand around like the common people, now can we?
Because it's just so hard, you know? To STAND? All day?
Yeah. We know.
There's a highly annoying subset of the human species I work with on a daily basis. They possess the standoffish demeanor that implies they were born just slightly better than everyone around them, and it rubs me the wrong way. They walk in to a room and, no matter that you were talking to the patient on the stretcher first, they merely shoulder-check you and interrupt to start their own conversation. When a procedure room needs to be turned over, you can find them in the break room--pushing stretchers and bringing patients in to the room is for the lower class, after all. And please, don't interrupt them while they're surfing the internet on their iPhones! They might be getting an important message on Facebook!
And, above all, they were meant to sit down all day. Their holy tushies need padding, didn't you know?
Yes. Yesterday I was informed 'providing a rolling stool for us is really, like, the standard'. As in, standard of care. Right up there with infection control and ensuring correct narcotic counts at the end of the day.
The conversation went something like this, right around 3 pm:
Her Royal Highness: Wow...I'm glad I just work here per diem! If I were going to work in this facility full-time, I'd really need a stool to sit on during the day! (She says, as she stretches her young, athletic, limber legs up to the top of a stretcher.)
Amy: (leaning over a patient, applying abdominal pressure for what feels like the 40th hour in a row) Hmmm. We all stand up in the procedure room. You get used to it after awhile.
(Implied tone: GET OVER YOURSELF.)
HRH: But it's just so hard, standing all day! 10 hours is a long time to stand on concrete!
Amy: Yes. You people seem to really struggle with that.
HRH: Well. You know. Providing a rolling stool for us is really the standard.
Biteyourtonguebiteyourtonguebiteyourtongue.
See, some people just aren't worth the sarcastic comebacks you have at the ready, you know? Because they just don't get it. They truly believe they came in to this world as God's gift to creation, and we can't require God's chosen few to stand around like the common people, now can we?
Because it's just so hard, you know? To STAND? All day?
Yeah. We know.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Down time
Three hours of unexpected down time all to myself found me lost in the library this afternoon.
You guys? They have books for GROWN-UPS at the library. In Puyallup? An entire floor dedicated to nothing but literature that does not include Dora the Explorer or Curious George.
It had completely escaped me, in all my weekly (and often twice-weekly) wanderings through our gorgeous downtown library that I could also use this building when not in full-mom mode. Like the local Y, the downstairs level of the library is very family-friendly: the kids section is in the back, child-size study tables are located everywhere, and nobody bats an eye if a certain preschooler who shall remain nameless forgets her library voice yet again. And then...there is the upstairs. Also like the Y, this is the floor for grown-ups. Quiet study carrels. Comfy couches and chairs. Cookbooks. Parenting books. Racks and racks and racks of novels. Documentaries.
For me, it felt like walking in to an alternate universe.
Come on, you have to be thinking. It's a section of a library. How awe-inspiring can it possibly be?
At which point I will flare my nostrils in your direction and explain, again, the magnitude that IS my complete lack of free time. Trust me, when I am not working my paying job, I am planning activities and outings that center around things I can do with Zoey. And I swear to you, I adore spending my free time with Zoey. She's great company. Just not second-floor-of-the-library company, you know? I forget sometimes that this whole other adult realm exists in the world, despite my lack of participation in said realm. So yes. Meandering through the second floor of my library was a bit like finding religion on a sunny September afternoon, when I still had two hours left in my free-time bank and all the cookbooks I could ever want right there at my finger tips.
And then? I went to Safeway. By myself. That's right...only responsible for my own seatbelt, and not at the mercy of Turtle, my new nickname for Zoey and her speed (or lack thereof) when getting out of the car. I didn't feel myself age one tiny bit as I zipped through the parking lot.
LIBERATING.
I bought myself a Lean Cuisine pizza (favorite!) and salad fixings for dinner. I went home and ate by myself. I read my magazine at the table. I did not listen to Dora or anything Disneycentric. I listened to Michael Bolton's Greatest Hits.
(Feel free to mock.)
And, at the end of the evening, I was overjoyed to have my daughter back with me. Because wandering the shelves of the library renews my joy of reading. Wandering the aisles of Safeway minus Turtle is refreshing. Eating and reading at the same time? With Michael Bolton playing in the background? Nearly unheard of lately.
But at the end of the day, I am Zoey's mom, and without her, I would be lost.
You guys? They have books for GROWN-UPS at the library. In Puyallup? An entire floor dedicated to nothing but literature that does not include Dora the Explorer or Curious George.
It had completely escaped me, in all my weekly (and often twice-weekly) wanderings through our gorgeous downtown library that I could also use this building when not in full-mom mode. Like the local Y, the downstairs level of the library is very family-friendly: the kids section is in the back, child-size study tables are located everywhere, and nobody bats an eye if a certain preschooler who shall remain nameless forgets her library voice yet again. And then...there is the upstairs. Also like the Y, this is the floor for grown-ups. Quiet study carrels. Comfy couches and chairs. Cookbooks. Parenting books. Racks and racks and racks of novels. Documentaries.
For me, it felt like walking in to an alternate universe.
Come on, you have to be thinking. It's a section of a library. How awe-inspiring can it possibly be?
At which point I will flare my nostrils in your direction and explain, again, the magnitude that IS my complete lack of free time. Trust me, when I am not working my paying job, I am planning activities and outings that center around things I can do with Zoey. And I swear to you, I adore spending my free time with Zoey. She's great company. Just not second-floor-of-the-library company, you know? I forget sometimes that this whole other adult realm exists in the world, despite my lack of participation in said realm. So yes. Meandering through the second floor of my library was a bit like finding religion on a sunny September afternoon, when I still had two hours left in my free-time bank and all the cookbooks I could ever want right there at my finger tips.
And then? I went to Safeway. By myself. That's right...only responsible for my own seatbelt, and not at the mercy of Turtle, my new nickname for Zoey and her speed (or lack thereof) when getting out of the car. I didn't feel myself age one tiny bit as I zipped through the parking lot.
LIBERATING.
I bought myself a Lean Cuisine pizza (favorite!) and salad fixings for dinner. I went home and ate by myself. I read my magazine at the table. I did not listen to Dora or anything Disneycentric. I listened to Michael Bolton's Greatest Hits.
(Feel free to mock.)
And, at the end of the evening, I was overjoyed to have my daughter back with me. Because wandering the shelves of the library renews my joy of reading. Wandering the aisles of Safeway minus Turtle is refreshing. Eating and reading at the same time? With Michael Bolton playing in the background? Nearly unheard of lately.
But at the end of the day, I am Zoey's mom, and without her, I would be lost.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
It's about time she started earning her keep
You know what's great about preschoolers? Their utter devotion to their Mommy, their need to follow, copy and please at all times, even when you are in the shower. (Many a shower session has been spent these past few weeks with Zoey's little body positioned on her pink stool between the shower curtain and shower liner, because discussing which shirt she wants to wear today just has to happen RIGHT NOW.)
This is the age when learning takes place at such a rapid rate it can be alarming. Overnight, Zoey has learned how to write her name, and the letter 'A', and rattle off long lists of 'B' words.
Devotion. Desire to please. Soaking up new skills like a sponge. Totally what I took advantage of this morning at 7:45.
Zoey: MOM. I'm ready to get up. MOOOOOOM....I want to get up now!
Me: Mmmpfff.
Zoey: MOM! I want hot milk! I mean...can I have some hot milk, please? I want to get up! Let's make coffee!
Me: !
Zoey: MOM. I want to get up!
Me: Zoey. Do you want to learn how to turn on the coffee pot for Mommy?
Zoey: Yes! I can make coffee! Now I can learn so when I grow up, I'll already know how to make coffee!
Me: Yes. Excellent. Go get your pink stool and take it to the kitchen.
So, to the kitchen we went. Zoey cozied her pink stool right up to the counter, where I showed her how to find the 'B' word that says 'brew'. 'B' is the letter they've been studying in preschool all week, so really, I'm just reinforcing her lessons.
'Buh-buh-buh, brew starts with B!'
Zoey happily flipped the dial to Brew and turned the nearby switch to On. And next Saturday? I plan to have her practice her newly acquired skill. It's only a matter of time before she's able to brew my coffeee, find the creamer in the fridge, and pour me my first cup in the morning. By the time she's six, hopefully.
This is the age when learning takes place at such a rapid rate it can be alarming. Overnight, Zoey has learned how to write her name, and the letter 'A', and rattle off long lists of 'B' words.
Devotion. Desire to please. Soaking up new skills like a sponge. Totally what I took advantage of this morning at 7:45.
Zoey: MOM. I'm ready to get up. MOOOOOOM....I want to get up now!
Me: Mmmpfff.
Zoey: MOM! I want hot milk! I mean...can I have some hot milk, please? I want to get up! Let's make coffee!
Me: !
Zoey: MOM. I want to get up!
Me: Zoey. Do you want to learn how to turn on the coffee pot for Mommy?
Zoey: Yes! I can make coffee! Now I can learn so when I grow up, I'll already know how to make coffee!
Me: Yes. Excellent. Go get your pink stool and take it to the kitchen.
So, to the kitchen we went. Zoey cozied her pink stool right up to the counter, where I showed her how to find the 'B' word that says 'brew'. 'B' is the letter they've been studying in preschool all week, so really, I'm just reinforcing her lessons.
'Buh-buh-buh, brew starts with B!'
Zoey happily flipped the dial to Brew and turned the nearby switch to On. And next Saturday? I plan to have her practice her newly acquired skill. It's only a matter of time before she's able to brew my coffeee, find the creamer in the fridge, and pour me my first cup in the morning. By the time she's six, hopefully.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Working for Ariel
Zoey's latest fascination is her collection of tiny plastic Disney Princess dolls, which come with tiny plastic dresses and shoes that magically disappear at the hands of the vacuum cleaner. She loves them, covets them, drools over them in the check-out line at Target. And my friend Jodi at work loves to buy them for her, as Jodi would love to have grandchildren of her own but doesn't yet, and in the meantime settles for spoiling my child.
And last week I got smart and made her start working for them. A sticker chart was placed on the fridge. A sticker was added every time Zoey did what I asked her to do, the first time. 20 stickers, which took an entire week to earn. We were working for Ariel, the Little Mermaid, and ohhhh, she wanted that Ariel doll. Badly.
So, on Sunday, Ariel finally floated down from the top of the fridge to the eagerly waiting hands of Zoey, who, like little girls everywhere, wanted nothing more than to undress her and examine her naked body. Ariel came packaged in a little mermaid flipper fin thing, and a miniscule clamshell bra, with a pretty pink dress waiting on the side for that magic moment when her flipper turned to feet. The flipper came off in a flash. The clamshell bra? Not so much.
Zoey: Mommy. I need help. I can't get her nipples off.
Me: Excuse me? Her what?
Zoey: Her nipples. See? They're stuck.
Me: Oh. Those aren't her nipples, sweetie, they call that a bra. A clamshell bra, specifically.
Zoey: (blank stare) Oh. Can you take her nipples off, please?
So. Ariel and her clamshell nipples have now joined the ranks of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, along with various mice and magic coaches, in a Disney Princess shoe box tucked safely under Zoey's bed when not in use. This week we are working toward Sleeping Beauty #2, compliments of Jodi. Thankfully, I see no delicate bits that will need removing when the package finally comes open.
And last week I got smart and made her start working for them. A sticker chart was placed on the fridge. A sticker was added every time Zoey did what I asked her to do, the first time. 20 stickers, which took an entire week to earn. We were working for Ariel, the Little Mermaid, and ohhhh, she wanted that Ariel doll. Badly.
So, on Sunday, Ariel finally floated down from the top of the fridge to the eagerly waiting hands of Zoey, who, like little girls everywhere, wanted nothing more than to undress her and examine her naked body. Ariel came packaged in a little mermaid flipper fin thing, and a miniscule clamshell bra, with a pretty pink dress waiting on the side for that magic moment when her flipper turned to feet. The flipper came off in a flash. The clamshell bra? Not so much.
Zoey: Mommy. I need help. I can't get her nipples off.
Me: Excuse me? Her what?
Zoey: Her nipples. See? They're stuck.
Me: Oh. Those aren't her nipples, sweetie, they call that a bra. A clamshell bra, specifically.
Zoey: (blank stare) Oh. Can you take her nipples off, please?
So. Ariel and her clamshell nipples have now joined the ranks of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, along with various mice and magic coaches, in a Disney Princess shoe box tucked safely under Zoey's bed when not in use. This week we are working toward Sleeping Beauty #2, compliments of Jodi. Thankfully, I see no delicate bits that will need removing when the package finally comes open.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Another day in paradise
5:10: Roll out of bed. Slooooowly stumble to coffee pot. Oh, glorious coffee pot, I did not even hear your annoying beeps this morning.
5:18: Step out of shower. Hear Zoey screaming in bedroom.
5:19: Wet. Towel. Kitty litter stuck to my damp foot? Yes. Awesome.
5:21: 'Mommy...I peed in your bed.' Am too tired and too struck by the mortified look on my daughter's face to even feel fazed by this kink in my morning routine. Assess damage.
5:23: How did she manage to saturate everything belonging to me, and nothing belonging to her, save her brand new monkey jammies? Seriously. Her blanket and puppy dog? Spared. My down comforter? Headed to the cleaners.
5:24: Zoey in bath tub. I am finally dressed. Hair, which is currently cut short and adorably spiky, is beginning to dry in a fashion resembling a cotton ball.
5:27: Zoey out of tub. Begins to cry when I tell her it's time to get dressed. Would prefer clean, dry jammies instead. Leave her to calm down in the bathroom.
5:30: Fumbling with buttons on duvet cover. Fingers coated in urine. Sheets in washing machine. Zoey still crying.
5:32: Crying. More crying.
5:35: Distract Zoey by telling her the cat is currently stalking a crane fly, which delights her to the point she does not notice I have slipped her Dora underpants and play clothes on already. She runs off to check on Henry.
5:36: Pick up bathroom. Mop up bath water, sweep up cat litter.
5:37: Assemble remaining urine-soaked bedding in wet heap on kitchen floor. Start Clifford DVD for Zoey, a rare treat on a work/school morning. (Feel free to praise my fine use of the DVD player as a babysitter in the comments section.)
5:43: Assess damage done to mattress. Notice lack of upholstery cleanser in my cleaning-tool repertoire. Settle for dousing the mattress in Shout! and contemplate how one small child can hold enough urine in her bladder to soak a Montana-sized stain in to my bedding. Seriously contemplate a plastic sheet for my grown up bed.
5:50: Oh God. My hair.
5:51: Too late. I'm going out looking like a Q-Tip today, as there is (clearly) no time to douse my head and start over (unless I'd like to douse it in pee, of which there is plenty floating around).
5:55: Kix for Zoey, Cheerios for me. Wash coffee pot. Frantically throw together lunch for myself and something resembling the remainder of my breakfast.
6:05: Load soaked comforter, lunch bag, commuter mug in to car.
6:10: Turn off Clifford. Shoes. Rain coat. Zoey crying for me to please carry her. Locate blanket and puppy dog.
6:25: Out the door.
6:50: Fall in to break room chair at work. I have to spend 10 hours here? Working? Haven't I already worked a ten hour shift?
5:18: Step out of shower. Hear Zoey screaming in bedroom.
5:19: Wet. Towel. Kitty litter stuck to my damp foot? Yes. Awesome.
5:21: 'Mommy...I peed in your bed.' Am too tired and too struck by the mortified look on my daughter's face to even feel fazed by this kink in my morning routine. Assess damage.
5:23: How did she manage to saturate everything belonging to me, and nothing belonging to her, save her brand new monkey jammies? Seriously. Her blanket and puppy dog? Spared. My down comforter? Headed to the cleaners.
5:24: Zoey in bath tub. I am finally dressed. Hair, which is currently cut short and adorably spiky, is beginning to dry in a fashion resembling a cotton ball.
5:27: Zoey out of tub. Begins to cry when I tell her it's time to get dressed. Would prefer clean, dry jammies instead. Leave her to calm down in the bathroom.
5:30: Fumbling with buttons on duvet cover. Fingers coated in urine. Sheets in washing machine. Zoey still crying.
5:32: Crying. More crying.
5:35: Distract Zoey by telling her the cat is currently stalking a crane fly, which delights her to the point she does not notice I have slipped her Dora underpants and play clothes on already. She runs off to check on Henry.
5:36: Pick up bathroom. Mop up bath water, sweep up cat litter.
5:37: Assemble remaining urine-soaked bedding in wet heap on kitchen floor. Start Clifford DVD for Zoey, a rare treat on a work/school morning. (Feel free to praise my fine use of the DVD player as a babysitter in the comments section.)
5:43: Assess damage done to mattress. Notice lack of upholstery cleanser in my cleaning-tool repertoire. Settle for dousing the mattress in Shout! and contemplate how one small child can hold enough urine in her bladder to soak a Montana-sized stain in to my bedding. Seriously contemplate a plastic sheet for my grown up bed.
5:50: Oh God. My hair.
5:51: Too late. I'm going out looking like a Q-Tip today, as there is (clearly) no time to douse my head and start over (unless I'd like to douse it in pee, of which there is plenty floating around).
5:55: Kix for Zoey, Cheerios for me. Wash coffee pot. Frantically throw together lunch for myself and something resembling the remainder of my breakfast.
6:05: Load soaked comforter, lunch bag, commuter mug in to car.
6:10: Turn off Clifford. Shoes. Rain coat. Zoey crying for me to please carry her. Locate blanket and puppy dog.
6:25: Out the door.
6:50: Fall in to break room chair at work. I have to spend 10 hours here? Working? Haven't I already worked a ten hour shift?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Heal Me
Zoey: MOM. Did you know Jesus will heal our owies?
Me: He will?
Zoey: Yeah. Ms. Ercila says so.
Me: Do you have an owie he is working on?
Zoey: Yeah. Right here on my finger. Ms. Ercila is soooo smart...just like me.
Me: He will?
Zoey: Yeah. Ms. Ercila says so.
Me: Do you have an owie he is working on?
Zoey: Yeah. Right here on my finger. Ms. Ercila is soooo smart...just like me.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Some explaining to do
Zoey: MOM. Did you know God made us? Ms. Mandi says so.
Me: That's true.
Zoey: But...she says God made everything.
Me: Also true.
Zoey: But...that means he made...snakes.
What she clearly meant by the screwed up little expression on her face was 'explain THAT, lady'. A God who created all things wonderful, like libraries and Cinderella and hot milk, also turned around on whatever day it was before he got to seven, and whipped up a batch of SNAKES? You're joking, and I'm not buying it.
I'm not sure how to clear up the confusion on this one. If you substitute 'spiders' for 'snakes', this could possibly have been the exact same conversation I had with my own mother almost 30 years ago.
Me: That's true.
Zoey: But...she says God made everything.
Me: Also true.
Zoey: But...that means he made...snakes.
What she clearly meant by the screwed up little expression on her face was 'explain THAT, lady'. A God who created all things wonderful, like libraries and Cinderella and hot milk, also turned around on whatever day it was before he got to seven, and whipped up a batch of SNAKES? You're joking, and I'm not buying it.
I'm not sure how to clear up the confusion on this one. If you substitute 'spiders' for 'snakes', this could possibly have been the exact same conversation I had with my own mother almost 30 years ago.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Love of my life
Dear Coffee Pot,
I love you so much. You know that. In fact, if I could pick only one appliance to be stranded on a desert island with, I would choose you, assuming the desert island is also stocked with electrical outlets and a plentiful supply of coffee beans. I would even choose you over the DVD player that allows my child to remain silent for at least a half an hour each morning as I suck down the fruits of your labor and gear up for yet another day.
But we need to talk about the beeping.
Try as I might, I can not figure out how to disable your five, loud, successive beeps that alert me to the fact your job is done. See, here's the thing: you don't have to beep to tell me your pot is full. Odds are, I am hovering over your steaming, chrome-and-plastic beauty, just waiting for the pot to be full enough to pull out mid-stream and fill my cup. (This is my favorite feature--not having to wait for the cycle to be complete before filling my waiting cup.) The problem is that, some mornings, and they are few and far between...I am actually able to sneak out of bed before my child senses or smells that I am already awake and enjoying part of the day without her, and I need to sneak around a bit. I don't even turn on the bathroom light to pee for fear of disturbing my peace. I love my cats but if they get a little too frisky on these special, special mornings, I kind of want to kick them. So your beeping? It's a problem.
I've tried hunting for the source of the beeping so I could cover it with a towel or even my sweatshirt sleeve to muffle the sound, but all this got me was a steam burn and, soon after, a faint call of Mommy?? from the bedroom. I have tried unplugging you right before the beep but re-programming you is a pain and sometimes you beep anyway. You're persistent like that.
And so, my beloved coffee pot, my favorite appliance, I love you in spite of your beeping, in spite of the fact that you consistently ruin the few mornings I have all to myself. Rumor has it that teenagers will sleep through anything, even five loud early-morning beeps, and so I hold out hope for the day, ten years down the road, where I can sneak out of bed and enjoy a couple hours in the day not filled with incessant whining. Mornings that will be filled with yummy coffee and checking my email instead.
While I'm waiting for that day, I'll take a refill. Thanks.
I love you so much. You know that. In fact, if I could pick only one appliance to be stranded on a desert island with, I would choose you, assuming the desert island is also stocked with electrical outlets and a plentiful supply of coffee beans. I would even choose you over the DVD player that allows my child to remain silent for at least a half an hour each morning as I suck down the fruits of your labor and gear up for yet another day.
But we need to talk about the beeping.
Try as I might, I can not figure out how to disable your five, loud, successive beeps that alert me to the fact your job is done. See, here's the thing: you don't have to beep to tell me your pot is full. Odds are, I am hovering over your steaming, chrome-and-plastic beauty, just waiting for the pot to be full enough to pull out mid-stream and fill my cup. (This is my favorite feature--not having to wait for the cycle to be complete before filling my waiting cup.) The problem is that, some mornings, and they are few and far between...I am actually able to sneak out of bed before my child senses or smells that I am already awake and enjoying part of the day without her, and I need to sneak around a bit. I don't even turn on the bathroom light to pee for fear of disturbing my peace. I love my cats but if they get a little too frisky on these special, special mornings, I kind of want to kick them. So your beeping? It's a problem.
I've tried hunting for the source of the beeping so I could cover it with a towel or even my sweatshirt sleeve to muffle the sound, but all this got me was a steam burn and, soon after, a faint call of Mommy?? from the bedroom. I have tried unplugging you right before the beep but re-programming you is a pain and sometimes you beep anyway. You're persistent like that.
And so, my beloved coffee pot, my favorite appliance, I love you in spite of your beeping, in spite of the fact that you consistently ruin the few mornings I have all to myself. Rumor has it that teenagers will sleep through anything, even five loud early-morning beeps, and so I hold out hope for the day, ten years down the road, where I can sneak out of bed and enjoy a couple hours in the day not filled with incessant whining. Mornings that will be filled with yummy coffee and checking my email instead.
While I'm waiting for that day, I'll take a refill. Thanks.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
My newest form of therapy
You've probably seen it on facebook already (except you, Mom. HINT.): I'm in the midst of my very first ever furniture refinishing project.
About a week ago, my wicked sister, Alisa, assured me that re-upholstering the chairs of my dining room set was something so simple I could do it in about 20 minutes with one hand tied behind my back. Actually, she's been telling me this for months now. But for whatever reason, I decided to tackle the "easy" job of re-upholstering my dining room chairs on Sunday. In the 96 degree heat. In Alisa's un-air-conditioned house. Fun times were had by all, and in the end, the seat cushions looked far better in their more natural, retro coverings than they ever had in that awful old-lady fabric my Grandma picked out 10+ years ago (sorry, Grandma).
Tragedy struck while trying to re-attach the seats to the chair frames. Being that this is my Grandma and Grandpa's teak dining room set they bought while stationed in Germany back in 1964, the whole set has seen some wear and tear. Turns out the holes in the bottoms of the seats are stripped and in need of repair. And while I'm waiting for that to happen, I figured hey, I've always wanted to re-finish the entire set, why not tackle it now? After some Google searching and the acquisition of some sandpaper and teak oil, I was all set.
I absolutely love this dining room set. And I fully intend to restore it to it's 1960's, golden, retro glory. I will not let an unfortunate incident with an electric sander and countless trips to Ace Hardware stand in my way, either.
Sanding each chair has actually been quite therapeutic. I have time to think about my Grandpa and all the times I heard him command 'eat your supper, girls' from his end of the table...in fact, I had plenty of time to reflect fondly on my Grandpa even as I was cursing his name while sanding what were certainly years and years of grime and tobacco stains from several of the chair backs. Grandma tackled countless sewing projects on this table and covered it's top with far more she just never got around to finishing. (Standing family joke: Grandma, is that the table top I see under there? Under all those mounds of fabric?)
I have plenty of time to finish this project, which is perfect--as the full-time working single parent of a three year old, you can imagine how much 'free time' I have to sand and oil, sand and oil. So Zoey and I head out to the patio each afternoon or evening. She keeps herself busy with her hopscotch squares or pulls her chair over the fence to watch the golf carts whiz by on the golf course, and I sand to my heart's content. By Wednesday, I had a few chairs sanded down and could actually start oiling them, and...WOW. This furniture is just beautiful.
And I'm not even saying I got every scratch and dent out of each chair. Most of the scuff marks came off easily, but I'll admit, after nearly sanding off half a chair back during my brief stint with the borrowed electric sander, I'm a little afraid to sand too far down, lest I am left with chair legs resembling toothpicks. But you know what? There is a lot of history in that table and chair set, and I'm not even sure I want to sand off every ink mark, small water stain, or dark spot.
So, faithful blog readers, that's where I'm spending my free time these days (as opposed to writing). It feels good to have a project to work on, especially a project that I know for a fact I never would have tackled, say, a year ago. The old me wouldn't have thought I could refinish any furniture project. New Amy knows that, armed with some Google research and a really good pack of sandpaper, I can not only accomplish the task but actually make it look pretty damn good.
About a week ago, my wicked sister, Alisa, assured me that re-upholstering the chairs of my dining room set was something so simple I could do it in about 20 minutes with one hand tied behind my back. Actually, she's been telling me this for months now. But for whatever reason, I decided to tackle the "easy" job of re-upholstering my dining room chairs on Sunday. In the 96 degree heat. In Alisa's un-air-conditioned house. Fun times were had by all, and in the end, the seat cushions looked far better in their more natural, retro coverings than they ever had in that awful old-lady fabric my Grandma picked out 10+ years ago (sorry, Grandma).
Tragedy struck while trying to re-attach the seats to the chair frames. Being that this is my Grandma and Grandpa's teak dining room set they bought while stationed in Germany back in 1964, the whole set has seen some wear and tear. Turns out the holes in the bottoms of the seats are stripped and in need of repair. And while I'm waiting for that to happen, I figured hey, I've always wanted to re-finish the entire set, why not tackle it now? After some Google searching and the acquisition of some sandpaper and teak oil, I was all set.
I absolutely love this dining room set. And I fully intend to restore it to it's 1960's, golden, retro glory. I will not let an unfortunate incident with an electric sander and countless trips to Ace Hardware stand in my way, either.
Sanding each chair has actually been quite therapeutic. I have time to think about my Grandpa and all the times I heard him command 'eat your supper, girls' from his end of the table...in fact, I had plenty of time to reflect fondly on my Grandpa even as I was cursing his name while sanding what were certainly years and years of grime and tobacco stains from several of the chair backs. Grandma tackled countless sewing projects on this table and covered it's top with far more she just never got around to finishing. (Standing family joke: Grandma, is that the table top I see under there? Under all those mounds of fabric?)
I have plenty of time to finish this project, which is perfect--as the full-time working single parent of a three year old, you can imagine how much 'free time' I have to sand and oil, sand and oil. So Zoey and I head out to the patio each afternoon or evening. She keeps herself busy with her hopscotch squares or pulls her chair over the fence to watch the golf carts whiz by on the golf course, and I sand to my heart's content. By Wednesday, I had a few chairs sanded down and could actually start oiling them, and...WOW. This furniture is just beautiful.
And I'm not even saying I got every scratch and dent out of each chair. Most of the scuff marks came off easily, but I'll admit, after nearly sanding off half a chair back during my brief stint with the borrowed electric sander, I'm a little afraid to sand too far down, lest I am left with chair legs resembling toothpicks. But you know what? There is a lot of history in that table and chair set, and I'm not even sure I want to sand off every ink mark, small water stain, or dark spot.
So, faithful blog readers, that's where I'm spending my free time these days (as opposed to writing). It feels good to have a project to work on, especially a project that I know for a fact I never would have tackled, say, a year ago. The old me wouldn't have thought I could refinish any furniture project. New Amy knows that, armed with some Google research and a really good pack of sandpaper, I can not only accomplish the task but actually make it look pretty damn good.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
This particular piece of artwork is a keeper
It was octopus hat day at daycare on Tuesday.
I know. Pretty exciting.
We have a monthly calendar on our fridge, compliments of Ms. Mandi, that tells what each day's activity will be, and part of my effort to get Zoey a little more excited about being left at daycare has been to point out, each day, what she'll be working on. We were both intrigued by Tuesday's octopus hat entry, and when I left her (crying and oh so very sad) I reminded her I wanted to hear ALL ABOUT the details of making an octopus hat when I returned to pick her up.
And holy crap. The hat I found stuffed in her cubby at the end of the day cracked me up, even before she modeled it for me.
A black headband fashioned from construction paper had eight large, spindly legs sprouting from it, as well as a decorated-with-markers body (Zoey explained she had drawn a picture of a tea pot on her octopus body). She was quite proud of it, really, and I followed her out the door noting her octopus legs gave her such a wide body span, the tips of her tentacles brushed the door frame.
Wednesday, Zoey wore the hat over to Grandma's house (to scare her, Mommy!) after completely freaking out the cats at home. (The look on Henry's face was priceless: one part horrified and one part girlfriend, who lied to you and told you that looks good?)
We got home Wednesday evening and Zoey was tired, hungry, and very very cranky. Normally, you can feel yourself growing older as you wait for her to get out of the car, and yesterday she stepped it up a notch--a full five minutes, I believe, to get her to un-buckle her seat belt and GET. OUT. while I stood waiting, arms full of bags to haul inside. After yelling at me that I hadn't found her other pink Barbie slipper, I dropped her backpack on the ground and told her she could fend for herself getting in the house, because I wasn't about to stand there and listen to her rude little mouth. I started to walk away and could hear her wailing in protest behind me.
I turned to find her slumping along behind me, dragging her backpack on the ground, exaggerrated frown on her face, octopus tentacles flapping all around her head. And while, only three seconds ago I had kind of wanted to kick her in the shins and leave her outside for the night, I suddenly couldn't stop smiling. It is impossible to be mad at a preschooler in an octopus hat.
That hat totally saved her from getting yelled at and, potentially, a very long time out. It would be in her best interests to keep it around for awhile.
I know. Pretty exciting.
We have a monthly calendar on our fridge, compliments of Ms. Mandi, that tells what each day's activity will be, and part of my effort to get Zoey a little more excited about being left at daycare has been to point out, each day, what she'll be working on. We were both intrigued by Tuesday's octopus hat entry, and when I left her (crying and oh so very sad) I reminded her I wanted to hear ALL ABOUT the details of making an octopus hat when I returned to pick her up.
And holy crap. The hat I found stuffed in her cubby at the end of the day cracked me up, even before she modeled it for me.
A black headband fashioned from construction paper had eight large, spindly legs sprouting from it, as well as a decorated-with-markers body (Zoey explained she had drawn a picture of a tea pot on her octopus body). She was quite proud of it, really, and I followed her out the door noting her octopus legs gave her such a wide body span, the tips of her tentacles brushed the door frame.
Wednesday, Zoey wore the hat over to Grandma's house (to scare her, Mommy!) after completely freaking out the cats at home. (The look on Henry's face was priceless: one part horrified and one part girlfriend, who lied to you and told you that looks good?)
We got home Wednesday evening and Zoey was tired, hungry, and very very cranky. Normally, you can feel yourself growing older as you wait for her to get out of the car, and yesterday she stepped it up a notch--a full five minutes, I believe, to get her to un-buckle her seat belt and GET. OUT. while I stood waiting, arms full of bags to haul inside. After yelling at me that I hadn't found her other pink Barbie slipper, I dropped her backpack on the ground and told her she could fend for herself getting in the house, because I wasn't about to stand there and listen to her rude little mouth. I started to walk away and could hear her wailing in protest behind me.
I turned to find her slumping along behind me, dragging her backpack on the ground, exaggerrated frown on her face, octopus tentacles flapping all around her head. And while, only three seconds ago I had kind of wanted to kick her in the shins and leave her outside for the night, I suddenly couldn't stop smiling. It is impossible to be mad at a preschooler in an octopus hat.
That hat totally saved her from getting yelled at and, potentially, a very long time out. It would be in her best interests to keep it around for awhile.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Local veggies
Last weekend my best friend Rikki came down with her darling little chunk of a man, Colton, who will be a whole year old next month. Upon arrival, he immediately got to work trying to consume all of Zoey's fake plastic food, while Zoey hovered nearby nervously. Rikki unloaded the contents of her car, which included goodies for me like a fresh chicken from her farm (freezer-ready, thankfully), peaches and nectarines from her recent trip to Wenatchee, and a huge bowl of snap peas from her garden.
Zoey and I made quick work of the peas throughout the week, and I promised her we would hit up the farmer's market on Saturday to re-stock.
I've been meaning to start buying all my produce from the farmer's market for, well, quite some time. You always hear how much better it tastes, how supporting local farmers is a Good Thing, etc. All concepts I am completely on board with. My satisfaction with Winco's produce has been on the downhill slide for several weeks now and finally, after this week throwing out half a head of brown lettuce and a smooshy cucumber we never even got to despite the fact we had bought it five days earlier, I knew it was time to start shopping local.
I'll admit, cost has been a factor in buying all things produce from the grocery store as opposed to the farmer's market. We bought apples at the market last month and I believe I paid something outrageous like $4 for only three of them. But this week I was committed, primarily because Zoey kept requesting peas long after we had polished off the bowl, and I set aside $20 of my weekly budget just for the farmer's market on Saturday.
I was pleasantly surprised at what $20 will get you from the local produce stands. Not to mention it was fun just wandering through the booths, comparing prices on tomatoes and corn. For only a whopping $12, I collected a large bag of green beans (Zoey chose these over snap peas), two ears of corn, a gorgeous bright red tomato, two green peppers, four apples, a head of lettuce, a cucumber, and a homemade soft German pretzel stick that was, seriously, to die for. Since we had money left over, Zoey and her cousin Finley even got a turn on the bounce house. ($2 per child for five minutes. Clearly I have gone in to the wrong field, and need to start hawking plastic inflatable devices for insane prices.)
I couldn't bring myself to pay $2 for an onion, though. Don't ask me why. It's just...really? For an onion? It was the one bin I couldn't stop myself from thinking 'I could get a bag of these for less than $2 at Winco'.
You can take the girl out of Winco, but tragically, you can't remove all the Winco from the girl.
Zoey and I are excited to head back to the farmer's market next Saturday. I am hoping we can milk this buying-local-produce for at least another four to six weeks before the weather turns horrid and all the produce stands dry up for the year. And those apples? They're expensive, but damn, they're good.
Zoey and I made quick work of the peas throughout the week, and I promised her we would hit up the farmer's market on Saturday to re-stock.
I've been meaning to start buying all my produce from the farmer's market for, well, quite some time. You always hear how much better it tastes, how supporting local farmers is a Good Thing, etc. All concepts I am completely on board with. My satisfaction with Winco's produce has been on the downhill slide for several weeks now and finally, after this week throwing out half a head of brown lettuce and a smooshy cucumber we never even got to despite the fact we had bought it five days earlier, I knew it was time to start shopping local.
I'll admit, cost has been a factor in buying all things produce from the grocery store as opposed to the farmer's market. We bought apples at the market last month and I believe I paid something outrageous like $4 for only three of them. But this week I was committed, primarily because Zoey kept requesting peas long after we had polished off the bowl, and I set aside $20 of my weekly budget just for the farmer's market on Saturday.
I was pleasantly surprised at what $20 will get you from the local produce stands. Not to mention it was fun just wandering through the booths, comparing prices on tomatoes and corn. For only a whopping $12, I collected a large bag of green beans (Zoey chose these over snap peas), two ears of corn, a gorgeous bright red tomato, two green peppers, four apples, a head of lettuce, a cucumber, and a homemade soft German pretzel stick that was, seriously, to die for. Since we had money left over, Zoey and her cousin Finley even got a turn on the bounce house. ($2 per child for five minutes. Clearly I have gone in to the wrong field, and need to start hawking plastic inflatable devices for insane prices.)
I couldn't bring myself to pay $2 for an onion, though. Don't ask me why. It's just...really? For an onion? It was the one bin I couldn't stop myself from thinking 'I could get a bag of these for less than $2 at Winco'.
You can take the girl out of Winco, but tragically, you can't remove all the Winco from the girl.
Zoey and I are excited to head back to the farmer's market next Saturday. I am hoping we can milk this buying-local-produce for at least another four to six weeks before the weather turns horrid and all the produce stands dry up for the year. And those apples? They're expensive, but damn, they're good.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Please pass the hatchet
I went to the dentist last week for my first round of fillings, ever, in 31 years. Striving always to be the Perfect Patient, I tried to appear very relaxed about the whole event, because really, I sometimes grow tired of people and their damn anxiety over something silly like a colonoscopy, and my best guess is that dental team members feel the same about that person wetting her pants in the waiting room over what is really just a tiny drill aimed at her mouth. Really, it's NO BIG DEAL.
The numbing event started off fine. I can honestly say I did not feel any needle sliding in to my gums, although I quickly wished I had as the gripping terror that consumed me 30 seconds later made a teeny needle sound like a Hawaiian beach with a fruity drink. My palms started to sweat, my heart was beating in a way that seemed irregular (irregular = bad), and I felt like something seriously, seriously wrong was about to happen (more seriously wrong than a pesky drill about to meet my enamel).
The dentist casually mentioned at that point something about the numbing medicine containing epinephrine, a medicine used in my realm of the medical world to revive people who are dying, and to control stubborn areas of bleeding. Was I bleeding or dying? I couldn't tell. But it did explain the racing heart, sweating palms, and...anxiety? Yes, the dentist assured me. Epinephrine can make you feel a bit anxious. Because additional anxiety on top of two incoming dental fillings was exactly what I needed in that moment.
Thankfully, the first filling went fine, after the feeling of imminent death faded. The highlight of the entire event was hearing the dentist ask her assistant to 'please pass me the hatchet'. That's right. All soft-spoken and polite, too, like she was asking someone to please pass the butter. Hearing this was like getting a shot of epinephrine all over again. I am lucky to be young with a strong, healthy heart, because seriously, how do old people survive stress like this? I'm telling you, I was 40 years and a case of congestive heart failure away from being struck dead by terror right there in the dentist's chair.
By the second filling I was thinking we were in the clear, as I hadn't died yet and how much longer could this take, really? Then, mid-drill, I felt something I can only equate to being electrocuted, which I took to mean the numbing medication had worn off. After peeling me off the ceiling once because I had just been zapped, then again after giving me more epinephrine, it was back to the drill.
An hour and a half later, I was out the door with a firm understanding of why so many people truly hate going to the dentist.
The numbing event started off fine. I can honestly say I did not feel any needle sliding in to my gums, although I quickly wished I had as the gripping terror that consumed me 30 seconds later made a teeny needle sound like a Hawaiian beach with a fruity drink. My palms started to sweat, my heart was beating in a way that seemed irregular (irregular = bad), and I felt like something seriously, seriously wrong was about to happen (more seriously wrong than a pesky drill about to meet my enamel).
The dentist casually mentioned at that point something about the numbing medicine containing epinephrine, a medicine used in my realm of the medical world to revive people who are dying, and to control stubborn areas of bleeding. Was I bleeding or dying? I couldn't tell. But it did explain the racing heart, sweating palms, and...anxiety? Yes, the dentist assured me. Epinephrine can make you feel a bit anxious. Because additional anxiety on top of two incoming dental fillings was exactly what I needed in that moment.
Thankfully, the first filling went fine, after the feeling of imminent death faded. The highlight of the entire event was hearing the dentist ask her assistant to 'please pass me the hatchet'. That's right. All soft-spoken and polite, too, like she was asking someone to please pass the butter. Hearing this was like getting a shot of epinephrine all over again. I am lucky to be young with a strong, healthy heart, because seriously, how do old people survive stress like this? I'm telling you, I was 40 years and a case of congestive heart failure away from being struck dead by terror right there in the dentist's chair.
By the second filling I was thinking we were in the clear, as I hadn't died yet and how much longer could this take, really? Then, mid-drill, I felt something I can only equate to being electrocuted, which I took to mean the numbing medication had worn off. After peeling me off the ceiling once because I had just been zapped, then again after giving me more epinephrine, it was back to the drill.
An hour and a half later, I was out the door with a firm understanding of why so many people truly hate going to the dentist.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Germ warfare
I believe I mentioned in my last post something about signing Zoey's latest Ouch Report when I picked her up at daycare Tuesday. This is nothing new. I think that if someone were to pay me a dime for every Ouch Report I've signed this year, I could retire tomorrow. But Ms. Mandi did pull me aside, briefly, and tell me she had to have a "discussion" with my daughter about the importance of wearing a band-aid on what was the large patch of road rash on her elbow.
Zoey has never been a fan of the band aids. Not sure why. She'll plaster them all over her large stuffed Care Bear, but she'd rather bleed out than wear one herself.
So anyway, Ms. Mandi apparently referenced 'miserable germs' in her lecture, even pulling out a story book about said miserable germs, to get Zoey to wear a band aid after her scrape. These 'mizz-ubble germs' are pretty much all Zoey has wanted to discuss since I brought her home Tuesday, after she finished throwing her marathon hissy fit over the bounce house.
She told me, in no uncertain terms, that mizz-ubble germs are large creatures similar to the monsters she imagines lurking under her bed, that creep in to your body uninvited and make you very, very sick. She then pointed out to me (hand gestures and all) that the best way to prevent the invasion of mizz-ubble germs was to 1. wash your hands and 2. wear a band aid on your bleeding owies.
While I am completely on board with any preschool lecture that gets my kid to wash her hands more often, my mistake was pointing out that germs are so teeny tiny, you can't even see them! My point was to steer the conversation away from make believe monsters under the bed. What Zoey heard is 'germs are waiting for you everywhere so be afraid, little girl'.
She refuses to use the bathroom by herself anymore and looks terrified of the toilet.
I am not sure how to do damage control on this topic. I want her to wash her hands. I want her to wear band aids over bleeding wounds. I do not want her to have nightmares about tiny, growling germs that will make her sick. Information is such a fine line with this age group.
Maybe this points toward a career in microbiology. Maybe it's the start of OCD. Time will tell.
Zoey has never been a fan of the band aids. Not sure why. She'll plaster them all over her large stuffed Care Bear, but she'd rather bleed out than wear one herself.
So anyway, Ms. Mandi apparently referenced 'miserable germs' in her lecture, even pulling out a story book about said miserable germs, to get Zoey to wear a band aid after her scrape. These 'mizz-ubble germs' are pretty much all Zoey has wanted to discuss since I brought her home Tuesday, after she finished throwing her marathon hissy fit over the bounce house.
She told me, in no uncertain terms, that mizz-ubble germs are large creatures similar to the monsters she imagines lurking under her bed, that creep in to your body uninvited and make you very, very sick. She then pointed out to me (hand gestures and all) that the best way to prevent the invasion of mizz-ubble germs was to 1. wash your hands and 2. wear a band aid on your bleeding owies.
While I am completely on board with any preschool lecture that gets my kid to wash her hands more often, my mistake was pointing out that germs are so teeny tiny, you can't even see them! My point was to steer the conversation away from make believe monsters under the bed. What Zoey heard is 'germs are waiting for you everywhere so be afraid, little girl'.
She refuses to use the bathroom by herself anymore and looks terrified of the toilet.
I am not sure how to do damage control on this topic. I want her to wash her hands. I want her to wear band aids over bleeding wounds. I do not want her to have nightmares about tiny, growling germs that will make her sick. Information is such a fine line with this age group.
Maybe this points toward a career in microbiology. Maybe it's the start of OCD. Time will tell.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Bounce house trumps Mommy. Period.
Daycare drop-off has been a bit emotional lately, with far more tears and clinginess than is normal for Zoey. I am chalking this up to the fact that I had a five day stretch of days off last week (hello, abbreviated vacation, you were so wonderful for us!). Anyway, a typical morning of late has included peeling my child off my body and handing her over to Ms. Yvonne, with promises to come get her as soon as I leave work. Yesterday, with arms wound tightly around my neck, Zoey whispered in my ear 'come get me early today, Mommy'. I promised her that, if our schedules were light, I would skip the Y after work and head straight to pick her up instead.
Eight hours later, all our procedures were finished and all patients were out the door, early! Amazing how refreshing an eight hour shift can feel, compared to ten hours. And all day, in the back of my mind, I had heard Zoey's little voice in my ear, begging me to come back for her. My gym bag was calling my name...I could so head for the Y and still be back in plenty of time for daycare pick-up...but if a ten hour day seems long to me, it must feel even longer for my daughter, am I right? Ten hours in daycare? Too long. Best to suprise her with an early pick-up, especially since she had seemed so sad this morning.
'Come get me early today, Mommy...'
Whatever.
It is hard for me separate, in my mind, the child who clings to me at 6:45 in the morning at the daycare door, with the child who apparently bounces back the moment I walk out the door and forgets her mother even exists. This is a good thing, believe me, I know. Zoey goes to an amazing daycare, full of teachers who plan exciting activities for all their kids, and I couldn't be more grateful for this. And even though her day is often filled with creating rocket ships out of construction paper and playing soccer and convincing her friend Blake to dress up with her and pretend they are going to a wedding, Zoey is always thrilled to see me when I arrive to pick her up. And, I figured, she would be even more excited to see Mommy arrive early after clinging desperately to her neck and begging her not to leave earlier in the morning.
So, I zip across the street to daycare at 3:45 and find Zoey out on the playground with her class. After chatting with Ms. Mandi and signing off on Zoey's latest Ouch Report, Zoey ran up to me and seemed happy as a clam that I was there to take her home...EARLY. We collected her things from her cubby and as we were heading back upstairs, she suddenly stopped.
'Mommy! The bounce house! I didn't get my turn!'
Bounce house? Yes. Turns out the daycare had rented an enormous bounce house to occupy most of the space in the gym, and each class was taking it's turn bouncing to their heart's content. Ms. Mandi's class hadn't taken their turn yet, and here comes Zoey's mom, showing up all EARLY and ruining the FUN.
She proceeded to cry as though her heart was breaking all the way home, gigantic tears and everything, grieving the loss of her turn on the bounce house. There are few things in this world Zoey loves more than bounce houses, maybe not even Mommy. No amount of trying to sound excited about taking a walk to the library and hey, Mommy came to get you early so we could hang out together, right?? was making her feel better. Because it was a bounce house, Mommy! And my turn! I didn't get my turn!
I suppose this is what it means to feel as though you will never win.
We did walk to the library and we also went swimming at the Y after dinner. She stopped talking about the freaking bounce house about two hours after we got home. I have made yet another mental note to keep in mind that my child does not ever, ever sit at daycare wishing for Mommy to come back. This is a healthy sign, one that is easily forgotten by a guilt-stricken mother, but next time I swear to you that if I have time to go to the gym after work, I will. Lord knows what kind of fun I'd be interrupting if I showed up early to get her...that 6:45 a.m. request to 'come get me early, Mommy!' being long forgotten.
Eight hours later, all our procedures were finished and all patients were out the door, early! Amazing how refreshing an eight hour shift can feel, compared to ten hours. And all day, in the back of my mind, I had heard Zoey's little voice in my ear, begging me to come back for her. My gym bag was calling my name...I could so head for the Y and still be back in plenty of time for daycare pick-up...but if a ten hour day seems long to me, it must feel even longer for my daughter, am I right? Ten hours in daycare? Too long. Best to suprise her with an early pick-up, especially since she had seemed so sad this morning.
'Come get me early today, Mommy...'
Whatever.
It is hard for me separate, in my mind, the child who clings to me at 6:45 in the morning at the daycare door, with the child who apparently bounces back the moment I walk out the door and forgets her mother even exists. This is a good thing, believe me, I know. Zoey goes to an amazing daycare, full of teachers who plan exciting activities for all their kids, and I couldn't be more grateful for this. And even though her day is often filled with creating rocket ships out of construction paper and playing soccer and convincing her friend Blake to dress up with her and pretend they are going to a wedding, Zoey is always thrilled to see me when I arrive to pick her up. And, I figured, she would be even more excited to see Mommy arrive early after clinging desperately to her neck and begging her not to leave earlier in the morning.
So, I zip across the street to daycare at 3:45 and find Zoey out on the playground with her class. After chatting with Ms. Mandi and signing off on Zoey's latest Ouch Report, Zoey ran up to me and seemed happy as a clam that I was there to take her home...EARLY. We collected her things from her cubby and as we were heading back upstairs, she suddenly stopped.
'Mommy! The bounce house! I didn't get my turn!'
Bounce house? Yes. Turns out the daycare had rented an enormous bounce house to occupy most of the space in the gym, and each class was taking it's turn bouncing to their heart's content. Ms. Mandi's class hadn't taken their turn yet, and here comes Zoey's mom, showing up all EARLY and ruining the FUN.
She proceeded to cry as though her heart was breaking all the way home, gigantic tears and everything, grieving the loss of her turn on the bounce house. There are few things in this world Zoey loves more than bounce houses, maybe not even Mommy. No amount of trying to sound excited about taking a walk to the library and hey, Mommy came to get you early so we could hang out together, right?? was making her feel better. Because it was a bounce house, Mommy! And my turn! I didn't get my turn!
I suppose this is what it means to feel as though you will never win.
We did walk to the library and we also went swimming at the Y after dinner. She stopped talking about the freaking bounce house about two hours after we got home. I have made yet another mental note to keep in mind that my child does not ever, ever sit at daycare wishing for Mommy to come back. This is a healthy sign, one that is easily forgotten by a guilt-stricken mother, but next time I swear to you that if I have time to go to the gym after work, I will. Lord knows what kind of fun I'd be interrupting if I showed up early to get her...that 6:45 a.m. request to 'come get me early, Mommy!' being long forgotten.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Thinking of next year's party theme gives me anxiety
My apologies to all of you out there who check my blog religiously each day, waiting and hoping for an updated post.
Because I totally know that 'all of you' includes my mother and my sister Abby.
So, Mom, since you still haven't joined the year 2010 and have yet to obtain a Facebook account, you have no idea what Zoey's birthday cake looked like last week, a fact we simply must change. And for all of you who do have access to modern internet (i.e. Facebook) and have seen the photos, well, trust me...you haven't seen them all. What follows is the Greatest Birthday Cake Saga ever.
See, I knew I set the bar high with those freaking owl cupcakes back in 2008. It's hard to top those, mainly because they appear adorable and time-consuming, and are actually quite simple to put together. 2009 brought tonsilitis and a pass on my date with the horse-shaped cake pan. And, with 2010 came Zoey's fascination with Disney princesses, namely Cinderella, so you know I wasn't passing up the opportunity to create a Cinderella cake.
A Google search weeks in advance gave me the misguided genius idea to create a Barbie cake. You know, those cakes with a Barbie doll surrounded by a flowing skirt made out of cake. Two 9-inch cakes are stacked on top of each other, topped by a cake baked in a Pyrex bowl and flipped upside down, a two-inch circle is cut from the middle, a Barbie doll with her nether regions wrapped in Saran Wrap is plunked in the middle, and voila. Happy Birthday, princess lover.
Further Google searching led me to my nearest Toys R Us, where I was able to find an actual Cinderella doll instead of a sub-standard Barbie look alike. This, as it turns out, was all the luck I had in putting together this godforsaken cake, but I didn't know it at the time.
A dry run of the bowl-cake a week ahead of time (because, really, CAN you bake a cake in a Pyrex bowl seemed like a question best tested well in advance, as opposed to the night before the party) and it turns out you can, in fact, pull it off, if you pay very close attention to measurements and don't use a bowl a half-inch smaller in diameter than recommended by the recipe. No matter. So we had to scrape plenty of baked-on cake batter from the bottom of the oven. Live and learn.
My sister kindly offered to bake the bowl cake and two 9-inchers the Thursday before the party, as Zoey's and my social calendar suddenly filled to capacity and I was left thinking I'd be up until 2 a.m. Friday night baking cakes.
Upon getting the three cakes home and stacking them up next to Cinderella, I was dismayed to find the height of the cake hit her right about mid-thigh. Closer scrutiny of the recipe actually revealed THREE 9-inch cakes were required.
A panicked call to Grandma later, we had arrangements for additional cakes to be baked while I was at work Friday. And a gentle suggestion to consider a Costco cake for next year.
*Pfffft*
Friday night, and we finally had the desired height for Cinderella's dress. I thought I had this thing in the bag. This was hours before attempting to actually FROST the beast.
The picture doe
sn't do it justice, people. This is only layer #1, which had to be trimmed to the precise size of the awaiting bowl-cake-layer, and the amount of crumbs clinging stubbornly to the frosting were quickly dooming this entire project to the Cake Wrecks website.
Layers two and three didn't accept their frosting plaster any more graciously than layer one. It was ugly. Like, Cinderella's-wicked-stepsister-ugly.
As my kid wasn't about to have the ugliest birthday cake on record, I consulted the recipe yet again. The recipe that, I swear, is like watching your favorite movie over and over again--each time you see it, you catch something you never saw before. This time around, I caught the paragraph that recommended getting a 'base layer' of frosting around the entire assembled cake, then freezing the entire monstrosity for 30 minutes before polishing it off with a final layer of frosting that would, apparently, gloss over all those wayward ugly crumbs.
I had to sacrifice a box of popsicles and a bag of frozen peas, but I managed to get the wh
ole thing wedged in my tiny freezer.
And it helped. Really. By the time I wedged Saran-Wrapped Cinderella in the middle of the cake and frosted around her swirly blue dress, things were looking much more polished. Listing a little to the left, but still, more polished.
The finished product had the birthday girl very, very excited. Mainly because it was cake wrapped around what would ultimately be her new toy--a Cinderella doll to play with! Who cares about the cake! Thanks Mom!
Taa-daa! The community effort, Xanax-inducing, next-year-it's-Costco-all-the-way, Cinderella birthday cake.
Because I totally know that 'all of you' includes my mother and my sister Abby.
So, Mom, since you still haven't joined the year 2010 and have yet to obtain a Facebook account, you have no idea what Zoey's birthday cake looked like last week, a fact we simply must change. And for all of you who do have access to modern internet (i.e. Facebook) and have seen the photos, well, trust me...you haven't seen them all. What follows is the Greatest Birthday Cake Saga ever.
See, I knew I set the bar high with those freaking owl cupcakes back in 2008. It's hard to top those, mainly because they appear adorable and time-consuming, and are actually quite simple to put together. 2009 brought tonsilitis and a pass on my date with the horse-shaped cake pan. And, with 2010 came Zoey's fascination with Disney princesses, namely Cinderella, so you know I wasn't passing up the opportunity to create a Cinderella cake.
A Google search weeks in advance gave me the misguided genius idea to create a Barbie cake. You know, those cakes with a Barbie doll surrounded by a flowing skirt made out of cake. Two 9-inch cakes are stacked on top of each other, topped by a cake baked in a Pyrex bowl and flipped upside down, a two-inch circle is cut from the middle, a Barbie doll with her nether regions wrapped in Saran Wrap is plunked in the middle, and voila. Happy Birthday, princess lover.
Further Google searching led me to my nearest Toys R Us, where I was able to find an actual Cinderella doll instead of a sub-standard Barbie look alike. This, as it turns out, was all the luck I had in putting together this godforsaken cake, but I didn't know it at the time.
A dry run of the bowl-cake a week ahead of time (because, really, CAN you bake a cake in a Pyrex bowl seemed like a question best tested well in advance, as opposed to the night before the party) and it turns out you can, in fact, pull it off, if you pay very close attention to measurements and don't use a bowl a half-inch smaller in diameter than recommended by the recipe. No matter. So we had to scrape plenty of baked-on cake batter from the bottom of the oven. Live and learn.
My sister kindly offered to bake the bowl cake and two 9-inchers the Thursday before the party, as Zoey's and my social calendar suddenly filled to capacity and I was left thinking I'd be up until 2 a.m. Friday night baking cakes.
Upon getting the three cakes home and stacking them up next to Cinderella, I was dismayed to find the height of the cake hit her right about mid-thigh. Closer scrutiny of the recipe actually revealed THREE 9-inch cakes were required.
A panicked call to Grandma later, we had arrangements for additional cakes to be baked while I was at work Friday. And a gentle suggestion to consider a Costco cake for next year.
*Pfffft*
Friday night, and we finally had the desired height for Cinderella's dress. I thought I had this thing in the bag. This was hours before attempting to actually FROST the beast.
The picture doe
sn't do it justice, people. This is only layer #1, which had to be trimmed to the precise size of the awaiting bowl-cake-layer, and the amount of crumbs clinging stubbornly to the frosting were quickly dooming this entire project to the Cake Wrecks website.Layers two and three didn't accept their frosting plaster any more graciously than layer one. It was ugly. Like, Cinderella's-wicked-stepsister-ugly.
As my kid wasn't about to have the ugliest birthday cake on record, I consulted the recipe yet again. The recipe that, I swear, is like watching your favorite movie over and over again--each time you see it, you catch something you never saw before. This time around, I caught the paragraph that recommended getting a 'base layer' of frosting around the entire assembled cake, then freezing the entire monstrosity for 30 minutes before polishing it off with a final layer of frosting that would, apparently, gloss over all those wayward ugly crumbs.
I had to sacrifice a box of popsicles and a bag of frozen peas, but I managed to get the wh
ole thing wedged in my tiny freezer.And it helped. Really. By the time I wedged Saran-Wrapped Cinderella in the middle of the cake and frosted around her swirly blue dress, things were looking much more polished. Listing a little to the left, but still, more polished.
The finished product had the birthday girl very, very excited. Mainly because it was cake wrapped around what would ultimately be her new toy--a Cinderella doll to play with! Who cares about the cake! Thanks Mom!
Taa-daa! The community effort, Xanax-inducing, next-year-it's-Costco-all-the-way, Cinderella birthday cake.
Monday, July 19, 2010
DISCLAIMER: Not for the weak of stomach
Apparently it is ill-advised to turn your back on your three year old and an innocent piece of string cheese for any length of time. I'll warn you, the following story contains woeful tales of vomit and dairy, a combination most revolting.
Scene: Zoey in the dining room, swinging her legs from her chair. Me in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher.
Me: Zoey. You've barely eaten anything today. If you want to go to the park, you have to choose: yogurt, or string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like yogurt!
Me: Okay, string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like string cheese!
Me: Whatever. You liked it yesterday. (Unwrapping the, thankfully, last piece of string cheese in the fridge.)
I turn my back for, I swear, 20 seconds, and suddenly hear a sound most unpleasant--like a large hairball suddenly lodged in the vacuum cleaner, followed by the sound of, OH MY GOD CHILD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?
Zoey has effectively shoved the entire piece of string cheese in her mouth at once, causing herself to choke and subsequently projectile vomit all over everything. EVERYTHING, PEOPLE.
What we have left is a child, her hair, a chair, part of a table, a wall, a considerable patch of carpet, the dishwasher rack, AND HER MOTHER'S CUPPED HANDS covered in vomit. And I, ever the kind and sympathetic mother, say to her:
YOU ARE LUCKY I AM HOLDING YOUR VOMIT IN MY HANDS BECAUSE IF I WEREN'T I WOULD USE THEM TO WRING YOUR NECK.
Which causes her, of course, to burst in to tears because she is scared from her near-death experience at the hands of a fucking piece of cheese, and her mother's focus on the vomit cupped in her hands, not the trauma inflicted by this incident. As she continues to cry while I wash out my hands, she manages to gasp "I'm not sick! I still want to go to the park!".
A bath, two wardrobe changes, a load of laundry, and a LOT of rags and Mrs. Meyer's cleaner later, we were on our way to the park.
Her rationale for doing what she did? "I wanted to hurry up. So we could go to the park."
Which made me want to beat my (bleach-cleaned) fists against my own forehead.
Scene: Zoey in the dining room, swinging her legs from her chair. Me in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher.
Me: Zoey. You've barely eaten anything today. If you want to go to the park, you have to choose: yogurt, or string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like yogurt!
Me: Okay, string cheese.
Zoey: I don't like string cheese!
Me: Whatever. You liked it yesterday. (Unwrapping the, thankfully, last piece of string cheese in the fridge.)
I turn my back for, I swear, 20 seconds, and suddenly hear a sound most unpleasant--like a large hairball suddenly lodged in the vacuum cleaner, followed by the sound of, OH MY GOD CHILD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?
Zoey has effectively shoved the entire piece of string cheese in her mouth at once, causing herself to choke and subsequently projectile vomit all over everything. EVERYTHING, PEOPLE.
What we have left is a child, her hair, a chair, part of a table, a wall, a considerable patch of carpet, the dishwasher rack, AND HER MOTHER'S CUPPED HANDS covered in vomit. And I, ever the kind and sympathetic mother, say to her:
YOU ARE LUCKY I AM HOLDING YOUR VOMIT IN MY HANDS BECAUSE IF I WEREN'T I WOULD USE THEM TO WRING YOUR NECK.
Which causes her, of course, to burst in to tears because she is scared from her near-death experience at the hands of a fucking piece of cheese, and her mother's focus on the vomit cupped in her hands, not the trauma inflicted by this incident. As she continues to cry while I wash out my hands, she manages to gasp "I'm not sick! I still want to go to the park!".
A bath, two wardrobe changes, a load of laundry, and a LOT of rags and Mrs. Meyer's cleaner later, we were on our way to the park.
Her rationale for doing what she did? "I wanted to hurry up. So we could go to the park."
Which made me want to beat my (bleach-cleaned) fists against my own forehead.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
It was the highlight of the week, really
It was a big event on Tuesday. It was Zoey's first field trip ever...and even she can't remember where she went, because it doesn't matter. What matters is that they went somewhere ON. THE. BUS.
Tuesday morning, field trip day, she bounced out of bed far earlier than necessary, and every question or excited statment about her upcoming day centered around the bus ride.
MOM. Where will I sit on the bus? Will I wear a seat belt?
MOM. What if the bus driver drives too fast and I fall out of my seat?
MOM. I'm riding on a bus today! A bus!
MOM. Will I ride past your work when I get on the bus? Will you wave to me?
MOM. Ms. Mandi will be on the bus too, right?
MOM. Will there be snacks on the bus?
I tried to remind her, while helping her get dressed and brush her teeth, that she was actually going somewhere on the bus. Somewhere fun, a place to play...I think it was one of the local parks. I talked to her about staying at the park with her teachers, and never wandering off where the teacher couldn't see her. She processed exactly zero percent of this information. It was all about the bus ride, really. Jeez, Mom.
The excited chatter while I got her ready for bed Tuesday night was much the same.
MOM. I sat by Jared on the bus today. He made some red-light choices. But mine were all green-light! (Cryptic preschool lingo. I am beginning to ascertain that Jared might be a bit of a behavioral challenge in the Owl classroom.)
MOM. If you stand up on the bus, the bus driver pulls over RIGHT NOW!
MOM. We had THREE teachers on the bus with us! Ms. Mandi and two Ms. Amandas! (Confusing.) Ms. Danielle couldn't go on the bus, she had to go to the doctor. She missed the bus ride!
MOM. We had a snack at the park. Ms. Mandi brought bagels. Malachi doesn't like bagels, but he wouldn't tell me why.
That's right. Bagels and Malachi's pickiness toward carbohydrates were to be the only comments given on the actual field trip itself. Because really, it was ALL. ABOUT. THE. BUS.
I'm thinking Ms. Mandi might be the smart type who loads the kids up on the bus in the middle of February, when all 13 of her rambunctious, stir-crazy charges are making her crazy, and drives them around town for awhile. Steer that baby through the drive-thru at Starbucks and I might even volunteer to chaperone.
Tuesday morning, field trip day, she bounced out of bed far earlier than necessary, and every question or excited statment about her upcoming day centered around the bus ride.
MOM. Where will I sit on the bus? Will I wear a seat belt?
MOM. What if the bus driver drives too fast and I fall out of my seat?
MOM. I'm riding on a bus today! A bus!
MOM. Will I ride past your work when I get on the bus? Will you wave to me?
MOM. Ms. Mandi will be on the bus too, right?
MOM. Will there be snacks on the bus?
I tried to remind her, while helping her get dressed and brush her teeth, that she was actually going somewhere on the bus. Somewhere fun, a place to play...I think it was one of the local parks. I talked to her about staying at the park with her teachers, and never wandering off where the teacher couldn't see her. She processed exactly zero percent of this information. It was all about the bus ride, really. Jeez, Mom.
The excited chatter while I got her ready for bed Tuesday night was much the same.
MOM. I sat by Jared on the bus today. He made some red-light choices. But mine were all green-light! (Cryptic preschool lingo. I am beginning to ascertain that Jared might be a bit of a behavioral challenge in the Owl classroom.)
MOM. If you stand up on the bus, the bus driver pulls over RIGHT NOW!
MOM. We had THREE teachers on the bus with us! Ms. Mandi and two Ms. Amandas! (Confusing.) Ms. Danielle couldn't go on the bus, she had to go to the doctor. She missed the bus ride!
MOM. We had a snack at the park. Ms. Mandi brought bagels. Malachi doesn't like bagels, but he wouldn't tell me why.
That's right. Bagels and Malachi's pickiness toward carbohydrates were to be the only comments given on the actual field trip itself. Because really, it was ALL. ABOUT. THE. BUS.
I'm thinking Ms. Mandi might be the smart type who loads the kids up on the bus in the middle of February, when all 13 of her rambunctious, stir-crazy charges are making her crazy, and drives them around town for awhile. Steer that baby through the drive-thru at Starbucks and I might even volunteer to chaperone.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Apparently, music makes the difference
I jogged two miles today and do not even feel like I might die in the near future.
The iPod made me do it, really. I was cruising around the track at the Y and before I knew it, I was three songs in on my 'Summer 2008' playlist. And ridiculously proud of myself.
I can so run a 5K. I am just that cool.
The iPod made me do it, really. I was cruising around the track at the Y and before I knew it, I was three songs in on my 'Summer 2008' playlist. And ridiculously proud of myself.
I can so run a 5K. I am just that cool.
Early Birthday
The year has arrived when we'll start celebrating Zoey's birthday in the summer, as opposed to on her actual birthday, December 8. I have several reasons for choosing a July party instead of a dead-of-winter bash. Listen up and take note, all you parents of December babies:
1. Remember the party I planned last year in December, the one that was cancelled due to the birthday girl's sudden battle with tonsilitis? Yeah. After three years of careful observation, I've noted that mid-summer is the only healthy season we get around here--knock on wood, we haven't gone through an entire box of Kleenex yet this month. It's the first month we've pulled this off since...last July, if I remember correctly.
2. Here's my main motivation for summer-time parties: this is the year Zoey has been invited to several birthday parties of her preschool/daycare classmates. And they were so fun! Her favorite by far was Maddie's party, celebrated at The Little Gym back in April. Immediately upon getting in the car with her treat bag, she asked to celebrate her own birthday at The Little Gym. I'll admit, it sounded enticing...three energetic high school kids running the little ones across the trampoline, the balance beams, playing noisy games set to the annoying tunes of Small Child Soundtracks...they even organized the cake-eating and present-opening. Maddie's parents basically sat back and watched their daughter have a blast at her party. So I made a couple phone calls. And found out it would cost me $220 to sit back and watch my own child enjoy her birthday party. Maybe...not.
But Zoey was insistent that she have a gymnastics (pronounced, for whatever reason, 'bee-nastics') birthday party. Lucky for me, the YMCA offers a similar bee-nastics party venue for far less than The Little Gym, due in part to the fact that we're members at the Y and get a discount. So we signed up for Saturday, July 24.
3. Finally, the idea of breaking up some of the December action appeals to me. Cramming a birthday party in to a month already packed with Christmas festivities is challenging. Of course we'll do something special for Zoey on her actual birthday--go out to dinner, bake a cake. But I won't have to worry about organizing 12 preschoolers for a fun-filled birthday event because I've already checked it off my to-do list. In July!
So. Zoey is way excited for her summer time bee-nastics party. I am feeling only somewhat daunted by the prospect of creating a Cinderella cake. And, come December, I can hunker down with my runny-nosed, feverish child without fear of having to cancel her birthday party. Again. It's a win-win for everyone.
1. Remember the party I planned last year in December, the one that was cancelled due to the birthday girl's sudden battle with tonsilitis? Yeah. After three years of careful observation, I've noted that mid-summer is the only healthy season we get around here--knock on wood, we haven't gone through an entire box of Kleenex yet this month. It's the first month we've pulled this off since...last July, if I remember correctly.
2. Here's my main motivation for summer-time parties: this is the year Zoey has been invited to several birthday parties of her preschool/daycare classmates. And they were so fun! Her favorite by far was Maddie's party, celebrated at The Little Gym back in April. Immediately upon getting in the car with her treat bag, she asked to celebrate her own birthday at The Little Gym. I'll admit, it sounded enticing...three energetic high school kids running the little ones across the trampoline, the balance beams, playing noisy games set to the annoying tunes of Small Child Soundtracks...they even organized the cake-eating and present-opening. Maddie's parents basically sat back and watched their daughter have a blast at her party. So I made a couple phone calls. And found out it would cost me $220 to sit back and watch my own child enjoy her birthday party. Maybe...not.
But Zoey was insistent that she have a gymnastics (pronounced, for whatever reason, 'bee-nastics') birthday party. Lucky for me, the YMCA offers a similar bee-nastics party venue for far less than The Little Gym, due in part to the fact that we're members at the Y and get a discount. So we signed up for Saturday, July 24.
3. Finally, the idea of breaking up some of the December action appeals to me. Cramming a birthday party in to a month already packed with Christmas festivities is challenging. Of course we'll do something special for Zoey on her actual birthday--go out to dinner, bake a cake. But I won't have to worry about organizing 12 preschoolers for a fun-filled birthday event because I've already checked it off my to-do list. In July!
So. Zoey is way excited for her summer time bee-nastics party. I am feeling only somewhat daunted by the prospect of creating a Cinderella cake. And, come December, I can hunker down with my runny-nosed, feverish child without fear of having to cancel her birthday party. Again. It's a win-win for everyone.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Because this blog is kind of like her baby book
Dear Zoey,
It is an incredibly sweet experience to be the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. On the days when you aren't sheer demon, that is. What was it that struck me this weekend about your sudden growth, some kind of newfound maturity? Maybe it was the fact that, once strapped in to less-bulky version of a life jacket, you discovered your ability to "swim" on your own. Hours have been logged in the pool this week, me, trying to keep my hair dry, watching you, engaged in a wildly spastic form of a doggy paddle, shouting MOMMY I AM DOING THIS ON MY OWN! and CATCH ME MOM I'M JUMPING IN! Any trace of fear or clinginess *poof* GONE. You are so incredibly proud of yourself and your newly acquired skill. I am impressed with the fact that you are growing at such a rate to be completely out of the toddler clothing section at Target and fast-blazing your way through the selection of swim wear offered in the young girls section. Please, try not be taller than me before you enter kindergarten.
Or maybe it's your new way of speaking in a manner that is so serious. Everything you have to say to me this week, it's all prefaced with a loud, solemn MOM. As if my undivided attention is required for everything from a request for more fishy crackers to your conveyed annoyance over the fact that Aaliyah was chosen as the light monitor again today and you've never been the light monitor, not once. Last week, on our way home from work and daycare, you informed me that butterflies have the ability to suck lemonade from a glass with those eyebrows on the top of their heads that aren't really eyebrows, and did I know what those eyebrows were called? Antennae? Yes. Antennae exist to get those butterflies their yummy lemonade, and don't bother arguing, because you saw it on a Maisy video and we all know Maisy would never tell a lie. All of this, the random tidbits of information you seem to pull from...where?...delivered with the Serious Voice and those studious brown eyes that dare anyone to argue. You are growing up, forming your own opinions, getting your information from people other than me. It has taken me days to convince you that Xavier at daycare is dead wrong when he tells you every airplane overhead is transporting 'bad guys'. You regard my argument soberly, processing in that little mind who is telling the truth. Finally, after hours of debate on the subject, you decide Mommy probably wouldn't lie to you. And you slip your hand in mine and give me what you think is a reassuring little squeeze, a copycat squeeze you learned from me, the squeeze I give you when you are not feeling so brave or outgoing at all. And you smile. Your smile makes me melt.
Perhaps nothing has marked your transition from toddler to big girl quite as much as your new fascination with Disney princesses. I have always looked on the 'princess mentality' with something like disdain, rolling my eyes (secretly) at parents who refer to their daughters as their little princesses, catering to their every whim. The parents who buy every Disney princess toy on the market and send the subconcious message to their little girls that the world exists merely to serve their needs. You are not royalty. You will not be treated as royalty around here. You had, up until very recently, very little princess gear, save the odd dress-up number and those blasted purple plastic heels you have adored since before you could walk. But, the thing is, you discovered a love for these frilly, silly girls who are all fainting over their Prince Charmings completely on your own. And what I find amazing (and tolerable) about watching your fascination unfold is the way you are totally nonplussed by the silly messages being sent through the movies. Your report on Cinderella (your favorite princess by far) included only details on the 'mean cat' and those 'really, REALLY mean girls who are kind of ugly and ripped Cinderella's dress!'. I find this reassuring.
So, Disney princesses. You study them. You bring me a sheet of stickers and we point to them one by one, you memorizing their names and their correlating movies. We check out the videos from the library that tell their (okay, silly, but kind of cute) stories. You refuse to be impressed by the fact that I can sing nearly every word to every Disney soundtrack produced in the 1980s or 90s. You insist that waving your magic wand and yelling some version of Bippidibopidiboo will somehow transform Henry from cat to carriage. We sent out Cinderella invites for your birthday party, scheduled for later this month when you are less likely to be stricken by some viral illness that renders you feverish and somewhat lethargic. You have proclaimed Jafar from Aladdin to be the worst bad guy by far, and you cover your eyes and squeal any time Lucifer, that badass ugly cat from Cinderella, appears on screen. Your friend Allison passed down a Disney princess kitchen set to you and I thought you would die of happiness and pleasure right at my feet.
Zoey, you are growing and changing every week, in ways that constantly amaze me. I adore the phase you are in, this stage where you are so obviously soaking in information from everyone around you, and yet...you still look to your Mommy for most of the things you need to know. The days where you collect rocks for me and proudly add them to my glass jar on the dining room table are fleeting. You won't always stop random people at the park to tell them how much you love Target and Starbucks. Someday you will stop squeezing my hand in public. By all means, lose interest in the princesses. But never doubt that I love you, and enjoy like crazy watching you develop in to such a fun little girl.
It is an incredibly sweet experience to be the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. On the days when you aren't sheer demon, that is. What was it that struck me this weekend about your sudden growth, some kind of newfound maturity? Maybe it was the fact that, once strapped in to less-bulky version of a life jacket, you discovered your ability to "swim" on your own. Hours have been logged in the pool this week, me, trying to keep my hair dry, watching you, engaged in a wildly spastic form of a doggy paddle, shouting MOMMY I AM DOING THIS ON MY OWN! and CATCH ME MOM I'M JUMPING IN! Any trace of fear or clinginess *poof* GONE. You are so incredibly proud of yourself and your newly acquired skill. I am impressed with the fact that you are growing at such a rate to be completely out of the toddler clothing section at Target and fast-blazing your way through the selection of swim wear offered in the young girls section. Please, try not be taller than me before you enter kindergarten.
Or maybe it's your new way of speaking in a manner that is so serious. Everything you have to say to me this week, it's all prefaced with a loud, solemn MOM. As if my undivided attention is required for everything from a request for more fishy crackers to your conveyed annoyance over the fact that Aaliyah was chosen as the light monitor again today and you've never been the light monitor, not once. Last week, on our way home from work and daycare, you informed me that butterflies have the ability to suck lemonade from a glass with those eyebrows on the top of their heads that aren't really eyebrows, and did I know what those eyebrows were called? Antennae? Yes. Antennae exist to get those butterflies their yummy lemonade, and don't bother arguing, because you saw it on a Maisy video and we all know Maisy would never tell a lie. All of this, the random tidbits of information you seem to pull from...where?...delivered with the Serious Voice and those studious brown eyes that dare anyone to argue. You are growing up, forming your own opinions, getting your information from people other than me. It has taken me days to convince you that Xavier at daycare is dead wrong when he tells you every airplane overhead is transporting 'bad guys'. You regard my argument soberly, processing in that little mind who is telling the truth. Finally, after hours of debate on the subject, you decide Mommy probably wouldn't lie to you. And you slip your hand in mine and give me what you think is a reassuring little squeeze, a copycat squeeze you learned from me, the squeeze I give you when you are not feeling so brave or outgoing at all. And you smile. Your smile makes me melt.
Perhaps nothing has marked your transition from toddler to big girl quite as much as your new fascination with Disney princesses. I have always looked on the 'princess mentality' with something like disdain, rolling my eyes (secretly) at parents who refer to their daughters as their little princesses, catering to their every whim. The parents who buy every Disney princess toy on the market and send the subconcious message to their little girls that the world exists merely to serve their needs. You are not royalty. You will not be treated as royalty around here. You had, up until very recently, very little princess gear, save the odd dress-up number and those blasted purple plastic heels you have adored since before you could walk. But, the thing is, you discovered a love for these frilly, silly girls who are all fainting over their Prince Charmings completely on your own. And what I find amazing (and tolerable) about watching your fascination unfold is the way you are totally nonplussed by the silly messages being sent through the movies. Your report on Cinderella (your favorite princess by far) included only details on the 'mean cat' and those 'really, REALLY mean girls who are kind of ugly and ripped Cinderella's dress!'. I find this reassuring.
So, Disney princesses. You study them. You bring me a sheet of stickers and we point to them one by one, you memorizing their names and their correlating movies. We check out the videos from the library that tell their (okay, silly, but kind of cute) stories. You refuse to be impressed by the fact that I can sing nearly every word to every Disney soundtrack produced in the 1980s or 90s. You insist that waving your magic wand and yelling some version of Bippidibopidiboo will somehow transform Henry from cat to carriage. We sent out Cinderella invites for your birthday party, scheduled for later this month when you are less likely to be stricken by some viral illness that renders you feverish and somewhat lethargic. You have proclaimed Jafar from Aladdin to be the worst bad guy by far, and you cover your eyes and squeal any time Lucifer, that badass ugly cat from Cinderella, appears on screen. Your friend Allison passed down a Disney princess kitchen set to you and I thought you would die of happiness and pleasure right at my feet.
Zoey, you are growing and changing every week, in ways that constantly amaze me. I adore the phase you are in, this stage where you are so obviously soaking in information from everyone around you, and yet...you still look to your Mommy for most of the things you need to know. The days where you collect rocks for me and proudly add them to my glass jar on the dining room table are fleeting. You won't always stop random people at the park to tell them how much you love Target and Starbucks. Someday you will stop squeezing my hand in public. By all means, lose interest in the princesses. But never doubt that I love you, and enjoy like crazy watching you develop in to such a fun little girl.
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