Motherhood looks a lot like a nine-year meth trip.

Undoubtedly, the BEST part of my Thanksgiving was the hour-long afternoon run I took with Mike; on any other day, it would have been the thing that feels way too much like having a heart attack to be enjoyable, but that day it was light and easy and pleasant.  I run because of the cumulative effects of having four kids (in three years), because I NO LONGER have the metabolism of a 15-year-old, and because I find comfort and solace for both of these things, by eating glazed donuts.   Let's be clear, running (for me) has NOTHING to do with health or life expectancy, or anything even remotely logical or noble--in fact, in proves on a daily basis, just how close to death I really am.


You all know that Mike and I are currently a people without a country (translation:  a house for sale and lacking in a suburb to officially call home), but a neighboring town does a pretty popular turkey trot every year on Thanksgiving that never quite works for us.  Well, it would work for one of us, but on Thanksgiving, I can't really pull the "Mommy-is-tired-and-needs-a-BREAK-from-this-sh#!" card on my husband, because it's the day that I am supposed to be GRATEFUL for this pack of terrorists and their milk-spilling antics.


Except that this year, we happen to reside in a house of live-in babysitters--Mikes parents, my brother and sister-in-law, AND the Wii and DVD player (if we're being honest about the things that *truly* supervised the children for six days straight).  And so, on the afternoon of Thanksgiving, we laced up and headed out the door, to a sunny sixty-degrees.  It was a best-case-scenario, which is really like saying it was *magical*, because I generally live life expecting to find hamster-food in clothing pockets on an hourly basis-- and this was WAY better than that.


I don't know why, exactly, because I HATE running.  And I say that with all sincerity.  But on Thanksgiving, given 60 minutes alone with my husband, who was willing to slow it waaaaaaaaaaaaay down for my sake, I was truly happy.  It was beautiful--like, REALLY beautiful--and not in a monogrammed-Christmas-display made-out-of-LED-lights sort of way.  I mean, the kind of beautiful that is quiet and simple and cannot be replicated on Pinterest.  And well, I just never notice that kind of beauty anymore.


Mike ran me on horse trails I never knew existed, right here in suburban St. Louis.  They followed a little *magical* creek and were COVERED in fall leaves, and we saw not one single person (or horse).  I probably told him 100 times how this was the best part of my day; but it was EASILY the best part of my decade (apart from the joy of my children and their creative use of yogurt).  It's rare for me to be so overcome and content, for longer than 10 minutes, and for reasons not involving a sale at Target or consuming too much wine.  It had nothing to do with paint colors, or new sofas or that wicked ornament I embroidered with my own hair that looks EXACTLY like the kids; it had even less to do with approval, or to-do lists, or when that damn house is gonna sell.  


On most days, the simplicity of it all is what drives me nuts.  I like projects, and I like them in the 23rd hour.  I like a schedule that is different day-to-day.  I generally don't make the same dinner (not counting frozen pizza) more than once in a six week period.  I CRAVE variation.   Thanksgiving break, and it's 4,000 hours of Wii time and its 57 full-length children's movies, was at times, almost panic inducing for me--because, while I claim to want laziness and peace, I CANNOT handle it, and we all know who's fault that is (HINT:  my iphone).  We were here, enjoying family--except that I have a hard time enjoying anything, REALLY relaxing into it, unless it's on sale, feeds me grapes, or is the Twilight book series.   Apparently, I stopped sitting still in 2002, around the time I had to learn to drive a car while changing a dirty diaper; it started as maximizing my VERY LITTLE time, and somehow, has become an 9-year manic streak of crafting things out of felt.  


Life is just constantly blinking at me, and sending me email and selling crock pots for $2 and inventing small desserts on sticks, and broadcasting said desserts on an Internet bulletin board of craftiness (Pinterest, get ON IT, dude).  And I love it ALL, but I cannot turn it off, and I honestly think my head might explode one day and  that I will actually bleed mod podge, or something completely ridiculous like that.  It's so distracting, that sometimes I miss the really great things.  The young relationships that grew over virtual archery (Wii resort) even if we didn't do kid-friendly yoga or make organic playdoh, or whatever it is responsible parents do these days.  I guess sometimes it isn't about making all the ornaments for your Christmas tree in a single 24-hour period--but about letting it go a little.


Running the quiet trails amidst the mansions.  

Joy to the world.

Oh friends, it's been a while since I've done a good ol' craft post.  Mostly because all of my stuff is in a POD and that makes me a little twitchy, especially during the holidays when I am supposed to be up to my eyeballs in schellack.  You know me, I LOVE a good shellacking.

However.  The last thing I need is paint fumes, or anything sticky, so for today's tutorial, we are going with fabric ornaments.  May I present, the "Peace on Earth" or the "Joy to the World" ornament....  

1.  You'll need some blue & green fabric, and something round as your template--I happened to have some 

turquoise canvas fabric on hand, but also did my second attempt on a light cotton, and it worked out just peachy.  See, most times when I craft and have to improvise, NO ONE DIES.  I doubled my blue fabric over and used a ball point pen to trace a circle (using a cup straight out of my cabinet, because I am like MacGyver).  Cut two circles (if fabric is doubled, you only have to cut once), and set aside.

2.  I ALWAYS have Pellon Wunder-Under on hand, because it's made for applique (I think?).  You can find it at fabric/craft stores, and it is on a bolt that you will have to have cut by the yard (or 1/4 yard, or whatever).  So here's the deal--you iron a piece of it onto your green fabric, or whatever you are using as the "land" pieces on your earth.   You will then have, what appears to be, a paper backing on your green fabric.  

3.  Here is where I used my plastic cup and traced another circle onto the papered side of the green fabric--and began playing with the way I wanted the "land" pieces to look.  You NEED the shape of the circle to get the curves right, so ALWAYS start there...and just play.  It took me a few minutes to get the proportions right, and to get it to look...right.   Also, since I stitched the entire ornament with a rough edge, I left some space between the edge of the ornament and the edge of the land pieces.  I just think it looks better, visually, but to each her own...no one will DIE if you line your land pieces up with the edge of the ornament.

Once you cut the land pieces out, you are going to peel the paper backing off of them--take your fingernail, and GENTLY try to peel it off of a section of the fabric.  It should leave behind a kind of "film" that feels a little tacky.  If it doesn't, you are peeling the wunder-under off of the fabric, and you'll need to re-iron it to get it to adhere properly.  Once the paper backing is off, you can iron your "land" pieces on to one of the blue circles you cut in step #1.  The wunder-under will hold it there, and make it SO MUCH EASIER to stitch.

4.  Now you are ready to stitch the land pieces--on my machine, I use stitch #14, the one that looks like a ladder?  I'm officially naming it the ladder stitch and I'm fairly certain that will kill some old lady who is a master seamstress (sometimes crafting DOES kill).  Anyhoo, you take the ladder stitch, and you stitch the perimeter of all the land pieces.  You could also do a standard, straight stitch, but I think the *ladder* makes it look more awesome.  

5.  After you stitch your land pieces, you're ready to sew the blue circles together.  I literally used a straight stitch, about a quarter inch from the edge of the ornament.  Leave a small opening to shove some filler in, and...Voila!  I was going for a look that was homemade and a little rough around the edges.  Like me.

6.  After you stuff the ornament, take it back to the machine and stitch another circle around the perimeter--I like the double stitch, it adds to the whimsy.  Your ornament probably puckered up a little bit with the stuffing, and the second line of stitching will help it even out a bit (but not totally, just roll with it, homey).  Also, you will want to add a loop of grosgrain ribbon as your ornament hanger...just slip it right into the opening you left for the stuffing.

7.  Have your seam ripper handy for when you INEVITABLY forget to add the ribbon to hang the ornament.  I made three of these today, and forgot EVERY TIME.

8.  Last step--the "peace" or "joy" flags.  I just sort of eyeballed it...one piece of a fabric scrap (in the color of your choice), folded in the middle, and cut with an inverted "v" at the end.  I wrote "peace" or "joy" with a fabric marker, and then just looped it on the ornament hanger and sewed it with a crude stitch.  You know my opinion, the less perfect it looks, the more character it has.  Also, you may want to experiment with the fabric pen first--in my experience, they tend to bleed if you apply too much pressure, so know that up front.

9.  The finished product!  Happy ornamenting, friends!!

Like a suburban prison riot.

Last year, I experienced Wal-mart for the first time at midnight on Black Friday.  My sister-in-law was in town, and we were sort of going for the adventure, and sort-of going because we figured Jesus himself might ACTUALLY be handing out free toasters if that many people make it their business to converge on Wal-mart at the same moment in time.  I mean, it sounded somewhat apocalyptic, and I was kind of curious to see if the Son of God would redeem man through capitalism, and would that would look like, exactly?

Turns out, it looks A LOT like a prison riot, but with household appliances instead of (in addition to?) rusty shivs.  EVERYONE is tense and carrying a crock pot, and growing more irritated with every second they have to wait for what they *believe* is the check-out, but is *actually* the line to enter the $2 movie section that wraps twice around the inside of the building and merges, unfortunately, with the line for cashier #73 somewhere around the seasonal tableware department.  We were there for about an hour and a half, and I purchased a Leapster Explorer and a Mario Kart wheel--neither of which was ACTUALLY on sale--because panic is contagious, and it takes exactly SIX seconds before you're caught up in the frenzy of believing you will DIE if you don't buy 12 juicers, or an entire palette of flannel sheet sets.

We got home and I vowed NEVER to return to the midnight opening of a Wal-mart on Black Friday, EVER AGAIN, because it is everything that is WRONG with America.  I would have rather baked my own crock-pot out of clay, honestly.

*******

I'm not quite sure what changed my mind, but sometime around 8 p.m. on Thanksgiving 2011, I decided I HAD TO try it again, this time with Mike.  Truth be told, I was actually hoping to hit Target at midnight, but as they are in the same retail complex, I figured we could kill time at Wal-mart and laugh at the hysteria of it all--which was really my first problem, because Wal-mart on Thanksgiving/Black Friday is a lot of things, but NEVER FUNNY.  You go in with that kind of attitude and you get killed by a calphalon cook set that steals your actual SOUL.

Mike was a Wal-Mart-Black-Friday virgin, and as such, he was a very likely target for becoming a retail bitch; there was real fear that some sort of T.V. would OWN HIM for a meager $250, or whatever it is that floor-to-ceiling flat screens go for these days.  Except that there were lines (so, so many lines) weaving their way throughout the store, for various items that were being released at various times.  Video games were in sporting goods, and laptops were in bedding, and it was all just a gigantic cluster of highly caffeinated people who were looking for a food processor but settled on 18 Bratz dolls instead--just like sperm searching for a really cheap egg.

We ended up doing three or four laps around the store--and as is my nature, I avoided areas of high conflict/cost-savings, by sticking to less confrontational items such as hello kitty pajama bottoms and rain boots.  Mike made me EXTREMELY uncomfortable with his liberal use of the video camera, particularly during the feeding of the hyenas unwrapping of a palette of board games, and also when he was told by a Wal-mart employee that videotapping was NOT allowed.  But Walmart, it doesn't REALLY exist unless it's on YouTube--duh.

At the end of the day, I came away with my life, a green striped hoodie and an 80-pack of eye shadow.  God bless America, and the freedom to pepper spray a large crowd, for the sake of an Xbox.

Where I explain when it is appropriate to wear an adjective across my actual ass.

Friends, I am SO SORRY for my virtual absence, but I ate the Internet.


Not really, but it kind of feels like it--which leads me to this post, inspired by the VERY REASONS one should never go on a 40-calorie hot-dog diet in the weeks prior to the holidays.


Let me take you back to G's ACTUAL birthday (Nov. 22), and my husband's plan to bake TWO yellow pound cakes with fudge icing.  TWO.  Funny thing, turns out we only needed one-half of ONE cake, because my brother and sister-in-law went on an ACTUAL diet (versus the stupid hot dog kind), and they don't eat cake anymore.  You know I'm not good with math, but by my calculations, this left me with like, 9.4 cakes remaining for me to eat straight out of the pan with a fork.


'Cause, you know, when you have been eating fat-free preservatives for THREE WEEKS straight, fudge cake has the addictive power of crack cocaine.  Chased with several meals worth of pot roast.


So, there's the cake and the pot roast...and the egg casserole we make on Thanksgiving morning, and what-the-hell, maybe a couple of cinnamon rolls out of a tube.  And more cake.  And possibly a few of those McDonald's holiday pies, which, as it turns out, are only 250 calories--not the 950 origianally guessed, because they are sugar cookies full of custard and sold at McDONALDS--so this is like an omen of good measure, because what we have learned here is that holiday pies are practically a diet food, and you could *technically* eat four of them and five, 40-calorie, fat-free hot dogs a day, and it might still be possible to lose weight.  WHAT????


Baby carrots and holiday pies are the diet loop hole.  Just kidding, NO THEY'RE NOT.


Well, suddenly it's Thanksgiving and there is "Pumpkin Crunch", which is like pumpkin pie, but with sh#! loads of butter; so on top of turkey and stuffing and green beans swimming in ENTIRE cans of creamy mushroom soup, there was 3-4 pieces of extra-fatty pie.  By 10:15 p.m. on November 24th, I officially realized that I had not gone longer than 3.6 minutes without shoving a dessert food or something made with a creamy soup into my mouth, ALL DAY LONG.


Go HARD or Go HOME or eat the WHOLE damn pie, is what they say, and so I started the day after Thanksgiving with TWO pieces of cold pumpkin crunch and a zit on my forehead that I suspect was REALLY a fatty tumor growing out of my actual brain.  If you knew us when we had our beagle, then you would know that sometimes when fat has no where to go, it pushes into the tail--or forehead acne, as the case may be.  Whatever.  I was gonna rock that freaking look, but doing so required two solid-meals worth of leftover pumpkin crunch washed down with 106-ounces of diet coke AND a holiday pie for good measure, PLUS a pair of pants made out of velour.  Check and check.  


This general theme of NO self control continued throughout the weekend, growing less organic EVERY hour.  And I still blame those stupid hot dogs for leaving me needy and vulnerable--and therefore responsible for sending me into a six-week spiral that ends with me having diabetes on Christmas.  


Here's hoping Santa sends insulin and a liposuction machine.  Welcome to the holidays, FRIENDS!!

Nine.

Oh, this kid.  She is incredible.


G is my firstborn--and as such, I have always wished the curse of perfection upon her.  The ability to be bold but aware of others; to know the truth in every situation and act upon it; to be a gentle leader; to be respected; to be the kind of girl that everyone wants to be around.  I often see her as timid, as an easy follower--and I find myself often (anxiously) waiting to see who she will be, when she decides the path she wants to take.  And hoping that path does not lead to recreational meth use.


I've often wished for G to have less fear; to be, unapologetically strong in spirit and to conquer the world in awesomeness.   But I am learning that strong personalities, at G's age are tough when they are a boldness not based in any kind of reality or healthy truth.  Hence, the age-old saga of girls-hating-girls because Girl A committed the UNSPEAKABLE offense of writing her name with five curliques, and it looked fancier than Girl B, who used dot lettering, or something equally atrocious.  


G's class party last week was peppered with opinions on what colors and cartoon characters are considered *cool* and acceptable; a few examples of attention-seeking in loud behavior; the tolerance/intolerance of other girls who act and respond to the world in ways that are different from the *crowd*.  God, they are so black and white in the ways that they process the world--its GREAT, or it's terrible; acceptable or weird, because they don't yet understand the value of being different, they just see it as outside of the realm of what they know.  In two years, some of this behavior will be appauling, but at the age of 8-9, there is such an innocence to it, because they understand NONE of the issues of body image or self-esteem or acceptance or relationship, but they are teetering right there on the edge of shaping their minds around these really big things.  It's terrifying--particularly because so many of their thoughts and opinions will be determined before they are really old enough to understand any of it.  


In the middle of the puffy paint and the Wii dancing, I saw a girl who is kind and gentle.  Who doesn't limit herself to a single clique, or cower alone in a corner.  She's a part of it all, but none of the cattiness; she's kind to the girl's some others aren't.  She is patient, she loves her sister in front of others, she is willing to share.  She is nine years old to me, and that seems so young, but I know now that she is amazingly wise, mostly in the ways she guards her heart, loves others, and respects those around her.  I am incredibly proud of who she is, how she handles change, how she has made friends, GREAT friends, in her first months at a new school.  I know now that comfort zones can be detrimental to how she handles life and others, and I thank God everyday for the opportunity to watch her thrive amidst uncertainty. 


Happy birthday to the beautiful daughter I met, face-to-face, nine years ago.  


You are beautiful and amazing and brave.


We love you, G.

Kyle Ryan is giving you ass-fat for Christmas.

Kyle Ryan LOVES McDonald's holiday pies.  LOVES.   And he knows every McDonald's that sells them between here and Jacksonville, Florida.


Aside from being on a hot-dog vapor diet, I do LOVE me some McDonald's--because friends, I am BLACK or WHITE,  full-animal lard or 90-calorie holograms made to look like processed meat.  Also, McDonald's single-handedly catered every one of my pregnancies, and it remains my comfort food of choice on terrible, bad, no-good days OR anytime I am in a driving in a car during (or generally around) a mealtime.


And it was precisely under these pretenses that I was enticed to try the "hot custard holiday pie" following a meal of food-court Chinese.  Which was sold to me (by Kyle) as hot custard in a sugar cookie.  Who the hell turns THAT down?  People who are no fun, that's who--because this is how I PARTY.


Only, it's kind of confusing, because it looks like a pop tart.  With sprinkles.  And it is the temperature of liquid-hot lava, fyi.


But oh.


Oh.


SO worth the pox the children are BOUND to have after being locked in the playland (gag) while we proceeded to spew profanities over how f-ing good this pie is.


I am never making a desert again, because heaven is faux pop-tart with a cooked milk filling and it is SOLD AT MCDONALDS.  And I am cutting my fat-free hot dog intake by HALF to accommodate my very aggressive pie-eating schedule--which is PERFECT timing, because BFF Becky has just told me that Target sells some sort of turkey hot dog that is only 40 calories (40!), if you don't mind that it is the color of standard, printer paper (stark white).  I'm pretty sure this takes you organic eaters out of the running, probably for the custard-pop-tart-pie, too--cuz that crap aint natural either.  However, I am solidly on track to gain 26 pounds by December 24th, at which point I will split my pants during the children's pageant at our church's Christmas Eve service--and yet, this will STILL not top the year G, dressed as a manger angel, threw up in AND around the trash can positioned right at the entrance to our church and there was not. a. single. paper-towel. to be found in the building.  This is an excellent example of how hand-dryers, while good for the environment, can go really, CONTAGIOUSLY wrong.


But if I could say one last thing?  McDonald's?  WHAT IS UP with the racially ambiguous couple canoodling on my pie box? Wrong, so WRONG.  I am not about watching cartoons get after it while eating a sort-of pop tart, mainly because I do not have a sexual fetish with anime.  Please rectify by holiday season 2012, because it's creeping me out (but not enough to stop me from eating lots of pie).


Go eat this pie.  Or if you are counting calories, go buy one and watch ME eat it.  And then leave me a comment, thanking Kyle Ryan for that extra holiday junk in your trunk.  


You're welcome.

My third grader is still a girl, not yet a tween with social media capabilities (thank God).

G's birthday party came and went without incident, and I was not, in fact, killed by the stress of eight girls trying to cuddle with our very skittish hamsters.  Perhaps you already knew this, but the human heart can survive the simultaneous escape of a pet rodent, constant shrieking, and deeply-wounded feelings over crafting supplies.  I previously thought that sort of thing made your brain bleed out your nostrils.

My intentions were, of course, to celebrate G--but as explained in my previous sleepover post, third grade is the year in which my opinions on what constitutes a celebration  begin to GREATLY differ from hers.  Here begins the years of me trying *desperately* to spare my daughter from keg stands and sexting; which I imagine will feel mostly like banging my head against a wall for 20 years straight, until G finds herself married and pregnant and unable to imagine a world where deli meat might not cause death or intellectual inferiority in her yet-unborn child.  Can any of us ever REALLY understand the great responsibility of life and our own mortality until we are parents and we come to realize that crib bumpers and pacifiers KILL or cause deformity?   

G is a pretty easy-going kid, and as such, I was able to convince her that 4 individual birthday celebrations would be the way to go.  And so we kicked off the birthday season on Friday night, with the girls from G's class at school--pizza dinner, freezer-paper stenciled shirts painted and adorned with puffy paint, candy-covered pretzel rod making and a Just Dance 2 competition (which I TOTALLY won, btw).

I was an advocate of inviting all of the girls in G's class because we are new to our school, and I consider it my job to know the social climate of the third grade.  Going to Monkey Joe's bounce crack house would have been easier, and certainly would have spared me the grief of SIX trips to Wal-Mart and the stress of having to mediate the sharing of the very popular blue puffy paint amongst eight girls; but it would have given me NONE of the insight into what is actually happening in the 6.5 hours that my daughter is away from me, five days a week.  If you think the school day is about math and reading and art projects, then--no offense--you are WRONG.   I will tell you, they are making ENORMOUS decisions about who they are at this age, and their peers have INCREDIBLE influence. 

 Third grade = the innocence of the Smurfs knocking on the terrifying door of Freddy Krueger's Elm Street.

I served the girls their dinner, and helped to manage the activities--but mostly I hung back and let them be who they are when they think no one is watching.  You cannot really know the heart of a nine-year-old girl if you smother her in fear, which is DIFFICULT for me, because I have mostly parented like a Nazi, with a behavior-based approach.  As a group, nine-year-old girls are certainly loud and squeal-y, and some of them are into attention-seeking behaviors--but as a whole, we are past fits of passion and lack of self control, in favor of BLENDING in to what's acceptable.   It's figuring out exactly what she is trying to blend herself into that's the trick.  

One thing is for certain, though.  I give my little girl--my (almost) nine-year-old, my first-born--A LOT less credit than she really deserves.  But I will save that for her official birthday post, on Tuesday.

If my creativity produces an 8-foot goblin made out of fondant, then I have FAILED.

It has been brought to my attention that I could, in fact, purchase G's birthday theme from a party store.   Except that I'm kind of opposed to selling my soul to Dora the Explorer, because she and the monkey would just LOSE it, and have to use their ridiculous talking map (let's just call it what it is, a GPS),  to get it back from the grumpy old troll who lives under the bridge.  Just kidding, G is turning NINE and Dora is, like, soooooooo five years ago.  No, we've moved on, and our theme is glitter-on-freaking-everything.  


Sidenote:  Tori Spelling's theme was OBVIOUSLY scaring the tar out of her kids and her party favors were life-long fear issues (photo to the right).  WTH, did it HAVE TO have huge teeth AND be eating hot dogs? Gross.  And WHY, for the love of Pete, is it wearing a wide-brimmed hat?


Anyhoo.


If you've been around here for any amount of time, then you know that I do *love* me a good craft.  And third grade girls and their respective birthday parties are the target audience for sculpting Justin Bieber's head out of clay.  Crafting is very much like the pizza buffet that is going to kill me with heart disease; I cannot stop myself, and sometime around December 24th, when my sleep deprivation is at it's height, I am bound to (accidentally) glue gun my eyelids shut, or sew my fingers together, I'm sure.  But it will be WORTH IT for the heirloom-quality pillow, dyed with a combination of tears and my actual, human blood.  Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.


I *should* be devoting this kind of enthusiasm to writing, however--this is going to be hard to explain--they are sort of one-and-the-same process.  This creative energy is very much like riding a Sasquatch bare-back, and I can't really control it, because it's a Sasquatch, you know?  It's sort of all over the place terrorizing villagers, and I am just along for the ride .  I have this need to CREATE something, almost all of the time, and particularly when life is crazy busy--and pom-pom garlands are just a lot faster, and therefore, more satisfying, than novels that take...a while.  I need projects that can instantly gratify, or I lose focus--which makes me somewhat of a creative slut lacking in any kind of long-term commitment.  FYI, cake pops are not a give-it-to-me-quick kind of project--in fact, they are single-handedly destroying my self esteem.


Also important to note:  I am most productive, on ALL creative levels, writing and crafting, when I am operating at a code-red, level FRANTIC.  This is because the comedy of words comes with the CRAZY of life.  If I was organized and focused all the time, I would be sane.  And sanity = NOT FUNNY.  There is a particular logic that rears it's bat-sh#! crazy head after 96 ounces of caffeine have been consumed; and often it involves speaking in my second language (sarcasm) and forgoing all household responsibilities to hand sew a Jedi cloak for a hamster.  That is my happy place.


In approximately 24-hours it will be crunch time, and I will be right there, riding bare-back on that proverbial Sasquatch, in my creative sweet spot.  Stay tuned.

My sanity can be measured by the number of fabric buntings I craft in the next 3 days.

PANIC!  Because we were running late this morning, so I ran my kids through the carpool line, before parking and walking my box of plastic utensils into the teacher's lounge.  Just to recap, this afternoon starts our school-wide conferences, and I was assigned to bring 35 forks/knives/spoons.  There was great fear that I was supposed to bedazzle the utensils, but as it turns out, at 8:20 a.m.....


....there was not a single other item present as a part of the teacher conference buffet spread.   As I am a follower by nature, it is very disconcerting for me not to have an example of WHERE (exactly) to put plastic cutlery.  Above the microwave?  Cabinet?  Refrigerator?  What if I leave them on the counter-top and they are GONE by 3 p.m.?  I ended up tracking down a piece of paper, writing a note that defined its specific purpose, and putting the forks/knives/spoons on the far right of the counter top--you know, noticeable-but-not-too-eager.  When you join the PTO they should probably have an orientation that EXPLAINS what a SmartBoard is and WHERE the plastic utensils go on conference day.  And also, how to peddle wrapping paper and if it is legal to do so in my "Gretchen the Beer Wench" costume.


Have you heard of First World Problems (link HERE) by the Badger Hut?  My entire life is a first world problem.  Apparently, I am Mrs. First-World.


Except that today, I had to run errands 8 thru 67 in preparation for G's birthday party on Friday--and in doing so, I came upon a RIDICULOUS road closure.  Apparently, the suburb I was cutting speeding through is installing planters in the middle of it's roads.  This sounds very first-worldly, and I am incredibly annoyed--nay, OUTRAGED by it--so maybe I do still have a soul and it loathes senseless roadwork.  


But then I *accidentally* hit the pre-Thanksgiving-pre-Christmas sale at Target and bought an electric razor scooter, a pair of rollerblades and a sleeping bag... and so it appears that Satan still owns me, particularly when debating whether or not I'm ready to commit to LED tree lights this year.  I dunno, it seems unauthentic.


And then, I decided to *actually* try my hand at sewing that fabric bunting I was being all sarcastic-kitten about a few days ago.  Which is a less-than-great use of time in the whole scheme of the WORLD; but my world these days is creating a tablescape for nine-year-olds that includes the layering of a turquoise table cloth (adorned with the bunting) beneath a large doily, beneath a glass plate.  And Just Dance 2.  Or 3.  Or 2.


Up tomorrow:  The creation of a *miniature* fabric bunting to top the cake, because the First World *loves* a theme.

Where I fear that providing plastic silverware *secretly* means being in charge of an entire event with a Dr. Seuss theme.

Question currently weighing on my soul:  Whether to purchase Just Dance 2 or Just Dance 3?  I just don't know, and it is PARALYZING.   Comments appreciated.

Oh, friends.  Tomorrow starts parent-teacher conferences at our grade school, and I have volunteered to help provide a meal for the teachers.  My task is plastic spoons/forks/knives, and it feels like a GIGANTIC trick question.  Analyzed in the perspective of a public school PTO, is plastic spoons/forks/knives secret code for GIGANTIC floral arrangement with hand painted silverware?  I'm just saying, it feels like a huge test--very similar to inquiring about the girl scouts after the allotted deadline--and well, we all know that a household cat had to be sacrificed as a guilt offering after that *mistake*.  Honestly, I was REALLY tempted to tie the plastic silverware to individual balloons filled with helium and float them from the ceiling of the teacher's lounge, but it's G's birthday week month, and I lost interest after the part where I color coordinated the balloons, but before I HAND-TIED them with spoons/forks/knives and a ridiculous Dr. Seuss quote written on parchment paper.

I have had a headache for five days, no joke.  If I had to diagnose it, I would guess cancer or severe dehydration; however, I also have an inkling that it is due to extreme wind/ dust particles being caught in my eyes.  I say this, because my eyeballs feel like they are STRAINING and GRITTY everyday after my morning run, and I am tempted to spend the entire day in a dark room, sleeping it off.  Age of 35= Geriatric Vampire Syndrome, as apparently, I need to jog in rec-specs and knee braces to stay functional.  Super.

Last thing.  Today, Lofthouse Cookies has started following me on Twitter (@sdenckhoff, WASSUP???).  There is, perhaps, nothing that has EVER felt so right as an Internet relationship with my favorite cookie. Seriously, Made. My. Day.   We are totally gonna be Facebook official.

Going to bed before my head explodes.  Keep it classy, blogworld.

The five day countdown to losing my freaking mind.

Gearing up for the big birthday party with 3 hours of research on party decorations/ activities on Pinterest.  And suddenly a table cloth with ruffles is EXTREMELY important to me.   Pinterest = unrealistic expectations for life.  


Here's the little gem we came up with for the invite--if you didn't already know it, PHOTO INVITES are the way to go.  As they can be printed in a hour, for the cost of $.13.  Three sheets of aqua cardstock, a roll of polka dot ribbon, a pack of envelopes, and--bing, bang, boom--we are ready to party.


Right after I craft a 164-foot fabric bunting.  And take a bunch of speed.


Welcome to the new week, friends.  Do any of you have any tips for making hand-blown, glass cupcake toppers on the stovetop?



{TOTALLY kidding.}

Where I prove my brain is on a 48-hour delay.

A few days ago, my husband remarked that there were holes in two of our kid's halloween bags.


"Cheap bags?" I asked.  But knew the answer to, because I bought them at Hobby Lobby for $.30, so really, I think China *somehow* paid me to carry these things around as some sort of international marketing ploy.


"I don't think so," he said.  "They didn't rip on the seam."


"Must be mice then," I said.


"Probably," he responded.  


And that was that.


Fast-forward two days.  While sewing the girl's Christmas skirts:


WE HAVE F-ING MICE IN THE KID'S HALLOWEEN CANDY.  OH MY GOD, MICE IN THE CAAAAANDY!!!!  GAH!!!!


I think the full truth of it just slapped me in the face with the possibility that my kids are eating rabies-- if its possible to contract it via mice saliva on a Snickers bar?  I have no way of finding out, because you might remember, I am NEVER ALLOWED to Wikipedia "RABIES" ever again.

And really, WHY am I surprised.  We live in a basement that walks out to a wooded area--AND I had to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a chipmunk this summer.  Okay, not really, but I did have to fish it out of the pool with the extra-long skimmer and that's *practically* the same thing.  It sat frozen for a moment, and I was compelled to wrap it in a blanket, but when I tried to scoop it off the pavement with the skimmer (again), it mustered up all its strength and bolted.


"Mike, I think there are mice in the kitchen."


"Didn't we just talk about this a few days ago?  Yes, there are mice in the kitchen and they are eating the Halloween candy."


{Insert gagging noises.}


"Did you think I was kidding about the mice?  Because I wasn't."


"I wasn't really thinking anything.  I was on Facebook."


"Well did you pick the bags off the floor?" 


Sidenote:  If you're wondering why the candy bags are on the floor, then you don't know me very well.  Everything is on the freaking floor here; it's how I *organize*.


"I'm not touching them.  What if they're in...there?"


"Kick them first.  They aren't in there."


"You do it."


"I'm not coming home from work to pick Halloween candy off the floor.  Plus, you need to take a picture and blog it."


This last statement posed a real conundrum, friends--weighing the part of me that KNOWS this is *excellent* comedy, against the knowledge that it may very well KILL the very neat and tidy in-laws WITH WHOM WE LIVE.  But at heart, I suppose that I am a journalist of life (and fat-assed mice).

Happy Weekend, Friends.

If I could time travel, I would change my parenting philosophy on toothpaste.

Every once in a while, perceived maturity in my children or sheer necessity of our lifestyle will cause us to change a *seemingly* meaningless household routine.  Often, this is an uneventful edit, like transitioning from whole milk to 1%;  but sometimes, it is met with a tantrum so mammoth that it rips the very fabric of the space-time continuum, and you think, "So this is it, huh?  The universe is going to implode because I did not cut my kid's chicken into cubes."


And sometimes, in the midst of this enlightenment, I remember that I CAN travel back in time via my very own Internet Delorean (that's code for my BLOG, guys) and warn the parents of infants that they are about to step into a seemingly harmless landmine.  Today is one of those days.


Hear ye, Hear ye!


A message from the end-times, to parents of cutesy-wootsey little babies, pregnant ladies and newly married couples who will one day attempt to have children while claiming they "aren't trying, just not preventing" pregnancy.  That's really annoying, btw--no one conceives a kid by playing it cool, except for teenagers, and do you REALLY want to be compared to a pregnant high school-er on an MTV reality show?


I digress.  

If you have kids, are expecting kids, or think you want kids at some point:  Do not EVER buy kid toothpaste.  EVER.  If it contains a picture of Sponge Bob or the Teletubbies, is flavored like bubble gum or chocolate (gag), is glittery, is the color pink/lime green /purple or comes in a tube shaped like a Disney Princess--WALK AWAY.


Last week, after the last bit of blue, sparkly kid toothpaste hit every surface of our bathroom, I was supposed to buy more.  Between feeding the kids, and washing the kids, and cleaning up after the kids--and making sure they don't strangle themselves in their sleep with that YARN they are so fond of--I freaking forgot, okay.  SO SUE ME, kids.  FYI, there is a response that is WORSE than a lawsuit, and it involves snot and saliva and normal toothpaste flowing like a river, and it is bloody awful.


"I don't want to brush my teeth!  It's burning my mouth!  I don't like your toothpaste!  It's spicy!  You were supposed to buy OUR toothpaste!  Ow, it makes my mouth HURT!  It's burning!  I'm gonna throw up!  WAH! I DON'T LIKE! IT!!  Why did you forget our toothpaste?  It BURNS!  I'm CHO-KING!!! OWWWWW!!!!


Did you know using non-kid toothpaste is like brushing your teeth with ACID?  'Cause apparently, it is.


I REALLY wanted to video it--except between the aforementioned yelling, and the saliva, and the snot, and the toothpaste and the holding of the head and the prying of the jaws and the actual brushing itself?  I was six-hands short of able to operate a camera.  Sorry.


My point here is that Satan is Smurf-themed Colgate toothpaste, and when the Bible says that there will be a great gnashing of teeth on judgement day, it means that LITERALLY; except that judgement day is code for every morning after breakfast.  It's 20% hysterical and 92% sweat-inducing-- and just like childbirth, I kind of forget how awful it is until we're back at it again the next day, still without the Malibu-Barbie coconut toothpaste.  Four days of this, and Mike declared that we were Never. Going. Back., because it's become one of *those* battles, and we CANNOT back down or we lose control...forever.  Because it's toothpaste, and if we cave now, there is a good chance they'll scream their way into a diamond-encrusted Mercedes on their 16th birthday (such is the progression of these types of entitlements).


Parents of the future:  toothpaste-marketed-to-kids will cost you your soul.  Beware.

I have a proposition for you.

I've got nothin' for ya tonight, blogworld.  


The kids were home from school today, it rained, and I made an entire meal out of processed foods bought in bulk from Sam's Club, PLUS a special vegetarian stir-fry dinner for Mike and I (because we are on a diet and the fat-free hot dog vapors have *turned*).  Except that I forgot the stir-fry spices, which is pathetic, because  there are only THREE ingredients in stir fry (frozen bag of veggies, rice AND stir-fry packet).


Also, I forgot to note that G will, in fact, have FOUR birthday celebrations, as her ACTUAL birthday falls on a Tuesday, and I am therefore obligated to send treats into school--or else no one will believe she was really born.  If a kid stretches my vagina by 8,000% but no one brings donuts into school for her 9th birthday, does she actually exist?  Probably not.  

All of my bitching about allergies is really ridiculous, because the kid's school is pretty cool; they inform us of specific allergies in each class, and we are told to avoid those foods, instead of eliminate the entire food chain all together.  None of our kids have any classmates with serious/inconvenient allergies--there is someone in G's class who cannot have citrus, but there is less-than-a-small-chance-in-hell that our treats will be sliced oranges, so this is irrelevant.  I know I joked about gifting ferrets as favors last night, but I am *kind of* (VERY) curious as to what would happen if I wrapped miniature hamsters in cellophane and brought them to school as *treats*?  I anticipate that this might result in a very public flogging, because there's probably a kid who would be allergic--but to this I would argue that the hamsters were never intended to be EATEN, geez.


I mean, I hate to beat a dead horse/birthday hamster here, and we've already agreed that G's party will be a 6-9 p.m. free-for-all--but I really can't help but feel like my daughter's ability to "Say NO! to Drugs" depends on my ability to navigate the shark tank that is the elementary school sleepover.   The truth is that there are some situations in which I feel completely comfortable with G having a sleepover, and others in which I am...unsure.  And managing all of it without pissing someone off OR finding speed in my kid's Hello Kitty backpack is the trick. I'm not really figuring it all out, per se, I'm simply ignoring the issue for the moment--and I'm considering this as a general parenting theme, particularly as the appropriate age for sex education is also looming, and (cross-my-fingers) I'm hoping to avoid it altogether until the girls *accidentally* crap a baby in the toilet, and it will all make magical sense.  But today, G recited the mating ritual for dragonflies, and it amazed me how far inside the boundaries of innocence she is, and how I want to keep her there just a bit longer.  


If there is anything that you take away from this post?  It's that I am willing to pay one of you $2 to send hamsters to your kid's school as a party favor.  Really, it will be worth tens? hundreds? when your YouTube video goes viral.  
   

Where the most beloved movie of my youth becomes my parenting nightmare.

Because I am mother of the YEAR, I just realized that G's birthday is in 15 days.  Now, I know what you are thinking, that this is no biggie, that I still have 14.5 days to run to Target and buy a gross of small animals in tiny plastic bubbles (f-you, Squinkies, you are EVERYTHING I hate about toys)--except that when you have four children, birthdays, and their corresponding celebrations, become a complicated word problem of parties every-other-year (G's year is up), while factoring in that THREE of these birthdays fall within SEVEN days of a major holiday (Thanksgiving for G, Christmas for the wondertwins), which then means that all plans and intentions have to be backed up approximately 3-5 days, depending on the nearest weekend and whether or not the moon aligns with the stars and the groundhog-sees-it's-shadow and gives me ONE DAY within the child's birth month that can be scheduled for a celebration free of peanut, glutten, egg or dairy products.  Turns out the calendar according to Mother-Birthday-Allergy-Moon has selected Friday, November 18th as the day the universe will celebrate my nine-year-old.  


That's in ten days--not nearly enough time to paper mache a pinata in G's monogram, so basically, I am screwed and G's life is RUINED.  


Also complicating the process:  Four days ago, we began *talking* about how to celebrate.  In years past, we have done parties at the local crack bounce house (Monkey Joe's), except that G is new to her school this year, and I would like the opportunity to get to know her classmates outside of an environment that induces rabid monkey syndrome.  {Sidenote, this parental intention backfired a few years back at G's old school when I invited every. single. first. grade. girl. to her party and there was DRAMA because one girl didn't like the color PINK.}  Also, parties at places like Monkey Joe's are a million dollars, and very similar to my attitude toward Halloween costumes and life in general, I'm *fairly* certain I can do this on my own, for $999,999.99.  


Which is all fine and dandy, but G would like a sleepover.  {Sigh}


Except that we are still on the fence about sleepovers in third grade.  We could do it, but do we WANT to do it?  Do we WANT to open that can of worms?  We've gone to one slumber-party this year already, and I really had to barter with Mike on that one; my argument being that G was SO excited, and she's NEW, and I want her to make friends and be included, but this is bad criteria when applied to a high school kegger, so OBVIOUSLY, my parental boundaries need work.  We could have her pick a couple of friends for a sleepover, except that there are only eight girls in the class--and I would HATE for any of them hear about it (because I'm giving out ferets as party favors) and feel like they weren't included in the fun of crafting small tutus for rodents.


And so, you see, how easily I am time-warped back to the social politics of the third grade--except now, there is the Internet and Pinterest and cake pops and something has to have rhinestones on it or I am going to ruin G's social life F-O-R-E-V-E-R.  Gah!  This is surely how Kardashians are born.


Because here is the compromise:  Class party, in our basement home, where we will craft and be girly.  Possibly, I will allow the use of puffy paints and glitter, which tend to make my eye twitch--but this is in honor of my firstborn, and so I feel it appropriate to remember this day with something that is physically, vaginally or emotionally painful.  Character-themed invites from Walmart were also outlawed (mommy veto) in place of a photo personalized with text (and a hand-tied bow).  


And.


G will have a sleepover a few days later with her sister and her best cousin, R.  At which time we will do nails and make-up and watch movies and be girly.  


And.


G will have a family party on her ACTUAL birthday, when her out-of-town cousins visit St. Louis for the week of Thanksgiving.  I will throw pizza in an oven and cry because I am still staring down the loaded barrel of TWO birthdays and TWO major holidays and that advent calendar of gifts that was (in retrospect) a REALLY dumb idea.  Also, there will be chardonnay chugged LIBERALLY and *possibly* a five-year-old percocet (or two) washed down with it, because this is the THIRD freaking party being thrown for a NINE year old in a five-day stretch and I am beginning to think I *might* be Kris Jenner.


Just wondering--How many of you out there in blogland allow sleepovers, and how did you come to your decision?  Similar to the use of meth and other recreational drugs, I assume it's okay for my kid if everyone else is doing it (HEAVY sarcasm), so I'm just curious as to the general consensus on sleepovers and if you need a Pottery Barn sleeping bag to participate in one....  

Failing at housewivery.

Last night, Little J found this in his shoe.

Apparently it means we are going to have a cold winter, but for me it means that fat, fuzzy caterpillars in my kids shoes are now a daily possibility--and I'm not sure how it's going to play out, but this has ALL the potential of becoming some kind of holiday-themed disaster.  

Thankfully, I was too preoccupied to truly freak-the-hell-out, because I was failing (for the fourth time), at the suburban housewife exam.  Also known as, Cake pops.

I am beginning to feel like my success as a HUMAN BEING relies upon my ability to put cake on a stick and NOT hit things with my mini-van--and I am FAILING.  While improvising my way through it yesterday, I remarked to Mike that "no one is gonna die" if the cake pops don't *exactly* look like pumpkins (as intended); and this is mostly true, but for my social self esteem, which is still bleeding itself to death over these things.  I think I am going to monogram 74 dishtowels to make up for it.


The hostess of the party was not expecting cake pops, nor the crockpot full of meatballs I made warmed with ketchup.  She *probably* was wondering what happened to the mini-hamburgers I had mentioned in my email, but graciously understood that sometimes creativity means jacking some sh#! up in candy melts and putting it on a fancy platter.  


Just keeping it real, friends.  Because sometimes I make dolls, and sometimes I pick fat, furry, LIVING things out of my kids shoes. 

Sometimes, a well-intentioned craft turns out to be a dickie.

Ah, Friday.  You are just one of those days that has me in my pajamas and experimenting with scarf making out of a t-shirt I bought at Goodwill.  I know it sounds magical and very much like I make fresh hydrangea arrangments and milk llamas on my farm; but the reality is that if you entered my house basement right now, you *might* think we were robbed for crafting supplies, and are possibly being held hostage with hand-braided rope made of polka dotted fabric scraps.


Here's the dealie-o:  I got on this kick of trying to figure out HOW to make Christmas ornaments that look like small houses.  Found the idea on Pinterest, and while there is a pattern that would make this EASIER, you know me, I like to re-invent the wheel--or in this case, the small, fabric house ornament.  Attempt #1 was okay, followed by attempt #2 which was better (minus the chimney), followed by the thought that I need to think beyond ornaments  to throw pillows and appliqued t-shirts and bedding hand-embellished with small, whimsical houses!  If you are following, it's 9 a.m. and I have mentally redecorated my house in small houses--and it just feels like a my brain is stuck on a loop that is never. going. to. end....UNTIL!  I spy that XXL striped shirt I bought at Goodwill and decided this would be an EXCELLENT time to experiment with scarf making, which, as it happens, was a total bust that is best described as a cowl neck "dickie", and leaves me feeling wholly unsatisfied; but ultimately leads me try my hand at doll-making, with moderate success, I think.  You be the judge.  

I think I am feeling antsy, because Christmas is right around the corner, and she is going to murder me in my sleep, I'm fairly certain.  I have all these dreams (and corresponding Pinterest boards) of making handmade gifts for my family and friends--but every year I forget that in addition to Thanksgiving and Christmas, Mike and I are responsible for celebrating THREE of our children's birthdays.  Failing at family planning DOES NOT mean that you mistimed ovulation; it means that you inadvertently managed to birth THREE (of four) kids between the biggest holidays of the year.  This cluster often results in us purchasing boxed DVDs and various mixed nut sets from Target--which, for all of my intentions and expectations of learning how to grow grapes and make/bottle my own wine, is like selling my whimsical soul on an end cap of pre-packaged items.  Even disguised in cellophane with yarn pom-poms and grosgrain ribbon, I die a little inside every year when I am unable to find the time to spin wool from actual hamster hair and knit it into a tube top.


Question:  Mike and I are in discussions to change the name of this blog and buy an actual URL or whatever, because apparently, Google OWNS me since I use the blogger platform.  I need name ideas...something simple?  Elegant?  Awesome?  Curious to hear your thoughts friends.  I need a *brand* that is appropriately sophisticated, like making cheese in a van.  


Happy Weekend!

The economics of being squishy.

It seems that my diet staple of fat-free hot dogs has come up in conversation A LOT lately--an oxymoron that insults humanity at it's deepest level, and you people just cannot get over it.  And so, I have photographed them in all their preservative-filled glory, in the hopes that you, blogworld, will realize that fat-free hot dogs have feelings too.

Important to note:  This entire meal is 260 calories.  I have to believe it isn't *exactly* made of pork, and the carb count on the bread is low, so I am not entirely sure of what I am eating, maybe a hologram?


And just to keep it *real*,  I did not remove the medical syringe, more commonly known as a pool/creek toy, from the frame of my picture.  So if you were to ask me if that's a dirty syringe in the background, my answer would have to be yes, but RELAX... it is strictly a child's toy.


And here is how I am going to tell you that the economy is making me FAT.  Because I eat hot dog vapors everyday, until my husband suggests Cici's Pizza for dinner; and we all know my aversion to e.coli, except that Wednesdays are kids-eat-free nights, and so it seems economically responsible to take the chickens to their favorite restaurant (?) on a night when it costs nothing but an extra inch on my thighs.  And let's face it kids, you ruined those for me in 2002, 2004 and 2006.  While it is true that kids eat free, it should be noted that it does, in fact, cost Mom and Dad their dignity when they shove their pie holes full of pizza.  And cinnamon rolls.


There's the argument that I could limit myself to TWO slices of pizza, and here is why that is stupid:  two pieces of Cici's pizza equals 27 fat-free hot dogs.  What I'm saying here, is that if I'm gonna blow it?  I'm gonna blow it with the equivalent of 479 fat-free hot dogs, so as to prove some kind of  point about how far skin stretches.  You don't go to an open bar and only drink ONE bottle of wine; and likewise, you don't go to Cici's and eat less than 34,000 calories in buffet-style pizza.  


Also, by the lens of economic wisdom with which this decision was made in the first place, two slices of pizza averages out to $3/slice--but to make this worth my time, my $6, my stomach cramps, the smell of my husband/our bedroom after greasy dairy, my impending heart-attack and the liposuction I will disguise as a "trip to Florida"-- then we need to bring that cost down to $.06 per slice, $.045 if you factor in the cinnamon rolls.  Take that, recession--I will eat you.


True story--One time a couple of years ago, we ate dinner at Cici's and I would SWEAR to you that a skunk had died in their plumbing.  I say this, because the smell was particularly strong in the bathroom; and also because my hands smelled like skunk for 48 hours after washing them with their tap water.  I call us even, considering my kids managed to break their air hockey table that one time--and in regards to last nights post about translating life into tangible items, it appears that animal decay in a water source IS equal to the cost of fixing an arcade game.  


And yet, the place is routinely busy, and Mike and I often remark that it is everything that is RIGHT and WRONG with our country--the cheap buffet of choices that leads to heart disease and morbid obesity.  It appears that the intangible American dream also translates perfectly to a pizza buffet with a game room, which is like a babysitter--oh RELAX people, it's the way of the future (say the Jetsons) and any child abductors hoping to lure my kids are going to be expected to win the Homer Simpson stuffed animal from the claw-grab game, which we all know will take four years and result in a very inefficient kidnapping.   


And now to put on some pants with elastic.  Ci-Ci ya later, friends (the ACTUALLY words they yell as you leave.  Not. Kidding.)