Birthday Baking, We Meet Again

March 21, 2012

Well, April is quickly approaching — and that can only mean one thing in my house: My annual irrational desire to bake a nice birthday cake for my son has kicked in.

I can’t explain it.

I have to say, I’m a pretty good cook.  If you want a kick-ass chicken parmigiana for your birthday, I’m your gal.  But I’m not a great baker.  So why I torture myself with some combination of guilt, delusion and sheer stupidity is beyond me.

For those of you who were around for my son’s birthday last April, dinosaurs were all the rage in Fordeville.  And, so, I set out to comply with his very specific wish:  A stegosaurus cake — green with red plates on its back, to be exact.

That didn’t work out particularly well.

It really stressed me out.  It was time-consuming.  And, worst of all, it made me set foot in craft stores, which give me the creeps.  Something about all those plastic flowers and scrapbooking supplies.  Plus, I feel like all those crafty types are laughing at me as I ask all kinds of Amateur Hour questions of the employees.  Like “Can I just hire you to make my cake?” Or, “Does this box of baking supplies come with a case of wine?” {It doesn’t, FYI.  But I do think this is an excellent marketing opportunity.}

Anyway.  In the end, Project Stegosaurus Cake aged me immeasurably and the final product ended up looking not unlike a chihuahua.  The upside?  I got great comments on the blog from fellow non-bakers who fully supported the notion of the professionally made supermarket cake.  I swore I’d go that route this year.

And now I’m feeling all Baking Delusional again.  Shit.

This year’s theme, you ask?

The birthday boy has requested — wait for it…

A pirate ship.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I knew this was coming.  Especially since our trip to Disney World, as I find myself frequently yelling things like “Don’t run with that sword!” and “I don’t know where your gold doubloons are — did you look in your treasure chest?”

But a pirate ship cake?  Why can’t the kid declare his 5th birthday The Year of Pac Man? Or The Year of the Flat Rectangle With Minor Embellishments?  Why?

Damn pirate ships.

OK.  I took a deep breath and decided to start at the beginning:  A Google search for “Totally impressive pirate cakes that make themselves in the comfort of your home while you drink wine.”

What?  No results?! Apparently, I have to modify my search terms.

Google sucks.

So, I searched more broadly:  “Pirate birthday cake.”

Well, that was somewhere between demoralizing and comical.

I came across all sorts of the baking impossible.  But I’ve pared it down and would like to share with you the Top Three Pirate Cakes I Won’t Be Making:

 

Cake 1.  I love that this cake comes from a website called www.birthday-party-ideas-101.com.  Because this is obviously 101, super-basic stuff.  Sweet Jesus, I think this is a regulation sail boat that may actually float and shoot fire from the cannons.  But the ocean part — that little blue swirl of frosting at the bottom — I can totally do that.

{Image: www.birthday-party-ideas-101.com}

 

Cake 2.  This makes Cake 1 look like a dinghy.  The woman who baked this took the liberty of describing how she did it on a cake website.  But with throwaway phrases like “I…cut the cakes into a boat shape” and “I…used a decorating tool to make the ship look like wood…and I made the ship flags with my crafting supplies,” I’m not sure she and I are on the same planet wavelength.  But damn, that’s a fine looking ship.  Plus she has chocolate-chocolate chip and vanilla bean loaf cakes inside.  File under:  Not Happening.

{Image: www.threadcakes.com}

 

Cake 3.  What I like about this cake is that it uses a pirate ship cake pan.  Now we’re talking.  I thought.  Until I realized that I need a cake decorating class to make this thing look like something other than a leftover game piece from my childhood Battleship Travel Set.

{Image: www.seriouseats.com}

 

So there you have the cakes I won’t be baking.  Not all hope is lost, though.  I did find these options, which seem to be more my speed.

{Image: www.sweetlaurencakes.com}

How cute are these?  Although it may be anti-climactic to yell “Blow out your cake pops, son!”  He’s still perplexed by the chihuahua-stegosaurus of 2011, so I’d like to avoid any further confusion.

This may be the win.

{Image: www.cakeswebake.com}

This, or a phone call to the Shop Rite bakery department.

Stay tuned.

 

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Who Invited Sparky?

March 16, 2012

Earlier this week, I shared this photo on my Facebook page.

 

Sparky the pre-school class mascot is a stuffed elephant.  I was hopeful we could dodge him for the rest of the school year.  But alas.  My son walked out of school the other day, grinning widely and carrying Sparky.

My grin was not so wide.

First of all, I’m not a big fan of the “look who’s coming to spend time at your house, even though you didn’t invite him” angle.  Maybe it’s all that time I spent living in New York City — I’m not particularly hospitable when taken by surprise.  Unless you’re Ed McMahon with one of those big checks.

Also, if you don’t already know this about me, I’ll say it again:  I should sit on Purell’s Board of Directors.  I’m, shall we say, highly cognizant of germs.  Not at the level where I need my own special on TLC.  But enough to make me cringe at the sight of Sparky and know exactly where he would be spending the first two hours of his “family time” in Fordeville.

 

The need to introduce the washing machine to Sparky became even more urgent when my son said “Sparky really wants to sit at the table and eat with us.”

{Audible blinking.}

And, “I can’t wait for Sparky to sleep in my bed with me.”

{OMG, internal screaming.}

I immediately moved the laundry dial from Normal Cycle to Two Hour Heavy Duty Sanitize.

{Note to self: When I bought a new washing machine, why didn’t I get one with a Hazmat setting?  Wait, can you imagine if I was still on my six months of laundry deprivation?  I can’t even think about it.  Hands over ears. Lalalalala.}

So.  We had 48 hours with Sparky.  I immediately promoted the idea of Sparky camping outside.  After all, it was unseasonably warm and he would be much more comfortable sitting outside with a bowl of peanuts, wouldn’t he?

This idea fell flat.

He was already lovingly tucked under my son’s arm.  I had to just roll with it.

Fine, pre-school teachers.

Fine, Sparky.

You win.  You want family time with us?  You got it.

First, Sparky, the  kids have invited you to sit and watch them sing the theme song to Jake and the Never Land Pirates on an endless loop.  Because you are fresh blood and a new audience.  Have fun — those big ears of yours will start to melt off your head soon.  They’ll go for about 40 minutes without taking a breath in between verses, FYI.

 

Then, you will be inducted as the newest member of the Fordeville Pirate League, complete with hat (nice fit over your ears) and hook.

Your mission?  Help my son find the lost treasure on the map.  He’s counting on you.

 

After your pirate activities are complete, I think I’ll take you back down to the washing machine.  Just because the sight of you all over my kids and furniture is shaking to me to my very core, and I have practically Purelled my hands raw.  Hm, I wonder how you’ll handle the Super High Power Dry setting that seems to be reserved for unnaturally resilient fabrics.  Only one way to find out, right pal?

 

It’s been a long afternoon, hasn’t it, Sparky?  I, for one, am feeling all sorts of traumatized.  And since you’re relatively clean now and we’re enjoying some family time together, maybe you can make yourself useful and grab me a bottle of Pinot out of the wine fridge.

 

God, I hate when a house guest comes over and then drinks way too much.  It’s so uncomfortable for everyone involved.  Unfriggingbelievable.

You sort of suck, Sparky.  How am I going to explain this to my kids?  I would think that by now, with all of your “I’m inviting myself over for two days,” you’d know how to conduct yourself.  Maybe that third run in the spin cycle was just too much for you.

 

——–

Finally, our 48 hours were up and it came time to return Sparky to school, along with our journal page documenting how he spent his time with our family.  In an act of mercy, I decided to save his ass so he could retain his Class Mascot title.  So I handed in an appropriate write-up for my son that went something like this:

“I was so happy to have Sparky come and visit my family!  He slept in the bed with me, had his own special visitor seat at our table and played Pirate Treasure Hunt with me!  He even wore his own pirate hat!  I hope that Sparky can come back again to visit us soon.”

But I kept a copy of the real version, for blackmail purposes:

“My mom says that Sparky could really stand to learn a few things about manners.  She’s not really sure why he invited himself over and was pretty upset to see that he hadn’t bathed before his arrival.  Mommy mumbled something about a public health hazard and told me it would be fun to take Sparky for a few rides inside our shiny new washer and dryer.  He even got to test out the highest settings that we never, ever thought we’d have to use!  He played pirates with me and slept in my bed — at least until my mom pried him out from under my arm while I was in a deep REM sleep.  The second night, Sparky helped Mommy get some of her special juice out of the fridge and then he got really sleepy on the basement floor for a long time.  He still looked very tired this morning and complained of a headache.  I hope he feels better soon.  Also, my mom wants to know why the class mascot isn’t a book.”

Yeah, you’re welcome, Sparky.  Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family 15 Comments

A Vomit-Free Vacation

March 13, 2012

We are back from our family vacation to Florida.  I have much to report, but let me cut right to the headline:

Nobody threw up.

It’s true!  This is epic for the residents of Fordeville.  I mean, there was a very close call during the endless descent of our return flight.  As I sat between my two green children and played Vomit Roulette with the one puke bag I could access at that moment, I may have shouted “Come on, man!  For the love of God, how long does it take to land a damn plane?  Wheels down, dammit, wheels down!”

Or something like that.  Anyway, we emerged vomit-free.  Barely.

While little else can compare to that sparkling family achievement, there were other great elements of our trip.

We stayed with my mom and stepfather for a few days, which was great.  There was a lot of swimming and hanging out.

 

And then we drove up to Disney World for a few nights with my in-laws.  I really do love that place.  As you can see, this is a Fordeville genetic trait.

Here’s the thing about Disney World:  My son’s favorite attraction was the monorail — which is the only item in a 50-mile radius that costs absolutely nothing.  I may have to consider a Disney edition of my Money In Flames series, wherein we could have just purchased the kid a map of the park and a pirate outfit, then put him on the monorail for three days to save large sums of cash.

But then I could not have had access to the ice cream shaped like Mickey’s head, which is a must-have.  For me, anyway.

Also, the souls of my children have been replaced by those of pirates.  Arrrrgh.  Ahoy.  Me hearties.  They are obsessed, particularly since we bought them the Disney pirate gear.

My son, 16 seconds after waking up each morning:  “Where’s me pirate hat?  Me treasure chest?  Oh, and me spy glass?”

Aaaargh, matey.

My daughter, thankfully, held off on the Disney princess mania for what is probably the last possible year — mainly because she has declared herself a Pirate Princess in a show of solidarity with her brother’s obsession.  Naturally, there is an appropriately overpriced and ill-fitting Disney Pirate Princess hat available for purchase. {Hook and spy glass sold separately.  Of course.}

People have asked me if the park was crowded and if we waited on a lot of long lines.  Here’s the thing:  My kids are young enough that they don’t know yet what they are missing.  So if a particular ride had a really long line, I just steered them in the other direction, yelling something about another ice cream shaped like Mickey’s head.  Or I busted out another pirate prop.  Selfish parenting?  Maybe.  Totally effective?  You fucking bet. There will be plenty of years when we wait on long lines because they’ll have their heart set on something.

 

Other highlights of Disney World:

—FastPass Insanity, one of my favorite spectator sports.  This is when you see two seemingly educated adults who, in front of their children and the general Disney public, will scream at each other — even stoop to name-calling — over the family’s FastPass strategy, in an effort to avoid waiting on any lines.  Like this:

“What do you mean, you didn’t get the FastPass for Winnie the Pooh?  The wait is over an hour!  What have you been doing?  I sent you to get the FastPasses!”

“I decided we should FastPass Pirates of the Caribbean instead.”

“What?! That’s all the way over in Adventureland!  What kind of jackass are you?  We are not hitting Adventureland until tomorrow!  Today is Fantasyland!  Fantasyland, god dammit!  I told you this over breakfast.  I can’t believe you.”

“I just thought…”

“You thought what?  You thought we’d just skip Fantasyland?  And ruin the whole trip for the kids? Nice job.”

 

—The Stroller Olympics.  For many attractions, you are required to park your stroller in a designated area, which happens to be the size of China.  Then, in an effort to streamline the parking or to just screw with the minds of parents, the Disney employees tend to relocate the strollers while you’re inside the attraction.  You think you can spot your stroller in a crowd, don’t you?  I mean, you use it every day.  You may even have a colorful toy or something attached to it for easy identification.  But let me tell you something.  Unless you have installed a time-release-activated flare gun from the base of your stroller, you will be reduced to a dizzy and disoriented parent who walks around for 20 minutes mumbling, “I thought I left it right here.”  Because “right here” looks like this.

 

–And let’s not forget Disney Magic.  This year, Disney Magic emerged in two distinct forms.  First, the night when our kids, in a completely unprecedented move, fell asleep at a restaurant — one in the stroller, the other laying down in the booth.  This never happens with our kids.  Ever. Less selfish parents might have called it a night.  But where those parents see defeat, we saw opportunity.  Why, yes, we will have another round of cocktails please.

Disney Magic II was seeing one of my closest friends while there — in an unplanned capacity. A friend I’ve had for 20 years.  The friend who is the godmother to my daughter.  Someone whose travel plans don’t usually fall off my radar.  About a week before we left, I was on the phone with her, making plans for a different trip later this year (more on that another time).  She made a passing reference about getting ready for Disney, which led to the quick realization that we were booked on the same days.  At the same hotel. I swear, if we tried to coordinate this, in a hundred years we would not be able to do it.  But there we were.

So it was thumbs up all around at Disney World.

But look.  A Disney vacation is tiring.  So imagine how grateful I was to my mom when she agreed to watch the kids at her Florida place so P and I could go spend a child-free night by the ocean. Not a chicken nugget nor a pirate sword in sight.

 

A very nice 24-hour getaway that had me ready to face the trip  home.  Plus, we had to leave the humidity of Florida before my daughter was mistaken for Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

 

 

It’s always hard to come back.  But I’m pretty excited that we seem to have brought the warm weather home with us.  Along with the swashbuckling, sword fights and treasure hunts.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Money in Flames, Places Near and Far 12 Comments

Vacation, You’ve Changed

February 28, 2012

Earlier this week, P and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary.  I’m a lucky gal — I got one of the very, very good ones.  One of the true keepers.

{No, I’m not asleep at the altar here. Just camera-shy.}

I feel like we look so young in our wedding pictures.  I’m going to go ahead and blame my kids for aging us so rapidly.  At this rate, I will soon be as unrecognizable as Nick Nolte was at the Oscars.  {Was it just me, or did he look like Kenny Rogers? It’s kind of a bad day when the Mug Shot Nick Nolte looks better than the Real Nick Nolte.}

Anyway, it was right about now, seven years ago, when we arrived here for our honeymoon.  The moment when our jaws dropped in awe.

Tahiti.  The end of the Earth.  The most magnificent place I’ve ever seen.

That’s our room in the photo.  I’d love to go back someday, but it’s never going to fucking happen highly unlikely — at least before our kids go to college.  Or even during.  Oh, but maybe after they’re done and we scrap all of our retirement savings.  OK, so that’s only, what, 19 years from now?

I mention the honeymoon not only because it’s on my mind around our anniversary, but also because there is some irony as I pack for a very different vacation — the four of us are off to Florida in a few days.  And I can’t help but think about the striking similarities in the preparation process for the two trips.  Here, have a look.

 

In Flight Essentials

–Tahiti Honeymoon:  A pile of mindless magazines (Us Weekly, People, Real Simple [pre-boycott], etc.).  iPod with favorite songs.  Mental list of in-flight movies to see.  Cute summer shoes to change into upon arrival.

–Fordeville Takes Florida:  iPad loaded up exclusively with various kids’ movies, shows and games.  Separate bag with Arsenal of Distractions {toys and books for kids, perhaps some tiny liquor bottles for parents}.  Full change of clothes for each of us in the event of producing (kids) or catching (parents) in-flight vomit.

 

Clothing

–Tahiti Honeymoon:  Bikinis, nice sundresses, stylish beach wear.

–Fordeville Takes Florida:  Mom Bathing Suit {one-piece, suitable for chasing slippery small children in the water without wardrobe malfunction}, sensible hat and SPF 6,000 for a party of four.

 

Packing  & Prep

–Tahiti Honeymoon:   For 14 days and two of us — one large suitcase.  Total packing time:  28 minutes.  Total time to get through airport security:  43 seconds.

–Fordeville Takes Florida:  For eight days and four of us — two checked suitcases, three carry-on bags, a car seat and a stroller.  Total packing time:  1.5 days.  Total time to get through airport security:  16 minutes and one lost shoe.

 

Ground Transportation

–Tahiti Honeymoon:  Lovely town car sent by the resort, followed by private boat and helicopter transfer.

–Fordeville Takes Florida:  Massively crowded airport shuttle, standing room only, with post-flight-vomit kids and aforementioned luggage items.  Retrieve mini van from rental lot.  Install two car seats.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining about going on vacation.  Once all the prep is done and we get past the inevitable Travel Vomit, I’ll be glad for the change of scenery.  It may not be the end of the Earth this time, but anyplace that sells ice cream in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head is more than OK by me.

Just don’t tell the girl in the wedding photo that I said this — she’d never believe it.

 

 

 

 

 

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Hibachi PTSD

February 21, 2012

Today, I regret to inform all of you that I must officially withdraw my name from consideration for Mother of the Year.

Sad but true.

The reason? No, not the profanity I use with my General Contractor (there is a loop hole clause for that, you know).  No, not the introduction of Entenmanns Chocolate Pop ‘Ems to my kids (this is a rite of passage).

No, no.  My application withdrawal shall be filed under the category of Hibachi Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, hereafter known as HPTSD.

In my quest for a fun change of scenery on the 298th third day of Winter Break, I remembered I had an unused Groupon for a hibachi place near our house.  Then I learned that it was Kids Eat Free Night.  And there was a FourSquare promotion there as well.  Extreme Couponers have nothing on my iPhone and me.

iCouponing aside, I figured my kids would marvel at the fun hibachi displays that the chefs put on.  You know, a little knife-throwing.  Some fire.  Tossing food into patrons’ mouths. It’s not unlike how we eat at home.

Plus, they have a big bar at this place.  Just saying.

I had all good intentions.  New experience for the kids.  Booze for the parents.  Fried rice for all!

What could be bad about this?

Let me count the ways…

First, never go somewhere during Kids Eat Free Night.  Ever.  I can’t believe I made such a rookie mistake.  The noise level was just beyond anything the human ear can tolerate.  My kids had their hands glued to their ears.  My kids.  Thought it was too noisy.  Oh, the irony.

Also? It turns out that the knife tossing and fire display was not entertainment as much as, shall we say, abject terror for my kids.  I won’t post a photo of them because it’s plain mean and they’ll kill me when they are old enough to read this. But I found this one of other people’s kids, which I think gives you a fair indication.

 

So there were my kids.  Both ears covered, while whining and cowering down at the base of their chairs.  The chef, having zero experience with either kids or humanity in general, then goes for the big guns and starts the hibachi game of “catch this piece of food in your mouth.”  Cute for those who understand.  But my kids, unfortunately, thought they were being assaulted with steaming hot shrimp and chicken.  More screaming.

“No fire!”

“Don’t throw that food at me!”

“It’s soooo loud in heeeeere!”

“Fire!  Fire!  Noooo!”

I mentioned they had a big bar, right?

And just when we felt we had managed them through this trauma — the birthday songs began.

Have you seen the hibachi approach to birthdays?  It’s usually over the top.  Here, it involved a disco light, loud music (more noise, yay!), and an employee with a big light-up hat who grabbed the guest of honor by the arms, and yelled “Banzai!” repeatedly.  The birthday boy in the restaurant seemed to enjoy this.  Most of the patrons smiled and clapped. And even yelled “Banzai!” in unison.

Not my kids — this was the last straw.  They were horrified.  They thought this boy was being attacked.

“Why is that man grabbing the boy by the arms?  He’s screaming at him!  What’s happening?  It’s so loud.  Is there going to be more fire?”

Another drink for Mom and Dad, please.

When the trauma was over, we left the place with the kids still covering their ears and asking to be carried out. When we got in the car, my son asked — no, begged us — if he behaved all the time to never, ever bring him here for his birthday.

So much for something new.

Oh, and the biggest mystery?  They didn’t like fried rice.  Clearly, I’ve done something wrong.

Happy Winter Break, folks.  Let Day 299 Four begin.  Next stop:  Indoor bouncy castle place.  Since I’m already out of the running for Mother of the Year — why not?

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Catalog Life

February 15, 2012

If only real life could be like the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  I’ve mentioned this before when venting some pent-up rage against the PBK bed that is bigger than my first Manhattan apartment.  But it doesn’t end there.  If you take a broader view, it might be nice to just slip into a day in the life of the PBK Catalog Family.  If you don’t vomit first.

Take this simple display, for example.  I have about 104 issues with this, but for the purposes of your sanity and my potential ongoing readership, I’ve narrowed it down to just a few highlights.

{Image: Pottery Barn Kids}

1.  The Family Schedule.  Here, what you can’t see clearly, because I didn’t enlarge the image enough, is the To Do List for the day.  It lists groceries, dentist, vet appointment, art project, conferences and family time.  PBK Catalog Mom clearly has her act together.  My list, not printed on blue construction paper du’jour, but instead maybe on a dirty paper towel or crumpled Post It, goes more like this:  return long overdue school forms, stock up on caffeine, re-hash latest episode of Revenge via texting, yell at General Contractor, cruise Pinterest and decide what the hell to make for dinner.  Family time?  But of course.  As long as kids fighting over the last chocolate cookie counts.

2 a & b.  The PBK Catalog Kids.  I just can’t take it.  Look how sweet, how participatory in life they are.  The curious minds.  The organization.  Ready to tackle the sunshiny day ahead with their undoubtedly well-balanced, color-coded lunches packed away.  Come.  On.  Who has time for this pointing and Family Q&A Session when surely you are running 10 minutes late for school again, and nobody can find their left shoe?  What?  Oh, that’s just my house?

3.  The “Read” List.  Let’s get all the classics up there, right?  Here, it’s Us Weekly.  And Twitter.

4.  Let’s not miss our Sunday 1pm hike!  Does that also count as Family Time?  Is that why the kids are pointing?  Maybe they feel duped.  Or confused.  Or perhaps resentful of their mother’s Type A over-scheduling that is depriving them of a childhood.  And, where, pray tell, is the PBK hiking backpack and canteen set?  These kids can’t just venture out into the woods without being fully outfitted and monogrammed.

5.  Ugh, the Project Basket.  What’s in there?  Loom materials?  Calculus flashcards?  In my house, that basket would be labeled Small Annoying Toy Pieces From China That Don’t Seem To Fit With Anything And Then Multiply Overnight.

 

Maybe I should seek out other catalogs.  Hanna Andersson is out, ever since I saw the matching family pajama concept.  Does the Land End Family look more realistic?  I’m open to suggestions.  Because the PBK Catalog Family is clearly bringing out the worst in me.  And if they move onto my block, I will not invite them over.  Ever.  Or at least not until I get my kids all monogrammed and ready.

 

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The Parental Art of Speaking in Code

January 23, 2012

As my kids get older and increasingly pick up on everything I’m saying, it’s clear that I need to do a better job of speaking in code.  There are a few good reasons for this.

1)  I think it might minimize parent-child conflict.  

For example:  “Spinach” should be “green pudding.”  Or something equally enticing (suggestions welcome).

 

2)  It seems that, on occasion, my everyday vernacular could render me ineligible for Mother of the Year.  

Like when I’m driving:  “That dipshit moron driver in front of me” should be “that nice man who really should just take the bus.”

Or when I’ve had enough of someone:  “That crazy-ass judgmental psycho who won’t mind her own business about where we’re going to pre-school next year“ should be “that curious mommy who sure does ask a whole lot of  questions.”

 

3)  Then there’s Disney World.  P and I are probably going to take the kids there in March, but it’s not firmed up yet.  As we get the planning underway (I know, I’m behind), I have to stop openly invoking the WDW name in front of the kids.  From across the house, they hear a mention of Disney World, their ears perk up and they come running in, at the speed of light, with a series of questions you might expect:

“Are we going to Disney World?”  Maybe.

“Are we going today?”  No, not today.

“Tomorrow?”  No, not tomorrow.  Mommy and Daddy have to pull up a vast spreadsheet comparing the dizzying amount of WDW cryptic pricing information designed to cause seizures.  We can’t just go in there without a position on whether or not to do the Park Hopper Pass and the meal plan — are you insane?

“How many days until we go?”  Uh, I didn’t say we were going.  But if we do go, it might be in March.  Maybe.  Do you want some green pudding?

“Can we count the days until March?”  Do you want chocolate cake?  For breakfast?

See how this isn’t working?  I need some code words for WDW so two small heads don’t explode with vacation questions for the next month and a half.  I’m  considering the following alternatives as the planning process continues:

“We’ll need to pull out our summer clothes from the attic to pack for our trip to Disney the working farm co-op.”

“How long is the drive from my mom’s place to Disney the Amish Loom Museum?”

“Is it just me, or does the pricing for Disney Restoration Hardware resemble that of an additional mortgage?”

“Is dressing like a princess really happening with two year-olds at Disney the glue factory tour?”

 

Pretty smooth, right?  I think this approach will totally fool them.  As long as they don’t like the idea of vacationing at the working farm co-op, where green pudding is readily available.

Now I just have to stop saying “Florida.”   And “vacation.”  And “I don’t know if we need the damn silly Park Hopper Pass or not.” {We do, right?}

 

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The Year That Was

December 31, 2011

 

Well.  I think I’ve managed to climb out from under the Christmas tornado that has taken over my house.  What a week.

I’ve been busy.  There was, of course, this.

 

 

And this.

 

And this. (More on this soon.)

 

And today, this.

 

Because quality control testing is important.  And it’s midnight somewhere.

 

And here we are, the last day of the year.  The truth is that I always get a little bluesy after Christmas is over.  As much insanity, planning and chaos is involved, I do love it — and I’m sad whenever it comes to an end.

And as 2011 winds down, I’m thinking about the ups and downs of the year and how, as usual, incredibly quickly it flew by.

2011 was the year I stopped working.  The year my kids turned four and two.  The year we began (but did not finish!) the longest basement renovation in modern American history.  The year my family vomited in multiple states up and down the east coast to mark each road trip and vacation.

But more than anything, 2011 will always be the year that I lost my dear friend Jen.  And I have spent more hours than I can count since that last day of May wondering how this happened.  On certain days, I still wonder if, in fact, it’s actually true that my healthy, magnetic 38 year-old friend of 27 years went to bed one night and didn’t wake up.

My mind has turned to Jen every day — multiple times a day — since she passed away.  I keep her picture up on my fridge, which sounds terribly unsentimental, but it’s the highest trafficked area of my house.  I’m forced to walk by it a lot.  And every time, I look at her photo and wish so much that she was here.  For her kids and for her husband and for her parents and brother.  And for all of her friends who loved her so much.

I found myself thinking of her even more during the holidays.  I played my Christmas music, baked my cookies, bought my gifts, asked for my Keurig.  And wondered, every step of the way, how her family was going to get through this season without her.

I’m not the preachy type.  But I’ll ask you for something as you think about the 2011 that was, and the new year around the corner.  Please think about my friend Jen once in a while — even if you never knew her.  Trust me, you would have loved her.  Please think about her six year-old son and her four year-old twin daughters.  Please think about her husband and her parents, who somehow carry on with so much dignity to be there for those kids.  And please think about how quickly things can change.  Because, in a million years, you never could have convinced me that we’d all live in a world without Jen’s unforgettable laughter.

You would think that I’d come out the other side of this whole thing being a better adjusted person.  Not sweating the small stuff.  Having better perspective.  Living for the moment.  All of that.  The truth is, I’m working on it.  And maybe 2012 will be the year I pull it off.  For Jen.

In the meantime, I wish you all full champagne glasses at midnight, and a wonderful year ahead.

And if someone can take the rest of these Christmas cookies off my hands, that would be great.

 

 

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Forget the Cookies

December 22, 2011

It’s T minus 48 hours until the big guy comes down the chimney with some presents.  Hopefully, leading with my shiny new Keurig.  Then, if I’ve been very good, perhaps he’ll ban Lady Antebellum forever.  And maybe he’ll even force all website articles to default to “view as a single page.”  Hey, we all have our Christmas wishes.

Meanwhile, it’s crunch time in Fordeville.  Not a single gift is wrapped.  I am cooking for 20 people on Sunday — and I lose all of Saturday because we are celebrating at my in-laws’ place that day.  Also, I’m considering throwing some Christmas lights on the dumpster and a port-a-john in my driveway — just to make sure I welcome my guests with holiday home renovation cheer.

But don’t worry.  I am fortifying myself with spiked egg nog, Christmas cookies and caffeine.  It’s all good.

As we approach Christmas Eve, I thought I’d recycle this post from last year, so that anyone getting stressed about baking for Santa can feel free to take a less traditional approach.  I mean, the guy can’t eat cookies all night.

* * * * *

Santa’s Sandwich {originally published December 16, 2010}

 

{Photo courtesy NYC Food Guy}

I was thinking about Christmas traditions.  This, of course, brings my mind to cookies (it’s easy for me to bridge quickly from any given topic to baked goods). Did you all leave milk and cookies for Santa as a kid?

We didn’t.  In our house, we were raised to leave Santa an Italian hero on Christmas Eve.  Seriously.

If you’ve never had a real Italian hero, well — that’s a whole other discussion for another day (and you have my sympathy, by the way).  But my mom used to make them a lot when we were kids, mainly because my father loved them.  She piled up the meats, the cheese, some shredded lettuce, oil and vinegar.  Amazing.

So how stupid were my sisters and I not to put the pieces together?  It’s like a basic 2nd grade workbook problem:

  • Dad loves Italian heroes. 
  • Santa loves Italian heroes. 
  • Dad and Santa were under the same roof Christmas Eve. 
  • Therefore, Santa must be…
  • (Come on, girls, you can figure this out)

Nope, we were clueless.

Maybe my parents billed it that Santa couldn’t run on cookies all night and needed a real meal (or sandwich) at some point in his travels.  Maybe it was about food for the reindeer.  But, if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think they had to sell it at all.  I think we just believed them because leaving that Italian hero on Christmas Eve was what we always did.

 And that’s what I like about tradition — you don’t question it because it’s just the way it’s done your family.  It’s not until we’re older that we compare notes with the real world and realize that our way might have been wonderfully different, a little quirky, pretty naive or — in some cases — just a bit off kilter (see Competitive Post-Thanksgiving Gaming).

But I like the story of Santa’s sandwich and, as my kids grow up, I wonder what variations we’ll bring into our own Christmas traditions — and whether I should buy some sopressata, cheese and a 6-foot roll this week.

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Anatomy of a Holiday Card

December 21, 2011

The holiday cards are piling in every day now.  It’s one of my favorite parts of this season — hearing from so many people and seeing the cute pictures of their families.

The photos on these cards are always so interesting to me.  Mainly because I wonder how tough it was for each family to get their kids to cooperate.

As far as I’m concerned, holiday card photos fall under the Parental Amnesia category.  This is a serious condition that causes parents to forget about the mental or physical pain associated with certain aspects of having and raising kids.  The most obvious example is childbirth.  If women remembered, in detail, what they endured in that process, nobody would have siblings.  Ever.

Parental Amnesia also applies to other things like sleep deprivation and potty training.

And yes, holiday card photos.  It’s true.  I should know.

You see, had I remembered how utterly painful it is to attempt to get a decent photo of my kids for our annual holiday card, I would have just hired a photographer.

But no, I figured — how hard can it be?  {Anyone with small kids is laughing with an evil snort right now.}

**Classic Parental Amnesia.**

Before you call me crazy or high maintenance, let me first define what I mean by the term “decent photo.”  To be perfectly clear, my requirements are minimal.  I would like my kids to:

–both appear in the frame

–have more than half of their respective faces showing

–be generally in focus

–have their eyes open (this does not apply when they are infants)

–not be crying

That’s it.  I don’t care if they are in holiday outfits, or if there is a lush seasonal backdrop in the photo.  {Where is that mystical Christmas meadow in these photos, anyway?  I don’t think my town has one.} Two kids who look generally clean and not ready to cry is really all I want to show family and friends in this season of joy.

These photo sessions never go well when planned — I have learned this  much.  So, this year, I decided to wing it one day in November when both kids happened to be dressed decently and looked generally photo-ready. I took them out to the front lawn, where it was oddly 70 degrees that day.  They were in good moods and had full stomachs. Figuring these were the best odds I would get all year, I sat them down in front of a few plants in the yard and just went for it — snapping away with my iPhone and using my best cheerleader voice.

In the span of 36 seconds, the following photo shoot and general commentary transpired.

“OK, you guys, have a seat right here in front of the plants.  It’s so nice and sunny out, isn’t it?  Let’s take a few nice pictures!  Put your arm around your sister! Here we go!  Smile!”

“OK, OK, let’s try to look at Mommy!  No, it’s not a bug on your finger — just put your hands in your lap, OK?  Over here!  Look!”

“Guys, I’m up here {snapping fingers}!  Looooook over here!  Say — cheeeeese!”

“OK — again please.  Cheeeese!”

“Wow, that’s a lot of cheese.  Hm. How about ‘Christmas?'”

“Yes, that’s the neighbor walking her dog over there.  Look back at me.  No, the dog can’t come up here to play right now.  Back over here, guys!  Look at Mommy!  {Now jumping up and down.}  It’s warm out here, isn’t it?”

“Wait!  Where are you going?  No, no, we’re not done yet — almost!  Grab your sister’s hand and tell her to sit by you.  Look back over here. Pleeeeease.”

“Can you try holding hands for me please?  And sitting just a little closer?  Come on.  Santa is watching, you know.”

“Great — you’re sitting closer and holding hands!  Thank you.  Just.  Look.  Over.  Here.  For.  The.  Love.  Of.  God.”

“Both of you!  Loooooook heeeeere!  {Waving frantically now.  My construction crew has emerged from the basement to see if there is a crazy person on the premises.} I have candy inside.  Who wants candy?  Look here for candy.  And your college money.  All eyes on me for tuition.”

“Get your sister!” {I lunge for her, now breaking a full sweat.}

“It is so HOT outside.  What’s with the 70 degrees?!  Yes, I know, you are losing patience.  Just another minute.”

“Guys.  Stay with me.  One more — I promise.  Let’s make it a good one and then we’ll have candy and an extra TV show.”

“Oh thank you.  That’s a wrap.  Mommy needs wine now.”

* * *

OK, maybe my son looks slightly medicated in the photo, but I took what I could get.  And really, does anything say festive holiday season quite like a pair of camouflage pants?  I think not.

So this is where you guys come in.  Next year, if I appear to make any attempts at the holiday photo again, please remind me of this post.  Save me from Parental Amnesia.  And feel free to refer a good photographer in the greater New Jersey area.

 

 

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays, That Which Drives Me Crazy 14 Comments
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