Seeing Stars

Posted by

10

Like any good parent, I believe my children are exceptional. Sometimes they’re exceptional troublemakers, but for the most part, they blow me away with their never-ending curiosity, their intuitive insights, their quirky senses of humor, their good good hearts. However, it’s not every day – or any Saturday night as the case may be – where your 10yo daughter gets to demonstrate to you, to herself, and to, oh, you know, 7,000 screaming fans just how exceptional she can be…

Two weeks ago, at her weekly roller derby practice, Paisley (aka Lyka Livewire) and her roller derby team (she skates for the youngest division, ages 8-12, of the Seattle Derby Brats, the junior league for the Rat City Rollergirls, the premiere roller derby team here in Seattle) were invited to skate an exhibition bout at the half-time show of the Rat City Rollergirls’ first big event of the 2013 season. Wow – you should’ve heard the screams of excitement! Heck, maybe you did; if your ears started ringing a couple of Friday nights ago, yeah, that was them.

The big night finally arrived. As it was a special occasion, we took a little extra time to dress ourselves up (or rather, at least one of us did). The application of make-up took an especially long time, but I think the end result was well worth the work.

Looking fierce. Game face ON!

Looking fierce. Game face ON!

Off we went, face paint on and suitcase full of gear in tow, to the back entrance of Key Arena (yeah, that Key Arena – you know, just the largest entertainment venue in the city of Seattle, the place where acts like, oh, say, Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen perform when they’re in town). We dropped off our daughter backstage to stow her gear (in a room aptly titled “Halftime Act”), and then Bill and I headed upstairs to find some good seats. After purchasing a hot dog, a salted pretzel with “cheese” (what is that stuff?! I know it’s not cheese, but it’s so dang good!), and a Panini sandwich for our dinners (the dinner of champions!), Paisley was able to join us to watch the first half of the first bout (The Throttle Rockets vs The Sockit Wenches), declaring her former coach, Luna Negra of the Throttle Rockets, “the best jammer EVER!!” (though the Sockit Wenches would pull off a narrow win, 176-163, Paisley was okay with this since another of her former workshop coaches, Neutrino, is a fantastic jammer for the Sockit Wenches), before taking off yet again with her teammates to lace up their skates and start warming up.

And then, finally, the half-time show started. The Tootsy Rollers took the track!

Paisley’s super-wonderful coach had whispered to me, before the girls headed backstage to warm up, that Lyka (as they call her on the team) would be skating as jammer in the fourth jam… This was VERY exciting, as all last season and most of this season, Lyka adamantly refused to skate jammer at all (the jammer is the skater who makes all the points every time she skates through the pack of other skaters – you can always pick out the jammer, as she’s the one with the stars on her helmet cover), preferring to skate pivot, the lead blocker (the pivot is the one with the stripe on her helmet cover; she and her three blocker teammates create the defensive, and sometimes offensive, part of the team, keeping the other team’s jammer from passing and helping their own jammer get through the pack to make points). With a few nudges from her coach (“a good pivot knows what her jammer needs, and in order to know that, a pivot needs to know what it’s like to be a jammer”), Lyka finally pulled the jammer cover – stars and all – over her helmet about a month or so ago during a practice scrimmage… and she ROCKED IT.

I hurried back to my seat, told Bill about Paisley’s upcoming jam, and we fired up the video apps on our iPhones. This was going to be epic!

The whistles blew and the bout began. I don’t even know what happened during the first jam, I was screaming so loudly for the Orange Crush and the Turquoise Terrors, as they took the track (the Tootsy Rollers are divided into two teams – the Orange Crush and the Turquoise Terrors – more for convenience than for any sense of rivalry; the girls might be separated by the color of their jerseys, but they are all ONE team and support and love each other like sisters). The second jam, featuring two of the Tootsy Rollers’ most talented jammers, was just pure high-octane action. Thrilling! I fiddled with my phone (my battery was dying; I was very worried that I wouldn’t catch this milestone moment!), and looked up and – oh my goodness! – there she was! On the JUMBOTRON!

Lyka Livewire, jersey number 100 Amps, had skated up to the line for the Orange Crush. Her toe stop was down. She crouched, waiting… ready for the whistle… The announcer introduced her. Lyka was jammer during what is called a power jam – the other team’s jammer was in the penalty box – and my little roller derby queen took full advantage of the situation. The whistle blew, and she RAN off that line, her arms pumping, her skates gaining speed, and looked for the line that would take her through the pack… Some jostling… some more jostling… around the corner… on the inside… and she BROKE FREE! SHE WAS LEAD JAMMER!! In the clear… Still focused, she quickly made it around the track once… twice… and came back up on the pack. She didn’t even slow down!! She cut right on through! And then, DOWN SHE WENT. A blocker for the Turquoise Terror did an excellent job of defense, leaning Lyka right off the track. Unfazed, Lyka popped right up and was back on the track before you could say “roller derby rocks!” She saw the opening on the inside and cut right past most of the pack, engaging once again the Turquoise Terror’s tenacious blocker that had brought her down. Lyka skated side to side looking for an opening, nimbly avoiding any more defensive “leaning.” And then, even the announcer went crazy with the skill these young teams possess: one of Lyka’s teammates expertly came in with some crazy good offensive moves, cutting the Turquoise Terror’s blocker off and giving Lyka the room to pass! By this time the other blockers had caught up, and one of her own blockers was in the penalty box; Lyka now faced a veritable wall of backs, and the blocker she’d left behind was BACK, ready for more! But this proved no-big-deal for Lyka, who quickly side-stepped around the other skaters, put on a burst of speed, and zipped on by TO SCORE!!! As she came up on her bench and her coach, her hands went to her hips and flew up in the air in the gesture that calls off the jam. All this in one minute. A mere 60-seconds of adrenaline-spiking, out-of-your-seats-screeching-your-head-off EXCITEMENT!

YES, EXCITEMENT!! All Caps doesn’t even come close to explaining how bubbly and giggly and happy I was feeling for Lyka/Paisley and all of the Tootsy Rollers! Indeed, I was so excited I accidentally posted the above video to Facebook TWICE, totally killing the battery in my phone in the process. I have no idea how many points my daughter scored, or even what was the final score of the short 10-minute exhibition bout. But really, the points scored and who won or lost is completely beside the point – ALL those girls skated their HEARTS AND SOULS out, out there in that big big arena, in front of literally THOUSANDS of screaming fans.

I was – and am – so impressed by how these girls, these amazingly awesome athletes, even as young as they are, handled themselves at this major event: with both intense energy and easy confidence, quietly demanding the respect of everyone who was – and is – lucky enough to watch them. They should all be so very proud of themselves. These girls are just going to keep getting better, too. And one day soon, sooner than I’m ready for I’m sure, these girls will be old enough to skate with the Rat City Rollergirls themselves. And here’s the thing… What happened in that short 10-minute bout will last these girls a lifetime. They might not know it now, of course (to them it was just a blast!), but someday, maybe, they’ll look back and really see, really appreciate, what they demonstrated that one Saturday night…

Indeed, I truly hope that short, one-minute power jam will stay with my daughter forever: I hope she will always face life with the fierce determination she showed when she put her toe to the line; I hope she will always bounce back from a fall as quickly as she did during that bout; I hope she will always surround herself with allies who support her and protect her back, running interference for anyone who gets in her way; I hope she will always step around any obstacle that gets in her way, as deftly as she did the girls blocking her; I hope she will marvel and delight in her strength, resiliency and her persevering spirit whenever she crosses any finish line; and I hope she will always remember that she can – and did – do something (scary, intimidating, and over-whelming) that she didn’t think she could (skating jammer – and even doing so in front of an arena full of complete strangers!), and the satisfaction and self-respect that come with doing so. But mostly, I hope that she (and I wish this for each girl on her team) will know – know deep in the core of her being – that she is, just as her parents have always known, exceptional, whether she wears that jammer helmet cover or not.

(I suspect, however, that after the excitement of this last weekend, she’s going to want to wear those stars on her helmet for many more bouts to come. And I’ll be there rooting her on, every time.)

***

Because I don’t want to step on any toes, I didn’t include any of the professionally shot photographs that were taken during the bout. But if you want to take a look, here are the links to some truly amazing shots. From what I understand, roller derby photography is REALLY tough due to the fast nature of the sport and usually terrible lighting conditions. These guys did a fantastic job of covering the Tootsy Rollers and the first RCRG bout of the season, and I want to thank them for making their photos available for the public to see. Having said that, these are their photos, wholly and completely, and all rights belong to them. Thanks!

Waiting backstage for the bout to begin: think she’s having fun?!
Lyka and her teammates on the bench.
Ready to rumble! On the starting line (check out that focus!!).
And this is what it looks like from the inside of the track. WOW.
Another angle at the start line.
How much do I love the look in her eyes?!
And she’s off!
Lyka Livewire, cutting through the pack.
An AMAZING shot.  She’s flying!
There is no slowing this girl down!
Passing the other team’s blocker.
Around the track.
Looking for a way through as she spots the pack.
And around again!
Love this one: in black and white.
Listening to her coach and calling off the jam.
Calling off the jam: in black and white.
And here’s another video of Lyka’s jam, closer to the track.

The Case of the Missing Tooth

Posted by

10

Bring on the Tooth Fairy!

“Look, Ma! There’s a hole in my mouth!”

So, the 6yo lost his third tooth six nights ago…

And the very next day, he managed to lose it all over again.

(I swear, is it only in MY family who can actually lose the same tooth TWICE?!)

Okay, so it all started last Wednesday night, when Liam was brushing his teeth and POP! out came the wiggliest of the three wiggly teeth he’s been working on losing for the last few weeks.

Initially there were great hoots and hollers of delight and excitement, but then he got little worried, because he decided he really needed, and I mean “needed” (on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is I-need-to-clean-the-play-room-or-Mama-is-going-to-go-postal-but-I-don’t-really-care and 10 is I-need-to-find-a-bathroom-right-now-or-I’m-absolutely-going-to-die he was probably at a 5, which isn’t bad, but it was going to slow down bedtime), to show his tooth to his BFF, who was coming over the next morning for an all-day play date and sleepover. So, after a lot of fretting and a wee bit of thought, he decided to write a note to the Tooth Fairy:

The 6yo wrote a letter to the Tooth Fairy

“Dear Tooth Fary. Please do not pick up my tooth today. Thank you. From Liam.”

Clearly, the Tooth Fairy thought it was as cute and persuasive a note as I did, and very graciously decided to wait until the next night to pick up Liam’s precious (and so tiny!) tooth. (The fact that the Tooth Fairy was plum out of the gold $1 Sacajawea coins that she’s always left for all the teeth she’s collected in this house has absolutely no bearing on her willingness to wait. No bearing at all…)

The next morning Liam’s friend came over, and before the kid even had his shoes off, Liam had run upstairs to his room and come back with his tooth in hand to proudly show and tell.

Right. Did you catch that, Sherlock? “With his tooth in hand.” Not tooth in envelope. Tooth in hand.

I, however, did not actually SEE the tooth in hand. Or I would’ve made sure the tooth went from hand back to envelope.

Instead, I was busy talking with M-’s mom about the arrangements for the day and night (it would be both 6yo boys’ first sleepover, so there were contingency plans to be made), as well as trying to keep the 2yo from stealing my phone (he’s OBSESSED I tell you!) and texting things like “High” to various individuals in my contact list (all of whom now think I am overly fond of hippie lettuce; or am I just being paranoid?!), all the while also trying to convince my 10yo daughter and her friend (who was also over for an all-day play date and sleepover; they’d eventually be joined by another friend for a grand total of six – SIX!! – children playing, eating and sleeping at my house that day and night – because I’m CRAZY) that Liam would have a fit if they were playing with every single one of his Hexbugs, and as there are now so many Hexbugs thanks to Christmas, couldn’t, oh I don’t know, SHARING be possible?? All that to say, there was MAYHEM happening when the tooth in hand was quickly discarded to the table…

Where breakfast bowls and plates still remained to be cleared…

And cleared they eventually were. You know… in order to make room for elevensies. And lunch. And afternoon snack. And dinner. All of which were also cleared. From the table. Where the tooth no longer was to be found… Having, clearly, been cleared…

But I didn’t know that until bedtime, when Liam, perhaps just a tad tired after caroming around like a pinball all day long and staying up at least two hours after his normal bedtime, and perhaps just a smidgen nervous about his first-ever sleepover, came traipsing downstairs to ask me – who was perhaps just more-than-a-little brain dead from entertaining and feeding six (adorable, but still… six) kiddos all day AND somehow managing to vacuum and wash all the floors in the house before the kids’ movie ended – for his tooth.

Yeah, turns out… my fairly cavalier response of “Uh… What do you mean? I haven’t seen it” wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. Ohhh nooo….

Let’s see… How best to describe the EMOTIONAL MAELSTROM that hit that night (without using profanity)? Well, let’s just say bedtime didn’t go so smoothly that night…

Luckily, the Tooth Fairy comes anyway, even when children who lose their teeth refuse to sleep in their own bedroom during their own sleepover (yes, really). And even when the lost teeth are, well, really truly lost.

And luckily, all was well the next morning when Liam found his gold $1 George Washington coin (the Tooth Fairy couldn’t find any Sacajawea dollars; what’s up with that?!), and excitedly showed it to his friend (who had somehow weathered the storm over the missing tooth with remarkable aplomb) while they ate their oatmeal and played with Hexbugs. And just like that, Liam was over his disappointment. The tooth has now been missing for almost a week, and I don’t think he’s given it another thought.

I, however, have been going crazy wondering where that dang tooth has gone! Partly, because it makes me sad that there won’t be a tiny little tooth to put in the envelope with the letter to the Tooth Fairy and to place in Liam’s memory box with all his other lost teeth (past and future). But mostly, because it’s a freaking UNSOLVED MYSTERY. I’m no Hercule Poirot, but I NEED TO KNOW.

And I *have* looked. It wasn’t on the table, which really was clear when Liam asked me for it. It wasn’t on the buffet. It wasn’t hiding underneath the dining room curtains. Nor had it somehow miraculously appeared back in the envelope with the letter to the Tooth Fairy, which sat next to Liam’s bed in his bedroom (yes, I really did look).

It’s possible it was mistaken as a toast crumb and swept up and dropped in the compost bin – and I’m not going there. Ick! Or perhaps one of the dogs ate it in one of their many (read: many many many) forays under the dining room table (and all around the house; truly, they’re incorrigible and insatiable) to find any morsel of food they can sniff out – and I’m definitely not going there. Ick times infinity!

Last night the mystery of the missing tooth finally drove me to get out a whisk broom and gently sweep under the buffet. Though I’d of course looked there that first night, I thought that maybe the tooth had been pushed against the walls so I couldn’t see it. No luck. All I got for my efforts was a square yellow Lego piece and an old dusty raisin… and some very odd looks from my husband and kids when they returned home from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu practice to find me on my knees, on the floor, in a very unflattering pose.

This morning found me back at cleaning day. I (rather grumpily) brought out the vacuum cleaner and went to replace the dust bag, which was full… and inspiration hit. I grabbed the bag and returned to the scene of the crime (spreading out a piece of newspaper on the dining room table to catch the dirt, because, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m smart like that). I had a good feeling about this! I found the scissors and gently cut one side of the bag open. I looked inside… And… Holy Grossness, Batman!!!! As my eyes bugged out in revolt at that compacted pile of dust bunnies and dog and cat hair and Christmas tree needles and toast and cereal crumbs that made up the contents of my vacuum bag, I second- and triple-guessed my (ridiculous?) “need” (on a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 is I-need-to-dust-but-what’s-the-point-everything-will-look-grey-again-in-two-hours and 10 is I-need-a-glass-of-wine-or-the-kids-might-not-make-it-to-morning I was probably at a 4, which isn’t bad, but it was waking me up in the middle of the night) to find this one tiny (have I mentioned TINY?!) tooth.  Well, I’d come this far… Slowly I dumped out a little, just a little, of that nastiness and… THERE WAS THE TOOTH!! THE TOOTH!! I. Kid. You. Not… I found the tooth. The tiny little tooth that was lost not once but twice. It was CRAZY. And very exciting!

The 6yo's lost tooth is found

Can you see it? That TINY little white speck is the dang tooth that kept me up at night! Plus, I found a penny. How great is that?!

I did a little happy dance. Took photos to text my husband (who wrote back “What IS that?!” – okay, so it’s not a great photo, but in my defense, it *is* a tiny tooth…). And, finally, tucked the tooth safely in the little envelope, with Liam’s cute and persuasive note to the Tooth Fairy written on the front, and hid it all away, up high in a rarely used cabinet so he’ll never find it, in Liam’s memory box.

Where, since it’s in a “hidden” location, I’m sure it will be lost. Again. Because, really, that’s just how this family rolls.

But today? Today I feel like I did Agatha Christie proud. And I can finally say:

Case closed.

(Wow, that’s satisfying… I should totally solve mysteries more often… Like, I’d love to know where Liam lost his North Face fleece; that mystery really irks me… Also, I’d love to know where I lost my mind. That’s been lost since at least 2002… And some days, I really miss it…)

Sanity is Totally Overrated

Posted by

8

I am not kidding: put me in a straightjacket. This house is now, officially, a loony bin.

Not that you didn’t know already that our family was crazy, but after the decision Bill and I made the other day, it’s clear that I am unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY. Like, straightjacket crazy. I need to be committed.

Okay, so… School started about two weeks ago. This year, Bill and I decided (for various reasons which are rather complicated and not very amusing, so I won’t bore you with the details) that the 9yo and the 6yo should attend public school rather than returning to their beloved Montessori school, where we’ve been attending for the past seven years. Obviously, this was a huge decision, and very emotional, as we adore the community of parents and children and teachers at our old school; but, it’s a decision that we feel needed to be made, and we are at peace with the decision, and everyone, quite shockingly, seems to be quite content with the whole thing…

Crazy is as crazy does?

First day of school, first day of school! (Please notice: my kids do crazy WAY better than I do…)

Except for maybe me…

It’s not that I don’t love the new schools – I do; everyone is so nice, and the teachers are fantastic, and I love that the schools are so close to our house that we can and do walk back and forth (well, until the rains start again – I might like living in wet Seattle, but I’m not that hardcore). And it’s not that the kids are having any difficulty adjusting to their new environment or classmates or homework schedules (okay, well, nobody likes homework, but the grumbling is to be expected and hasn’t reached nuclear meltdown stages… yet… so I’ll take what I can get); heck, both kids still run – RUN!! – into school every morning, and not because they’re late (who knew this much excitement about school was even possible?!).

No, it’s the fact that there are schools involved – schools with an s, plural schools, as in more than one. And schools, plural, is, well, crazy-making, at least for me. And here’s why: because the 4th grader goes to school (a 15-minute walk south) from 8:30am-2:35pm, and the 1st grader goes to school (a 10-minute walk west) from 9:30am-3:35pm. Okay, I know that’s a lot of numbers, but did you catch that? That’s two different drop-off times, and two different pick-up times; each drop-off and pick-up time AN HOUR APART. Let that sink in… Now, you might think, if you have to do two different schools (and I don’t, but more on that in a moment), then having the exact same drop-off and pick-up times would be infinitely harder, as being in the same place at the same time is, to say the least, rather challenging (okay, fine, have it your way: impossible); which is true. So I’m glad we don’t have the exact same drop-off and pick-up times. But… an hour difference?! On each side?! I did the math (and double checked it with a calculator, so you could feel confident in my reporting, here, because I’ve been more than honest in past posts about how rocky my math skills are…), and I effectively lose TWO HOURS of my day with this new schedule (being the parent primarily responsible for getting the kids to and from school, as I’m the parent who works from home). And in case you were wondering, I don’t HAVE TWO HOURS to lose (you know, because of that aforementioned job thing, which, it turns out, takes TIME; go figure…).

“But, Jill,” you’re thinking to yourself (because talking out loud to your computer screen might make the folks around you suspect you’re the one in need of the straightjacket), “Why not just have your kids go to the same school?” Well, I would say, you are VERY SMART. And that’s why I like you… But… that’s why I am need-to-be-committed crazy…

Mm-kay… Are you ready for this?

Earlier this week my cellphone buzzed (it was on vibrate – it’s always on vibrate: I have a toddler who naps; I miss a lot of calls this way, but naps are sacred in my world – and it’s surprising I even answered the phone). It was Seattle Public Schools telling me that my son had been bumped up the waitlist for the school where my daughter attended, and that there was now an opening for him in one of the 1st grade classrooms (some quick background: though both are public schools, Liam is currently at the K-5 school we are assigned to because it’s the closest school to our home, Paisley is at the just-slightly farther away “alternative” K-8 option school that families can apply to and where we ultimately want both kids to go, mostly because it’s K-8 rather than K-5; Paisley was on the waitlist until the first day of summer vacation, when she finally got in, but Liam was so low on the waitlist that we never thought we had a chance this year). The woman on the phone asked: did I want to accept?

And you, oh wise reader, know that I of course would say, or even perhaps shout with glee, “YES! YES! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!!” because it would be crazy, unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school that we wanted them to be at, to say NO to getting my kids in the same school that we wanted them to be at and on the exact same schedule with only one pick-up time and one drop-off time a day…

It would be like, STRAIGHTJACKET CRAZY to say NO to making my life SO MUCH EASIER.

Which, of course, means that we said no (I know!! I know…). We decided to keep Liam in the 1st grade class that he started in two weeks ago. We are not moving him to the school where we ultimately want him. We are not making my life easier. Because, as it turns out, I AM straightjacket crazy.

Your stomach just turned, didn’t it? You feel a little sick about this decision, on my behalf? That’s very kind of you; I, too, felt sick to my stomach all that day, as the deadline I was given loomed for me to decide yay or nay. Or, perhaps you just called the good folks at the closest insane asylum to come catch this lunatic mama (who so obviously needs her head examined) with their butterfly nets? Don’t worry, I’m sure the few parents who I ran into after receiving the phone call, who saw me pulling my hair out and hyperventilating over this decision – all of whom looked at me with great pity, patted me gently on the head, and said in their kindest talking-to-someone-with-half-a-brain voice: but sweetie, that’s such an easy choice; of course you’ll change schools!! – already called the keepers of the local funny farm. They should be here any moment…

And I KNOW it’s crazy. I really do. And I worry about myself; this choice does not feel sane. But here’s the thing… my gut, my Mama Instinct, just feels so so so strongly that Liam is where he’s supposed to be this year. I can’t explain why, really… Okay, so his teacher is ah-may-zing, and is always smiling and laughing, and we’ve been told she’s the best 1st grade teacher at his school if not THE best teacher, and she just won a huge teaching award and because of it was honored at the Seattle Seahawks game this last weekend (Go Hawks!); but maybe the teachers at the other school are really great, too. And okay, he has three friends in his new class that he actually knew before school even started, and this is a big deal because two days before school started he had a 45 minute crying jag while sitting on my lap, his arms wrapped tightly around my neck like he’d never let go, sobbing uncontrollably about how he didn’t want to go to a new school and how he just wanted to be in a class with his two best friends who were still at his old Montessori school (never mind that his two best friends aren’t in the same class this year, either); but, he’s a nice kid, and I know he could and would easily make new friends at the other school. I know he’d be fine. He would be FINE. But the class he’s in now is just a really good fit. And he’s happy – and I really wasn’t sure that was possible so early in the year after changing schools, or that he’d handle the change as well as he has; I just really don’t want to jeopardize that happiness. And he’s learning so much; it’s already so obvious, and that’s exciting. And I know it could be like this at the other school, too… but what if it wasn’t?

Going to a New School, First Grade

The 6yo, actually SMILING at the orientation for his new school, held the last week of summer break. I took this photo because I was sure he would NOT be smiling on his first day of school. And yeah, it’s kinda nice that he’s STILL smiling, three weeks later…

So I know, in my (wildly irrational) heart if not in my (rarely rational) brain, that we made the right decision. An unequivocally and certifiably CRAZY decision, but the right decision. However… I will confess: I still can’t believe I voluntarily chose to make my life more challenging…

I must really love that kid.

Well, I guess there’s nothing to do now but to say adieu to sanity (who needs it anyway?!), learn to work more efficiently with the time I have (I could work nights after tucking the kids into bed, but that time is usually reserved for my Pinterest addiction), remember to put all those upcoming PTA meetings on the calendar (wow, that’s a lot of meetings…), hug my kids tight when I drop them off at their two different schools at two different times (at least when I can catch them before they run – RUN!! – into their classrooms), hope and hope and hope some more to win the waiting list lottery again next year (preferably before the start of school)…

… and, honestly, figure out how to do crazy as well as my kids (please reference Image 1, above). Well, minus the fingers in my mouth or eyes rolled back in my head; I confess, that’s not a good look for me…

Hmm… You know, I’m thinking this straightjacket just needs a few accessories… A scarf? Some ballet flats? A butterfly net? It might be a crazy year (or two… or three…), but I’m going to do right by my kids…

… and make crazy look goooood.

They Left on a Jet Plane…

Posted by

13

And they took my heart with them.

Actually, they took two pieces of my heart with them… Two important pieces. And they actually smiled while doing so…

Bill and Paisley leave for Iceland

Bill and Paisley at the airport. Today. On their way to ICELAND. 3,610 miles away from ME. Could their smiles be any bigger?!

That’s right. My amazing hubby and my adorable 9yo daughter are off on their Big Adventure: they are Iceland Bound. Right. This. Minute.

Yes, today is THE day. THE day that Paisley has been counting down toward for the last, I believe, 68 days, when she made her own little calendar and drew a large X through each day every night before bedtime – well, until she lost the calendar, which I honestly think the dogs ate. THE day they – well, really we, because it was exciting for all of us (and why yes, I am feeling rather bah humbug; my heart is in tatters here!) – have been talking about almost incessantly for the last four months when Bill came up with the brilliant (and now bittersweet) idea that, okay, it might be rather (or really insanely) cost-prohibitive to travel with all five of us to the distant corners of the planet (heck, it’s expensive to even travel to the next state over), and okay, taking a 2yo toddler on an airplane for much longer than an hour is our idea of war-criminal-worthy torture (and even an hour can feel like twelve when trying to keep the cross between a wiggle-worm and a butterball that I call my youngest offspring from slipping out of my headlock – I mean warm embrace – to run pell-mell and shrieking with glee up and down the aisles; or, once back in my vice-like grip – I mean loving arms – to toss  with amazing accuracy his half-eaten Goldfish crackers into the hair of the elderly woman sitting in front of us who clearly doesn’t have grandchildren of her own – or if she does, she really doesn’t like them; or, when done with that delightful activity, to springboard himself from my lap in shockingly successful attempts to body-slam his finally-content older siblings who are simply trying to quietly watch another Pixar film he’s not yet old enough to appreciate; and don’t even get me started on trying to change diapers in those tiny nooks they call a lavatory…), but travelling one-parent-one-child might, just might, make our dreams of international globetrotting a more affordable and realistic possibility.

So, one week later (and in hindsight, what possessed us to move so quickly?? Were we really in such a hurry to rip my heart apart?!), two tickets were purchased for Iceland. And now those tickets have just been redeemed.

Yes, four months later, and I dropped off two necessary-for-my-life pieces of my heart at the airport (two REALLY excited and near-giggly pieces of my heart, by the way), to fly from our home in Seattle to Reykjavik, the farthest-northern capital city of the world. I dropped them off, hugged them tightly, forced them to take some pictures (okay some more pictures), hugged them tightly again, and watched them walk into the airport. Without me.

Father and Daughter

My two devastatingly cute, and now missing, pieces of my heart. Taken right before driving to the airport. Where they continued smiling, together, all the way into the terminal…

I got back in the car and cried.

Of course, I cry at Kleenex commercials, but still… this temporary departure of two of my most favorite people, two souls who are so profoundly important to my life, is shockingly hard on me. What was I thinking??!! This isn’t a good idea!! This is a BAD idea!! This is two precious pieces of my heart flying further and further away from me every single minute for the next seven hours and fifteen minutes! And then STAYING away from me for SEVEN whole days! And six nights!

How do I live that long without the one piece of my heart that keeps me grounded and sane when I start spinning with all the craziness in my life (like RIGHT NOW?!), the piece of my heart that knows laughter is the secret to enjoying life, the louder and more heartfelt the better (and who will tell me the inappropriate jokes that I shouldn’t find funny?!)? How do I live that long without the other piece of my heart that motivates me always to fully revel and delight in the moment, this very moment, (rather than mope in the sadness of goodbyes), the piece of my heart that knows no bounds to the joy her body can hold or her voice can express (and who will spontaneously hug me so tightly my ribs hurt when I clearly just need a hug to get out of the doldrums?!)?

For the record, I’m thinking all this one-parent-one-child adventure mumbo-jumbo can take a flying leap. Who needs airplanes? Who needs foreign travel? All that soul-enriching, horizon-expanding, relationship-strengthening, character-building NONSENSE can just take a backseat to my need to be complete. My need to be WHOLE.

Because I won’t be WHOLE again until all the pieces of my heart are back together. Back talking and giggling and exchanging pleasantries and news about the day TOGETHER.

All that to say, if I don’t get a Skype call from the devilishly handsome piece of my heart with the wicked sense of humor, and the adorably precocious piece of my heart with the grin that can turn a frown upside down in 0.23 seconds flat, within exactly two minutes and twenty-eight seconds of him being able to check into their rental apartment (hey, I’m being more than generous here – how long can it really take for them to log in to the wifi?!), I will either bite my lip off, melt into a puddle of worry and tears, or simply take matters into my own hands and contact the Icelandic Coast Guard (all four ships, one survey boat, three helicopters, one plane, and all 165 officers and crew of it).

Wait. Reykjavik is seven hours ahead of Seattle… And Bill and Paisley can check in to their flat at 1pm their time… which means, plus the two minutes and twenty-eight seconds I’m allotting for wifi-login-time… that’d be 6:02:28 in the morning my time.

Huh.

I think my heart can stay incomplete until at least 7am.

But rest-assured. The countdown? It’s ON.

And after our little Skype chat? I’m going to draw up a paper calendar and mark an X through each day until my heart is TRULY whole again (because a phone call, even a free video phone call from overseas*) just isn’t enough.

Six nights and counting… (and the dang dogs better not eat MY calendar!)

 

*Okay, I do have to take a quick minute out of my self-absorbed whining to fully admire how far technology has come. I mean really, it was only 18 years ago that I was on the CUTTING EDGE when I could email – ooh! email! – my then almost-new boyfriend from my university in England, and the one hour-long phone call we made to each other cost more than $100 (!!). Now? Now we can just Skype – for FREE – between our cell phones (or computers, but really, I love my phone), and I can actually SEE as well as HEAR all about what’s happening, clear on the other side of the PLANET. Okay, whining over. Life is cool.

Self Portrait with Daughter

I couldn’t resist adding this photo, it’s so sweet – I took it right after the first heading-to-the-airport photo shoot. I expect – I BETTER – see lots of these types of photos from their travels in Iceland on Facebook in the next few days. Luckily, Bill is MASTER of the self-portrait.

A Year of Dates #3: Playing Tourist in Our Own Town

Posted by

11

I realize I’ve been rather remiss in updating the blog posts about the Best Gift Ever (from the Best Mom Ever – that’d be mine): a Year of Dates for my husband and me to enjoy, once a month for twelve (really fantastic) months. With my wedding anniversary coming up, I thought I’d spend a few writing sessions re-living some of the fun Bill and I have had so far…

January was a late (and surprisingly delicious) breakfast, followed by some serious bowling action (as fun as this was, I’m not sure I want to go back to the scene of MY victory, as Bill is still grumbling about a rematch, and I’m pretty sure I’d never win again!).

February was a return to one of favorite dates when we had way more time on our hands (pre-children, obviously): lunch (a date isn’t a date without food…) and a visit to a bookstore for some serious browsing. (Can you hear my sigh of contentment? I can seriously spend hours looking at books…)

March was… oh yeah, March was a date at the HOSPITAL with the toddler to learn that he had Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. Hot date, right?! Actually, the third of our year of dates was supposed to be the day after Broder’s diagnosis, but since my mom would be babysitting (this is a major part of her gift to us, which is really a double gift: no babysitting expenses AND my kids get to spend quality-time with one of their favorite people on the planet, their grandma; have I mentioned that this is the Best Gift EVER??), and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease is highly contagious, and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease can still afflict adults (though it usually hits kids under the age of five), and since Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease can be quite painful… the gift-giver was more than happy to give us a rain check  on date number three.

Which brings us to our April date… playing tourist in our home town.

Driving Home from our Date

A major advantage when playing tourist in your own town? No need for a car rental! Wahoo! (And don’t worry; we were stopped at a light!! I’m all about safety, remember??)

I’m always surprised how little I know the town, state, and even the country in which I live…

For example, when my best friend from high school and I moved to England for four months during our junior year of college (we were supposed to be there for the year, but the University I attended, turns out, decided to up and DROP the program I crossed a continent and ocean to study at, and turns out, didn’t bother telling me until I showed up on the first day of school… Nice, eh? At least I managed to cobble together a semester’s worth of courses so I could justify my stay…), we took the train and/or bus to a different city EVERY WEEKEND. By the end of our 16-week stay, I knew England better than I knew my home state of MONTANA, let alone the good ol’ U. S. of A.

So, Bill and I have been back in Seattle now for 11 YEARS… plenty of time to get to know our “home” city, right?! Yeah… No.

In all fairness, I’m quite familiar with our little neighborhood of Ballard (for those who don’t know Seattle, our city is a bit like New York City – though on a MUCH smaller scale – in that it’s comprised of multiple burrough-like nieghborhoods that were once their own municipalities (with their own mayors and everything!) before being annexed into the city; this means that each neighborhood has a very distinct history and sense of identity that makes visiting each neighborhood a bit like visiting a different town altogether: Ballard was originally settled by Scandinavian immigrants, and is still an active fishing port; Fremont, down the way from us, is the eclectic, artistic neighborhood, and the self-billed “Center of the Universe”; Capitol Hill still embraces the edgy vibe that gave birth to grunge music; Downtown is home to Nordstrom (yes, fine, it’s also home to the iconic Pike Place Market… but, really, it’s all about Nordstrom’s shoe department); the University District is, well, duh, where the college kids hang out; and so on and so forth…). But, though I’ve necessarily visited and driven through various neighborhoods, and can find stores (read: Nordstrom) and street fairs (yep, I’ve seen the naked bike riders at Fremont’s Solstice Parade) and coffee shops (one requires much caffeine to survive the drizzly and dreary Seattle weather) just a bit further out than the 10 mile radius I tend to limit myself to, there are pockets of Seattle that I just haven’t explored and would love to know better.

Like, the International District… We’ve taken the kids to the (have-to-go-at-least-once-but-should-be-more-like-annually) Lunar New Year parade, and I, of course, have been told a thousand times that I HAVE to go to Uwajimaya, the huge Asian specialty supermarket (and someday I’ll get there, but honestly, just going 15 minutes to the local Fred Meyer seems a colossal effort most weeks; I just can’t summon the energy to battle the traffic and drive 30-45 minutes each way, no matter how awesome the selection of bok choy or hoisin sauce), but for the most part, Bill and I haven’t spent much time in this part of Seattle – located just a touch south of Downtown and a bit east of Pioneer Square (where you’ll find a lovely selection of art galleries, and the comical-but-historic Underground Tour – I’ve been to that neighborhood, yay!).

So on a sunny (who knew?!) day in April (which is usually one of the rainiest months in Seattle, and this last spring was particularly and brutally rainy, so the sun was SO appreciated), we headed off to play tourist. Bill had suggested two vegetarian-friendly restaurants (I’m the vegetarian, which sometimes makes finding places to eat just a wee bit challenging – I know, I’m such a pain!), a Thai place and a Vietnamese place. Both sounded great, but as we neared our destination, I just couldn’t bear the thought of going indoors when the sun was shining so brightly! We needed a patio… So, I pulled up the Yelp app on the iPhone (how did we survive before smartphones and apps??) and searched for outdoor dining in the International District, and surprise surprise!, the Vietnamese restaurant Bill had found – the Tamarind Tree – had a patio! In the sun! I could pig out on yummy, Jill-friendly food AND soak up some much-needed Vitamin D. Seattle was turning out to be such an awesome town to visit!

Outdoor Patio Dining in Seattle!

Enjoying lunch on that patio… Proof that there IS sun in Seattle! (If you look closely, you can even see me!! Wearing sunglasses!! Because it’s sunny!!)

After we could no longer justify taking up space on the toasty warm deck (there were other sun-deprived individuals waiting patiently and not-so-patiently in the shadows), Bill and I slowly strolled down the hill a few blocks to visit what would be the highlight of our day’s tourist agenda: the Wing Luke Museum of the Asian Pacific American Experience (tourist tip: general admission is free on the first Thursday and third Saturday of every month; how awesome is that?!). Though a bit hesitant to go indoors (it was sunny!!), the museum is light-filled and, really, a very beautiful and inviting space. The museum is dedicated to telling the (important and emotionally-touching) stories and sharing the cultural artifacts of the Asian/Pacific immigrants and citizens who have, since the very beginning, helped build Seattle into the vibrant community it is today. The museum is a wonderful resource and community center; after the couple of hours we spent wandering through the different exhibits (and I must confess, my favorite part was the pop-culture exhibit with the vintage Pac-Man arcade game visitors could play for free (!!); I just kept circling around the exhibit waiting for “the other tourists” to get out of my way – um, I mean, move on – so I could play another round!), Bill and I agreed we couldn’t wait to bring the kids for a visit.

Playing Pac-Man

My dear hubby, kicking my dot-and-ghost-eating butt while playing doubles on the vintage Pac-Man arcade game. I’m just a bit out of practice, that’s all!

With the kids on our mind, we took a quick tour of the gift shop, but (rather quickly, too) decided that this was one “vacation” (or “staycation” if you’d rather) that didn’t require us to bring home souvenirs for the children.

After all, we’d definitely be back. Maybe even on another date… Though perhaps after touring some other parts of our “home town” that we don’t know as well as our own backyard… Like the Museum of History and Industry at Lake Union Park (haven’t been there), or the Experience Music Project at Seattle Center (haven’t been there, either, other than for a cocktail about a decade ago), or catching an outdoor summer concert at Marymoor Park (haven’t done that – crazy, right?!), or taking a ride on the SLUT (again, haven’t done that; and for you dirty-minded readers, get your head out of the gutter – I’m referring to the very tastefully named South Lake Union Trolley, a fairly new streetcar connecting various neighborhoods of Seattle!), or even… well, you get the point. There is so much to see and do… just in our own town!

And the best part (well, other than not having to buy a plane ticket or hassle with TSA)? After playing tourist all day, it’s really nice to go home… and be home…

Together.

The Icing on the Cupcake

Posted by

8

Birthday Cupcakes!

Homemade White Cupcakes with White Chocolate Butter Cream Frosting

As far as my children’s birthday parties were concerned, I used to be perfectly content making brownies from a box for classroom celebrations and buying jumbo-size sheet cakes from the nearest Costco for birthday parties. Such pre-packaged goodies were tasty, cheap, and – of the utmost importance in my chaotic life – QUICK. But now? Now there is PRESSURE.

I blame Pinterest.

Also Instagram. And the Food Channel. And even cookbooks.

But mostly, I blame all those (indecently) savvy food bloggers out there, toiling away at creating such pinnably delicious recipes, and all those (obnoxiously) talented friends of mine (you know who you are – and really, how can you call yourself my friend and torture me so?!) who happen to be (offensively) ingenious bakers; especially those (annoyingly) gifted bloggers and friends who upload beautiful mega-pixel photos – nay, photographs – of their drool-worthy sugary confections and mouth-watering baked ooey-gooey goodness on all the social networking sites I can’t keep myself from haunting on a daily (okay, hourly) basis.

So when my youngest child’s 2nd birthday rolled around last week (2nd birthday?! How did that even HAPPEN??), I knew in my heart of hearts that I could not, COULD NOT, buy a store-bought cake this year for his birthday party.  I felt compelled to bow to the pressure of all those Kitchen Gods and Goddesses and make something from the HEART with my very own HANDS.

But here’s the thing. I’m a terrible baker. Baking is a science (which is SO not my subject; I’m a language arts kinda gal…) where even a pinch too much baking soda or folding in the wrong size eggs (really – until recently I thought all eggs were the same size… who knew?!) can relegate an entire batch of butterscotch chip cookies straight to the compost bin. I’m way better suited to the world of COOKING, where an extra dash of salt or some spilled tarragon won’t ruin the dinner I’ve just spent an hour making (which my children won’t eat, anyway, but that’s another matter altogether).

So, I’m taking baby steps in the baking arena. Thanks to Pinterest (I fully acknowledge my addiction to this site; someone should probably stage an intervention), I discovered a yummy (even if I do say so myself) cupcake recipe that modifies a boxed cake mix. Yes, yes, a box is pre-packaged, and that’s BAD, but I give myself credit for going “homemade” – even if not fully from scratch – because the recipe still takes FOREVER to make.

Which brings us to the night before the party (you obviously know that nothing in my life goes smoothly… so here’s the fun bit…). I tucked the youngest two kids into bed (Bill had taken the oldest to roller derby practice), and poured the cake mix (the kind with pudding in it – did I say yummy?), into a mixing bowl. Just as I was about to add the other ingredients, I remembered the sage advice of the expert-level food blogger who provided the recipe, and set out the buttermilk and eggs (two large eggs, if you were wondering) to warm to room temperature before starting. Baking is so NOT a quick process… So, I poured some wine (just my first glass, I swear!), and sat at my computer to work (finding my dream wardrobe on Pinterest) for the duration.

After a few minutes (and some really adorable striped dresses pinned to my style board – I’m way into stripes these days), I heard this odd, repetitive sound… it was like a lick-lick-lick sound, but not “wet” (no sloshing or slurping) if that makes sense… not quite like sandpaper, but (Ooh, that’s cute… every dress should have pockets…) – what WAS it? It’s not outside… it’s in the house… I pinned another dress (or maybe it was a fedora – but am I really brave enough to sport a fedora?), and got up to solve the mystery of the dry lick-lick-lick sound that wasn’t stopping. I wandered into the kitchen…

AND FOUND MY DOG WITH HIS NOSE IN THE CAKE MIX!!!!!!

I almost had KITTENS, I swear. I’ve never heard my body make the kind of noise that burst out of my mouth. The stream of curse words I used should’ve woken the children (and scarred them for life), I was so loud. My 80-pound dog lifted his huge head out of the mixing bowl, his big brown nose smeared with white powder (like a canine version of Al Pacino pulling his mug out of a giant pile of cocaine in Scarface…), saw me (in crazy lady mode) coming toward him (I do crazy lady a little too well I fear), and, dropping to all fours, couldn’t follow my directions to “Get out, get OUT, GET OUT!!!!” fast enough, scurrying past me on his way to the back door, cowering, his large body somehow now the size of a tea-cup Chihuahua…

It was 8:00pm. Bill couldn’t run to the store for me, and wouldn’t be home from Paisley’s practice until 10:30pm. Also, he had the car. Even if I DID have the car, I couldn’t GO anywhere, because it’s not like I could leave the boys home alone (not that I didn’t think about it! I know… bad bad bad mama!). I needed to make two batches of cupcakes (for 48 total cupcakes) before I went to bed, giving the cupcakes plenty of time to cool before frosting them in the morning (turns out, frosting is very good at melting into, and sliding – yes, sliding – right off the top of, any cake product that has even a touch of warmth left from the oven… a lesson, if you were curious, I did indeed learn the hard way), before taking the birthday boy to the zoo after his nap. And the dog had just eaten, in essence, half the cupcakes…

THE DOG HAD EATEN THE TODDLER’S BIRTHDAY CUPCAKES!!!

So there I was, hyperventilating into a brown paper lunch sack (okay, not really; I was just guzzling my wine, which looks way more pulled-together than the paper sack thing…) when my best friend from high school, who was visiting us for the weekend with her daughter (quick aside: it was SO nice to see them, and not just because of the service they were about to render), came home from touring some of the local sites. They kindly offered to stay at the house while I walked to the grocery store a few blocks away. Phew! Maybe I could pull this fancy-schmancy cupcake thing off as planned!

I got to the store (luckily the perpetual rain had finally stopped, so I wasn’t soaked to the bone in the process), and guess who didn’t have the cake mix I needed? Naturally…

So I walked across the street to the big chain drugstore, hoping that just maybe they had the cake mix with the pudding in it… No luck – they only had the chocolate version, which my tricked out recipe didn’t call for…

Okay, all of you (outrageously) overly-accomplished bakers out there, I know what you’re thinking: I should’ve just made the cupcakes from scratch!! First: baby steps, remember? Second: Hindsight is 20/20. I didn’t have time to scour the blogosphere for a new recipe! And what if the new recipe called for some elaborate pantry item that I didn’t have, like fresh lemon zest or vanilla extract imported from Madagascar or strawberry preserves that I had canned myself from last summer’s bountiful harvest (and I don’t even grow strawberries!)?? I needed that cake mix, I needed the cupcakes made, and I needed them NOW.

PRESSURE.

At this point, my lovely friend, seeing that I was totally about to crack, or perhaps just worried about the health of my liver if I kept guzzling wine, offered to drive to another grocery store to find me the elusive cake mix with pudding. And now you know why she’s been one of my dearest friends for more than two decades: the gal who memorized Lita Ford & Depeche Mode lyrics with me in high school (her hair was even bigger than mine – she rocked!), who survived a firetrap of a roach motel in Amsterdam with me during college (honestly, one of the scariest nights I’ve ever experienced – I still get shivers down my spine thinking of that place), who sent me a “mama care package” that included a fashion magazine and Skittles (my faves; she knows me so well!) in addition to her handmade baby gift on the arrival of the soon-to-be birthday boy (yeah, she’s one of those exasperatingly talented friends I mentioned; she bakes, too… sigh), was now helping me indulge my (completely irrational, if hopefully endearing) need to make not-quite-homemade, but-totally-from-the-heart cupcakes for my son.

The best part? She’s vegan; she couldn’t even eat the (I did mention yummy, right?) white cupcakes with (insanely decadent) white chocolate buttercream frosting I spent the rest of the night making and the next morning frosting. She was just willing to help out an old friend, and celebrate the life of my child.

Which is what it’s all really about, isn’t it? I mean, yummy food and decadent desserts are wonderful and all, but birthdays (and baby showers, and anniversaries, and graduations, and holidays, and all those other festivities that call for an abundance of goodies and treats) aren’t about food and desserts – about how gourmet the pizza was (or not, as the case may be – look, I used up any kitchen skills I had with the cupcakes, okay?!) or how “from scratch” the cupcakes were – such special occasions are about families and friends coming together, about celebrating togetherness, about honoring the milestones and accomplishments of those people we want to be together with…

Me with the birthday boy.

Celebrating the 2yo’s birthday at the zoo! After raining all morning, the skies cleared up just as we arrived; it was a lovely afternoon…

For a few minutes there (okay, a few hours, but who’s counting?), I lost sight of the important stuff: the day wasn’t about how scrumptious or photo-worthy my cupcakes were or weren’t; the day was about how joyful we were that Broder came into our lives TWO fantastically fun-filled years ago and how grateful we were to celebrate his birthday together with beloved family and friends.

The cupcakes (somehow and rather shockingly, I know, given my utter ineptitude when it comes to the science of baking) came out just like I wanted – yummy, pretty, plentiful (I was forced to hide the cupcakes in the oven to keep them away from the still-opportunistic pets; and in case you were worried, my dog suffers from no Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or any other ill consequence engendered from my little crazy-lady outburst: his big brown nose, licked clean of all white cake powder, was in the compost bin only an hour later…), and even photo-worthy (even if I do say so myself!).

But as delicious and photogenic as the cupcakes were, it’s Broder’s smile, his happy face, his giggles of appreciation and delight that make the photo… and the day. The enjoyment he took in seeing the penguins and jaguars and elephants on our trip to the zoo, the pleasure he expressed in playing with all the friends who came over to our house to share the occasion with him, the awe in his face as he stared at the two lit candles atop his cupcake, were the real icing on the cake…

A birthday party for a 2yo!

“For me?!”

In less than four weeks, Liam will be celebrating his 6th birthday (6th birthday?! How did that even HAPPEN??), and I know that I will once again feel the PRESSURE (and as much as I’d like to blame Pinterest and Instagram and the Food Channel and cookbooks and all those indecently, obnoxiously, offensively, annoyingly, outrageously, and exasperatingly savvy, talented, ingenious, gifted, overly-accomplished Kitchen Gods and Goddesses – bloggers and friends alike – that fill my life and computer screen with drool-worthy and mouth-watering culinary images and recipes, I know I, and I alone, am responsible for my own freakish, obssessive, borderline-OCD ways…) to avoid the pre-packaged, store-bought, and QUICK dessert options.

And really… How hard can it be to be to make those handmade, from scratch, definitely not store bought, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches (with the ice cream edges rolled in mini-chocolate chips – so decadent!), the recipe for which I just strategically pinned to my Pinterest board?

But this time? This time I think I’ll ask the birthday boy to make those ice cream sandwiches with me. I’ll even let him eat a few of the chocolate chips. And maybe a chocolate chip cookie or two (hey, I might be new to this whole baking thing, but I still know I need to make sure everything tastes good, right?!). Just as long as we’re enjoying the process… and having fun… Together…

(The dogs, however, can wait outside…)

Sunshine & Lollipops

Posted by

8

I am grumpy.

The weather sucks.

It’s June, and summer vacation has officially started. The weather sucks. And I am grumpy…

However… though the weather hasn’t much cooperated here in Seattle (folks are bandying around the term “Junuary” to describe this gloomy, overcast, and rather chilly month – very bleak), it’s still that time of year again: time for the summer haircut. Or buzz cut, as the case may be.

Yep, last week I got out the clippers and shaved the mop off my 5yo’s head.

The 5yo's Summertime Buzz Cut

My little sunshine: The 5yo and his new summertime hairdo.

I probably would’ve waited a bit longer… you know, either upon arrival of summer (and no, contrary to popular belief, June 20 was NOT the start of summer, no matter what the celestial experts say; here in Seattle, summer doesn’t officially begin until the day after the 4th of July, on which occasion it inevitably rains…), or upon being visited by the uncontrollable (and somewhat irrational, I admit it) urge to put a barrette in my son’s hair just to see his beautiful blue eyes (and though I’m perfectly comfortable with him wanting to put a barrette in his own hair, that’s his decision, not mine, and so far he has never ever made that decision…) – but both happenings were at least a few weeks off – and… swim lessons began this week. And that meant wearing goggles. And as Liam was already highly resistant to the idea of wearing goggles (who knows why, he never explained and I didn’t really want to know, he just really really really didn’t want to wear goggles), I decided that we needn’t up the discomfort factor with pulled and snagged and tugged hair caught in the straps of said despised goggles. So…

Someone Needs a Haircut!

The before shot: someone needs a haircut!

… he needed a haircut.

Recognizing the reality – nay, the gravity – of the situation, I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, prepared for a royal battle, and, on Monday, while the baby napped, plugged in the clippers, put a chair in the middle of the kitchen floor, and called Liam in for his summer haircut…

Knowing from experience that this wasn’t going to be easy, and knowing that I was grumpy (stupid weather) and therefore my patience was already stretched a bit thin, I rehearsed the rational arguments I had prepared (in the middle of the night, naturally, when I woke up at 3am to worry about swim lessons), I steeled myself to endure his heart-tugging pleadings and beseechings, I restocked the tissues for the inevitable waterworks (his and mine), and watched my tousle-haired child walk in…

… and calmly ask for a lollipop.

Which I gave him (my mouth wide open).

And then he sat down. In the chair. In the middle of the kitchen (my jaw hitting the floor).

He didn’t run and hide under the bed (it’d have to be my bed, though; his bed has storage underneath…), roll his eyes (they learn this trick so young, these days!), argue until he was blue in the face (or rather, blotchy in the face), or even sigh (very dramatically) in exasperation as he sat in the chair; he just took his beloved Dum Dum sucker, stuck it in his mouth, and I turned on the clippers…

And shaved his head as fast as I could!

The thing is, he didn’t always resist having his hair cut. I used to take him to the kid salon for his trims; when he was young and super wiggly, I just didn’t trust myself with a pair of sharp scissors around his delicate little ears… eyes… neck… I mean, sheesh!, safety is a priority! Plus, what’s not to love about watching your child contentedly (contentedly!) sit in a fire engine chair and play with action heroes and toy cars while a professional stylist Edward Scissorhands an impeccable hairdo in the few minutes allotted her before boredom, panic, or a good ol’ fashioned temper tantrum sets in? Liam liked visiting the salon so much that sometimes he even asked to get his hair cut. Yep, in the early years, haircuts at the kid salon were worth EVERY PENNY.

No… haircuts didn’t become an issue until I decided to start saving some of those pennies (I mean $25 plus tip for a cut?? That’s a lot of wine at the outlet shop!! Just sayin’…) when he got a bit older and was finally capable of holding still long enough for me to cut his hair myself, without nicking him or otherwise puncturing his carotid artery. But, as I should have expected, he didn’t want me to cut his hair. After all, I don’t have a fancy seat for him to sit in, and all the cars and action figures I have for him are old, “I’ve already played with that” (said in the absolute most woebegone tone any child in the whole history of the world has ever mustered) toys. So, the first few haircuts took more than a little convincing on my part to even get him near me and my clippers.

And then, of course, the fact that the first haircut I gave Liam took um, well, two days didn’t exactly help matters. I know!! I know, I know, I know… It’s crazy… but the thing is, and I’m sorry to confess it, but I’m just not a crafty person. I’m the kind of person you shouldn’t trust with scissors, unless straight lines aren’t important to you. I’m the kind of person who is incapable of making my children their own Halloween costumes if they require anything more elaborate than looking like a hobo (hey, I can tie a stuffed red bandana on a stick with the best of them…). I’m the kind of person who puts twenty – TWENTY! – holes in the wall just to hang up one small picture frame. And even then, it’ll look crooked. So no, I’m not kidding… it took two days – TWO DAYS! – to cut Liam’s hair that first time. You need the details? Really? Okay… but it’s not pretty… I was just trying to keep his hair a bit longer on top and shorter on the sides and the back, pretty standard little boy haircut, right? But I couldn’t for THE LIFE OF ME get the line straight – he looked like I’d placed a lopsided bowl on his head, and there’s just nothing – nothing I tell you! – good about that look. So, it took two days for me to keep cutting up the longer side until it finally looked even…

After this first hair trimming debacle, it took about four or five really ssssslllllooooowwwww, torturous, and emotionally scarring (for both of us) haircuts before, on the verge of quitting my amateur hair styling practice forever, and with a stroke of pure genius, I remembered that the kid salon gave (wait for it… wait for it…) post-haircut lollipops to all the kids. Ah-ha! I just needed to dangle a little treat in front of him, like the proverbial carrot before the horse! Let’s see… I had leftover Halloween candy in the cupboard… there had to be some lollipops in there… I searched frantically for a sucker, knowing that I had about 1.5 seconds before my son successfully made his escape to the relative safety of the living room, where he knew I couldn’t follow him with the clippers (being ball-and-chained to the electric outlet – for crying out loud, someone really needs to create cordless clippers; she or he would be a bazillionaire within the year). Finally! I found one last lollipop!! And offered it to my precious, if traumatized, child in attempts to win his affections and good behavior…

And it worked. I cut his hair. And he then he got his sucker.

Of course, that was a two-lollipop haircut – one for each of the two days it took for me to get everything to look even (I’m sorry, but it’s really hard for me to cut a straight line! I have no excuses for myself…). And he still resisted me every time I mentioned he needed a haircut. And he still whined his way through every haircut I gave him (though I’m happy to report it takes me less than 24 hours to cut his hair, these days – I’m getting quicker every time!), after which he would sullenly take his “reward” and leave me to clean up the piles of hair left on the bathroom or kitchen floor.

This is why I was shocked, yes shocked!, that he was so ready and willing to have his haircut last week. If I had known I just needed to give him the lollipop BEFORE his haircut, rather than AFTER, I would have purchased a lifetime supply of Dum Dums immediately, and life would’ve been so much easier (he really couldn’t have informed me of this trick several haircuts ago?!)!! Of course, I had to wash little bits of hair from his sticky lollipop several times while cutting said little bits of hair from his head (hey, if he was fine with it, I was fine with it!), and the haircut took a bit longer as I felt obligated to turn off the electrical appliance every time I ran the water in the sink (given that I’d rather avoid electrocution; what can I say? I’m a safety girl!!). But the whine-free, bicker-free, battle-free haircutting session was, to be honest, A Really Enjoyable Experience. It didn’t even take two days this time!!

And in spite of being a Grumpy Gus (uh, where is the sunshine?!), it turns out, I rather LIKED cutting my son’s hair. I felt so… so… what’s the word? Oh, yeah, so COMPETENT. And as a very non-crafty kinda person, and as the mama of a very chaotic household, feeling competent is a fairly rare occurrence these days. So rare, in fact, that [cue harp music, add Scooby-Doo style shimmery transition] the moment triggered all my melodramatic tendencies (of which I have many) and I envisioned the moment as sugary-sweet as Norman Rockwell might have: the smiling mother cutting her red-and-white-striped-shirt-clad son’s hair in the middle of the kitchen, while the boy lets the dog lick his sucker and the summer breeze ripples through the curtains of the open window… [and SNAP back to reality…]

Well, though my smile might have looked more like a grimace (rain rain go away!), and my son’s style gravitates more toward graphic tees, and though there’s no way my son would share his lollipop with the dogs, and though both of our dogs are huge and don’t come close to resembling the little lapdogs that populate Rockwell paintings, and though I don’t have curtains at my kitchen window (it’s on my to-do list, sigh…), and though the summer breeze is currently so blustery and cold my window isn’t even open (it’s June; my windows should be open!!)… at least my short-haired son wore his despised goggles at swim lessons that day with nary a complaint.

Lollipops. Are. My. Hero.

And I feel quite pleased with myself (why, yes, I am puffing up my chest even as I type!) every time I look at my son and his new haircut.

Looking at him, I feel happy (happy? Yes, HAPPY!!). He’s like a little ray of much-needed sunshine.

Looking at him joyfully frolic in the pool, oblivious to the fact that it’s RAINING (lessons are only cancelled if there’s thunder and lightning), he reminds me – through all my seasonal affective disorder grumpiness – that, even though summer might be holding out on us (oh, “Junuary,” you are such a tease!), my little boy will always be my little sunshine.

(No matter how long his hair gets…)