Two

July 8, 2011

 

Two.  How can that be?

I won’t get all weepy on you (I can’t promise the same to my family), but it’s hard to believe.  And even with all the excitement of what’s to come as she gets older, I do find it sad that she’s not a baby anymore.  

Like she was here, at a week old.

Or here, on her first birthday.

So what’s she like at two?

She’s incredibly strong-willed.  She’s her older brother’s number one fan and biggest agitator.  She likes to be in on the joke.  And, above all, she knows how to play the devil in disguise.  Brilliantly.

I don’t worry that she’ll ever be a shrinking violet.  I do worry that she’ll be outrunning me in another year. 

Beyond that, the sky’s the limit.  As it should be.

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Pre-Vacation Stress: A Top 10 List

July 6, 2011

I’m one of those annoying people who gets stressed out before vacations. At least when my kids are involved.  Which is usually the case, since there’s no Maria Von Trapp in sight to watch them and make clothing out of curtains while we whisk ourselves away.

In just a few days, we’re getting in the car and driving to The Outer Banks. That’s at least ten hours by car.

Ten hours. Without traffic. Each way.

I realize that many people do the long-drive-with-kids-thing all the time.  This will be our first attempt.  And I’m skeptical.  Because, I don’t know about you guys, but my kids are not what I’d call road warriors. In fact, they often make me a little crazy just driving within a five mile radius of our home. But in a moment of either insanity or drunkenness, I overlooked this detail.

And now departure time is drawing near.  So here are the Top 10 Points of Concern (not necessarily in order):  

1.  The drive. As I mentioned. And no, we don’t have a DVD player in the car. But my engineer husband has assured me that he has fashioned some sort of homemade contraption to keep our iPad in place for optimal kids’ viewing. I am picturing some balsa wood and a bungee cord.

2.  The packing. I hate packing. And I since I like to have options, I tend to overpack — which results in a lot of stuff.

3.  The mountain of laundry that, despite all my staring and willfulness, just won’t wash and fold itself.  Don’t the shiny new front loaders have that feature?  I need to get some of those.

4.  The fact that there is a birthday in this family to be celebrated between now and then. A birthday belonging to a certain youngest child.  And that means I need to get on the stick and ensure that merriment ensues.

5.  The dread of my husband’s horrible Sirius radio stations never going out of range on the drive.

6.  Did I mention the drive?

7.  The more-than-casual curiosity about the availability of wi-fi. You know, because I start to twitch if there’s no signal. Yes, I know it’s America and all. But you just can’t be sure.  It would be reckless of me to prematurely rule out the need to tweet using carrier pigeons.

8.  Bringing the translucent-white, pasty skin of my whole family ten hours closer to the equator. (See also: Where is the closest natively grown aloe plant?  Or ER?)

9.  Can the blender at the rental property handle the amount of alcoholic concoctions I plan to prepare and consume, or will a back-up generator of sorts be necessary?

10.  How many baby gates defines crazy? My daughter is still a stair risk, and this house — as far as I can tell from the photos — has about 367 steps encompassing multiple levels.

Here’s the thing.  It’s all going to be great.  We are sharing the house with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their four kids.  This fact has not been revealed to my children because they will spontaneously combust with excitement.  And they will also pepper the ten-plus hour drive with questions about the color of their cousins’ bathing suits, who will get first pass at the Teddy Grahams and who is bunking together. 

So the aunt/uncle/cousins component will be in the “pleasant surprise upon arrival” category.  Right after we exhaust the “Why the hell are we still in the car and where are we going?” category.

The point is that, despite my preparation anxiety, everyone gets along famously and we’re going to have a fabulous week. 

Once the laundry is all done.  Once the birthday girl blows out her candles.  Once the balsa wood/bungee  contraption is built.  Once I figure out how to block the 80s British Pop station from Sirius. 

And once I pack the industrial-sized blender.  Just in case.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire

Born in the Wrong Decade

July 1, 2011

I think it was D6.  Or maybe E6. 

I’m not entirely sure which slot “Sherry” by the Four Seasons occupied in the jukebox, but I think it was one of those.  I struggled to remember as I sat through last Saturday’s matinee of Jersey Boys.  And I was transported.  Not to the 60s, because I wasn’t born yet.  But instead to the late 70s and early 80s, when my childhood consisted of Saturday and Sunday mornings with my middle sister, listening to great music on the jukebox my parents had in our basement. 

Most kids watched cartoons on weekend mornings.  We listened to oldies.  For hours at a time.  And to this day, I remember those old labels my mom typed up to display the choices, and I can tell you where some of the songs were placed. 

A1:  “Since I Don’t Have You” by The Skyliners.  My dad’s favorite song ever, so it got  the top spot on the jukebox.  It’s fantastic.  I can tell you that they say “you” (or “youuu-ooo”) 13 times at the end of the song.  My dad was pretty pissed off when I told him, decades later, that Guns ‘n Roses made a little-known cover of this.

E9:  “Be My Baby” by Ronnie Spector.  I remember pressing  my mom to tell me her favorite song, and she didn’t really have just one.  But after repeated requests, she said it was this.  Which I love.  I may have been one of the few eight year-olds to know all about Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound and be able to place it. Who knew he’d go on trial for murder?

G2:  “Runaway” by Dion.  Such a great song.  I loved everything he sang.

J10:  “Mack the Knife” by Bobby Darin.  To this day, still one of my favorites.

K — 6?  I think:  “My Boyfriend’s Back” by The Angels.  One of the top choices for my sister and me when we wanted to choreograph a little dance.  Looking back on it, I think the material was a little over our heads to tell a good narrative.  But I hear we were cute.

There were many others whose precise location on the jukebox I can’t remember but I know we played them to death.  The Four Tops, The Temptations, The Beach Boys, Elvis, Paul Anka. 

We knew them all by heart. 

This dynamic seeped into the 80s, when my mom filled the last two columns of the jukebox with her contemporary favorites.  Which meant, at that time — oh yes — Disco. 

Burn baby burn.  Boogie oogie oogie. 

My father hated disco.  Hated it.  It had to stay contained to the right side of the jukebox.

But whatever, Dad.  We had the coolest stay-at-home-disco-queen-mom around.  She vacuumed the house to Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall” album.  And when roller skating was all the rage, she didn’t just drop us off or sit and watch — she was skating.  On her very own pair of skates that she brought along (my sisters and I wore the rentals).  She skated backwards, did turns and cut the corners in that cool way that I could never really do. She tried to teach me but I was much better at playing Pac-Man in the rink.

Now I have “Instant Replay” in my head.  Sorry…

Anyway.

My parents’ mutual love for music was one of the greatest gifts they gave us.  They knew all the back stories of the songs and artists, all the words — and they told us all of it.  I still call one of them from time to time to name a song I can’t place. 

Our family car rides always meant listening to Cousin Brucie on 101.1 WCBS-FM.  To this day, it is the only station my sisters and I can agree on when we drive somewhere together.  It’s not just coincidence that one of my sisters ended up with a guy who is not only a musician, but one who knows all the songs we know.  One who has, remarkably, played back up for some of these very groups on their reunion tours.  Yes, really.

I do sometimes feel like, when it comes to music, I was born in the wrong decade.  It’s not that I don’t like the music of my own childhood (hello 80s), college years or even today.  I do.  But the music my parents shared with us just has a much more special place in my heart and carries so much influence over the taste I have.  Sitting in Jersey Boys last weekend, it was amazing to me how I could feel nostalgic for an era I never lived in.  But I was wistful for my own experiences with those songs, my own childhood memories of that jukebox.  For being the only second-grader who knew “Rag Doll,” “Working My Way Back to You” and “Walk Like a Man.”  Because my parents and their fabulous collection of 45s in that jukebox ensured that I knew.

I want to do the same for my kids.  I wish I had that old jukebox.  I wish I had those 45s.  I know I can get most of the songs digitally, but it’s somehow not the same.  Oh well.  I think Breakfast with The Beatles every Sunday morning on Q104.3 is a good start.  I’ll work them up to the Four Seasons and my love of Motown someday. 

And they’ll ask  me what the hell a jukebox is.

{Addendum:  My mom called me this morning after reading my post.  She pointed out that I was wrong about my “Runaway” reference above.   It wasn’t Dion.  It was Del Shannon.  My bad.  Now you see my point about the ongoing back and forth we have about oldies.  Thanks, Mom, for keeping me honest.}

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Always a Party

May 30, 2011

Ah, Memorial Day.  The unofficial beginning of summer. 

{And, by the way, Summer, listen up:  We’ve had a long and harsh winter here, so be good to us.}

Memorial Day is such a party day.  So festive.  But as I think back on the Memorial Days of years past — the pre-marriage and pre-children years — there are a few subtle differences from how I spent today.

—–

Then:  Sleep in until at least 11am.  Because I can.  Meet up with friends for brunch somewhere around 2pm.

Now:  Rise at 6am with children.  Explain to them, over the crunching sound of Cheerios in their ears, that the definition of “federal holiday” means “more sleep, dammit” in their language — to no avail.  Be among the first in town to arrive at the 9am parade because, well, I’ve been up for three damn hours already.

The Future Grand Marshall

 

A little concerned about catching the candy from her seat

 —–

Then:  Relax on the beach, armed with latest issues of People and Us Weekly.  Discuss with friends who, in fact, wore it best.

Now:  “Relax” on the couch, folding laundry, while my daughter naps and my son digs in dirt outside.  Catch a few glimpses of Real Housewives marathon in between 26 requests for child assistance.  Browse half-ripped, three-week old issue of Us Weekly, wondering not who wore it best  — but what the hell they are wearing.

—–

Then:  Cap off a fun-filled Fleet Week, complete with a sailor telling me I have a bad mouth.  Briefly consider cleaning up my language.

Now:  Hear a passing reference to Fleet Week on the 6pm news.  Spell all profanity if children are present.  Which really loses its punch.

—–

Then:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

Now:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

—–

Then:  Apply sunscreen to myself every six minutes to avoid inevitable ER-level sunburn that makes strangers wince in pain.

Now:  Add two kids to the sunscreen equation who have inherited my unfortunate “are you just pale or sick?” gene.  Chase said children down every six minutes for sunscreen application, a la catching a greased pig.  Reach for cocktail.  Repeat.

—–

Then:  Go shopping for cute and trendy summer clothes to wear to Memorial Day barbecue.

Now:  Go!  Now!  To Sears!  All appliances 30% off!  Areyoukiddingme?  Fantasize of replacing washboard/tub ancient  washer/dryer with shiny new front loaders.  Revel in the options of steam drying and load balancing.  Because I’m pretty sure, if you read this closely, the current dryer has a specific setting for “Polyester Leisure Suit.”

Oh, and my daughter’s shoes are on top of the machine because she managed to keep her Holiday Vomiting Streak intact.  The girl is nothing if not consistent.

—–

See?  It’s always a party around here.  A few details have changed, but I still know how to make the most of a holiday.

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The Dark Ages

May 23, 2011

My husband just told me that he has to do some traveling for work over the next few weeks.  I’m upset.

Not because the trip has screwed up any grand plans.  But because it makes me face one of my biggest fears.

Yeah, I’m a grown adult afraid of the dark.  It’s ridiculous.

I have several mainstream fears, like heights and flying.  I have others that are perhaps less common — like crock pot infernos and being struck by a flying baseball.  But being home alone overnight really shakes me up.  I’m a complete and total chicken shit.

It’s worse since we moved out of the city.  You would think I’d be more scared in Manhattan, but I felt right at home there.  And I liked the fact that, 13 stories up, nobody was going to climb into my window.  There was plenty of crazy to go around, but it had to get past my doorman and seek out my apartment in a huge building. 

Here, in pretty suburbia, I feel like someone could just walk up to a window and smash it.

And if that’s not neurotic enough, I’ll disclose that my fear is not exclusively reserved for the living.  I am also afraid that my 100 year-old house will, one night when I’m alone, make itself known as haunted.

Could all of this crap happen with my husband home?  Yes, of course.  But the neurotic mind doesn’t work that way.  Except for last week, when I realized around 3am that P had left the side door to the house open (not unlocked — open).  I was convinced a serial killer was hiding somewhere in the basement.  So of course doing laundry down there was out of the question for at least a week.  Safety first.

You know how you have those moments of “I’m so not qualified to be a parent”?  That’s how I feel when I’m home with the kids on my own overnight.  Like a 13 year-old babysitter who has seen one too many horror films.  Who has also broken into the liquor stash.  But without the forbidden make-out session with the boyfriend on the couch.

I do blame some of this fear on a very specific memory bank of images culled from scary movies over the years.   I’m seriously scarred for life, but am finally wise enough not to even try to watch them anymore.  Even commercials.  Like the one for Paranormal Activity.  The baby monitor image, with the kid standing in the crib and the dog barking.  Areyoufuckingkiddingme?  I can’t even think about it.  Or those ghost-chasing reality shows.  Because this is the crap that my mind conjures up late at night when my husband travels. 

And, for the record, logic has no place here.  I can make any far-fetched horror movie plot fit into my life at 2am when all alone in my bed.  At that hour, it seems so obvious that an evil leprechaun is of course living under my stairs and trying to kill me.  Or one of my kids’ dolls has morphed into the Bride of Chucky.  Or Charlie Sheen is on a bender and roaming the streets. 

So.  What do I do to get through these nights?  A few things.

First, it’s a good thing I have my ferocious guard dog. Pffft.  The only action he would take is to demand a belly rub from an intruder.

I do a full sweep of the house before I go to bed.  And I mean full.  Closets.  Under the beds.  In the showers.  Within the mountain of dirty laundry.

Of course I lock every part of each door and window.  Depending on how many strange noises I’ve heard — like cars driving down the street, heat coming through the pipes — I may or may not put a chair in front of the back door. 

I shouldn’t share this — but why stop now?  My secret weapon is closing the baby gates at the top and bottom of the stairs.  If anything will slow down an intruder, it’s taking the time to unlock those gates in the dark.  This will buy me precious minutes to wake up the guard dog by promising him bacon wrapped in chicken for a week.  Unless the intruder is a father to toddlers and can master the gate latches blindfolded.  Then I’m done for.

Naturally, all of this will not help me against the undead who may be angry that I’ve put a monstrous swing set on sacred ground.  Or don’t like the color choice I’ve made for the dining room.  So I sleep with the phone by my bed (to call who, I’m not sure — Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Rick Moranis?).  Maybe I leave one little light on in my room, too. 

I also keep the TV on for white noise — but not Poltergeist white noise, to be clear.  More like Real Housewives white noise.  Because that’s calming.  And as much as I’d love a bedside flask to keep my nerves calm, I can’t risk compromising my speed and agility if confronted.  Priorities, people.

Who allowed me to be a parent?  Or an adult with voting privileges?  I’m as mystified by this as you are. 

I swear, I have heard and overcome some scary things in my life.  Things like “We’re going to induce you to deliver this nine and a half pound baby now” and “Shoulder pads are totally coming back in style.”  But this fear of the dark, I can’t shake it.

So, go ahead and laugh at me.  I understand.  Or send me any suggestions you might have for me to pull it together.  Or tell me you are the same way (yes, lie to me).

Or just offer to come and sleep over while my husband’s away.  Pretty please.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family 31 Comments

Tiny Dancer

May 13, 2011

 

Call me under-caffeinated, but I was just thinking about who this photo reminds me of.

My daughter and Elton John (the early years): Separated at birth?

The big glasses. 

The hair. 

The “too much going on” outfit. 

The superstar pose.

The love affair with the sound of their own voices.

Just saying.  They’re not dissimilar.  And I suspect she’s envious of his feathered shirt.

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Progress Report

May 10, 2011

{courtesy: coalesque.blogspot.com}

OK.  It has been a month of being a stay-at-home-mom.  And many of you have asked me how I’m doing with the transition (thanks for that).  So I feel I owe you a progress report.

To keep my workplace communication skills sharp, I thought I’d do this in summary form.

Bottom Line:  All is well.  I’m happy.  My kids seem happy, even though they may not grasp the change that has occurred.  {Exception:  Whenever my son, 4, gets in trouble, he asks me which train I’m getting on/when I’m going to work.  Sorry, pal, there’s a new sheriff in town.}

Things I Miss About Work:

  • Ongoing adult interaction with some fabulous people
  • The awesome cafeteria woman who made me a perfect grilled chicken wrap every day
  • That’s about it

Things I’m So Glad to Be Without:

  • Commuting
  • Evil blinking red light on Blackberry
  • The word “synergy”
  • Early warning signs of a stroke

Biggest Challenges:

  • Showering
  • Getting the kids out the door in a human amount of time
  • Finding 10 minutes to make a personal phone call/email
  • Parking at Starbucks
  • All the schlepping in and out of the car seats
  • Deciding which aisle I like best at Trader Joe’s

Top Phrases That Come Out of My Mouth:

  • “Who’s not eating?  There won’t be any [insert bribery dessert-like item here] if you don’t eat.”
  • “The seat belt/shoe/sock is not too tight.  It’s fine.”
  • “Share it or I’m taking it away.” {or: “How did I get to sound like my mother?”}
  • “Getinthecar, getinthecar, getinthecar.  I’m leaving — GETINTHECAR.”
  • “That birdie is called Twitter, sweetheart.”
  • “No, honey, I don’t know why Diego’s parents leave him alone in the jungle.”

Top Phrases That Come Out of My Husband’s Mouth:

  • “You used the oven again?”
  • “You folded all this laundry?”
  • “You vacuumed?”
  • “I think I see locusts approaching.”
  • “Prepare for The End of Days.”

My biggest win:  Mastery of Early Toddlerspeak

Our daughter is 22 months old, which means that she thinks she is speaking like the rest of us, when you actually need a doctoral degree in Mandarin or Sanskrit to decipher what she’s saying.  Since there’s a new word every day at this point, and I’m now home with her all the time, I speak her language.  This mystifies my husband.  For example:

She says: Shamon

Husband hears: Undecipherable filler word used in many earlier Michael Jackson songs

I know she means:  Lawnmower

—————

She says:  Kreom

Husband hears:  A request to upgrade from milk to heavy cream

I know she means:  Climb

—————

She says:  Sveeee

Husband hears:  Child has located the missing piece to IKEA storage bin assembly

I know she means:  Swing

—————

So, you see, things are going well.  I have made some mistakes and have had some crappy days, but on the whole, it has been a great change.

And it’s a good thing I’m home.  Otherwise, my younger child would probably be listening to vintage MJ with a cup of cream in one hand and an IKEA instructions manual in the other. 

Then again, I might have time to shower in that scenario.

 

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CSI: New Jersey

May 1, 2011

It is clear to me that my husband has been watching far too many crime and forensics shows on TV.  

It started with some lost keys.

The following string of events occurred on my last day of work, which explains why this whole story was not immediately communicated to me by my husband — I had a lot going on.  And he was handling the situation.  Like Gary Sinise or David Caruso.

Our then-nanny had our one year-old daughter at the Stop & Shop.  Somewhere between arrival and departure, she couldn’t find the keys to our car.  She swore she had them at the check out in order to present the little key chain-held savings card to the cashier.  And then they were gone.  She suspected the woman in front of her on line accidentally picked them up from the payment counter top area.

Problem was, the supermarket employees not only weren’t helpful, but they didn’t seem to care at all.

So the keys were gone.

She said she’d pay for a new set, but it’s not cheap to replace the remote lock and all that nonsense.  This is when my husband decided to draw upon his well-formed knowledge of TV’s best crime and mystery shows to go all Ice-T and take matters into his own hands. 

So he calls the Stop & Shop and speaks directly with the store manager.  Seems about right.

“And then I asked her to just pull the tape at check out.”

“Excuse me?  Did you just say ‘pull the tape'”?

“Yeah.  Pull the tape.  So we could see what happened to the keys.”

I started looking around the kitchen to see if Sam Waterston or the ghost of Jerry Orbach was in on this.  (And if the latter, could I get him to say “Nobody puts baby in a corner” just once?)

I laughed at my husband a little.  OK, a lot.

“There’s no tape to pull.  This isn’t the eighth precinct.  It’s the suburban Stop & Shop  — the one with the nice low-cal ice cream selection — across the street from the soccer field.”

{On a related note, I’m wondering at this point — priorities intact, as always — if this is why I have no new stash of Skinny Cow ice cream bars in the freezer.}

Pulling the tape.  Nice try.

My Ice-T smirked. 

“They totally pulled the tape.”

“Shut the fuck up.  There was no tape.”

“Oh, there was tape.  And the tape showed, just as suspected, that the previous woman on the line took our car keys off the payment counter and put them in her coat pocket.”

I was blinking audibly.  I was still stuck on the fact that there was tape.  And that we were talking like this.  Soon we’d be saying “perps.”

Then.

“And,” My Ice-T says.

“And?”

“And.  The woman who took the keys had just swiped her Stop & Shop savings card at the register, so the manager got her contact information.  And called her.  And she drove our keys back over to the store.”

Come.  On.

Our suburb is so hard core with their tape pulling, their forensic fact-finding.  And My Ice-T totally shook them down for the information.  Bad asses all around.

Who knew?

Speaking of questions, do you have a few?  If you were me, you might. 

Namely, how did the nanny and my one year-old get home that day without the car keys? 

“Oh, that.  She just had some store employee give them a lift home.”

Uhhhh.  What? 

My Ice-T thought this was a minor detail. 

And this is when I took out the overhead light and began my own interrogation session.

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Four

April 25, 2011

How can he be four? 

And how can I get upset that he’s already four?  What will I do when he’s five or, say, 18?  I’m going to embarrass the crap out of him with my sappy ways.  Poor kid.

Here he was four days old.

One year.

Two years.

Three years.

What’s he like at four? 

He loves transportation of all kinds, but is beyond obsessed with trains.  If you don’t speak railway, don’t even bother talking to him.  Now that every engine from the Island of Sodor lives here with us, and I can finally distinguish between a steam and diesel train, I can keep up.  Good thing, because Train Rehab is not cheap.

Recently, he has begun to love dinosaurs as well.  This morning, he taught us all about the club-shaped tail of certain carnivores.  In detail.  Before my coffee.  But I love it.  And I’m secretly hoping the dinosaurs will unionize and take over the railway — perhaps eat the trains or just step on them.

He eats like most kids his age, which means an aversion to protein and a distinct pro-dipping/condiment position.  And a love of all nugget items.

He laughs easily and yet also turns on a dime.  He’s sensitive, tentative and studious.  I hope he’ll grow up to the be a solid Reformed Nerd — you know, smart with a geeky-is-cool edge.  I was just geeky, no edge.

Or, he can grow up however he wants.  That’s fine too.  As long as it doesn’t happen too quickly — that’s my only request.

This year, he shared his birthday with Easter Sunday.  That’s hard to explain.  Yes, it’s your birthday and the day we celebrate Jesus’ resurrection.  The streamers are for you.  The church-going is for him.  The bunny with eggs thing is just odd but there’s candy *and* birthday cake.  Got it?

So we had 30 people here for the dual celebration.  I love entertaining as long as everything goes smoothly.  Which it never does.  Then I’m sort of the maniac hostess with the eternally re-filled glass of wine.

But, overall, it went well.  I did a lot to prepare but I forgot one key thing for the egg hunt.

Anything here look amiss to you?

Baskets.  None.  We had a classy egg hunt with plastic Target bags.  I do everything with elegance.

Speaking of which, and as most moms know, it’s not really a holiday until a child vomits.  Luckily my daughter allowed us to keep our family winning streak intact.  Thankfully, it was nothing like the Fordeville Christmas Vomitfest — I think she was just on the swings too long.  She bounced back.  Her pretty new dress, not so much. 

Here she is before.  Don’t worry, I have no after photo. 

My sister-in-law took this picture.  I love it.  My daughter and niece, definitely scheming about how to win the egg hunt.  I think I heard one of them say “Sweep the leg!  Finish him!”

And now, the moment of truth.  Project Stegosaurus Birthday Cake. 

I really struggled with whether or not to post this comically awful result.  But, hey, I owe you guys this much. 

First, the prep.  Which was extensive, and may explain the end product.

Now, a sneak peek with the promised look of confusion on my son’s face (subtitle: “WTF is with my cake?  Is that an armadillo?”)

Aaaand, the close up.  Go easy on me.  I tried.  Hard.

That’s right — you can call me Cake Boss. 

Or Unpaid Cake Intern.  Or just Crazy Person Who Will Purchase Cupcakes Next Year. 

And yes, I’m available for weddings and anniversaries too.

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A Cake, A Guest and A List

April 22, 2011

Happy Friday, everyone!

I am knee-deep in preparations for this Sunday, which is both Easter and my son’s fourth birthday.  For this combination of  events, I will be hosting 30 people at my house.  In full disclosure, this stresses me out and makes me an unlikeable, certifiable maniac for the other poor souls who live with me here in Fordeville. 

Adding to my stress is the seemingly minor request made by the birthday boy.  Ever attentive to specifics, he has asked for not just a dinosaur cake, but a green stegosaurus cake with red plates on its back.  Righto.  Good thing I happen to have that exact configuration handy. 

As if. 

I can cook — but I’m not what I’d call a stellar baker or cake decorator.  So, amidst the various other preparations for Sunday, I’ll be somewhere between laughing at myself and throwing a cake pan against the wall within the next 48 hours.  My money is on the latter. 

I can’t promise any photos of the final product, but let me take a moment to share two photos of what my cake will not remotely resemble.  I will also go through this exercise with my son tomorrow, just to manage his expectations.

Cake I Can’t Make #1:  This is way out of my league on so many levels.  Cole is a lucky boy to have someone create this for him.  Cole does not live here. {photo:  www.cakecentral.com}

 

Cake I Can’t Make #2:  A tad more realistic but still — repeat after me — not going to happen.  See that priceless look of joy on this child’s face?  How sweet.  If you get a final cake photo from me, it will likely include a look on my son’s face of utter confusion and resentment because his cake looks like a chihuahua.  Or a generic orb.  {photo:  www.themeparty.com}

 

This might be a good segue to tell you about my guest post today over at Theta Mom, where I discuss my leap from corporate minion to stay at home mom.  It occurs to me that, had I made this transition years ago, I may not be in this specific state of panic over said stegosaurus cake.  Anyway.  I’m really grateful to have contributed this guest post — and if you’ve been around for a while, you know I think so highly of the Theta Mom community.  So, please, check it out.

And I can’t leave you for the weekend without updating you on the intense town pool wait list scenario.  Thanks to everyone for all of the support during this trying time (and also for the additional conniving suggestions on how to climb the list — you guys are a crafty bunch).  I’m pleased to report that I did not have to resort to many of my proposed, borderline unethical tactics to secure a spot.  It appears that enough people died, went bankrupt, moved away or suffered from abject social alienation to relinquish their memberships to my advantage.  Score.

Here’s how the big news went down.

My husband showed up in the family room waving an envelope in his hands the other night.  I was on glass number two or three of red wine after a long day of chasing down the stegosaurus cake pan.  The envelope, with its return address from the town’s Recreation Office, produced total anxiety; I swear, we both felt like it was a college admissions flashback.

Me:  “It’s so soon.  I don’t know if that’s good or bad.  I’m thinking good, especially after the Caddyshack Baby Ruth story I told at the pre-school bake sale to scare them off.  I had a prime audience.”

Him:  “Yeah, but the envelope is not fat.  Remember with college admissions, the fatter the envelope, the better.”

Me:  “Crap.  You might be right.  But do colleges even send letters by mail now?  It’s probably all electronic.  Did you know there’s a writing section on the SATs and now and the scoring system is different?”

Him:  “What are you talking about?”

Me:  “Why couldn’t they have the writing section when I was in high school?  I would have fared so much better.  My whole life could have been different.”

Him:  “How many glasses of wine did you have?  Open the fucking envelope.”

And then.

I love that they are so aware of the bullshit tension they’ve created, they actually positioned the letter to open exactly as I photographed it above — leading with a big, dorky Congratulations.  Like I passed some character screen (we all know that would have been dicey at best) or a written exam. 

But whatever.  I’m in.  I’m #251 no more.

Let the summer begin!  As soon as I figure out how to make this stegosaurus cake.

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays, New to Town 18 Comments
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