Friday, September 21, 2012

Tick tock.

Fall is the season of birthdays around here. Well, for 3 of us. I'm not sure how we got Harry so wrong, but  there you have it. I may have forgotten certain days in the past, but let's not talk about that now. (It's not my fault! The baby took my brain!) Let's talk about cake, because of those of you who really know me, know I'm always on the look out for a good excuse to make cake. It's like that big sign of reasons to buy custard when you walk into Kopp's. Except I like Dairy Queen better than custard. Which I know is crazy talk, but anyway...

A few months ago, Suzy declared (as only she can do) that this year there would be a butterfly cake. A friend and I joked that this actually meant a butterfly flavored cake, made with ground up butterflies and forgetting that Harry was still an 8 year old boy, instantly able to gross out anyone who started a silly conversation. But, seriously, does she mean a butterfly shaped cake? A cake with butterflies stuck on it?  (Yuck.) A mystical flavor called butterfly that only exists in her tiny head? (Look, I know it's not tiny. But she's a girl. We shouldn't talk about it like we did (do?) with Harry.) And I'm getting smarter, because I don't ask her these things. No. That just gets you signed up for ridiculous things like cake decorating classes and making skirts in the middle of the night. There's one benefit to being in one's mid-thirties. (Shut. Up. 37 is totally mid-thirties.)

But, I thought that we should at least address flavor. I so want to make an apple cake, but I know I should let her pick. So, this morning on our walk to apple school, asked what flavor cake she wanted to underneath all of the butterflies. Chocolate? Vanilla? Apple? 

Her response? "Moooooooooooooooooooom, it should be pink!"

Of course it should. What was I thinking? It'll probably be slightly out of focus and I'm sure the 'mess fairy' will visit the kitchen, too. 

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

What we do.

A wise school principal once said to me, 'Days are long, years are short.' Such statements usually bug me because deep down it really doesn't make any sense, but annoyingly true. Be careful with this one, though, as it rolls around in your head. When you look back at years, you remember things like, 'Oh, that's the year that I got married.' Or, 'that's the year I lived with Joanne, Cami and Sarah in that football weekend flop house on Mound Street.' It's so different from, 'that's the bike ride that I noticed that Suzy's legs reached all the way down the crank on the pedal.' The leg that couldn't quite do it back in June was down to the bottom at the end of August. 

But, but. There's nothing like the day you notice these legs. They are everywhere. They never stop. And they are only just beginning. My goodness, what on earth are we going to do with all those legs? Our house isn't that big! And he's only 8! He's still my small boy. He'll still hold my hand. And kiss me goodbye on the driveway while I'm wearing my pajamas. 
It's almost as scary as that square chin. Or the fact that he never shares his ice cream anymore. How did I miss that day? 

Monday, September 17, 2012


Suzy is in the middle of what I really hope is the shortest phase ever. It goes something like this: she gets an idea. She makes a decision. She starts to take action. Something gets in the way (something like, no you cannot have cookies for dinner. or yes, Harry is allowed to sit on the couch. or no I won't pay $44 for an umbrella with roses on it even if you say 'pretty pretty super ooper duper please' 3 times) and she melts down. Lately, this has been happening at the sitter's house at lunch time. She won't eat. She cries and says, 'I want my mom!' And, really, I weep for the girl because I know exactly how she feels.

Harry is totally annoying on the couch. His legs take up all the room. He hogs the blanket. And the remote. It's better to go to the park where he pushes Suzy on the swings and comes to sit by me and this happens.

And yes, internet, I know I have just posted a silly picture of dirty shoes that are really more stinky than you'd think a 3 year old can make them, but they are sort of exactly how I feel today. The world is filled with shoes. You can either keep wearing the ones you always wear, or you can try someone else's. Or better yet, make your own. All things told, even with the nicks and scrapes and dirt and stink, my shoes are pretty awesome these days.