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Kids

Bake me a cake

June 16, 2015

We spend a lot of time in this house discussing Spike’s World. I’ll spare you the daily buzz, and just catch you up on the most significant happenings in our curly kid’s imaginary neck of the woods. There have been a few exciting developments. First, she recently welcomed a child, named Junior Peace. And second, she became the town baker.

For weeks, we listened to Spikey brag about her amazing from-scratch confections. No matter what we were eating, even when we were feeding the dog, she inserted the commentary, “You know, I can make a cake without cake mix.” On and on it went. I mean, it got to the point where I 1.) really wanted a piece, and 2.) felt very insecure about my own abilities in the kitchen. And then one night, while I was downstairs hammering out a Kayla routine, Spike put her flour where her mouth was and whipped up a cake with no cake mix. Though Dada helped, I still expected a pasty, flavorless slice of sponge. But it wasn’t at all. It was a pillow of sweet, sugary bliss. We promptly piled berries and whipped topping on with abandon and laughed at how long we’d waited to partake in this glorious cake without cake mix.

Only after my blood sugar settled did Hank let me in on their secret. The cake with no cake mix was, in fact, a Busy-Day Cake recipe from Better Homes and Gardens. Since an actual recipe exists, I feel compelled to share. It’s great for summer, loaded with strawberries from the garden and a whipped cream made of every artificial thing you can shove into an aerosol can.

You just add a little bit of this …

And a little bit of that …

Mix together like so …

Pause for a dope thumbs up …

Lick the beaters bone dry …

And voila! You have the reason I will be fat forever. Cake!

Get it all in there …

Put your hands up and say, “Yea-ya!”

Here’s the Better Homes and Gardens recipe so you can get you some. Go ahead … treat yo self!

Kids

Where do all the teeth go?

June 11, 2015

We had a big milestone this past week. JoJo lost her first tooth. And by lost, I mean her father finally wore her down and she let him yank it out, the release of which brought first hysterical tears and then, upon realizing it didn’t actually hurt, crazy, psychotic laughter. It was a strange scene; the whole crew standing around this tiny white calcium nugget with a microscopic drop of blood on the end, laughing.

Anyway, the excitement of the extraction was immediately followed by excitement about the Tooth Fairy coming. She placed her delicate little prize in the special tooth pillow she got for Christmas and sewed shortly after, and tucked herself in for the night (an even greater miracle than her giving permission to pull the tooth). She awoke to a golden coin and all was magical in the world.

The next morning, when she and Spike, who sleeps with big sis, came down to show off her new fortune, I asked if she saw the Tooth Fairy. And then this happened:

JoJo: I didn’t, I was sleeping.
Spike: I did! She was like a beautiful very. (very = fairy in Spike Speak)
Me: I’ve never seen her in person, but that’s how I picture her.
JoJo: What does she do with all the teeth, anyway?
Me: Shhhhheeeee …..
Spike: Actually, you know, she has a giant mouth and she takes all of the tooths from all of the childrens of the world while they are sleeping and she keeps them all in her giant mouth.
[moment of silence.]
Me: Noooooo, that’s not it!

And then I never finished or followed up, because, let’s be honest, no one has a good answer. I mean, someone does, but it sure as shoot wasn’t me that day. I never freaking thought about it! If this post serves in preventing even just one mother from dropping the ball that is their child’s dream, I will soldier on feeling like it was a success.

Talking it over with some mommy friends at lunch, I realized it wasn’t just me. No one knew why a person would want a bunch of rotten teeth. And when you don’t have a cute story to tie to something like that, you can find and come up with some pretty disturbing scenarios. We started Googling and discovered that the trending response was that she turns teeth into buildings in her magical town. Lame! She also might plant them so they can become flowers. After this extensive and exhaustive research, I have concluded that the current theories yield answers insufficient for providing the happiest childhood memories possible. I am proposing a few ideas, and inviting your suggestions as well. Let’s all get on board with a universal story, shall we?

1.) She grinds them up to make her magical fairy flying dust. I like this one because it’s simple, easy for a child to grab on to and better than picturing a woman living in a giant tooth duplex. Maybe we come up with a different word for “grind” though. It’s a work in progress.

2.) She gives them to God and He, in turn, gives them to babies. This one is timely for our house, since Sloppy Joan is coming into some chompers. Plus, I’m pretty sure that kids picture God, Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy playing tag and having tea parties together. And I’m kind of OK with that at their age.

3.) She’s a collector. I can’t think of a better way to illustrate the concept that we all have different interests, and that some people’s are super strange – what we, as adults, call “red flags” – while other collections are fun, like bottles of wine and Sex and the City seasons. No? (Maybe option No. 1 or No. 2 would be best.)

I don’t remember what my parents told me. I was probably just happy I had some coin to go buy candy so the rest of my teeth could rot and fall out. Greedy little punk. What was your Tooth Fairy story? It’s only a matter of time before she circles back around.

Kids

Cosmic crush

June 8, 2015

Oh man, have you guys heard of Cosmic Kids Yoga? So, it started when Hank decided to try his core at yoga. We would rake some toys to the side, roll out our mats and move through some sun salutations while the chicks played, then inevitably fought, on the other side of the basement. Well, monkey see, monkey do, and eventually they migrated over and started busting some downward dog splits.

Around this time, a dear friend, who is far trendier and by far more granola than me, mentioned Cosmic Kids. But I filed it away in the dark caverns of my brain, somewhere between a great natural bug repellant recipe and the details of the 21-Day Fix.

I finally pulled it up on the Apple TV one chilly Saturday morning and discovered the hidden gem that is Jaime and her magical, wooly jammie unitard. She has the most endearing accent – Australian or British, I’m that bad at accents – and she tells the cutest stories that take your little one on adventures to jungles and oceans and Antarctica, all while incorporating yoga.

You know when you watch a group pose for a picture, and you find yourself with a huge smile on your face like you’re in the shot, even though you’re just an onlooker? That’s me watching Jaime. I put my mat next to the girls and played along, you know, so they wouldn’t lose interest. Before I knew it, I was on my belly paddling to catch up with the giant whale just a few feet ahead, with the goofiest grin. When the girls begged to do, “just one more,” I pretended I was doing them a solid, but I really wanted to do the one with the penguin.

If you have little ones, I’d say 2 ½ or older, check out her channel. And if you know where I can score one of those sweet jumpsuits, comment below.

Kids

The thing about this baby

June 3, 2015

Today, my baby turns 1.

This. Is. Tough. Sloppy Joan is our third baby, and we’ve always planned on having three babies. This time, we’re not putting bottles and bouncies and Boppies away, we’re giving them away. It’s surreal.

When you’re 17, and you sit around with your girlfriends and talk about “10 years from now,” it’s kind of like you’re speaking your dreams out into the universe with the hope that God is listening, will take note and, as time passes and He sees fit, they will be distributed down to you one by one until you have everything you’ve ever wished for. So now, as I watch my baby girl smash bright pink frosting into her perfect little face, I’m realizing that my heart is full of all the wishes I had for my “10 years from now.” And that’s kind of … I don’t know … scary … overwhelming … beautiful.

I know eventually it will feel liberating – the thought that one chapter of my life is closing. They’re all here. I will [more than likely] never be pregnant again. It’s not that I have nothing to do now. We are in the throws of the next chapter, which is raising humble, strong, capable young ladies; a task booby trapped with a frightening level of estrogen. It’s just that I put so much energy into planning and anticipating and carrying these little lives, and now I have all of those emotions, without the control. My friend Kelly says that having children is like having a piece of your heart living outside your body. Sometimes I can physically feel that sentiment. Like, you know In Madagascar when Alex looks at Marty and he’s a talking steak? That’s the level I’m talking. I picture these little pieces of my emoji-looking, bright red heart, walking and crawling and dancing away from me. Torture.

Sloppy Joan had a rough first year, much of which was spent in the clutches of various ailments, the worst of which being the longest case of the flu ever and RSV. I rode, sitting on a stretcher, in the back of an ambulance at 2 o’clock in the morning holding my naked little angel, both of our hearts racing – mine from a fear like I’ve never known and hers from the virus – and I prayed in the most direct conversation I’ve ever had. I pleaded for this birthday to come. I begged for her beautiful, long life. So, I suppose I shouldn’t spend too much time analyzing the wrapping paper on my most amazing gift, now should I?

This little girl is the brightest ray of sunshine and the happiest of all creatures. She loves buttered noodles, waving and dancing. She’s finding her voice and rocks one prominent tooth on the bottom. Her butt crack is, I promise you, one inch longer than any other butt crack you’ve ever seen on a baby, and her daddy loves to hold her up before bath and say, “It’s been a long-ass day.”

If the sentence that is our growing family ends here, she is the perfect punctuation mark. Happy birthday, my sweet Sloppy Joan.

Kids

Mother’s Day (It’s a girl thing)

May 11, 2015

As I take my melatonin and tuck myself in at sunset on this, my sixth Mother’s Day, my heart is full, fat and happy. In what feels like the heartbeat of a hummingbird, we have filled this house with 3 gorgeous girls. Three girls … I still can’t believe it … three girls!

People often offer a “poor you” expression when I share that I have all girls. I get it. I mean, let’s face it, being the mom of all girls is like being on an endless group date on The Bachelor. Not one of the week 2 dates, where the crazies are still running rampant, but like one of the last ones, where all of the remaining contestants are cute as can be with somewhat charming characteristics. The comparison cuts the mustard in many regards. You constantly find yourself trying to get a word in, the ease of the experience elevates in relation to the amount of wine consumed, and it’s extremely difficult to get one-on-one time with the only guy in the room.
It’s fun to trade war tales with women on the other side of the spectrum.Working from home one day, an instant message popped up from a coworker, who has all boys, that simply read, “I had to put the Hulk in timeout last night for smashing Sammy’s wiener.” And right there, in that moment, I realized I would never have that experience. Much like I imagine she will never receive the response, “You make me feel like a piece of trash in a trash can that no one wants!” when she tells her toddler to stop arguing and go to sleep. Drama breeds like barn cats in summer around our house. The more estrogen in a square foot, the greater the magnitude of emotion you get.

Those same people who give “the look” also love to point out that we should “try for a boy” and make the assumption that we feel something is lacking in our lives. Sure, they always have to go potty when the food arrives, all of the body questions get fielded to me and I’ll never get a special dance at one of their weddings. But for every gut punch, there is a wonderful gift given in exchange. Knowing my husband watched YouTube videos with “simple braids for dads” or hearing him read them his favorite book, Daddy’s Girl, at night always makes my ticker swell. Having JoJo tell me she wants to be a writer just like me, or Spikey say she’s going to be a mommy, or watching them snuggle and chat and carry on. Nothing is missing in this house. Absolutely nothing.

I thank God every day for letting me live with these magical little people. I thank Him even on the days when my patience is spent and my nerves are shot. And as much as today makes me reflect on my own joy, it also reminds me of the sisterhood we all share. Every single woman who tries to be everything – the cook, the housekeeper, the professional, the coach, the disciplinarian, the therapist, the nurturer, the teacher. Every woman who tries to be Superwoman. It reminds me of the respect I have for all of you and the energy it takes to try and be the best version of yourself to make a great version of someone else. I hope your Sunday was filled with sweet moments and crayon drawings, and you maybe found a little time for
yourself.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Kids

Boom. Crash. Flash.

April 21, 2015

Every once in awhile one of your kids goes and just shocks the shit right out of you. This time, it was my JoJo. Last summer, we tested the waters and took our oldest bird’s training wheels off, only to discover that she liked to do a full-on MacGyver bail at the slightest balance check. But last weekend, for whatever reason (her daddy’s persistent support, I’m guessing) this happened:

I’m telling you, had I not seen it with my own baby grays, I wouldn’t have believed it. Proudest mama.

But what comes up, must come crashing down, and who doesn’t remember their first epic cement smooch? She was warming up. Her uncle was stopping by to see her sweet new moves, and from the top of the driveway I heard it … you know, that sound of bone on concrete on screams that don’t quite register on the scale of human hearing? This is a child who has a tumultuous past, involving sedation as a last resort, when it comes to stitches, so the fact that we were dealing with a nasty road rash and swollen eye actually sent relief coursing through me.

My girl’s got grit. She hopped back on the horse and rode that mare all the way down the sidewalk.

In all the excitement, I came across a journal entry from last summer. It went something like this …

August 26, 2014

The other night, JoJo spilled water on her pants during dinner.

“Take ’em off and go change, babe. And then we’ll go for a walk after
dinner,” I said. So, she went up and put on a cute little green dress.

We went out and she told me she wanted to ride her big girl bike. So I
put a leash on the dog and she sped off in front of me. A family passed
… a dad with his 2 little boys … JoJo waved at them and on she
went. Flying around the path with her hair flying in the wind. Until
she got stuck at the bridge. I caught up to her and pushed her little
bike over the hump.

I got in front of her and she yelled, “Watch
out, Mama! Here I come!” so I turned around. The wind caught her skirt
and I that’s when I saw it. Her little bare bum. Apparently in her rush to beat the sunset, she decided to skip the undies. As she
whizzed on in front of me and I was close enough to take it all in, I
got a full view of the flashes of naked crack.

I laughed so hard
that Hank and Spikey had to come get me. The man with his children on a
leisurely bike ride, the neighbor lady lounging in her deck chair. They
all saw my little JoJo’s little fanny. What a great way to end the summer … with a full moon.

Kids

Easter at our house

April 8, 2015

Sadly, another first holiday as a family of five has too-quickly come and gone. Eggs were hunted. Hair was unruly. And then more eggs were hunted. And then candy was had by all. (Real quick, doesn’t it kind of look like Sloppy Joan has bunny ears in this top picture?)

While we would all live to regret our poor, sweet, sugary choices that day, as well as those made in the days following, the buzz did drive us outside, where we enjoyed one of the most beautiful days we’ve had so far. We walked, and chased bubbles in the wind and dialed in our bikes. JoJo even took her training wheels off for a hot minute. It was a great day. Three little chicks, a bunny and some sunshine … what more could a woman want? Maybe this picture …

Kids

Gopher Day goes awry

April 2, 2015

April 1, 2015 was Gopher Day in my little suburban slice of the world. It’s the day when neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in months, pop out to give a smile and subtle wave to signal the official close of hibernation. Masculine machines are firing up … trimming, whacking, pruning. I feel that familiar face sweat beading into formation in the sunlight through my car window. Hello, old friend! The songs sound catchier. Traffic flows like a good piece of gossip among girlfriends. It’s my favorite day of the whole year.

I pulled in my driveway to find the chicks, in various states of sweet spring activity – JoJo pushing Sloppy Joan around in an umbrella stroller. Spikey stepping up to her big girl bike with tottering training wheels. This is some serious utopian stuff, I thought … like a moron.

Any mom worth her salt knows that picturing perfection and your kids in the same space for more than a handful of minutes is a rookie assumption, sure to implode before you, leaving in its wake stinging shrapnel made of pinches, pokes and hysterics.

But this was Gopher Day! So I put history and intuition aside, and embarked on a sure-to-be-blissful jaunt around the park. And then, like the shittiest April Fools joke ever, all hell began to break loose. First, JoJo decided to abandon the bike she was on to push Sloppy Joan, which, it would turn out, meant big sis sprinting while a wide-eyed baby sat, white-knuckled with her prominent whale-spout pony flapping violently atop her head.

But this juvenile joyride was nothing compared to Spike, or as she will henceforth be called, “The Girl Who Killed Gopher Day”. Our 3 year old is notorious for bailing. Every hike, walk or bike ride to date has ended with her in a puddle of pout on a sidewalk. It’s embarrassing and it really brings my Supermom mojo down. To assume today would be different just because the sun was shining was naïve, I admit it, but I let her hop on her new Hello Kitty bike and get after it. I’d say about .2 of a mile in, we were in good shape. By .3, we were having steering issues. And by .4 we were standing next to the steed, contemplating the next move.

Sensing a general frustration and seeing smoke off JoJo’s heels, I simply suggested Spike leave the bike, walk with us and then practice when we came back around. If my future self could have intercepted the words from the mouth of my present self, everyone would have come through just fine. But there was no going back.

Me: Babe, let’s just go enjoy the walk and we’ll try again when we come back this way.

Spike: But Mama …

Me: Spikey, it’s such a beautiful day, let’s go try to catch JoJo!

Spike: No, I want to ride my big girl bike!

Me: Then hop on and steer it, like you were before.

Spike: It’s not working, Mama!

Me: OK, then let’s just walk for now.

Spike: No!

Me: Honey, Mommy’s gotta go catch up with your sisters. You coming?

Spike: No! I want to ride my bike!

Me: OK, well then you need to head home, hon.

Spike: Noooooo! I wanna ride my bike! [cue tears]

Me: Spikey, I’m not doing this here.

Spike: [cue screams]

Me: I have to go now. [Walks away nervously splitting my eyes to keep one on each set of children.]

Spike: [Screaming, blubbering dialogue I can’t decipher]

Me: [Runs back, picks Spike up and puts her in our fence. Neighbors at a standstill.]

Hank: [Chases Spikey around the backyard like a farmer after
a greasy pig until he catches and carries her, sack-of-potatoes style, into the house, where screams can still be heard because the windows are open because, you know, it’s freaking Gopher Day.]

JoJo, Sloppy Joan and I continued on our loop, which was, all things considered, nice.

I was naïve. I see that now. I thought I would be taking a mental snapshot of my three little ladies riding and strolling and smiling on the first sunny day of spring, and I would want to write about it and store it away in my heart forever. But I’m writing about this. And you know, sometimes that’s just the way walks go.

Kids

Sometimes you gotta …

March 29, 2015

Life can be tense from time to time. It can be a downright kick in the pants. When a case of the Mondays descends, or tempers run high, I think you just gotta dance it out. A good old fashioned dance party is the antidote for what ails and annoys. Bring the funk to ban it.

If your motions are a merger of your mama’s sweet moves and dad’s stiff hips, it might look like this:

It’s cool. Own it.

But there is one caution I feel compelled to share with those considering an all-family dance party – something that must be anticipated and addressed as a household before a situation arises and you find yourself ill prepared. I’m talking about Taylor Swift. Now, I am not anti-Swift, as a general rule. I am also far from a Swiftie. But sure as a death in a Disney movie, your kids are going to flipping love her. Be ready.

I feel that my organic reaction has been genetically transferred to Sloppy Joan. Watch as, at just 10 months old, she has the I-can’t-freaking-believe-I’m-actually-dancing-to-this-shit-and-I-love-it response to America’s revered pop anthem:

The amazing thing is, this was the first time Sloppy Joan clapped. This night, dancing. Taylor Swift is so good, her sick beats elicit human reactions beyond existing motor skills. I can think what I want about her gaping, girl power expressions, but the B is good. Damn good.

Kids

My daughters’ differences

March 20, 2015

As I watch the ladies in my home grow and transition, and bicker and prod, I realize with absolute certainty that my frazzled, thirty-something mind will never comprehend the ancient complexities of how two human beings, created by the same two human beings, can be so completely, drastically different. Hank and I are opposites, no argument there. It is frequently pointed out to me that the older two pull their dominant qualities from the maternal side, but it’s hard to tell with such a sprawling spectrum of genetic attributes in both directions.

JoJo is inquisitive. She worries and ponders and seeks the truth. She cries often, and asks about things that people my age don’t understand or only contemplate when they’re really, really stoned. She has concerns and she likes to direct action and take the lead when she feels comfortable.

Spike is my wild card. She, too, is emotional, but it’s more for dramatic effect and from frustration. She demands to be heard and she doesn’t have much patience for parenting. I don’t worry about Spike when it comes to friends or the pursuit of her dreams. I think all that girl needs is a compass and she’ll be on her way.

While I celebrate these beautiful, mystifying differences between my babies, they are often the culprits for our sibling domestic disputes. The girls are the only players in a tireless game of tug-of-war … the yin and the yang … the opposites that often don’t attract. They would move mountains both to defend each other and to defeat each other. The fights. The crazy, yelling, name-calling, remote-throwing, door-slamming fights. About whose turn it is, or who was telling the story, or who gets the green plate. It’s exhausting, but common. I’ll catch myself tiptoeing toward losing it before I plant my feet, take a beat and remind myself that my actions become their reactions. That sisters fight. That this is life in our house right now, and it looks like this sometimes in ours and all the other houses with little firecrackers running around.

But a shaken soda settles eventually, and bitterness dissolves with distraction. And that’s what I adore. It’s then I like to slow the narrative and commit it to memory. It’s in the moments when, unprompted or pushed, they hug, or tickle or have those amazing conversations when you turn your back and laugh from your heart, out through tiny tears in your eyes. And my soul feels so full and I think,
I love these little humans. And I love that they have each other. They talk about the planet and God and monsters. They solve the day’s problems and only ask for my confirmation at the very end. “Right, Mama?” Sometimes I correct them, and more often I let their little imaginations govern the day. Because, really, wouldn’t we all be a little better off with thoughts of smiling moons and horses named Kiyango at the front door?

I simultaneously dread how quickly the time will pass, and eagerly anticipate the day when Sloppy Joan joins her sisters at the kitchen bar. If my predictions are on point, she will be her father; the calming rhythm that steadies the noise. I’m sometimes wrong about these things, but I see a peace and joy in her little eyes that reminds me of the man I married, and also why I married him. And it’s reason No. 5,986 why I love her so much.

So, this post is dedicated to the slower, happier moments. To dancing to Beyonce’s “Girls” in the basement, and imaginative time playing mermaids in the tub. To saving each other from the top of the slide and falling asleep holding hands. To reuniting after school and smothering hugs. Here’s to my delightfully different, dynamic, amazing girls and the perfectly imperfect sisterhood they share.

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