The Great Cupcake Escapades

I'm typically a little too, shall we say, all over the place to be much good as a crafty hobbyist. I have things that I enjoy. I like to tinker. But frankly, my mercurial self will never stay enthralled with one thing long enough to say I'm, for example, a quilter, baker, scrapbooker...well you get the idea. Some things, however, I ended up returning to quite often for a variety of reasons; only some of which include the fact that I genuinely like them.

For example, I actually do like to bake. I do not like to clean so my baking is often put on hold with the dread of cleaning that mess up. Someone must be home (ahem, husband, I'm eyeballing you) to do the dishes. In addition, when your child has food allergies, you end up making quite a bit of fancy little baked goods because those are safe whereas other people's baked goods (bought or made) are not or are unknown. Every year we make oodles of cupcakes just before school goes back. Most of those end up in the school nurses' freezer so Megan has a known safe fall back whenever treats make their way into the classroom during the year. This means, of course, that simply boxed cupcakes and canned frosting are not enough. No. These must complete with mile-high frosting and cute decorations you find in shops. These must stand-up to fantastic. If Meg must be different, she will be the different everyone else wishes they had on their plate.

Out of necessity I have become an cupcake maker. Creeping into August and with a desert due to the church kitchen tomorrow morning for mission teams we're hosting, it's time to get back to the cupcake drawing board. Today we're going to make a combination of recipes I've found online in order to produce S'Mores cupcakes. The basis of our creation begins here: http://cookiesandcups.com/smores-cupcakes/

They will be good.

I will make twice as many as I need to keep the family happy. Actually, I may not share.

Dear Sanity-fairy

I know you're awfully busy ensuring the marbles stay put in so many other heads, but if you could just spare a moment I think I might have an idea that could save you some precious time. Life for moms and dads every where would be so much saner if you could, you know, maybe, see to it that their children didn't already know everything. It's awfully difficult to keep it together when the 5 year old or 3 year old is smarter than you. Or at least when they think they are.

Thanks,

Loopy Mom in U.S.

Waiting on deck

The air is crisp. The night still creeps in on the early side of evening. The grass has yet to green up. Yet they are showing up on ball fields all over the place - young children clad in over sized jersey's and caps featuring Major League logos.

Logan's first outdoor t-ball practice was today. For the last 6 weeks, he's been playing in the indoor practice center our VERY serious Little League program boosts. (This town takes baseball seriously. It's almost comical.) A week from Saturday he will march with his team in the Little League parade complete with homemade banner to be judged. Later that afternoon he'll play in his first game.

We've been doing a lot of talking to set expectations. Oh you know, stuff like:

Me - Logan, do you know that the very best player in baseball today only hits .340-ish in his very best season? Do you know what means? That means for every 10 times he goes up to bat he's going to get a hit only 3 or 4 times. Even the very best players in the major leagues make an out more times than they get a hit.

Logan nods and takes a pretend swing with his make-believe bat at some imaginary ball.

Me - Ok, but let's think about this in terms of your t-ball game. If you go an entire game with just one hit what does that mean?

Logan (with a great burst of pride and enthusiasm) - It means I'm just as good as A-Rod!!


Look, if it prevents tears on the field, I'm ok with it. If he starts to call some super-powered, egotistical, monster agent to neogiate a contract with his t-ball team, then we'll reset his parameters of thought.

Fairy dust and milestones

Some milestones come and go marked only by some momentos or photographs. Some leave lasting changes - sitting unassisted, first steps, first words, first teeth. Then there's the milestones like the one Logan marked today.

Logan was about 6 months old when the first edges of a tooth broke through his gums. We have pictures of that baby smile with little white, sharp edges flashing out of pinky flesh.

Nearly 5 years on the nose from the emergence of that first tooth, that very same baby tooth began to wiggle. Today, that baby tooth fell out.

Understandably the boy is estatic. He's told nearly everyone he knows today with plans to tell the rest when he sees them tomorrow. He went to bed with high hopes of waking up to find photographic proof of what the tooth fairy sculptes with all those colleted teeth and a gold coin waiting for him. He's gleefully traded in "Mr. Wiggles", the nickname I gave him, for a new nickname, "Gap." He's anxious to wear the new long-sleeve tee that is emblazoned with this nickname. (Of course, remarkably it looks much like the logo of a certain clothing chain. Imagine that. Let's all give thanks to the clearance rack.)

In his young mind this is huge. This is on par with the first day of Kindgarten and that day way off in the future when you get your driver's license for the first time. This is a right of passage.

Of course, his view of it really isn't off the mark is it?

It was easy to still see him as that 'little kid' who was part of the little ones in the school even though the bus took them to and fro. It was easy to see him as a bigger version of what he's always been. Yet today the tooth became a symbol, a reminder that there's more to it than that. Today he lost a little piece of babyhood to make room for the next stage of his life.

I've been told that his face will change as those big teeth move in. Those remaining vestiages of his 'baby-face' will make way for his next rendition. The process still lies ahead of us, certainly. This is but one tooth. And yet, it's the first step.

Tommorow he'll wake, giddy to find his golden coin, his note, a toothbrush and some "fairy dust" (aka star shaped glitter.) He'll enjoy another day of showing off his new look and then he'll begin pulling and pushing on his other teeth - waiting. Hoping. Ready for step number 2.

Google images don't fail me now

This morning we made an important discovery. One of the bottom center teeth in the boy's mouth is loose. At 5 1/2 years old, its his first loose tooth. To say he's excited is an understatement.

After running laps around our house yelling "“MY TOOTH IS LOOSE!!!”, he made a couple of phone calls - Grandparents and Daddy. He insists that Dad tell the boss too. Being a good listener (sometimes) Dad does just that. The boss, being humored by a 5 year old, sends home a gold dollar coin.

By dinner time, Logan had regaled a slew of people with his news including: Grandma, Papa, sister, Dad, Dad's boss (indirect), the bus driver in, the substitute teacher, the art teacher, the kids on the bus to and fro, the kids at his table in class, the bus driver home. I'm sure if he could have figure out how to do it he'd have commandeered the PA system at school too.


When he's not talking about that tooth, he's wiggling it with his finger or his tongue. That thing is going to pop out sooner than it may want to. I find comfort in the fact that there's a gold dollar sitting in my jewelry box - something I had discovered was erroneously given in place of a quarter weeks after the fact. When I made the fine in my "spare change holder" in the car I stashed it away assuming sooner or later we'd find ourselves right where we are.

But then there’s tonight. The boy is going to be the death of me. Here, ease drop on our conversation as I tucked him earlier:


Logan (seemingly out of no where) – What does she do with them?

Me – Who do with what?

Logan – The teeth.

Me – You mean the tooth fairy? Umm, well that’s a good question. What do you think she does with them?

Logan – I think she uses them to build a castle. Or maybe sculptures in her garden. That’s why she leaves money. She’s buying them.

Me – Maybe she just uses magic to change them into money.

Logan – No. She’s building something. Instead of money I hope she leaves me a picture of what she’s building.

Me – Oh, wow, yeah, that’d be neat.

Logan – Instead of a paper dollar, I hope she leaves me a quarter dollar like the boss gives you.

Me – Logan, that’s not a quarter-dollar, that’s a whole dollar. A gold dollar. It’s just the size of a quarter.

Logan– Ok, well when my tooth falls out I hope the tooth fairy gives me a golden dollar AND a picture of what she’s building.

Ugh! Ok, so now I’m off to find a photo I can pass off as a tooth sculpture. Drat. I hope that tooth hangs in for a good month or more. I’ve got work to do!

(Oh and for lest you find yourself in the same predicament some day - Google Images came through again. Do you know there's an artist from Ballarat [Australia] that builds sculptures with teeth? Yeah. I know.)

Best of 2007

I know. I'm a little late. Not quite a week late, but late just the same. Last week, probably when it was actually New Year's, Jenn tagged me for the "Best of" meme. In the interest of being a good blog-bud, I now give you, albeit belated (have I said that enough?), my best of 2007 entry.

There were rules and all that too - start copy and typing and end copy and...well it's a meme so there was some tagging. Yet, as we've already covered ad nauseum I'm late to the party so we'll skip the formatlities of the meme rules. Work for you? I thought so.

Vacation, all I ever wanted
BK (Before Kids) we traveled quite a bit. Sometimes to exotic places. Sometimes to the inlaws. After kids the trips took a drastic cut back. Some of it logisitics. Some of it budget. The last week of January 2007 we moved back to the "on the go" mode for a trip to Disney World. The kids loved it. The husband loved it. I loved it. All is right with the world.



As a matter of fact, I am glued to this camera
When we were deciding when to get married I put up quite a "mature" argument that I did not want to get married in May. Why you ask? Because my birthday is in May. I didn't want my birthday and my anniversary to get all mushed up together. I wanted to get married in April. The man, however, assured me that if we got married in April, he'd still find a way to mush together my birthday with our anniversary and that the weather in Bermuda (where he was advocating for our honeymoon) was so much nicer in late May, early June. In the end I relented. My birthday and anniversary are 1 week apart. Sometimes they do get squished together...along with Mother's Day like it they did in 2007. And I'm ok with that because this year the man decided to splurge BIG time on an anniversary, birthday, mother's day gift -- he bought me the Nikon D80 I'd been lusting over for quite some time.

My finger is rarely far from the shutter button.

Speaking of Anniversary
May 31st, 2007 marked 10 years of marriage for the man and me. We celebrated the milestone by taking our first long-weekend trip sans kids, which of course simply gave us permission to act like children:



Since we're on the topic of weddings
My brother got married this year. Not so much a highlight.

The kids, however, were adorable in their flower girl-tux attire.



Bucket full of milestones
The first half of September was a really busy month for us. Within the first two weeks, Logan started Kindgergarten, Megan started preschool...and then she went and turned 3-years old. I'm all teary-eyed and proud just remembering it.

The kid will take a tall. Make mine a Venti.

I don't even remember how it came up but I recently found myself saying:

My daughter is addicted to Starbucks.

And if I recall the other end of the conversation seemed to need a moment to pop her eyes back in her head.

"Starbucks?" she said, "You mean your three year old?"

Some how the funny of a story gets lost when you need to explain it. I hate that. Even as I back tracked slightly and then moved again to push ahead I knew the tale would fall flat.

"Well, yes, actually. Only she calls it Star-boo-cks," I mumble, before hastily adding in, "It's the cow-milk. She loves it. Well really I think it's the ambiance but she knows she's only drinking the cow-milk."

"The cow milk?"

"Right. You know, the little juice box milk with the cow on it...vanilla. She doesn't like the chocolate..ahh...hey look! Is it snowing?"

Speaking of coffee houses. . .

My church moved into it's current facility in 1969. Before that the congregation occupied a small, colonial style church building down town.

Sometime during my childhood our creepy, itty, bitty library migrated to a big, airy, spacious new building. The then 'new' library was built off the back end of the old church building. The old clock tower, the bell - all still there. The choir loft remained in tact. The stained glass that did not make it's way to the new building still poured colored sun light onto the floor of what was now meeting space. I always loved having story time in there.

Over the last two years that same library underwent another overhaul. It began with a busted pipe that left water damaged books, carpet and lord knows what else in it's wake. It ended up a brand new wing and a tremendous face lift for the old section. Today our library is buzzing with the sorts of services and programs that earn it on some national association's list of top 5 libraries in the nation. Seriously.

As a child I truly believed our library was the most amazing one ever constructed. It was a treat to go poke around the stacks of books. My children, luckily, agree. We make frequent trips and leave with large, over stuffed bags of books each time.

Last week was our most recent trip. The girl child was at preschool. The boy and I were ducking in quickly to return our previous stash and to restock. He was antsy. He wanted a slew of books but he wanted them quickly. We ran through, picked out, checked out and with Logan setting the pace, we hustled out past the circulation desk into the lobby.

He was pulling my hand and dragging me towards the front of the building - the old church building that still looks like the church from the outside while boosting bits and pieces of its history on the inside.

"Can we?" he asked, knowing what lie inside that former sanctuary is off-limits when Megan is with us.

I gave in, as I normally do knowing this is a rare treat for him. I let him jog two paces ahead of me and came to a stop in line behind him. The woman behind the counter smiled at Logan's exuberance and waited for him to stop waffling over his choices.

When he finally did, I said to her, "Ok, we'll have one vanilla frosted donut with sprinkles, one container of milk and one large vanilla spice coffee. Thanks."

Moments later the boy and I were settling into the iron backed chairs at our little table just feet from the overhang of the old choir loft. His donut resting on the bag as he licked the first bits of frosting from his fingers. I swirled the sweetners and cream in my coffee. . .and then I used that Dunkin' Donuts emblazoned napkin to wipe up the bit I had spilled.

If we're being honest, I felt a small nudge of guilt for not making the kid say grace before digging into that donut - or maybe that was just a bit of stain glass tined light clouding my mind.

By ear

When we graduated High School my best friend and I hit a stretch of nostalgia. We had this need to try to preserve or at least commemorate the relationships we had, or perhaps just document who we had been during those years of our lives. It was the time before email. Before digital photography. It was before easy access to video cameras that didn't require a shoulder to, well, shoulder some of the weight. It was before you could, gasp, burn your own CDs. Before scrapbooking skyrocketed to all it's glory. We were just "that" far north of the 80s.

The process of creating our shared memento was somewhat laborious but not difficult. We made tapes. Between our own collections and what we could gather at the library - a good decade before iTunes - we would spend hours in front of our parent's stereos carefully starting and stopping the source and destination tapes until we had a mix that captured the desired effect.

It's been years since I've listened to the results. I came across one during a garage sale purge last year - and as much as I wanted to take the walk down memory lane my inability to locate an actual tape player got in the way of my desire.

This morning, as usual, I woke up way too early as my husband moved around the room readying himself for work. This morning, not like usual, I couldn't drift back off to even an uneasy sleep. Instead I pulled a pillow over my head, reached a hand into the nightstand and pulled out my little Shuffle. Plugged neatly into a world of random music, I was at least able to wander around aimlessly in my own mind.

As the garage door closed behind his car leaving and I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling, it was clear that I had no hope of doing anything more than sitting in the dark listening to music that seemed like a good idea to preserve on this device. I crept down the dark hall way and flipped the computer on. The player moved from a ballad by Rascal Flatts to a heavy drum beat and loud rocking vocals of Bon Jovi from a time when big hair was best way to identify a rocker.

I waited for the PC to warm up and in the dark haven of my home, I danced around like it was the prom all over again. The music slid seamlessly to Jerry Lee Lewis and so did I. The pre-coffee blitz of energy left me happy to find my leather chair waiting for me. I slipped in and began typing as the music transitioned into a little Billy Joel and from there into Norah Jones.

Her music oozed over my ear drums like caramel dripping from a spoon dipped into in a sundae. It made me wonder what someone who came across my collection of songs on this MP3 player would surmise about me simply based on the eclectic collection it contained.

Last year someone sent me one of those "get to know you forwards" that asked one simple question "What's on your iPod play list?" It seemed frivolous at the time and, since most of my listening time is spent "Oh yeah! I remember this song. Hmm, didn't realize I had put it on" it also seemed nearly impossible. Now, though, I think I see the wisdom behind the question.

Music is expression. The music that calls you can be a window to who you are - what moves you, what calls to you and what sets your feet dancing and your voice singing (off key or clear as it may be). It's not that the lyrics speak for me, but they do speak something about me.

I'll leave it up to you to decide what it says. I've got some old Nelson song to bop around to now and perhaps after that a little Nickelback.

Reality check

It was sleepover weekend for the boy. He left the house Friday afternoon shortly after exiting his school bus and he returned around dinner Saturday. He came bounding out of his grandparent's car with a pillow-case safety pinned around his neck and a brightly colored "TA" emblazoned upon one side of it.

"And you are?" I said, curious about the identify of what was clearly the world's newest super hero.

He had named himself. His own imagination picking over potential word combinations until he could settle upon the one he thought the world was most sorely in need of.

"I am . . ." he bellowed, pausing slightly for the appropriate amount of dramatic impact, "Think Before You Act Boy!"

Ah..ok. Yes.

He leapt up the front steps like they were small stones upon his path and practically flew into the backyard where his father and sister waited to greet him. The grandparents and I followed him. We watched him leap up on the children's plastic picnic table - setting his feet apart just so and his arms held out before him about shoulder level.

"Logan, don't stand on the table. Get down," said Daddy, weary already of what he knew has been an ongoing battle.

Logan, in all his five-year old-I-can-call-the-shots-myself glory, simply reset his feet into a new stance and smiled.

"Logan, down. Now," said Dad as he tacked on the coming consequence for the refusal to listen.

I walked over, quietly, lifted the superhero from his perch, holding him out horizontal to the ground and flew him to safety. I flipped over the small table and placed it in my dying vegetable garden.

"Clearly," I whispered to him as he glared at me, "Think-Before-You-Act-Boy has run into some kryptonite."

What you'd hear if you were here

Over heard in my house today:
L (my brand new Kindergartener fresh off orientation): I want to do my homework.

Me: You can do your calender page. Remember, it's not due until the actual first day of school next week.

L: I know, I want to do it now.

He works diligently on printing his name in upper and lower case letters then works with utter fixated concentration - coloring in the boxes for Sept 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 with a yellow crayon just like the paper says to do.

L: I'm done. I want to do my other homework.

Me: Honey, you've got to go with Grandma and I have to get to work. You just have to draw a picture of yourself and your favorite stuffed animal. That paper isn't due until next Friday! You have time, we can do it tomorrow when we don't have to rush.

L: But I want to do it now! I want to do homework!

Me: Logan, I want you to remember this conversation when you're 15.

L: Why? (pause) Ok, can you assign me other homework to do at Grandma's today?
--

Also overheard at my house:

Me: So, Meg, are you excited about starting preschool next week? Are you going to make new friends?

M: Yes, with the girls.

Me: Just the girls? What about the boys?

M: The boys can make their own friends.

(Daddy is so relieved and hopes she holds tight to this philosophy until she's 30 or something like that.)
---

Overheard later at my house as Miss Meg is in the bathtub

M: Mommy, come here, I want to squirt you with this water bottle.

Me: No, honey, I don't want to be squirted with your water bottle.

M: But you have to. I will get your foot wet.

Me: I don't want to get wet.

M: Yes, just a quick squirt.

Me: Megan Rose, I do not want to get wet.

M: Mommy, I love you and we are still friends, but you are REALLY starting to fuss-trate me!

When downgrading is good

Three years ago we bought a Mommy-van. I hated it then. I never really got past that feeling.

It's not that it was a bad vehicle, well unless you get a flat. Have you ever priced replacement run-flat tires? Trust me, when you get three flats in 6 months you start to hate run-flat tires at a price of $250 per-tire. Tires that can't be patched. You start to realize that you'd much rather a slow leak and a $40 patch.

Things like stability control were nice; they're nicer if the sales guy bothers to forewarn you that loud screechy whistles and dings go off as soon as you hit an ice patch and stability control kicks in. The safety feature is really quite counterproductive when it causes you to slip into a panic attack the first (and only) time you trigger it.

All-Wheel-Drive was nice; unless gas costs a hair under $3 a gallon and you're considering selling a kidney to fill up your next tank. This also ignores the fact that you rarely encounter conditions requiring the extra wheel control. The raw truth is that you only moaned about not having AWD in a "LONG" vehicle because you were trying to talk your husband OUT of buying the damn thing to being with.

The extra space was nice except it meant you become the designated hauler of all things too big to fit into other family members sedans and pint-sized SUVs. The steering was nice until the little piece breaks off inside and you lose all semblance of power steering but the guy at the dealership service department tells you you're imagining things because it's all just peachy. A little digging finds out this is a common thing for the certain models of this brand. You get a new steering wheel but you're bitter.

Then one day your husband sends you an email as you're sitting at your part-time job stuffing lifesaver roles you paid to have your corporate logo and a snappy little message on into bubble wrap envelopes with a post-card you also designed. The email says "We've got a partner program through work and I can get a good deal on this vehicle."

You start to ponder. Well it's less space certainly. But truth is, we rarely use the space we've got in the Mommy-van. Hmmm, it's not one I see around very often does that mean something? Well, I see the Mommy-van (in the same color!) every other parking space which really sucks when you forget where you parked at a crowded mall.....and frankly, it did nothing to prevent the steering from breaking down no matter what the service manager thinks.

Well, it DOES get better mileage. It does NOT have run-flat tires (have I mentioned how much I loathe run-flat tires?) It is cute. Better yet, it's likely a lower monthly payment than we have today and will have for another two years with the existing Mommyvan.

We make an appointment with a dealer to go in Saturday for a test drive and a conversation. We find a better, closer dealer and head out Friday instead. The sales guy is nice. He's round and he smiles a lot. Logan plops his booster seat in the back of the vehicle for a test drive. Three tire rotations into the ride and Logan announces that we need to tell the man (who is sitting in the passenger seat) that we will buy this car. Mommy tells him we need to discuss it with Daddy. Megan makes herself at home in the cars and trucks displayed in the showroom. She thankfully never learns the horns work in those vehicles.

Daddy and the man head into the tiny little closet of an office to talk numbers. They emerge from time to time to run these figures by me. I sit in the corner of the show room entertaining too restless children with a TV hooked up to a cable system that hides children's programming on different channels than ours at home does, a few old beaten up books, a pint sized block table and one of those beaded maze things. We spend a LOT of time playing Simon says and "pretend you're a dog."

Hours later the four of us sit together waiting for the nice people in the back to spiff up our new set of wheels. We come home with a new "Mommy-mini-mini-van" and car payment that runs $50 less per month....plus better mileage (did I mention that), tires that won't run-flat but won't cost me an arm and a leg to replace and no warning systems that cause my heart to stop and my eyes to bulge out.

The kids love it. I'm finding it peppy and so much more fun than the "wreck my image" mommy-van. ;) I did hate that thing.

It does feature a third row of seating but no one with legs long enough to extend past the edge of the seat will fit in them comfortably. It's ok though because for the two or three times a year we actually drive more than four of us some place, the car seats will fit in the back row and the grown-ups will fit in the middle. The trunk is tiny - but since no one sits in the back row, the seats stay more or less permanently down and the cargo net holds grocery's in place.

I've got a moon-roof again. I so very much missed having the little rectangular spot of my roof open on a beautiful day - or at least the window exposed to let more light in. I have a 6-CD changer. I can load up *my* CDs and theirs without having to hunt them down at a traffic light and hope I can swap them out before the thing turns green.

My favorite feature? I have a remote starter. It's not quite necessary on a regular basis since, you know, I have a garage that sits just under my living room. It will come in handy when I leave the office and would like to get the A/C or heat running before I hit the drivers seat.

And if we're honest, I find a certain amount of glee in freaking out people in the parking lot by starting the car without a body sitting in it. :) I know. It's a bit mean. But frankly, it amuses me.

Catch it before you miss it

My kids are not known for being quiet. In fact, their verbosity is sometimes enough to send me cowering in the bathroom with the door locked and pleas of "I'm in the bathroom guys, just give me a minute. . ."tripping off my lips in the hopes that they buy it. Yeah, they talk. A. Lot.

Hand in hand with the amount of time their lips are moving is a fairly extensive vocabulary for their respective ages. Sometimes I take that for granted; I readily admit it. And although they may use words that seem to be a big fit for such a small body, they still have some of that adorable age-appropriate struggle with enunciation. Logan, for example, is still "Wogan" when his not-quite-yet-3-year old sister decides to actually call him by name.

These are the things I'll miss. Long before they head off to college or their own homes leaving mine dreadfully silent, I will miss the little misspoken words and phrases. The ones I try so hard not to repeat back to them no matter how much I want to hear it again and again. It was cute and smile inducing when Logan did it. It's almost cuter now - not because Megan is the "baby" of the house...but because Logan has become her interpreter. It's like living in the UN with the toddler-oozing-into-preschooler nation trying to communicate with the United-Front of Adults and the Kindergartener standing between them to translate into English.

This weekend my new little fish invited us all over to Grandma's house to see his new skill. Logan has decided swimming underwater is actually a very, very, cool thing that should occupy roughly 90% of every hour he's awake. He prefers to swim with goggles on. It's something his sister copies, just as she copies most everything else he does. The original set each kid had was actually more mask than goggle. Logan had upgraded....Megan has not.

"I want my snorple," she demanded as I held her almost treading water body in the pool.

"You're what?" I said, "I'm not sure what that is Meg."

"I want my snorple! I want to put my eyes in," she explained, clearly annoyed at having to repeat herself. "You know. My snorple. Like Brubee. I want my mask and my snorple."

Logan popped up for air at about that moment and said, "She means snorkle. Her mask has a snorkle tube so she can talk when she's underwater."

Of course, because why should we breathe when we can talk?

Berry-lious

Every autumn we pack up the kids and the grandparents in the "mommy-van" for an excursion to the orchard. It's a tradition that goes back over 25 years to when my parents used to take my brother and I apple picking at that very same orchard. I can't seem to pass by a tree in that particular set of fields without flashbacks of climbing up their centers in attempt to drop immature fruit on my immature brother's head or of shining up freshly picked gems on our sleeves before biting into them.

But it's not September today. Nor is it October. It is July, of course, and July is berry picking time.

I've not actually gone berry picking with the kids. The last time I went I was still counting years to my driver's license and my kid brother was diabolically plotting new ways to torture me. (Some things don't change, he's still twerp even if he is nearly a foot taller than me.) My soon-to-be-sister-in-law, however, has a favorite blueberry farm and a suggestion that we join her and her daughter on this summer's trip.

It's a good thing to play nice when you're adding members to the family, so I agreed. It was a small jaunt out to the berry patch - you ride from parking lot to trees on a big hay-ride type wagon (sans hay) pulled by a tractor. My daughter, the Thomas the Tank Engine fanatic, dubbed the tractor "Terence."

At the very first bush we reached I pointed a finger to a plumb, dark blue berry, "This is what you want to pick kids. Not purple even if it's your favorite color, Meg. Not green even though it's your favorite, Logan. Dark, deep blue." They nodded gravely and set about the task of filling their coffee cans to the brim. For the record - two small plastic coffee "cans" equated to roughly 2 1/4 pounds of blue berries.

It's been three full days since we went picking. We've eaten berries every night (Megan LOVES blueberries apparently, while Logan is a "in the fields only" berry kid.) We've made the most amazing blueberry coffee cake. We still have berries left.

The yield and baked goods, while delightful, are not the best part of our excursion. The blue-ribbon prize was the experience. No, not plucking berries from their branches, but the warm sun that made Megan's cheeks rosy pink as she worked diligently beside us. It was in the pride-filled grin on Logan's face as he held out his coffee can loaded with sweet fruit. It was in the marriage of "togetherness" and a beautiful day outdoors. It was in creating something to eat from scratch with something you, yourself picked -- topped only by when you create it with something you picked and you grew. (And since we've got tomato plants loaded with green fruit...that's only a matter of weeks away!)

These are the sorts of things I remember from my childhood. The ordinary things done outside the realm of our ordinary days. I sometimes wondered if this particular quirk (remembering the seemingly ordinary as extraordinary) was my own. My family took it's share of vacations - and I can tell you where we went but few specific details from most of those trips. The tradition type events - the seemingly mundane - those are the squares of my fond-memory patchwork quilt. My brother, unknowingly perhaps, offered his reassurance that my desire to give the kids the same wasn't unrealistic.

He watched his niece and nephew giggle over their harvest and lunge back into the branches greedily to snag even more. He smiled a little and looked at me over the rim of his sunglasses. "Do you remember when Mom used to take us to the park to pick the wild berries? That was fun wasn't it? That was summer. That's why I'm glad we could come today."

And with that I knew that this was exactly the sort of thing childhood memories are made of.

Truth in cookies

We broke down and had Chinese food tonight. It's not something we eat when Megan's eating with us as Chinese food in general tends to be a high risk for peanut cross contamination. The kids, however, were in bed and we were looking for something different for dinner.

I don't get Chinese food often so when I do, it's hard to "save room" for desert. I tend to fill-up on my sesame chicken. This leaves Bruce with two fortune cookies - a fate he does not shirk from. He snapped open the cookies, munching loudly on them before reading the little slips of paper. Operative word here being little.

Moments later *I* was being handed two slips of paper as he mumbled something about lights and reading glasses in the other room. I stifled my giggle and urge to chide him on age related matters. Instead I read aloud the fortune sitting atop the small stack:

You will have many friends when you need them.

Then, and I am SO not making this up, I read the next fortune:

The time is right to make new friends.

Ahh....think the cookie maker is trying to tell us something?

Of all the changes

Four and a half years ago (give or take a month...or two) our house began to settle into a solid routine. At roughly 7 pm the child would take a bath. At 7:30 we'd read some stories. We'd aim to have the kid asleep around 8 pm. As they moved from infancy to toddlerhood to preschooler we made small adaptations to the routine - gone was the pre-bed feeding, no rocking required, ditched the crib, transitioned to a shower. And yet, with all that change, the meat of the routine remained the same: 7pm, 7:30, 8 o'clock.

Sure once in a while we go a little wild and we let them stay up "late." Bedtime was a bit fluid while we were in Disney this winter. Special nights and occasions sometimes buy the kids 30 extra minutes in their day. It happens. The 'regular', every day routine though has remained in tact and unchanged in every way that actually matters.

Recently, however, my "great" sleeper and bedtime routine observer has gotten into the habit of nudging the routine a tad. He has questions. He needs a drink. The bathroom. Another "I love you." This from a boy that hasn't been a problem since he learned the great skill of "lulling myself to sleep" around his first birthday.

I was lamenting this new phase to Grandma one day and she, being Grandma, presented me with something to consider. "Perhaps the problem is he's not tired yet. Maybe he's ready to stay up a little later. He is almost 5."

Hmmm, ok. Ponder. Ponder. The problem, of course, is the sister. She is NOT ready to stay up later. She may think she is -- but anyone that sees what she's like when overtired would beg to differ. The problem, you see, is that if Logan is up, Megan knows it. If he's being read to, she's in there. If he's not in his room, she's wandering out. The problem is giving him more time without letting her in on the secret.

And then it hit me.

He reads. He can read on his own after "lights out" and she'd be none the wiser.

We talked about this possibility. We talked parent-to-parent. We talked about it parent-to-child. We let Logan know it was a privilege and if he abused it, he could lose it. He reverted back to his best bedtime routine observation habits. He would grin and nod as we said our good nights. He said not another word about this pending change to his routine.

Sunday night I decided to give it a test run. I told him he could stay up a little- but not the full half-hour. He had to be reading, not playing and he had to go bed as soon as one of us went in to tell him it was time. He nodded solemnly and requested his current favorite book for the adventure.

I went in 15 minutes later. He was sitting up half under his covers with his book on his lap and the biggest grin you could imagine bursting across his face. He could barely contain himself. "Did I pass the test? Did I earn the privilege?!" he asked, trying hard to whisper as to not bother his sister.

I nodded...and I realized that that nod was hard for me. I couldn't put a finger on why it was. Instead I pushed the gnawing down and kissed the boy goodnight.

Tonight was his first "official" night of staying up "late." We talked this afternoon about it to review our expectations. "You have to be quiet so Megan can get to sleep. No playing, just reading," I reminded him.

He nodded and then placed his index finger in the center of his forehead. "I'm going to read in my head because that's what you do when you read to yourself. You only read out loud when someone else wants to hear you."

That surprised me. I didn't realize he COULD read to himself in that way before. I thought he was still in the "must read aloud in order to sound out words" stage.

"Right," I said, "But if you get to a word you can't figure out, you can't really be yelling for us to come down and help - that'd wake up Megan. When you get to a word you can't read, use your pencil to underline it and then in the morning you can ask me to help you with it."

He nodded. And I, truth be told, forgot about it.

Logan announced just before story time commenced that he only wanted Daddy to read him one book tonight so he could get started on reading his favorite book, which happens to be a guidebook (of sorts) on the Transformers. He lay stretched out on his stomach with the book open before him intently focused on its pages. I heard him banging around his room at one point but I wrote it off as a trek to his water cup (which actually sits across the room from his bed.)

It wasn't water though. It took me a minute to register the reason even as I started at it. I went in to turn off his lights and say good night at 8:30 and paused to read the word he'd written on his lined pad of paper.

"Hey look at that. You wrote Omnicon very well!" I told him, honestly impressed with how neat his writing of both upper and lowercase letters had gotten recently. It's truly as if fine motor skills arrived one night via express mail or something.

"Oh! THAT's what that word was! I couldn't figure it out," he said. (Oh, d'uh! Yes, I saw the writing on the pad and hadn't connected it to our earlier conversation.)

And that was it. Lights out. Head hit the pillow and he's not made another peep. After nearly 4 1/2 years of the same routine, the boy has gone and outgrown it.

He'll officially be 5 on Saturday. (Until then, he will insist you refer to him as "four-and-eleven-and-half-twelfths.") It's stating the obvious to say that life can change a lot when you hit 5 and yet with all changes that have transpired thus far and all the ones that wait for us in the fall, it seems to be this one I'm feeling a tad morose over.

He was the boy that could read a lot sooner than he *would* read primarily because he was afraid we wouldn't cuddle in close with him and a good story any longer if he embraced the skill. And yet there he was tonight, "I only want one story, Daddy, so I can start reading my other book." With that simple sentence, with that single word written on the pad - one word in a book loaded with words I honestly figured to be a bit too 'tough' for him - that I could hear the door on those 'earliest' years of his life creaking closer to shut.

I knew it'd come to me

About four and half years ago I had a good idea. When Logan was done making fine art with his mushed up baby food, I'd clean the jars in the hot soapy waters and set them aside for an abundance of good crafty-like projects in the future like the sort we used to do in Girl Scouts - the kind that would have you scrambling for jars that you didn't have reason to have.

Today, I have a draw full of baby food jars.

Empty baby food jars. Dozens of them.

I didn't save every one of them, but certainly I saved MORE than enough. I actually did tap into the supply once over the last several years. On Logan's 2nd birthday the kids that attended his little party used the jars to hold their sand art. It wasn't much of a dent into my stash.

I tend to forget the jars are there until I go looking in that drawer for something. I never find what I want - I do find LOTS of jars.

Last summer we (as in Bruce mostly) built a patio in the backyard. There are four flower beds surrounding it. This spring I used two of them for yellow and purple daisy like flowers, a third still hosts the over sized lavender and mint that has been there almost since we moved in. The final side, the one up against the house, is my herb garden.

The garden started with some obvious stables. Then I got creative and started to buy whatever looked nice even if I had no idea what to do with it - African Blue Basil, Tri-color sage, Bi-color sage. . .when you fill a space with a dozen+ plants you have room to go a little nuts.

We've made good use of the plants so far - herb butter melted on steak, chicken roasted with fresh herbs, iced tea with lemon balm and mint. I keep digging for recipes to tap into this new resource.

Yet the plants grow faster than I can keep up with it sometimes and so I opted to hang a few clippings from the four peg rack on the kitchen wall. A mixture of the three sages I have growing (plain old safe, the tri and bi colored sages), some dill, the blue basil, and the two oregano varieties all in their bundles lending their fresh scents to the kitchen.

Then they were dried. They were dry and crumbly looking and no longer quite as "attractive" the wall art they had been at first. I needed to move to Plan B.

Then it hit me - the jars. The oodles and oodles of baby food jars. I spent part of yesterday crumbling dried out leaves into the little jars that now sport new handwritten labels. The jars are resting nicely in my spice cabinet, looking all sorts of official and home spun. Ideas churning in my mind: hmmm....wonder if I can turn this into a Christmas gift for someone.

I still won't make much of a dent in those jars (unless I do come up with a gift idea!) And yet I still can't bring myself to take the easy way out - add those jars to the recyclable bin. They have a purpose. I'll find it. Little project by little project. I am determined to finish what I started.

Milestones

Five years ago I was huge. I was perpetually hot. I was swollen so badly, it's amazing the woodpecker that thinks the vinyl on my neighbors trim is yummy did not try to snack on my ankles. My blood pressure was starting to creep to the 'danger zone.' I had a month left to go before life changed completely. At least in theory.


On June 28th, 2002 I would check into the hospital a very pregnant woman with pregnancy induced hyper-tension. On June 30th I'd simply be woman that to used to have high-blood pressure and who had a nifty excuse for not fitting into last year's summer wardrop. I'd also be holding the smallest human being I'd ever seen.

Logan wasn't as preemie. He was considered full-term albeit born before his due-date. He was not "small" as newborns go. He was decidedly within the realm of "average" size - and yet he was the first person I'd ever seen within seconds of birth. Those long, tiny fingers that wrapped so very tightly around my own. Those eyelids that would press so tightly together at the first hint of light. The toes that would spread and stretch if you rubbed the arch of his foot.

He was an alert baby from the get-go. Those big blue eyes staring not just at you, but into you. Logan always had the "wise old man" look from the start. The gaze that made you feel as if he knew all he needed to or could at least take in enough to fill in the blanks for himself.

He was a happy boy. When he cried it was clearly for a reason. He was rarely fussy for the sake of being so. As he grew he displayed a natural curiosity about most things, albeit a comfort level in having someone tackle the mundane for him. I mean really, he *could* dress himself a lot sooner than he actually did so with regularity. . . but those buttons got in the way of some really good play time.

He's not "quite" five yet - but he may as well be. Yesterday was his birthday party - quite early in the grand scheme of things and yet just the right time. The early celebration meant avoiding "summer vacation overlap" that can crop up for "summer babies." He had a nice group of 5 friends from school join us for cake and loads of play. I sat back marveling over how 5, 5-year old boys (or close enough to 5 yrs old) could get along so well. Granted, all of them need to perfect the "Look before you swing the plastic bat and whack the other guy in the head instead of the ball" concept.

Tomorrow I will take Logan to preschool one last time. I'm not sure if I'll manage to do so without tears. He's grown so much these two years at this school. He's made friends that did not involve my 'blind playdate' intervention on his behalf. He's grown more independent in ways it's hard for me to fathom him doing as I look at those earliest photos of him lying with clenched fists and knees pulled in tight to abs.

It's almost not the same person.

And yet it is.

Today, when he tips his head, wrinkles his brow and scrunches his nose as he envelopes himself in the deep concentration of study, I see that same little child. The one that could furrow a brow as he shifted weight from side to side in an attempt to flip over. When Logan's smile takes full possession of his countenance, I see the infant that would fill with pride over getting his toes in his own mouth or at sitting upright for the first time. When he struggles with a new task, shaking fists in frustration before trying again, I see the boy that would take a first step and fall, only to lift his arms for help up so he could give it another go.

This is just a new beginning in what is still the beginning of his life. This milestone, this prime moment for reflection, will likely be dwarfed by future moments - 'bigger' graduations, dates, cars, jobs, marriages, etc. This is nothing in the grand scheme, and yet it's everything. It's standing at the end of an era and start of another.

It won't be a last day looking to the walls of these classrooms to identify the 'right' art project. In three short months Megan will begin her tenure in that same arena. And yet, it is *his* last time and for some reason, that's hitting me more than I expected it would.

Scratch and sniff skivvies?

Logan has been on a HUGE Transformer kick throughout the last year - and with the live action movie on it's way out (no he won't see it in theatres) that means loads of merchandise in the stores. Loads.

The two imps were both 'warned' before entering the big bulls-eye store - no toys. Mommy is not buying toys. Don't even ask. Don't even think of asking. No. They didn't ask. They asked to
"just look."

I can do "just look."

Luckily, look did not inspire wistfully staring and drooling primarily since the Transformer stretch of shelf was barren - totally and completely barren. It's been cleared of the older stock (the stuff Logan has been loading up on whenever he tucks away enough allowance or gift money). It's sitting dormant waiting for the movie related stuff to appear this weekend. So instead of staring wide-eyed at new toys, Logan read the shelf labels. He's got a birthday wish list formed on just that.

We found what we had really entered the big red bulls-eye shop for and started to make our way through the meandering carts to the check-out. I found, as we did so, a Transformer bathing suit. I was, being the softie I can sometimes be, willing to buy it for the kid. I mean really, his older suits are a tad snug. Except size saved me- the pair supposedly Logan's size would have slipped right off his hips and they had nothing smaller.

But the suit got me thinking - if that's out then maybe tshirts or PJs. I was willing to look. The kid really does need some wardrop replenishment as he's sitting nicely on the brink of a new size. Yet neither existed.

What DID exist?

Transformer Underwear.

Transformer underwear that glows in the dark.

I kid you not. (By the way, being the wonderful Mom I am, I have already pointed out that when Logan puts his shorts on over those lovely new underwear, it'll be dark under the pants and so he'll be glowing. I did feel the need to reinforce that we should not feel compelled to remove, lower, or look in said shorts just to check.)

When Logan gets a new toy or some trinket he likes to hold on to it in the car - preferably out of the package. Apparently glow-in-the-dark Transformer underwear is no different.

As I eased the van out of the lot and into the highway, Logan calls out in complete amazement:

"They DO smell like fruit!!"

"What does?" I said, already knowing and yet afraid to ask.

"My new underwear! It smells like fruit! It's like Megan's scratch and sniff pages in her book."

"Honey, I don't think your underwear is supposed to smell like fruit," I told him, trying hard not to laugh at him - too loud anyway.

"But then why are all these little pictures of fruit on my label?" he said.

I'm starting to think Fruit of the Loom was branded by someone that wanted to spread a little joy amongst mothers of the delightfully young and naive.

I'm digging five

The boy will be five next month. The very, very end of next month. There were times during the last two years one might have wondered if he'd live to see the day. We had a glimmer of hope earlier in the year when we attended back-to-school night at the preschool. The little hand-outs they had available summarizing 3, 4 and 5 year olds promised a calming and cooperative stage at 5.

There were days I clung to that promise like a water-logged lost-soul on the open sea clings to a life raft.

Don't get me wrong, over all Logan is a great kid. Really. He's got a great wit and a deep compassion - but sometimes that gets tucked neatly behind his mother's sarcasm and his father's selective hearing. Combine that with a sister who fully embraced "terrible twos" and is shaping up to reinforce my long held belief that "three is worse than two." You can see why sometimes my sanity was in doubt.

Yet lately there's been a change in the boy. He's been calmer. He's pushed back less. He's demanded infrequently. He's begun to pitch-in without being asked or reminded. He's sudenly much more interested in being helpful and giving than he is in 'having it all my way right now.' In short, he's fulfilling that little 'developmental sheet' prophecy.

Now, let's be honest. I stopped reading after the 5 year old sheet because sometimes I like living in ignorant bliss. I can sit and pretend that those tween/teen years are not going to make 2-3-4 look like a cake walk. I can stick my fingers in my ears chanting "La-la-la-I-can't-hear-you" when you try to tell me that there are still going to be 'rough' days at 5 or "just wait to see what he learns in school."

Ignorant bliss. Do you hear me?

I'm going to sit and relish the moment when the days are good much more often than they're challenging. I'm going to enjoy this time when our biggest struggle is whether he reads the first line to me or I read it to him. I'm going to hoard the lot of kisses and cuddles I get today because I already see that it's coming to an end (we are already forbidden to fuss and "snuggle" in public.)

So far 4 11/12ths, as Logan will declare himself, is making 5 look mighty fine.

Happy Mother's Day, Birthday and while we're at it Annivesary

May is a busy month in this house. First there's Mother's Day (which, I must say Logan is doing his very best to make very special). Then there's my birthday (a week from Wednesday) and then on the very last day is our wedding anniversary (10 years this year!) Usually there's a lot of smaller gifts on each occasion that I tend to order online myself or specifiy on a list that the guys stick to religiously. This year, however, the big guy decided to venture off on his own and do something special.

And special it is.

Knowing my passion for taking oodles of photos and my downright lust for the digital SLRs, he went and bought me one! I am like a kid on Christmas with my new Nikon D80. Anyone have any tips to share with me about it?

Now clearly, one can not comment on a new toy that takes pictures without sharing a picture! This one was one of the first I took with the camera (and admittedly run through the graphics program to brighten and sharpen a tad.)