Study Hard Kids

My children will simply have to study hard and get scholarships...end of story. We are about to experience a cash cow windfall. (I am in complete denial that this is of course not new money we will be receiving this week, it is only tax credit money for less than 1/2 of what we spent on ye ole' most recent adoption. See photo of ye ole' most recent adoption below, melt your heart cute, yes?

The muffin man and I in our infinite wisdom have decided that instead of responsibly feeding two little kids' 529 plans we would instead throw caution to the wind, bet the trifecta and hope the little geniuses don't academically burn out by 3rd grade and obtain some money from Harvard. Seems like a great gamble since no one is even riding the bus to Kindergarten yet. With Ava, I 'm still hedging my bets the kid can squeeze some cash from the State U at the very least. She is a certifiable future MENSA member. Unfortunately she most often chooses to use her powers for evil and cutting the hair off barbie dolls. It is simply a channeling of energy issue...I have years to tame the beast and I am not worried.

Now the little one? Hmmm...the votes still out. We are furiously working on the fact that American Sign Language does indeed include more than one sign and all the the world's problems can't be solved with the more sign. But she is so damn cute she will be able to use her feminine wiles to charm the heck out of some admissions clerk, I am sure of it.

It is crass to speak of monetary indulgences in the same breath as your loving children but as luck would have it when you adopt...the big pink elephant in the room is often greenbacks.

Like it or not.

So, with the smell of previously spent money in the air I present shiny glory and her sidekick princess fingerprint.
















Aren't they shiny? Aren't they pretty? Isn't Momma a complete fool for purchasing stainless steel with 2 small children running amok?

Don't answer that. Secretly, you know you'd be caught up in the show room with all that shiny"ness" too. The back corner of Best Buy is big kid toy heaven, and we had our $.50 worth of candy money in our pockets. For the record they show every last finger print. I have already conditioned and cleaned the fronts of these two appliances 4 times in the last 24 hours. Magnets do not stick, and therefore my kitchen will be preschool artless. It is probably therapy in the making.

So, enough about kitchen appliances want to see another reason why my children better start practicing calculus?

Draperies. Now before you get all "My God woman why don't you just fly off to Vegas and leave the kids with Brittney" on me they are semi-homemade. Yes, that is my defense statement, "They are semi-homemade." Double lined panels from Bed Bath and Beyond and then I sewed the accent material on top with matching fun fringe. It was 8 hours of pure stress as I sewed each panel and held my breath as I hoped the hem line would gracefully skim the floor and window seat. The Muffin Man toiled away for hours with a beer in one hand and a drill in the other hanging drapery rods, now that is good family fun. I was hoping for that Architectural Digest look. But then I ran out of trim on the last panel and of course Joann's has no more. Can you say special order with no 60% discount? I'm sure the man at the cutting table shorted me 1 yard of trim. I'm sure my 8th grade mathematical abilities have had no impact whatsoever on this project.

(Sorry about the bad lighting, I'm in an official snit over the fact that my over priced Minolta will not auto adjust for natural lighting. )

The rest of the tax credit, where art thou going? Oh, yeah precious playroom home equity loan. Sometimes being a grownup stinks and sometimes is doesn't. Like when you are happily caressing 6 feet of studly stainless steel.

I leave you with a picture of the hairdresser to Barbie and the Stars. May she never be a beauty school dropout. May her 529 carry her all the way to the book store at the State U, and beyond.















Editing Note: In proofreading it was discovered that this child had a piggy bank on her pjs. God, I love irony.

Gong Xi Fa Cai

Oooh, I couldn't resist this material. I had sort of put myself on a no more visits to the fabric store already until inventory was sold but as luck would have it I am not the best at will power. (The ladies at my favorite fabric store are starting to shout Norm! when I roll in with my two little helpers.) Embarassing, I tell you.

It is good luck for Chinese New Year. Since I refuse to clean anything for spring, I think I will settle on something new. Mommy and Me matching. I know, I know....Mommy and Me is goofy but I simply could not resist this lovely bright red silk with the good luck symbols.

I made two sets and maybe someone will want the other set at the Chinese New Year marketplace event we are attending this weekend or over there at Pink Evita.

15 Months

Here is Ava at 15 months old walking. Olivia is 15 months old popping her beloved thumb in her mouth giving me the coy stare. This is the I just walked on the sofa look.

Fifteen months was a historical milestone in our house. It is still the fodder for backyard bar-b-que stories over Mikearitas and bratwurst for any unsuspecting poor neighbor who gets pulled into the wrong side of the fence with visions of potato salad and deviled eggs. They might have to sit through an excruciating 20 minute tale of "my child walked at 15 months." And here are the 20,000 snapshots to prove it, want to see the video?
Don't you just love the Frankenstein walk? The Muffin Man and I were giddily whooping it up screeching like scared little hamsters as she stumbled through those adorable first steps. We are lucky the fire dept. wasn't called.

This week Olivia turned 15 months old. And since she has been walking since 10 1/2 months old there was no fanfare. No major milestone. Just a day where we started to get snowed in. Incidentally it is two days later now and we are still buried under about a foot of snow.

Although, in Olivia's defense she has started using her American Sign Language signs more this week. She signs for more. She signs for food. If we are lucky and use our imagination she even signs for a drink of milk. Usually she signs more frantically until "I tell her 8 times no, Liv that is more...more of what? What do you need baby? " Then we might get something that looks a bit less like more and a little more like eat. Note to self: Watch baby sign video with both children again this week. All of this may not sound like the stuff that warrants an ABC News Special report but for us it is pretty darn big stuff. The signing is allowing her a voice. A sort of quiet voice but a voice nonetheless. I am betting every proverbial last dollar on this sign language stuff since Liv seems not to be all that interested in mimicking our words.


In other 15 month news what she lacks in verbal Olympics she is making up for in real Olympics. The kid will soon be signed up for 2008 Beijing. She is swinging from kitchen chandeliers and upping and downing stairs like her 5 year old sister. She laughs at my panic voice as I chastise her for climbing in the dishwasher and dryer. She stands on every sofa arm and ottomans are now merely vehicles to be moved around the house to allow her access to higher and more dangerous places to bungee jump. Her favorite toy is the bathroom stool, which she carries around to try to open doors..that are locked.

I will leave you with a lesson in ottoman surfing 101.
1. Move bathroom stool into playroom
2. Climb bathroom stool to get onto ottoman.
3. Hop on and start giggling, do a little dance on top of ottoman.
4. Wait for Mom to scream "Sit Down, Olivia Xi." 5. Look at sister for giggle partner.
6. Sit down since Mom's blood vessel above right eye is starting to turn blue and bulge.
7. Refuse to get off ottoman and start the less dangerous surfing session.
Que up Hawaii Five-0 music.

No, they are real dinosaurs

What is up with everyone and their mother needing to know if my little ladies are REAL freaking sisters? Yes, I know this has been thought and over thought and published and over published by adoptive parents and psychologists alike. But I am officially over it. Maybe I am hormonal but seriously everywhere we go someone needs to comment about their biological makeup. I don't see anyone making comments when a red headed child strolls up to the counter while is brunette sister rips down the bubble gum display.

My new response will not be polite and with a sweet smile. No more large bulging eyes silently begging the cashier not to say anything else when I simply say, "Yes, they are real sisters." for the third time while she ever so slowly rings my diaper wipes.

Today it wasn't just are they REAL sisters it had to be expounded upon to include how lucky I was to actually get children with the same biological parents since she had heard that was not possible in Korea. Huh? (She thought they were REAL sisters when I quietly told her Yes, they were real sisters.) Obviously she wins the award today for being the most brightly colored jelly bean in the jar. Paste a blue ribbon on her forehead.

Ava just rolls her eyes now. It's becoming classic.

Here is our new story. They are not real sisters, they are in fact real dinosaurs though, resurrected from a most holy and freezing cold tomb in the North of China. They were thawed in a superior cryogenic process and given cute little matching Asian looking faces. But underneath their DNA matches and they are truly little triceratops. Alert the media. Call Oprah. And let's be done with it.

Thinking Non-White

I am a white woman. Very white. I grew up mostly in the suburbs of middle class America, mostly on the east coast, and had mostly white friends. My parents taught me to be aware of judging others, they taught me not to hate. For that I am grateful. I would never presume to tell anyone I am completely without racial and socio-economic prejudices because I believe it is truly the extraordinary human being who does not have some prejudices no matter how small.

Now I am a white woman still in the suburbs...and I have children of color. I am trying my best to raise them around people of color and it isn't always easy. I believe racism is nurtured not nature. I hope that by exposing my children to people of different beliefs and cultures somehow when they experience "different" they will embrace it and not run scared.

This morning I saw Joe Biden, a senator from Delaware apologize to Barak Obama for comments he made about Barak Obama being the first man of color in the presidential run to be good looking, clean, and articulate.

I know this comment. I know it because my daughters sometimes hear comments like this. They are compliments, but they are steeped in racial prejudice and ignorance. Obviously Barak Obama is not the first African American politician who is or was extremely articulate. Regardless of what your opinions are about people like Jesse Jackson and Carol Mosely Brown, I don't know how you could argue that they aren't or weren't charismatic and articulate.

My daughter sometimes hear from educators that she is "so smart". (Which of course she is.) Then she might hear a small off handed comment about Chinese adoption and that's the way to go if a parent is interested in a smart child. It makes my stomach flip every time.

When we watched the Indianapolis Colts win the AFC Championship almost two weeks ago we watched the coach Tony Dungy field numerous questions and comments about he and Lovey Smith would be the first two African American coaches for face off during a Super Bowl. I was appalled. Both men had just successfully taken their teams to the Super Bowl and all the media could capture was that they were both black.

As I watched the Joe Biden story this morning I decided he would not be getting my vote. I know his comment was probably not spoken in malicious intent. But he showed me he is lazy in his chosen word. He is not in tune with with non-white America.

I don't like to think of myself as the type of parent that is overly sensitive about each and every comment I hear from well intentioned but perhaps not well educated people on the topic of my children. And yet, in some sense maybe it is good not to let every phrase or question slide by while defending the masses justifying with well intentioned ignorance.

Poncho Proud

I knitted a poncho! Five years ago I would have bet about $1000 those words in that order would never have come from my mouth. No, you did not take a quick time travel trip back to 1975. I really I did knit a poncho. I'm sort of poncho proud, so bear with. My dear sweet grandmother tried to teach me to knit about 65 times during my ill fated youth. May she rest in peace knowing a granddaughter has picked up the sticks.

This is a Bernat pattern. Holy cow did you know that there are TONS of free knitting patterns out there in the world? www.lionbrand.com and www.bernat.com yikes. As a sewing gal I have been used to scouring the stores for pattern bargains. Free patterns people, that is a reason to take up knitting in the first place.

The only problem with knitting good stuff with the patterns is that they are written in some from of cryptic archaic sanskrit. Apparently you must be willing to whore yourself out at secret underground knitting circles and beg for free translation into English from darling blue haired ladies.

So, Liv loves her little poncho and was dancing around the house in true catwalk form earlier today. Ava was slightly bent and has decided that the next knitting project will be a big girl poncho. She has decided to mix pink fluffy mohair with burgundy yarn. Quite an improvement from her outfit selection yesterday which included a peach sweater and burgundy sparkly pants with uncombed hair and orange socks to "match". (It is a battle I am officially no longer willing to fight. She's five, she wears whatever the heck she wants. But I reserve the right to document in pictures for showing boyfriends later in life.)

I'm starting the pink and burgundy fluffy big girl poncho tonight. Big party, left side of the couch. You are invited if you read knitting sanskrit.

The Dance Party Where Only I Got A Workout

This past weekend marked a huge milestone for us. Yeah yeah, my first baby turned 5 and all that and I cried feeling melancholy on the 18th but really the milestone was, a home party. Yes, the adult dreaded home party. Two hours of screaming banshees while momma dreams of a glass of wine and saying over and over, "At least it wasn't $300 spent at the mall".

Twelve of your child's best friends in drop off mode running like little chickens with their heads cut off through your family room bar area pulling bottles of vodka off the shelves and climbing the fire place in one fell swoop. I decided that we would shun the Build A Bears and Gymborees of America and opt out. Of course my vote was to opt out completely and sit on the couch while eating a little paper box of shrimp lo mein while watching Power Rangers. (My kind of serious partying.) But we all know who was going to win this one.

So after all the themes (and there were many) were planned, after the cake was made and the invitations sent...I thought for sure we'd have one heck of a dance party. My little Ginger Rogers can cut quite the rug. So, I assumed that every 5 year old this side of the Mississippi would be dying to swing a hip and toss an elbow in my cleared out playroom. (I cleaned the room people!) I'm glad I don't know how many times exactly I guess WRONG when it comes to the little kids who cross paths with me in life.

I made a mixed tape. Twelve mixed tapes (in cd format) to be exact. Each child would get to take home a fabulous memory of Ava's Favorite Dance Tunes, it would serve as a life long memory of all the fun they had dancing up a storm at Ava's 5th Birthday party. Look, closely at the picture. Ava is dancing, Mommy is dancing. Please email me and tell me how brave I am to show pictorial representation of myself dancing on the internet. A smattering of other children are dancing. But guess what? The cool kids were sitting on the couch shaking their little heads at me. They could not be cajoled to dance. What's up?? They are 5! Shouldn't this be the time in their little lives when they throw caution to the wind and have a devil may care attitude about their white man's overbite? Apparently not. I've been officially dissed by not one but 3 five year olds. The kids danced for exactly 10 minutes (the kid's who would dance at all, because they are the ones who's other's played that goofy I Hope You Dance song for them in their cribs as babies as they cried crocodile tears hoping their children would participate gaily in life while feeling small when they looked at the ocean) and then it was a free for all.

I lost control, in 15 minutes.

I decided to let them knock themselves out in the playroom telling myself it was Free Play for another 2 hours. Then I retreated to the kitchen for more than my share of cake.


It was pineapple ice cream cake. And it was yummy.

Want to know what the "cool non-dancers" said about my cake?

It was something to the tune of yuck, and can we have the popcorn that is on your counter instead?

I casually asked if they'd even tried my cake. They said yes. I spooned popcorn onto their plates secretly hoping they would choke on it.

Evil, I know. But this is why I will never be a preschool teacher. Not even close.

In the end I think everyone had an ok time, no one went the the emergency room. Ava cashed in on a boat load of kid clutter. I was left to pick up folding chairs and pineapple bits from the carpet. Nothing like that to tire a girl out.

What will we do next year? Perhaps we'll opt back in and she can take her 12 best friends to the day spa up the street and I can take out a 2nd mortgage while eating my shrimp lo mein out of small paper boxes on my sofa.

Party on.

In The Throws Of Birthdaymania

Yesterday Ava turned 5. I've known her for 4 years and 4 months. She is an amazing person. She is smart and confident and beautiful on the inside and out. She tells me that she loves me more than snakes or some other insignificant thing in our lives, I in turn tell her that love her more than polar bears or toys or oranges. It is a game we play to keep in touch emotionally. She started it.

Individual birthdays are not important in China, where she was born. Everyone turns another year as Chinese New Year approaches. Big deal birthdays are something she was adopted into, and she's not complaining. The party is tomorrow. Miss Extrovert 2007 is relishing every moment of the planning and preparations.

Every year on January 18th I look at her a little bit differently. I can't help it. She seems foreign to me. Forgive the pun, it is not meant to be flip. Most other days I just see her as my kid. I forget where she was born, I forget her silky black hair and quick mind came from people I don't know. I forget January 18th was given to her by someone working in an orphanage as her day several weeks after her birth. But on January 18th I remember all those things. Sometimes it makes me want to cry. I know it shouldn't matter. I know it's not even my story, but it is someone's I love and I can't help it. I know most of all it is a gift that I have the time and means to spend precious time pondering this phenomenon.

I know Chinese children who are adopted sometimes get estimated birthdays due to the circumstances their birth parents have upon relinquishment. I knew this when I signed up. But I knew it in my head, no one told me it might feel different in my heart. No one told me it still might still sting 4 years and 4 months later.

It is at this general time of year I think of a woman I don't know, in China. She gave me Ava. Sort of. I'd like to think she gave me Ava. But really, she didn't. It is something I sometimes pretend to make myself think that everyone wins in adoption. I hope she is ok. I have nothing witty or intelligent to make it seem like everyone got the outcome they wanted. I just don't have that information.

But she is 5. And she is amazing. And I love her. I hope that is enough for today.

Book Meme

Atomic Mama has tossed out a book meme. Since I can't pass up a book themed post...to give everyone a "mommyotony" (that should be a new word in wikipedia don't ya think?) break from my sewing escapades and a less needed break from the cutest kids in the world I present the rules:

1. Find the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Type lines 6-8
4. Tag 3 others to do the same.

"You all know their father. Before I begin I will read some announcements."
Reverend Sykes shfffled some papers, chose one and held it at arm's length. "The Missionary Society meets in the home of Sister Annette Reeves next Tuesday. Bring your sewing."

Can you guess the book? It is one of my favorite books of all time and I could never have guessed.

To Kill A Mocking Bird by Harper Lee

You know that it is urban legend that Truman Capote is rumored to have truly authored this book right? Truman and Harper were good friends. I for one find anything having anything to do with Truman Capote facinating. Have you read To Kill A Mockingbird? It is make your heart ache good. Racism, the American South, lawyers who are good people, people with special needs, kids without mothers...now that's a good read.

Hey did you catch the line "bring your sewing". I am laughing out loud. There truly are no coincidences in life.

Tag three others: Elsie's mom, Maisie's mom, LT's mom

Aunt Betty and Funky Deb

This is Funky Deb. She is the product of 1 glass of wine and a couple of gals in design mode tossing ribbons around the room like the Great Gatsby. In a flurry of gal pal creative energy she was designed. Oh and she is funky-licious.

The original Funky Deb is going to a good home, funky Deb's. Don't tell her but I have one more that I am dying to keep, but if someone will give her a good funky home....I will send her on her way.




Aunt Betty was out at a red hat convention when her formal living room with plastic covered sofa's met their match as a crazy lady weilding pinking shears tore into the place. Fluffy, the brown Siamese cat did nothing but sneer and wait for the litter box to be changed.

The end result...Aunt Betty's scalloped velvet carpet bag.

Wear her in good health. Her designer is just a touch less formal than Aunt Betty herself and she added blue beading and pink polka dotted ribbon to give Aunt Betty a touch of edgyness, which honestly she's always needed.

Email me if Pink Evita can send Aunt Betty to your formal living room.

January Crafty Challenge

Here is my submission for the Get Your Craft On challenge. As you can see my strategy is quantity, not quality. Did I really make silly girlie bagggies for Get Your Craft On? I confess, I did not. But hey, you know what they say about killing 2 birds with one stone.

The purple ones are all princessy and the blue ones are tinkerbelle"ish". They are the swag bags for my girl's 5th brithday party that will be taking place next weekend.

This birthday party is a party unintentionally all about theme's. We have so many of them we don't know what to do and Martha would not exactly be proud. We have about 5 theme's going on so far, that I know of. First, it is a dance party. Ava and her 11 (so far) best buds will be twisting and shouting and then I plan to sugar them up after they have Limbo'd until their hearts content. So, where does the princess tinkerbelle bag giveaway come in? It technically doesn't, but I saw the fabric for $1.99 a yard at the fabric store and could not resist the deal. Each little party go'er will receive the music (personally spun onto cd's by moi) in a mini swag bag.
I thought I would try to bring the princessy little girl theme into the cake and party decorations.
Ava thought different. Those of you who know Ava personally or have been reading about her probably are not surprised that she outright refused princess dance party theme'd stuff that was all adorable and matchy. S-h-e w-o-u-l-d h-a-v-e n-o-n-e o-f i-t. Absolutely none if of. In the party decorating aisle she insisted on you guessed it...Power Rangers. What would the cutest little 5 year old girl in the world want with power rangers? Apparently, everything. They are the bomb. Power Rangers=cool Princesses=boring.

So now we have a dance party with 12 princessy bags to hold the give away dance party music cds and power ranger masks, power ranger plates, power ranger napkins, and sparklers for the cake. I am drawing the line in the sand...no power ranger cake. I just can't do it.

So, someday she will probably come to me and say, "Mom, you were just the best for letting me have my way on my 5th birthday even though I had no sense of style and had absolutely no idea how to dress to impress a table. But I am so well adjusted as a happy and confident adult now."

She going to say this to me one day right? In the mean time I'm serving Harvey Wallbanger cake to the adults so they will be too drunk to notice tango'ing power rangers with tinkerbelle purses on their arms.

4 Months

Liv has been home 4 months. It is hard to remember a time when she wasn't part of us.
She has issues with compulsively climbing everything. She is smart enough to move small objects around the house to help her climb her next object but remains a women of few words.
She is an easy 31'' tall and has opened more door knobs than she has teeth. (Only 8 for the record.) She wants to ditch the high chair to sit at the kitchen table like her big sister but easily still needs 2 naps a day. She initiates peek-a-boo and laughs coyly when you play with her but still wants a bottle every night before bed.

She is a little kid who isn't sure whether she is ready to be a big toddler yet. Sometimes she is all baby, sometimes she appears to look more like a 2 1/2 year old. Liv often snuggles into our chests when she sits on our hip. She loves all three of us with abandon and trusts us completely. She has done a good job growing out her lawnmower incident haircut compliments of orphanage staff. Pig tails are in her imminent future.

I sometimes wish she would say more so I could gain insight into what she is thinking. And then her sister starts chattering away...I am reminded all baby talking in good due time.

She's one of us now, 4 months under her belt. She will turn 14 months old this Friday.

My heart continues to swell for this dear sweet soul. Glad to know you, baby Pink.

What I did on my winter vacation...

Today marks the end of a long winter's "vacation" for our family. Tomorrow Ava jumps back into preschool schedule complete with Chinese school next week, and of course since it is January and she has no new bruises, ice skating lessons also begin this week.

Because the Muffin Man will go back to work in full force tomorrow and Ava will dig out from the Power Ranger DVD tunnel she has built in the play room I am forced to come to grips with the fact hibernation must indeed end as well. In celebration of this event I feel the need to go over, for posterity's sake exactly what I did on my winter vacation.

1. Ate entire box of Trader Joes mini coffee mug chocolates that SIL sent all the way from CA.
2. Avoided slipping into skinny 501's like the plague, opting instead to see how many days in a row one housefrau could wear soy stained track pants. (I'm contacting the Guinness Book people tomorrow.)
3. Cooked a cake. Screwed up a cake. I touched base with party hostess who politely stated it was "good". Yeah right.
4. I changed exactly 4,000 dirty diapers. The little one has the cleanest damn colon ever!
5. Tended to no less than 62 very sick little stuffed animals. I don' know who thought the Vet Hospital toy would be a good idea for Christmas. I will get them next year.
6. Started fretting about 5th birthday party that is coming around the corner in 13 days. We are having the party here on the cul-de-sac this year and 15 5 year olds are invited. So far we have 8 yes responses and no NOs. I might go over the deep end. I will personally be in charge of teaching the hustle, the polka chicken dance and the Macarena to all 15 snot nosed munchkins at the same time. The house could cave if we reach 86,000 decibels of noise. Send xanax...with wine.
7. Sewed anything that wasn't nailed down, glued over, or oatmeal pasted. See new stuff over at Pink Evita.
8. Longed for real full time job that involves pay, preferably located in some dark little cubicle with a Dilbert like boss. Dreamt fondly of anything to escape the reality of my life and children who are off schedule and don't have enough to do! When does preschool start again?
9. Thanked my lucky stars that I don't have real paying job since we all know getting out of my red flannel jammies is JUST NOT GOING TO HAPPEN before noon on any given day.

Nine things...I did nine things in two whole weeks. It is surprisingly more than I anticipated before the official documentation began. Oh, I did massive quantities of laundry, 10, I did 10 things.

The Cake; An Update

Julie emailed me this picture. Thank heaven, because I seriously thought Harvey Wallbanger had one too many himself suggesting that Crisco comes in liquid form.

My new year's resolution: To peruse the baking aisle more slowly paying a little more attention in 2007.

Now about the party....I did not go. I know I know you all really wanted to see a picture of me in heels (I don't think I still own any) and a dress with a crinoline (I know I still don't own one of those, although I was pretty darn cute in 1987 at the senior ball flouncing through downtown Wilmington, Delaware at the Hotel Dupont in a peach strapless number with a circa Madonna the early years crinoline.) Maybe I will look for that photo in my spare time today. Yes, it was peach and it did have a crinoline and it was strapless, you think I could make this stuff up?




Why did I not go to the New Year's Eve bash of midwestern cul-de-sac fame?

Yes, party girl pooped out early.

Despite her "I'm ready to hang with my sould sister Paris Hilton face", she truly is not. She might be cutting a tooth and pooped out on me at 7pm last night.

Since I had been up with her at the un-godly hour of 6 am with miss lindsey lohan for the last few days and was feeling like I needed sweat pants and a hair clip, I sent the Muffin Man to formally escort the real party chandelier swinger. Miss Ava Jing rocked the house with her 5 year old peeps sipping non-alchy peach champagne until 10:30pm.

Now before you get all "You poor thing, you baked a cake and everything." Don't you feel sorry for me. I sat in my delightfully quiet house watching big screen HBO, The Producers if you must know, eating a large plate of jalapeno nachos. Again, homemade by moi. Now who is the real party girl? It was a small and fleeting slice of heaven. I had the quiet house ALL TO MYSELF. Pour me a glass of champagne.

Back to the cake. As of last report, this morning at 8:30am by the Muffin Man: At 10:30 pm last night when the cake was last seen no one had broken into the lovely glass topped cake dish cover. I repeat, no one tried the damn thing. I asked if he took the lid off and cut one slice out so the less formal and uber nice mid-western folks would not have to bear the brunt of the dreaded and must be avoided at all turns task of cutting the first slice of a cake? "Uhhh, no" he replied.

And so there you have it. The update. It is probably still sitting on my neighbors kitchen table in it's glass shell. Pristine. Party goers waking this morning might even think it was store bought, since it was so pretty and all. No one gets to share in the fact that the real story behind that party was in a little alcohol laced bundt cake.

I've moved on. I am no longer emotionally attached to finding out whether it matters if you have Galliano or Grand Marnier or if it make a difference whether you accidently substitute shortening for vegetable oil.

Today Ava and I are making frozen Pineapple Ice Cream cake. It was a favorite Canadian dish from my mother's youth, and I've made it before so I know that no oil is needed. I smell guaranteed success.

Harvey Wallbanger and His Cake

Last week at my parent's house I happened upon my mother's very old cookbook binder, this is the one where she kept her prize recipes. The binder cover is tattered and shows off a very nice 1970's pink and yellow floral design. She painstakingly entered each one of these recipes by hand or rocky typewriter courier font.

As I am usually in a cooking rut, I decided to pull up a chair and away I went flipping page by page. The rest of the family soon lost interest and left me with my mother's old book. It was an hour and a half tour through my childhood. Stuffed cabbages, eggplant Parmesan, pork chops and scalloped corn all those family dinners at 6pm sharp. Not only were there recipes but there were notes on some of the dishes explaining what year she cooked them. Some even displayed notes saying things like "took to Kitty Winke's New Year's Eve Party 1980, excellent." Each note was carefully written in my mother's lovely distinctive careful penmanship. Why couldn't I have perfect elegant penmanship like that?

Midway through I happened upon a Harvey Wallbanger Cake. With a name like that how could you not stop to pay reverence? Hmmmm....Harvey Wallbanger.

1pkg. yellow cake mix
1pkg. vanilla instant pudding
1 cup cooking oil (crisco)
4 eggs
1/4 cup vodka
1/4 cup Galliano
3/4 cup OJ

mix all ingredients and beat for 4 min. Pour batter in floured BUNDT pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes

Glaze cake when still warm:
1 cup powdered sugar
1T OJ
1T Galliano
1t Vodka
Drizzle over the cake when on the serving dish.


My father explained that a Harvey Wallbanger is a drink and was popular in the 1950's. Well golly gee willikers, if I am going to be a caricature of cul-de-sac suburban living then how could I pass up the Harvey Wallbanger Cake to take to the New Year's Eve party 2006? There I would be with my two lovely children, my muffin man walking all of 6 feet to the neighbor's party with my glass cake dish displaying the Harvey Wallbanger Cake molded in bundt pan form with orange vodka icing dripping down all sides evenly. Of course my darling children would disappear to play with their wholesome looking friends once we arrived and I would be free to tout my domestic prowess among adoring friends and neighbors. The spinach ball debacle of 2001 would be long forgotten and I would be free to enter myself as a cooking judge on the Iron Chef early in 2007.

Yes, we would be bringing Harvey Wallbanger Cake to the party. I quickly stole the recipe. (Then told my dad I took a copy since there were no less than three copies of Harvey Wallbanger cake in the pink floral book.) Three copies, I've struck gold I thought. This must be one winner of a cake.

Back at home the muffin man and I took the girls to the grocery. We needed Harvey Wallbanger ingredients. I carefully looked at the list and found a rather old looking tub of shortening labeled Crisco. I must admit I have no idea how old it was but Crisco doesn't exactly go bad does it? I pulled it out of the recesses of the cupboard patting myself on the back for using something just taking up space for so long. At the store we mosey over to the liquor aisle with our two small children looking for Galliano. We had some of the vodka in the cupboard but Galliano was a mystery. Apparently Meijer thinks Galliano is a mystery too. No Galliano. I ask the muffin man if he thinks it is anise flavored like my dad suggested. Perhaps we could get some anise flavored liquored instead? Oh no, the Muffin Man bellows if we are going to get a $30 liquor let's get something that tastes good, like Grand Marnier. (aka, tastes good and could be used in lieu of real date night at our house.) Hmmm, substitute Grand Marnier for Galliano? And then take the recipe that we've never made to a big party where all of our friends can mock me for being the biggest baking ditz in the world? Surely nothing could top the spinach ball debacle of 2001, why not? Sign me up. Galliano is out and Grand Marnier is in. And thus our family trip to the liquor aisle has concluded. But not before the lady in front of us rammed her cart into a six foot tall display of blue bottled liquors shouting, "Oh Shit!" Ava giggles and my man and I stare open jawed. She laughs nervously and looks at us apologizing profusely. I calmly tell her not to worry since we are a family of 4 who has recently spent 20 minutes educating our 4 year old on the difference between Hot Damn and Cinnamon Schnapps. A little profanity is to be expected.

Fast forward to today. I pull out all my ingredients and my shiny new bundt pan. (No, in 15 years of wedded bliss I have never once owned a bundt pan, it was a red badge of courage.) I use all the ingredients carefully. But then the batter is a little thick. Really thick. I re-evaluate my recipe card with 1960's goop stuck to the left side. Damn, crisco as in oil...not Crisco shortening should be used. Who ever heard of Crisco oil? What the hell? Isn't Crisco always the white disgusting stuff that looks like something out of the fat can?

Crap, no avoiding my mistake. In a moment of panic stricken pure genius I up the orange juice and toss in a dash more Grand Marnier to thin the batter. If it tastes gross at least everyone will be drunk as skunks before they notice.

It is in the oven now. Crisco shortening not oil and no Galliano, Grand Marnier instead...in all its glory.

In a moment of looking at the bright side the liquor laced icing made up quite nicely thank you very much.

Here he is. Harvey Wallbanger. I have no idea how it tastes. It's a cake right? I can't exactly dive in and THEN take it to a party.

I'm putting my money on It's a Winner! A little vodka, Grand Marnier, and a nice glass dish (lovely cover not shown) can take a girl pretty far in this cul-de-sac.

Can't stop thinking about those bags!

I've done a little thinking over the holiday season about these. (Scroll down to see the handbags, I know it is tough when you see the pictures of the girlie girls.) I think that I would like to start making them for people on a regular basis. Over the holiday I sold a few, will wonders never cease? I ran a spread sheet last night and I am almost in the black after sewing lots of fun bags this month. (An accounting whiz, I am not.) I find myself jump starting a small business in my head and then pulling myself back, as if I were a horse on a tight reign.

But then I am reminded of how I would like to remember my life when I am old and gray. (Unfortunately I don't think I'll be waiting that long for the gray part.) I want to remember living, trying new things, regardless of the outcome. I guess I would rather live and lose than never live at all. I know the real quote was about loving and losing rather than never loving at all, but it is the same premise right? Of all things, a commercial reminded me of this. Perhaps you have seen it. It has the actress Lynne Redgrave saying that she wants to die dancing the tango, or eating too much chocolate, not die of breast cancer. I hear that message. I want to die drinking a small glass of chardonnay, eating shrimp with killer cocktail sauce on a large front porch giggling hysterically with family and friends about how I wasn't afraid to try something new.

And so, here it is...something new. http://pinkevita.blogspot.com

Email me if you'd like a funky little bag with a bow on top. Everything in life is better with a bow on top.

Merry Christmas, Pass The Pumpkin Please

I love Christmas in the 'burbs. And, I inevitably I find a giggle in my short everyday travels. Some people say that their children make them laugh. Mine for the record only give me gray hair, for which I had to take a short ride out of the cul-de-sac yesterday to find Clairol's #363 medium golden brown hair coloring to take care of the situation. The Muffin Man watched and said, "Don't they just have some Grecian Formula for that?" "Uhh, yeah and this is it, Bright Eyes." I explained. Grecian formula for girls.

Back to why it is not my children, but rather my neighbors who are putting putting the kick in my holiday season. Here is why. Look at the picture, no those aren't supersized umber colored holly berries. It was taken on the sly by moi today, standing out in the street, with the super zoom acting like my holiday lights were so dang cute I must preserve the moment for the non-existent scrapbook. Pumpkin pie anyone? Maybe the folks at Starbucks could swing by pick them up and use it for my favorite pumpkin spice latte. I'll take mine without the mold. What do you think Mary thinks? Is she saying, "Hey, you remembered the pagan Halloween but you couldn't remember my baby boy's birth?"


Look up Mary, no one forgot about Christmas.

I know this goes without saying but how do you take the time to put up very nice tasteful bough of holly complete with lovely red bows and then not notice that the pumpkins are working themselves into composte on the concrete step 12 inches behind you?

And, yes I do live in a glass house so heretofore no one and I mean no one is ever allowed to open a closet in my house ever again, unless they are related to me and really need a mismatched sheet set or a 27 year old towel with holes.

Recently the Muffin Man won $75 in Vegas while there on business. There is a brand new double or nothing bet with the wife that we will have pumpkin soup by Easter.

And that my friends is the multi-holiday update from this corner of the cul-de-sac. Pumpkin pie and all.

Damn, I Need An Elf

Now why would the magical Christmas spirits punish a well meaning and oh, so hyper organized parent like myself? Way back in October about the time that this was happening I was buzzing around town getting a jump on this.

If I could have this all done and complete by this. Then I would indeed be her. And my children would be them. Complete with Alice, because let's face I could use a little help around here.

And so I shopped. The Muffin Man helped with a Costco run or two and by Thanksgiving we were wrapped, slapped, and tied up with a big ole' bow. The loot was neatly stashed into the back of Grammy and Grampy's Lexus heading off the to great white north where we would meet up with it all a nice and tidy 3 days before Christmas where we would be free to drink plenty of these while laughing snidely at those folks too stupid to start Christmas shopping at Easter. Now is when you should be singing "off to Grandmother's house we go" in your head and envisioning this, except my kids are Chinese, but you get the drift.

Except we have a problem. This child has exercised her prerogative as a woman "in training" to change her mind. Remember, Christmas shopping is done and the presents have been carefully wrapped and are conveniently out of state. Instead of whoozees and whatnots...she has clearly stated to Santa (at the mall and at the Children's museum) that she would like widgets and whizballs. Please, with a red bow on top.

Ordinarily, in past years I might have just run out and tossed a plastic card at these people. However, we have the littlest elf living with us now and what good parent in their right mind would allow Santa to bring more toys for one child than the other? I don't think she would. Oh, no Even Steven all the way baby. Not to mention the fact that we have completed 2 adoptions in 4 years, we have 2 college educations to bang our heads against the wall thinking about, and Momma currently has a slight cash flow problem, she has traded in those delightful Italian leather working boots for these. (Sad Momma kicks.) The toy train has come to a halt, and has fallen off the track.

So, instead what do the Muffin Man and I decide to do? We bought this, which in itself is so far beyond way cool except it was not what was whispered in Santa's ear. I plan to dress it up with lots of blingy bows under the tree. Hopefully when she sets eyes on this baby all other thoughts of widgets and whazoos will be a distant memory. A valuable lesson has been duly noted in the Parenting Handbook and filed under the red Christmas tab, go ahead and wait...shop with masses on the 24th.

For those of you feeling especially sad for little Ava, the deprived and unloved little soul. Her birthday is three weeks after Christmas.

All Bundled Up

Here they are, my girls all bundled up. This photo was taken just a few days ago when it was oh so cold outside. Then, yesterday we were out chalk drawing on the sidewalk because it was over 50 degrees. I didn't grow up in this town but I did mostly grow up in towns on about the same latitudinal line, therefore about the same weather. I don't remember winters like these...freezing and then 50 degrees all in the same week in December. The Muffin Man is getting huge guffahs out of the "cow farts are causing global warming" stories out this week. He thinks Al Gore a cow fart himself. I believe his heart is in the right place. I do own an environmental license plate after all. And so by political standing alone you'd think me saddened by the unseasonal warmness of the last few days. I am not. Even those those kids do look super cute in their winter gear, I've decided to start counting down days until the pool opens. It is somewhere around 194. Seems like a lot.

But then again 194 will probably pass in a flash. How do I know this? One baby has been home for over 4 years and the other home 3 whole months. She turned 13 months this week.
I'm watching two of my favorite bloggies travel to China to pick up their babies this week. I can still smell China. I can still feel my stomach turn as I watch someone's live snake dinner swim in the tank and poke his little head over the top. How can it all be gone so fast? We've been home for over 3 months.

I'm sort of bundled up this week too. I'm wrapped up in all that is Christmas and life with an almost 5 year old and a baby who is not really a baby anymore. I vacillate between wanting to enjoy each minute with them while they are small and a desire to figure out what will happen next in life as they grow. They will grow fast and move on to school and beyond. What will I do next? Should I even be thinking of this now when they need me most? I'm not exactly sure why I feel this time in my life holds such opportunity for more than a mom who does all things for kids at home. Perhaps it is a desire to be more than a cliche.

Usually I like to wrap these posts up with a resounding epithet or snappy ending pulling everything together. A lesson for me and for anyone who reads. But there is no lesson yet, I haven't figured out what is next. As always, I pressure myself to figure it out. I'd be well served not to pressure myself and just be. I know that. And yet...still working on it.

We'll Be Right Back After These Messages

Anyone who has pint size mess makers sponging off them eating macaroni and cheese and animal crackers faster than the grocery man can replenish needs this. My Main Muffin Man brought this home yesterday. I looked at him crosseyed trying desperately to seem grateful since we already have a vacuum cleaner.

But we did not have this Electrolux. No sir'ee.

It weighs about 2 oz. and get this, no plug! It recharges itself. Although, I do sort of miss the untangling of a dog leg or neck. It sniffs up bits and pieces of our hourly messes toot sweet. Then if that isn't enough, the little piece at the bottom comes off and becomes a dust buster. You can swiff up nasty stuff while shaking this thing over your head if you like. I used it in all sorts of scary places this morning.

And if that isn't enough of a party for you. Clean the thing out. You just pop the filter thingy off and shake it in the trash can. I found 5 ficus tree leaves mixed with a gignoramous amount of gray matter after only 6 minutes of skipping through my downstairs.
My life as a boring house frau is officially changed. I'm serious if you have a small human who thinks tossing peas off a high chair is blood sport go get one of these. Find a coupon and shop till you drop.

I ask you what man in his right mind would use his birthday money from the in-laws to buy an electrolux? I knew there was one reason I keep the old guy around.

Kudos Electrolux people. About the color? Umm...well now my girls will be able to say that their parents had an oh so retro orange vacuum cleaner. If I can say that my parents had avocado green and mustard yellow daisies on the wall they should be able to tell the tall tale of an orange vacuum.

I know I know...just show a picture of the girls. Tomorrow, I promise.

15 Seconds of Fame

The kid's been home three months and she's already had her 15 seconds of fame. Upon visiting the State Museum this week we were greeted by Mrs. Claus motioning us into Santa's lair. Little Liv wasn't so sure. I looked up to see a very large telephoto lens in our face while sitting up close and personal with Mr. Claus. Wow, I thought Santa's photo helpers must have upgraded in hopes of selling extra 5x7 copies to weak and feeble parents.

As it turns out Santa's photographer was not Santa's helper at all. He worked for the local paper.
He quickly took our names and we were off to see some 10 billion year old meteor that hit Indiana soil in the 1960's in no time at all.

The next morning the Muffin Man was reading the paper and sipping coffee. Hey, lookey there he proclaimed, front page of the Metro State section.


And so that is how Olivia got 15 seconds of fame all within 3 months of moving to the USA.

Note to stalkers: I realize that this picture does disclose our last name and town. Should you feel inclined to disturb our little corner of the cul-de-sac...don't, the Muffin Man is large and not nice to strangers. He weilds a hefty golf club over head to any unsuspecting stalkers. Don't tell me you weren't warned when you get your 15 seconds of fame in the paper.

Everyone else, thanks for the nice phone calls and emails saying you saw the cutie pie over your morning coffee.

Still Thinking About Beaded Trim and Grosgrain Ribbons

I am still thinking and planning on how to make a little side business work. So, more to come soon as I work on how best to display my bags online and possibly in some local boutiques. I have tried to respond to everyone personally who has expressed even the slightest interest in purchasing a bag from the most recent batch of chocolate and chartruese/light aqua group. If I have hounded an inbox near you, please there is never any pressure to buy. And yet Christmas is only 21 days away. Ha.

Does using your time sitting outside of daughter number one's Chinese school class scribbling ideas on a yellow pad count as developing a business plan? Don't answer that. I even have a name for the whole shebang...I'm seeing it in lights in my dreams. Kidding.

Ok, Miss Laid back bestest baby in the whole wide world is schreeching for a banana or something.

More to come soon or later, hopefully soon.

Being Creative

Taking care of small children full time, tending to a house that is under constant arrest of two pint sized whirling dirvishes, and conjuring intelligent thoughts beyond pork chops and scalloped corn for dinner has proven at times to be a creative energy vacuum for me. All of the day to day, hour by hour and minute by minute happenings in my little corner of the world have at times consumed even the most spirited and creative part of what makes me, well...a happy well balanced me.

This is the part of full time stay at home mother-dom that has sent some of my dearest and most talented mother friends skittering off to a cubicle near them to be amongst movers and shakers. The reality of what I have known in the past is that having it all takes giving something up. By that I mean that the grass is not always so much greener on the other side...both being at work outside the home and not working outside the home takes work and compromise. I am in awe of women who seem to make it work while working. Period.

I am even more in awe of women who have found a way that includes flexibility for what their needs are in any given year. For example, they have a 1st grade child and work while the child is in school but make it home in the nick of time before the bus arrives at 2:50pm. I know women who work doing something at home, while the children nap.

So where is all of this going? Why the work home life balance rumination?

Maybe it is because the last week or so I have been making a concerted effort to be more creative. I have been photographing the kids. (Oh my, even with my delayed snap digital they are cuter than bugs ears.) I have been spending hours dragging those children through the fabric stores in attempt to find the bestest darn trims and fabrics for a new round of handbags.

While Olivia naps my sewing machine has been humming. And it is food for the creative soul. Maybe it is time for me to work on finding a way to make work WORK. I can't work in the cubicle, no offense to anyone who works in a cubicle...I have had some pretty nice darn cublicles in my day. Creative work is what I want. I'd love to dream that it is not too far fetched that I could create a job for myself that let's me create the stuff I'd like to create and that someone out there in the world would find enjoyment from that stuff. (aka, pay for it) I am a child of the 80's after all.

So here it is, some cute pie pictures that I enjoyed taking.

Ava and her friend E at a holiday party.



And some hand bags, just for fun.














Next time, more about conjuring nerve to take handbags to local boutiques.

Ornaments On The Move and Pie

You people Rock! There is no other way to put it. My email inbox tells me that over 40 ornaments will soon go to very deserving homes. They will be reflecting the little cutie pie children's faces in no time at all hanging from a tree or kitchen cabinet. And soon my local FCC chapter will hold me in decent graces once again when I come a knocking bearing gifts of cash so that some little local munchkin can attend Chinese Culture Camp this summer.

Ahhh, and on the news front this great day of giving thanks.

I must mention for posterity's sake that sweet darling little Olivia wolfed down turkey, mashed potatoes, Emerils fabulous spinach and artichoke dressing, and an entire piece of pumpkin cream pie that was earmarked for my mother. (Who wouldn't choose to buy my gal's affection with pie?) She also tossed her sippy cup off the high chair tray no less than 6 times with gusto, sending the Muffin Man skittering and mumbling obscenities under his breath. She promptly wore herself out shoveling the grub in faster than I could move it from the kitchen island to her high chair and is now resting comfortably on a triptophan high in her crib.

Ava thought it better to cook this year than eat. She is a pint sized Rachael Ray if there ever was one. I am personally pushing for restaurant ownership and culinary leadership in Vegas. Who wouldn't want their sweet innocent to be slinging hash at the Bellagio in a few years. For all my years slaving silently and passively raising these girls (ahem...) I deserve a free trip to Vegas and have my gal cook a meal for me one day.

We here at the estrogen packed side of the cul-de-sac wish you and yours a very full and thankful belly.

Ornamental Firesale

Never in a million would I have ever thought I'd be using the ole' blog to sell stuff. And I'm not, well not really. Ok, kind of sort of....

My local chapter of Families With Children From China has some glass ornaments that they purchased last year and did not ummmm...completely sell out. I said I would take on the little project of reducing inventory of the glamorous store front located on prime real estate in the fashionable arts district of my town, otherwise known as the brown box in the garage.

We are selling them at cost plus postage. They are glass, not plastic. They have the word family etched in the glass in both the Chinese character and English. They come in a pretty darn cute little box, suitable for upscale gift giving. Slap a red bow on it and you'll be ready with a darling hostess gift this holiday season. Or if you are like me and collect ornaments for your kids so they won't have to hang milk crates from the tree in several years perhaps you'd like a few to put away until she moves into that first apartment with the leaking faucets and mice running amok in the kitchen. I guarantee huge oooohhhh and awe factor should you show up with copious amounts of free ornaments at dear child's wedding shower in the year 2020. Aunt Betty's flower vase will hold no candle to your box of ornaments.

This money does go to a registered 501(c)3 and proceeds are donated to Chinese Children's charities. Should you be mildly interested, checks for $10 per ornament can be made directly to FCC Indiana. Email me and based on where you live I will ask for the shipping add on. (I might also ask for a few extra bucks since I want this for Christmas but feel free to ignore me.)


Go ahead, click the view profile button in the sidebar of the blog and then click "email me" when the next window appears. Tell me you'd like to order a few and we'll be instant friends. You'll be one step closer to completing your holiday shopping and all will be merry and bright.

Tomorrow it will be back to low pressure pictures of my kidlets baking pies and stuffing their little faces with turkey.

She's 1 and Here's The Photographic Evidence

Red Velvet. After the birthday girl was done tossing RED cake around the kitchen it looked ummm, slightly unappealing.

Birthday carnage, if you will.














"Let them eat cake." ~Marie Antoinette

"A lot of cake." ~Olivia Xi GeGe
















"Yeah, I know when to say when."

And, no it does not concern me that I 've eaten so much red cake that I might be pooping red for days."

And on that note, Happy Birthday to Me.

Does This Mean No More Baby?

She's 1. It happened yesterday. I almost cried, but then thought better of it, too melodramatic even for me. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I'd want a kiddo o'mine to stay babified for longer than a few short months. I was researching preschools at Ava's 1st birthday party. Not because I was so interested in her becoming some academic whiz kid, I simply wanted to grocery shop alone again. It is selfish, and yet true.

But when Olivia turned one I started pining for that day 6 weeks ago at the park when I looked
into her huge brown eyes and silently begged her to stop time. I touched her perfect downy hair that naturally grows a little to the right and willed it to never grow into long girlie pigtails. I looked up to the sky and asked why her little size 4 foot must get bigger. Then again the twinkle in her eye and the way that she tips her head and smiles just a bit when you feed her will only get more endearing and she grows.

Why do mothers sometimes get like this? So sentimental and wishing for ridiculous jerks in time and space? Maybe the moon is full. Maybe deep down I sense she will be my last baby. She will be forever my baby.

In addition to the birthday, there is another anniversary to mark for my Olivia. It weighed heavily on my mind all day. It has been exactly one year since she left a birthfamily and found a caring orphanage to foster her most basic needs. One Year. That is a lot of change for one little 6lb. kid. Indeed, November 12, 2005 was a monumental day for Miss Olivia Xi GeGe. It was a day filled with changes that would knock the average well adjusted adult on their butts and running for the nearest therapist.

On to the celebration. Ava voted for a large friends and family event. As often happens in this benevolent dictatorship she was vetoed. We ordered take in Chinese and baked her a Red Velvet cake with cream cheese icing. It was dry and from a box. But her sister and I tried our best and well, red for love and red for China. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Scroll up for a few pictures of the little gal helping herself to a healthy dose of 1st birthday cake.

Happy birthday baby girl, here's to many more.

A Day At The Park

It's nice and warm here today and Mom took us to the park. Yeah.

Except now she is posing us like a bowl of fruit.

Let us at that slide.

Who are we kidding here? Are you going to let her go down the big girl slide?

Something we can both ride, sort of.

Here is the real story. My sister ditched me for a kid named Goldie. Yes, she really did have curly gold hair, it was weird. They were playing freeze tag or something like that.

Who needs freeze tag when I can run away from my mom and her relentless camera.

So, I decided to make my own fun and run laps around the playground.

Check out the Guangzhou special on my feet. Wahoo, I love it when I'm styling.

The Pink Load.

Tuesday night I took every last full sized Halloween candy bar we own and put them in the freezer. We own the Costco big box since in a moment of denial I convinced myself we'd be more likely to give away that a big box of 30 full sized candy bars than a large bag of smaller snack sized bars.

It is now November 2, 2007 and we still own 22 giant bars of candy. We gave away exactly 3. I have downed 5 leftovers in 2 days. Two for breakfast on November 1st. Two for snack today and I'm not sure about the last one...a sugar high and resulting memory loss is a conspicious thing. Reason number 628 I'm not leaving the house until May and Liv is 18 months old.

How did we only manage to ditch such a low low number of candy bars? We have at least 10 children in the neighborhood, not including the six pack next door. (Yes, six of them.) What has become of today's child? Is no one teaching the fine art of Halloween grabby hands anymore? Is everyone turning to granola? Here's the real clincher. I left a big bowl of 30 large candy bars on our front stoop on Halloween night unattended while I shopped my two kids around the neighborhood. The Muffin Man is in Las Vegas on business eating at Emeril's so I was left solo. Unattended people. The Jack o' Lanterns were lit, the front light glowing. Something is wrong with today's youth they not a) too nice or b) too stupid for words since I have 22 candy bars left! And so, I am left with an icebox full. Poor me. (Just so you learn something in this post, take note that BabyRuths are NOT better frozen like Snickers.)

After my 2 frozen candy bar snack today I decided to catch up with a little laundry. Nothing like 16,000 grams of sugar to get the hands folding.

Here is what I noticed at my house.


Do you notice anything strange? Do you see a trend? A color trend?

Most people do darks and lights. We do pinks and other. Forget the testosterone. Since I was left to contemplate laundry while riding the sugar wave I decided to just wash all the Muffin Man's underwear with Olivia's red jumper to make them pink.

Now my life as a candy eating stay at home mom will be much more simple since we don't need to sort anything...we will simply toss in a pink load.
All in a day's work. That is why I get the big bucks. Now excuse me, it's time for a Butterfinger.

Princess Mulan 

and the reluctant pig(let). 

Nice to get out, you know. 

Fresh Air

This is us. The kidlet parts of us anyway. This is us getting out for a spin around the neighborhood. It was taken a few days ago before the heavens opened up and dumped buckets and buckets of rain on us. You think they looked a little saucy then? Ha..you should see them now that they've been inside for 2 solid days. I stand corrected, the rain stopped this morning and Ava literally ran for the garage door as it opened shouting "A little fresh air!" I haven't seen her since. I am assuming that she is not playing in traffic or tossing Halloween candy wrappers in the neighbors yards for sport.

She knows this "fresh air" term because with her babyhood, we got a lot of fresh air. She knows Mommy gets wiggy if we don't get some fresh air every day. (I think I like the idea of homebodydom more than the reality of it all.) During Ava's baby days we were out clubbing it around town. She she thought sleep was for the weak and feeble minded. Sometimes we'd pack it up and party with the beautiful folks downtown. We considered getting a VIP lounge chair with an open bar of milk and animal crackers. Ava in her ever so gentile and subtle way let me know that we would not under any circumstances be staying at home baking cookies playing with the truckload of toys that had been lovingly purchased during her adoption wait.

And then came Liv. She is fine with a little fresh air. But she can just as easily breathe stale old banana cereal scented air as well. It really doesn't bother her. So, in attempts to buy her undying trust and love, I mean form a secure bond, we have been tethered to a 2 mile string which does not even reach the beltway. We can only go as far as a one quart ziploc bag of cheezy bootie or organic teddy snacks will take us. And that is not far. Yesterday she looked up at me, smiled and explained that she was simply doing her part to save oil for our nation and it's dubious future. Next week she will probably want to trade in the SUV for a VW bus. Peace dudes.

The big compromise each day between running like a greyhound chasing a furry bunny and staring at the walls until they do indeed turn a paler shade of green is "a little fresh air". This is Ava speak for let's blow this taco stand. It happens each day at approximately 4:15pm. She chooses a bike or a scooter and Olivia is dutifully bribed with scooby snacks to ride behind in a stroller. We walk until either we run out of baby snacks or Ava proclaims her legs to be too tired to bicycle any further.

I feel like I am just following along on the ride as I watch the back of Ava's head on the bike and the tip top of Olivia's in the stroller. Step after step. Mailbox after mailbox. It has occured to me these little bouts of walking "fresh air" are somewhat metaphoric for our life right now. Ava leads the way abounding with authority. She clamors for new changes and challenges. A simple stroll will never do for this kid. Make it interesting, raise the training wheels. Olivia toddles happily behind stopping to complain only if food is not plentiful and comfortable sleep is not within a 2 minutes of her happy crib sanctuary. She tolerates the "fresh stuff" but only under the canopy of her stroller turning her head occasionally to make sure I am still there.

Me? I am just using every shred of energy to keep up on the walks and taking a big gulp of fresh air in between avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

Ba, Da and No Ma Ma

Our local 1st Steps therapists stopped by last week for a little sit down with Olivia. Liv decided to take a developmental therapist for 200 and speech therapist for 400 since we aren't getting lot's of chattiness here, unless you count Ava's incessant loud spelling of every word she sees. " L-O-W-E-S Does that spell Old Navy Mommy?", she asks. I answered their questions (the therapists) as honestly as possible while desperately trying not to focus on the inch of dust under the armoir. I tried not to look supremely lame as they asked numerous questions that I had no idea how to answer. "Does she initiate play with you or other family members?" "Will she drop one toy to pick up another?" "Will she shift a toy from one hand to another?" "Does she show signs of frustration when someone takes a toy from her hand?"

Here's the deal..."All I know is that yes, she gets mighty pissed when she gets bonked on the head with a toy causing her to scrape her chin on the coffee table. Does that count for anything?"

Oh hell, I watch this kid for a living and I honestly didn't know the answer to some of these questions. I felt a little like the innocent guy who gets blamed for the murder early on in the Law and Order episode. "Don't look at me, I'm just her mother. I only watch this kid about 16 hours a day. What do I know? Is anyone going to make dinner, I'm starved. I have no clean underwear. Who is bringing snacks to pre-school this week? Can someone PLEASE bathe that old dog?" I am tragically distracted and paying no attention to anything unless it screams at me or it stinks so bad I have to bust a move.

In the end, she qualifies for no therapy, only a note in the file. A note to call us at 15 months for a speech re-evaluation. It turns out she is slightly speech delayed. But, she got so many points for walking that she isn't delayed enough to qualify for state intervention. (Good thing, interventions should be saved for 16 year olds.) She likes to say Ba and and occasional gullah, gullah. Never a Ma. Oh no, despite my annoying and persistent attempts for a MaMa....nothing.

She celebrated the finality of her 1st Steps visit by walking over to the Muffin Man and pulling a pant leg to be picked up. She popped his hooded sweatshirt string into her mouth and said Da, Da.

This is my reward for changing 3 poopy diapers a day. Da, Da. God love Ava for rushing to my emotional defense and shouting Ma Ma into Liv's face. Man, I love that kid sometimes. But alas, nothing. Only another Da Da.

And Rodney thought HE got no respect.

All Checked Out

International Clinic: Blood work...check
Stool Samples: check
Physical Exam: check
Ears: fluidy but the over dose of antibiotics should knock it out
Growth Pattern Evalution: normal
State First Steps Program: normal enough not to qualify for therapy; also thoroughly impressed with walking skills dancing pony show...duly noted.

Someone has tossed us a ray of sunshine. We are mindfully thankful, as we know not everyone can rest this easy with the gift of health for their new child. Truly...thank you!

Now, what is not all rosy with this child.

Shopping. She doesn't understand the finer points yet. Obviously this child has many lessons to learn from the Master.

I'm not talking about "the let's take an easy stroll over to the Gymboree to see what's on the clearance rack"shopping.

No sir, I'm talking about the kind where we hunt and gather at the dreaded grocery store. Going on a walk to pick nuts and berries would be easier. I'm about ready to get the little one her own cart give her 20 bucks and say, "See you in an hour, babe. Don't spend it all in one place." Might as well since no one on this planet has invented a grocery cart belt that will contain my little 20lb. Olivia. She could be an direct descendent of Harry Houdini. She can escape from anything. The mini baby bathtub, the over priced five point harnessed high chair, the car seat and anything the lame grocery store has to offer to contain your child safely can be ditched quicker than her sister can name that 6 note tune. Snacks will divert her attention for about 60 seconds. Cushioning her with a blanket to cover the strap works for 90 seconds. Meanwhile we are still aimlessly tossing stuff into the cart on aisle 2 with 12 more to go. And what does dear darling 1st born daughter with whom I am forever karmically bound do in this situation? She sniffs weakness in the benevolent dictator and seizes the moment to divide and conquer. She is a little turncoat if I ever saw one. The prize? Fruity Cheerios if you must know. Her Kashi days are offically over if I can't bribe someone to watch Liv while I grocery shop.

We get home, I'm mentally and emotionally spent. Ava has fruity cheerios, Olivia has her health and we have nothing for dinner even though I spent $239.00.