Jack is Six

I've sat down to write the birthday blog entry a few times now but I just can't seem to make it happen. I wanted so badly to be able to turn everything around into a positive with some sort of happy ending filled with warm fuzzies. I just couldn't find any until now.

Jack's birthday was kind of a disaster.

We spent a long weekend in Sunriver with my family with snow and food and hot tub and a visit from an old friend. That part was really, really wonderful. But Jack? He was a real handful. It didn't help that he was sick all day on Saturday. We felt sorry for him and let him convalesce on the couch with orange juice and kids' TV shows on repeat all day long. By Sunday (his actual birthday) he seemed much better and was ready to party.



This was supposed to be a ski weekend (a Christmas gift from my dad and Mary), but there was no way we could figure to get everyone up to the mountain. Since both kids scoffed at the idea of taking lessons, it was decided that Brent and Nick would snowboard and Jack would ski. And I would wait to break the bad news to Sawyer until the car had pulled out of the driveway without us.

So off they went, the birthday boy with his dad and his uncle, and I stayed behind to do the damage control and to make chocolate frosting.

Jack is an experienced skier. He talks the talk and had been talking it for awhile. But once they got up to the mountain, rented his gear AND paid for his lift ticket, he took one spill coming down the bunny slope and was done. Brent tried to encourage him. Tried to bribe him. Tried to KILL him with KINDNESS and ENTHUSIASM. But no. It was over.

And so Brent patiently returned Jack's rental skis, packed him back into the car, and drove him down the mountain and back to the house.

I thought Jack would be humble. Maybe a little embarrassed, even. But no. He swaggered into the house with enough attitude to peel paint. I'm still not sure exactly what the problem was, but I will tell you that he spent the rest of the day in full Oscar the Grouch mode, snapping at me and being mean to Sawyer. (Brent wisely returned to the mountain to salvage the rest of that very, very expensive day on the slopes.)

He cheered up a little when let him open his presents and ordered pizza for dinner. Then there was cake and singing and a VERY special mystery guest (hi Keke!) to top it all off.



But soon enough he was back to his old grouchy self and even though I knew I shouldn't, I started to get really irritated. We all just needed some sleep, I told myself. Everything would be fine the next day.

Except that it wasn't. Jack's crabbiness followed us into Monday and yet I was blindly determined to have some sort of wintery fun. I felt like Jack needed another ski day to regain his confidence. I also felt like Sawyer deserved to hit the slopes at least once during our ski weekend. And so I convinced a reluctant Brent to stop by Willamette Pass on our way home.

And at this point I should have just walked into the bathroom and flushed a big old wad of money down the toilet because that is exactly what our day at Willamette Pass was.

(Sawyer did have a grand old time on that magic carpet. So if you divide the cost of ski rentals and lift tickets by the number of times he went up and down that mini ski slope I'd say he had some great $20 runs there!)

Jack's foul mood cast a shadow of negativity over the entire day and culminated in an epic meltdown that lasted the entire length of the parking lot. I am actually kind of surprised that we didn't drive away without him at that point.

I am still looking for the silver lining here. The aha moment where I connect this lousy weekend with some universal truth or at least an optimistic final note. But the reality is that sometimes my kid acts like a total jerk and I don't know what to do about it. Sometimes no matter how hard we try to make it all special and memorable, it still sucks. Sometimes I wonder what we are doing wrong. Sometimes the warm fuzzies are really hard to find.

Jack is six. For six years I have loved this child. For six years I have held him in my arms. For six years I have wanted more than anything in the world for him to be happy.

I was finally able to write this tonight because I found this. This is the valentine Jack made but forgot to give me. This gives me hope.



(Yes those are beads and a rock taped to my valentine. I don't get it either.)

There is a happy and loving little soul in there somewhere, isn't there? I hope he makes his appearance again soon.

 In the meantime, here's everyone else having a great time last weekend.

(This one gives me hope, too.)

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Things Fall Apart

I've heard that bad things come in threes and let's just hope that's true. Because if it's not, our streak of bad luck just might continue into this week and I really don't have time for any more catastrophes in my life right now.

(No, we don't have the flu. That was two weeks ago and it was just as unpleasant as you think it would be. Times five.)

There aren't a lot of photos this week and that's because I've been back at work. That's not one of the catastrophes-- I actually like my job and don't mind working. I spend my days with some of my best friends in the world and a group of kids who can tie their own shoes and take themselves to the bathroom. But my return to work also means less time for sewing and crafting and all of those other photo worthy endeavors that lead to good blog photography.

The bad luck streak began with the fucking Volvo. You remember that piece of shit car that I'm always complaining about? The one that we've poured buckets of money into? The one that's been spewing black smoke? Well, we finally decided to rid ourselves of this burden and sell the damn thing. So Brent listed it on Craigslist and we started getting some pretty low ball offers. Now mind you, we were trying to sell it for a fraction of the Blue Book price because of the whole spewing black smoke thing. Brent was pretty sure we could hold out for a higher offer and so we kept at it and blah blah blah. Long, predictable story short, the car died on us and we ended up selling it for a fraction of that fraction of the price. So pennies, really. But honestly, at this point I am just glad to see it go. Fuck that fucking car.

Then some good luck came our way thanks to Uncle Sam. Having three kids and living off one income is all starting to pay off! Oh yes, it's tax return time! The one time of the year when we can feel rich for a few days before we blow it all and then go right back to squeaking by. Brent had started complaining about our mattress a few weeks ago and how his back was hurting in the mornings. And I was like, "Hello! My back has been hurting FOR YEARS thanks to this stupid mattress!" We've been sleeping for the last five years on this hand-me-down mattress from my brother that, in addition to being totally uncomfortable, makes this horrid creaking and groaning noise every time you move. Which means that getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night has the potential to wake up everyone in the house. And, uh... those other things that you might do in a bed... well, let's just say that this mattress totally sucked it.

So Brent, the shopper in the family, started frequenting the mattress stores and he quickly found THE DEAL. A closeout/floor model/ultra clearance mattress extraordinaire. And of course it was The Last One. EVER. And of course he was going out of town the next day and so in the spirit of getting THE DEAL, I had to drag three kids to the mattress store by myself to make the purchase. AND THEN I had to come home and entertain three kids while simultaneously hauling the Shitty Mattress from Hell out to the garage and then evicting a burrow of dustbunnies from under the bed frame before the delivery guys came. (This was a two beer kind of evening, if you know what I'm saying.)

But this mattress? OH MY GOD. I had no idea how much having this mattress would change my life. It's so fucking amazing. I just. I can't. Words don't even. Ahhhhh.

And so it would seem that things are looking up for the Rosses.

Ha ha ha. Also that day, in addition to dealing with the mattresses, I built a fire in our fireplace. We have ceiling heat in our house, so in other words, we have NO HEAT AT ALL unless the fireplace is going. Then we bake like potatoes. It might surprise you to learn that I am actually pretty good at building fires. This talent comes from years of being chronically cold and living with this useless ceiling heat. I can almost always get a big old rager going and heat up the entire house pretty quickly. But on this day something wasn't right. I got the fire going, but the flames looked funky and big clouds of black smoke came pouring out whenever I opened the door to add more wood. On the plus side, our smoke detector works just fine, apparently. I eventually got the fire going well enough to take the frigid edge off but managed to set off the smoke detector just often enough to wake Clementine during every single one of her naps that day.

In addition to purchasing the mattress, being in charge of three small children, and nearly burning the house down, I managed to find the time to bake some cookies. After all, this was our first night with the new bed and we needed some celebratory dessert! I occasionally make the Oatmeal Scotchies from the back of the butterscotch chips bag and I always have to wonder what the hell the people at Nestle are thinking when the recipe call for two sticks of butter. Are you kidding me? I use one and guess what? The cookies are absolutely delicious. Anyway, I like a chewy cookie and I'm all about pulling the cookies out of the oven before they get too brown, but I noticed right away that these cookies were coming out pretty raw. And then I realized that the oven wasn't hot. The oven wasn't hot because THE OVEN WAS BROKEN.

Fuck.
 
Okay, fine. These things happen. But does everything have to conspire to break at the same time AND to coincide with our tax return?

After what can only be described as a heavenly night's rest, Brent and I were congratulating ourselves on our steal of a deal on this mattress. And again, in spite of our broken oven, it would seem like blue skies were perhaps still heading our way. No more back pain! No more creaking and groaning!

Then Brent went to build us a cozy fire and discovered the black smoke phenomenon for himself. First the Volvo, now the fireplace! What's with all of these fire hazards in our lives?! Brent is a lot smarter than I am because instead of just piling more wood into the woodstove and hoping the black smoke plumes would miraculously go away, he decided to investigate. Turns out our chimney cover is clogged up with a bunch of chimney crud, so we should probably feel lucky that we didn't actually catch the house on fire. Instead I was just irritated about having to get the chimney cleaned, because my god, one step forward and two steps back. ALWAYS.

This is before a multiple bandaid collision. Those razor scooters are much faster than you think they are when you are contemplating buying one for your almost four-year-old.



In other news, Clementine has discovered her thumb.She gets more giggly every day. I have never seen such a happy baby.

Sawyer is always up for a game of Sorry. He cheats and he can't shuffle cards, but if you can get past that he's pretty fun to play with.



And Jack got a pretty awesome first report card AND he lost his first tooth.

And so it would seem that good things also come in threes.

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Pizza for 5 and Pop Music for All

First of all, I made some hats for my cousin's twins! This is such an easy and well written tutorial. I have used it over and over again. You should try it.

Secondly, baby!
 



Lately I have had to come to terms with a few things. Like my favorite pizza crust recipe not making a big enough pizza to feed all of us, for example. This family is growing! And no, I don't mean that we're having more kids (NEVER AGAIN!), I just mean that the boys are already starting to eat us out of house and home.

One time, long ago before I had kids, I was standing in line behind this nice, chatty lady at the grocery store while she unloaded a gigantic cart filled with loaves of bread and gallons of milk and bags of apples and boxes upon boxes of cereal. I imagined she was stocking up for a family reunion or a big trip. "Nope," she replied."I have teenage boys. This is what they eat every week." I feel like I am already turning into that lady, and it's only going to get worse.

Remember the cream puff incident? Turns out Jack really really REALLY hates it when you call him Cream Puff. "Stop calling me Cream Puff!" he yells before stomping out of the room. And then of course Brent and I have to keep a straight face while making comments like, "What's wrong with Cream Puff?" and "Wonder why Cream Puff is so mad," because clearly we are assholes.

Anyway, Cream Puff can really put away the pizza. We usually have a homemade pizza for dinner at least once a week and recently there just hasn't been enough to go around. So I started experimenting with our recipe and I made a few adaptations and viola! Here is our newest pizza crust recipe:

2 1/4 t yeast
2 t honey
1 1/4 c warm water

Put those things in a bowl and set the timer for 5 minutes. Then add in:

3 c flour (here's where things can get a bit crazy. You can use half all-purpose and half whole wheat pastry flour, but I strongly recommend replacing some- 1/4 cup maybe- with vital wheat gluten. I know! Gluten=the devil. But trust me on this one.)
1 t salt
1 t olive oil
1 T yogurt (whole milk is best)

Knead for 8 minutes. I use the bread hook on the KitchenAid for this. Then place dough in an oiled bowl to rise for 30 minutes. Heat pizza stone to 425. Punch down and stretch out the dough on some parchment paper. Top the pizza and slide the whole thing (parchment paper and all) onto the heated pizza stone. Bake for 12-15 minutes. This recipe yields enough pizza to feed our family of four eaters. But I am pretty sure Cream Puff counts for two.

Speaking of recipes, I've also been tinkering around with our recipe for pancakes. I have told you before how much we all love pancakes. The problem is that certain people (Cream Puff, for example) have a hard time waiting patiently for the pancake making process. I am pretty speedy when it comes to making pancakes (I mix the dry ingredients the night before) but Jack can eat pancakes more quickly than I can make them and if I remember correctly, his PR for pancakes is something like 6 in one sitting. So I usually make him eat an appetizer before he starts in on the pancakes. Fruit and yogurt, for example. This greatly increases the odds that Brent and I will actually get a pancake or two for ourselves. I have also found that mixing in a half cup of muesli makes them heartier. Using Star Wars molds to shape your pancakes is optional.

 



Again with the Star Wars! This doesn't really seem like us, does it? Well, the times they are a changin'. My kids are getting older and even though we were once naive enough to think we wouldn't "do" characters, if your kids decide they like Star Wars, you pretty much can't escape it. And so instead of fighting this obsession, I am embracing it. Well, I am trying to, at least.

It's like Sawyer with music. The kids loves his pop music and no matter how much we've tried to broaden his exposure to the music that we like, he just can't get enough One Direction. And so I indulge him and listen to his favorite station when we are in the car and we switch over to Pandora Top 40 when Brent is not home. I think all generations believe that the music from their youth is better than the music of today. My dad certainly wanted me to appreciate Bob Dylan more than I did when I was a teenager. (See above paragraph! It was not all in vain!) But the funny thing is that one day you are preaching about real music and real talent and the next day you wake up and you're a Taylor Swift fan.

(What can I say? She has a nice voice and, quite frankly, "I Knew You Were Trouble" is pretty much the story of my early twenties.)

So I'm embracing the Star Wars and the pop music. Who doesn't need a pep talk from Pink? And how can you not whistle along with Flo Rida, in spite of his thinly veiled sexual innuendos? And LMFAO, I know I am not your targeted demographic, but I so hear you with the shuffling. Me too! EVERY DAY!

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Natural Consequences

Oh, hey, remember Halloween?

Guess I forgot to post any pictures of the big day since Clementine's birth overshadowed the whole Halloween holiday this year. But Darth Vader and Yoda deserve some time in the spotlight, too. Okay, great. Moving on.

The other day I was at the park halfway monitoring some Star Wars tag playing/torture from afar when a pack of playgroup looking parents wandered my way. I overheard one dad explaining his parenting philosophy while his two-year-old toddled along beside him. "We practice natural consequence parenting," he began. "If you leave your toys on the floor they get broken. If you don't eat your dinner you get hungry. It's simple, really." The rest of the group nodded in approval and chimed in with their own pearls of wisdom which I promptly tuned out.

Hmmm. I sat there thinking about this. I guess I am only a fan of natural consequence parenting when it doesn't a) inconvenience me or b) reflect poorly on me, which is pretty much never. When my kids leave their toys on the floor they don't get broken, oh no, I step on them and hurt my foot AND FURTHERMORE I have to look at the mess and/or worry that someone will stop by and SEE the mess. Gah. When my kids don't eat their dinner they whine for hours until they are put to bed and then wake up at the crack of dawn wailing for cereal. Not only is this inconvenient, I worry that the neighbors might think we don't feed our children. (And we really don't need them giving us any more Asian pears.)

Nevertheless, I do sometimes fall victim to the natural consequence parenting when I am having one of those pick-your-battles kind of days. And that's pretty much every day with Sawyer when it comes to getting dressed. Nevermind that he's been getting dressed EVERY SINGLE DAY OF HIS ENTIRE LIFE, and nevermind that we always win in the end. He would rather pitch a thirty minute fit (and risk a garage time out) than spend two minutes getting his clothes on. Clearly he is also picking his battles. So you can see why we rarely question his wardrobe choices because really, if that kid is at least wearing pants, I feel like I've done my job.

Except he doesn't wear pants. He wears shorts year round. On a particularly cold day last week, I had to walk the dog because Brent injured his foot playing soccer. I was also not exactly in my prime because of a horrible medical procedure of which I will spare you the details, but if you've been reading for awhile you know that I have endured a variety of indignities when it comes to my feet. So we were both gimping around and I was the martyr who sucked it up and dragged kids and dog out into the cold for the walk.

I bundled up Clementine and found my hat and gloves and, because I am a good mother, I suggested to Sawyer that 29 degrees and foggy was not exactly "shorts weather." I dutifully nagged him about wearing a hat and gloves and finding a real coat, but eventually I gave up and he followed me out the door in a hoodie and a pair of shorts.

We got to the park and unloaded from the car. I sent Lu in first while I wrestled the baby into the pack and coaxed Sawyer out of the car. By the time the kids and I began our walk I had lost sight of the dog in the dense fog. I figured she'd just circle around and meet up with us so we just kept on walking even though it was really, really cold. The wind picked up and Sawyer started complaining about his freezing hands and I was starting to not be able to feel my feet. I whistled for the dog. I yelled for the dog. No dog. Sawyer went from whining to sniveling to crying in record time. And still there was no dog. For the next 45 minutes I wandered through the fog calling for that damn dog. Sawyer was most unhelpful, crying about being cold (no shit) and getting stuck in one of those three-year-old loops. "Call Oakridge." What the hell is he talking about. Oakridge? I wondered. Well, we did get the dog from some people from Oakridge. "Can you please call Oakridge, Mom? Mom, where's Oakridge? Is Oakridge in Oregon? What planet is Oakridge on? Can you just email them, Mom? Mom?"

Naturally my phone was in the car, so when I finally decided it was time to throw in the towel and admit to somebody that I'd lost the dog, we had quite a trek. A long trek in which many, many more questions about Oakridge were asked. I knew Brent wouldn't be able to help with his hurt foot and so I called my dad. He didn't have a car that morning but was all set to get on his bike and ride across town in the freezing fog to help me out. What a guy.

I called Brent to break the bad news. Except that he already knew I'd lost the dog because our vet had called. Some lady had found Lu and brought her there. Our dog was in a cozy, warm kennel waiting for us to come pick her up.

With numb, icy fingers I buckled an even icier Sawyer into his car seat. Clementine was so warm and snuggly in the pack that I almost couldn't bear to take her out and put her into her seat. But I did, because again, good mother! And we drove maybe a half a mile to our vet's office. The parking lot was empty and I contemplated leaving the kids in the car so I could just run in and grab the dog, but good mothers don't do that so I helped Sawyer out and then went around to get Clementine. And that's when I noticed that I hadn't buckled her into the car seat. Sigh. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to win.

It must have been a slow day at the vet. Everybody was just sort of standing around like Lu was the most exciting thing that had happened there in awhile. Several jokes where made about me having my hands full, etc. The receptionist insisted on helping me out to the car, so I gave her Lu's leash and she grabbed Sawyer's hand. "Oh my, you've got cold little hands," she remarked brightly.Then she peered over her glasses at me. "He's not exactly dressed for the weather, now is he?"

Lady, you have no idea.

Natural consequences, my foot. 

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Sewing and Such

I usually start to get itchy this time of the year. Not scratchy itchy, but itchy instead for something to look forward to. Like spring. But we still have a few solid months of grey left before I can even think about seeing the sun again, so I decided to focus on what has previously been an unsung holiday around here: Valentines Day. I stayed up super late one night watching Anchor Man and cutting felt for this heart garland. I should add that I nearly cut off my fingers during fits of hysterical laughter because- my god- have you seen this movie?

I have been sewing a bit for Clementine these days. I made her this doll for Christmas. Does she look familiar? I am a one trick pony.
 

And I've been using up smaller pieces of cute fabrics on these shirt/dresses. I admit to having fabric hoarding tendencies so it's always an accomplishment when I dust off some fabric that's been taking up valuable real estate in my closet and actually make something for a change. And then I found this tutorial for the baby mini skirt which is completely and utterly ridiculous but after years and YEARS of sewing button up shirts, because really, what else is there with two boys, I am all about the baby mini skirt! Even if it is totally pointless, I just can't help myself.

And speaking of the button up shirts, can we please have some consistency with collar making instructions, pattern writers of the world? I swear I have followed ten different sets of instructions for this and each time I inevitably begin to question the logic of the steps but, like a fool, I just keep going- even though something doesn't seem quite right here- until I get to the basting. I never baste. It's my way of sticking it to the man and living dangerously at the same time. Fuck a bunch of basting.

So when will the pattern makers figure out that less is really more when it comes to collars? Burda 9747, I am talking to you.

(I feel sorry for kid modeling view B. His mom must have put him up to this.)

Every year I forget how much I hate you and, like a moth to a flame, I use you for the Christmas jammies. And it's only when you start in with the collar basting instructions that I remember how lame you really are. You make my kids look like Ron Burgundy. And I am not laughing.

So anyway, on this Valentines Day kick, I found this rad Star Wars valentines tutorial where you print pictures of Star Wars Lego figures and then use a little glow stick as the light saber and I got super excited because crafty and cool at the same time! Won't all of the other preschool and kindergarten parents be impressed? Except the weird thing was that neither of the kids were into it at all. Once they realized that I was just going to take pictures of their existing Star Wars Lego figures and not buy NEW Star Wars Lego figures they quickly lost interest. And then Jack got all huffy set out to make his own cryptic valentines out of Star Wars stickers, computer paper and a Halloween pencil. I have learned not to question his method when it comes to this sort of thing, so we will just roll with it and see what happens. I can just imagine his kindergarten colleagues bringing home their shoe boxes full of valentines and their parents wondering Just who is this "Jack R." with the weird valentines?  Didn't his parents see the tutorial about the glow stick light sabers?

Speaking of school, we recently had to enact a wardrobe variety ordinance in our house. Both Jack and Sawyer would wear the same outfit every day if we let them. Jack is fond of a blue underarmor shirt with grey jeans while Sawyer prefers a Yoda t-shirt and a pair of blueberry stained basketball shorts, rain or shine. I am all for the kids expressing themselves via their wardrobes, but a little variety is nice from time to time. And how about all of those fabulous awkwardly collared button up shirts? I sure would like to see those in the rotation once in a while. I have tried to (GENTLY!) explain to Jack that since he's in an immersion program and will be with these kids for the next THIRTEEN YEARS (!!) he might not want to pigeonhole himself as the kid who always wore the blue shirt in kindergarten. And please, whatever you do, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, do not try to tell the kids that you had two identical blue shirts, because your middle school peers will see right through that, kid. Trust me.

This valley fog has been really getting to me. Maybe I've read "The Fall of the House of Usher" too many times, but it's seriously started to creep me out. I just couldn't hack it any more and we had to get out of dodge. We heard that the sun was shining at the beach so off we went. This is what we left behind.



Jack was wearing his blue underarmor shirt even though it wasn't a school day. But then of course we ran into his teacher at the North Jetty (OF COURSE!) so I am sure she too will remember him as the kid who always wore the blue shirt.

We all had a good time frolicking around on the beach and basking in the sunshine despite the fact that Brent and I are both hobbling around on hurt feet (more on that later). The kids built sandcastles and ran down the dunes, the baby slept in the pack, the dog ran circles around us for at least an hour. Everything was just fine, splendid actually, until we lost Sawyer. He was only missing for about five minutes but during those five long minutes I realized that the North Jetty is just about the worst place you could lose your kid. And I also realized that losing my kid is my greatest fear. So that pretty much sucked.

But then we found him. He was actually pretty easy to spot in his bright yellow t-shirt with a rooster in sunglasses that says "I'm here for the chicks." I guess the Yoda shirt must have been dirty that day.

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Snotty Mom

Right after Clementine was born I started reading a book called Sh*tty Mom: The Parenting Guide for the Rest of Us. Yes, yes, I know. The irony, blah blah. Anyway, the book was really funny and I kept laughing out loud as I was reading. This was driving the kids crazy. "What's that book? Why are you laughing so much?' Sawyer demanded over and over again in spite of the fact that I was BLATANTLY ignoring him. Jeez, take a hint, kid. Jack came along and misread the title. "It's called Snotty Mom. Mom's reading a book about boogers!" And then they dissolved into a heap of giggles and left me alone to keep reading and snort-laughing in peace.

Sh*tty Mom is the book you wish you had read before you had kids. Back when you were a judgmental jackass who could not comprehend why someone would let their bedhead kids run amok in a grocery store wearing Halloween costumes in May.

Or maybe that's just me. I seriously used to wonder why people didn't comb their kids' hair. How hard can it be? I wondered. It's just hair.

I'm passing the book along to my cousin who is about to have twin boys. Because I am pretty sure she, like all first timers, thinks she will be combing their hair. And that their socks will match. So yeah. Ha ha.

For some reason I thought that having three kids would make me a better parent. You know, like I'd somehow really understand parenting. I'd have it all down. I'd be an expert. A veteran mom. A spewer of wisdom at the playground. Somebody with their mommy shit together.

But instead of getting better, I think I am actually getting worse. Sh*ttier, some might even say.

For example, Brent and I decided to save a few bucks by feeding the kids french fries and milkshakes for dinner. Those kids' meals are a racket.

Oh, and that infant carseat adapter for the stroller is for rookies.

Even our morals have been compromised! Jack subscribes to a free Lego magazine which comes a few times a year. They always have these Lego Challenges and readers can send in pictures of their Lego creations and win prizes. Brent and Jack always pore over this magazine when it arrives and Brent inevitably mutters about how the parents must be helping these kids. "No 6 year old could build that," he grumbles. And so on.

The last challenge was for some sort of fire fighting equipment and Brent and Jack sequestered themselves in the playroom with an iPhone until they emerged with this.

I wash my hands of this entire Lego Challenge.

Sometimes I leave my baby lying naked on the changing table. But Brent propped one corner up with a folded blanket, so it's all good, right?

We taught Sawyer to fetch us beers from the garage by color. "Can you get me one of the purple beers with the yellow light?" for Jubelale. Celebration is "The red one with the snowy house." Last year he learned to retrieve the bottle opener and this year, as a special treat, we sometimes let him open them.

I have not driven the car with my baby in the Ergo yet, but I'd be lying if the thought hadn't crossed my mind. Many times. We sometimes do time outs in the garage. I have packed peanut butter and jelly on a hotdog bun for lunch. And we may or may not have left the five year old home alone while we took the other kids for a walk last week. I don't want to incriminate myself here.

And then there is my friend Peter. His kids are angelic little sweethearts who do as they are told, who get along, who are super athletes, who have manners and actually use them in public. Unlike my children who still need to be prompted for the five thousandth time in that stupid singsongy voice that all desperate manners-pushing parents eventually adopt "What do you say when Grandma gives you an ice cream cone?" "What should you say when you want something?" When on the inside we are screaming, "WHAT THE FUCK!? HOW MANY TIME DO I HAVE TO FUCKING REMIND YOU TO SAY PLEASE AND THANK YOU!?"

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Peter and his awesome kids. We all went to this free soccer clinic put on by the Portland Timbers. Jack and William got to rub elbows with some players and practice drills with the coaches. While Caroline, the obedient child and thoughtful sister, cheered on her brother from the sidelines, Sawyer pitched an endless fit about not being able to play, flopped on the floor, fell off a bar stool, and went on two time outs for sticking his tongue out at me.

OMG, somebody please comb that child's hair! How hard can it be?

When it was all over, I began herding everyone toward the exit, contemplating just how much garage time Sawyer had racked up for himself during the hour we were there. But then Jack and William noticed that kids were lining up for autographs from the players and even though neither of them seemed to know what an autograph was, they wanted one.

Brent and I were fumbling around with the diaper bag/camera/Ergo/baby/three-year-old as the line grew and grew. We were just trying to get the hell outta there when Peter, the moral compass of the group, sent the kids over to the front of the line. 

"Did our kids just cut to the front of the line?!" I asked incredulously.

He shrugged his shoulders and we both turned away in case any line-abiding citizens were looking around for the cuplrits' parents.

And so Jack and William met Timber Joey and learned what an autograph is and collected some cheap, plastic Timbers memorabilia. By the time I noticed that Sawyer had weaseled his way into the whole thing, I just didn't care about the rules at all anymore.

If we can learn one thing from this experience, it's that being a shitty parent from time to time does not necessarily mean you will have shitty kids.

And that maybe I need a new moral compass.

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2013: Year of the Cream Puff

The best thing about 2012:

The first day of 2013:

Ringing in 2013 was a pretty tame affair around here. Second in tameness only to New Years 2003 when my brother Nick and I were in Edinburgh for the "world famous" Hogmanay festival and we did not realize that there would be NO BOOZE for sale AT ALL and so we froze our sober arses off wandering the streets and looking for the widely publicized but highly elusive Boy George concert. At midnight we were hugged and kissed by random kilt-wearing strangers who reeked of scotch while Boy George relived his glory days on a giant screen above us. We never did find that concert- drunken Scots aren't the most helpful or easy to understand in such situations. 

Since Brent and I had no swanky New Years party to attend this year, I insisted that we have at least have a special dinner to commemorate 2012. A special dinner where everyone complained about the veggie tart and both boys spilled their water within thirty seconds of each other.



And yet I was still determined to make it SPECIAL and so we made Jack eat his obligatory five bites and loaded everyone into the familymobile, heading to Sweet Life for dessert. Brent and I shared a slice of raspberry cheesecake because we are romantic like that. Sawyer opted for mango gelato because he is random like that. But Jack, well, Jack has a problem when it comes to dessert. After some panicky indecision and a brief lecture on why buying him an entire cake was out of the question, Jack settled for a chocolate cream puff that was roughly the size of his head.


 

My mom was a sucker for stray cats. We had A LOT of feline friends come and go when I was a kid, but I remember one cat in particular because he was feral. We would amuse ourselves by feeding him little pieces of lunch meat and watching him freak out, hissing and spitting and yowling as he greedily devoured his treat lest anyone tried to steal it from him.

And that is, sadly, exactly how Jack ate his cream puff. The people sitting around us were trying hard not to stare as he grunted and slurped his way through that giant pastry, smearing chocolate on his face and cream on his jacket. Brent and I were totally embarrassed. "Dude, slow down. Can you even taste that?" Brent asked him. I swear I could hear Jack growling as he continued to stuff his face with that cream puff. This was seriously one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen in my life and Jack earned himself a new nickname that night.

Once we got Cream Puff and Nelson (think Simpsons) home that night, Brent made them put on their headlamps and go run around the block to burn off some of the sugar while I put Clementine to bed. They each fell into a diabetic coma soon after. 

So we then spent a quiet evening drinking beer by the fireplace and watching Downton Abbey. There were no trips to Urgent Care and no one was hungover the next day. So yeah. Being old and lame is actually kind of cool sometimes.

I do have a resolution for 2013 and it's all thanks to my friend Doris, who is also the fairy godmother to my children. Despite my lousy track record with this sort of things, I think I just might be able to make this one stick. My resolution is to do more thrift store shopping! In the past six months I have scored so many sweet deals that I don't think I can ever go back to real store shopping. I will NEVER again pay retail prices for things like athletic shorts or soccer cleats. Snow gear? Helmets? Board games? Check. Check. Check. Patio furniture! Cast iron cookwear! Little pink sweaters! MY GOD, THE LITTLE PINK SWEATERS! I could go on.

 (I paid $8 for this Lego table! I think it has saved my sanity. Well, as much as it could be saved. At least I am not stepping on Legos anymore. $8!!)

Hopefully my resolution will end up saving our family some money. So we'll have more to spend on things like cream puffs. Or insulin. Or scotch. Happy 2013!

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