Ism of the Week

It's good to know that I'm not only one falling victim to Cael's nonsensical banter.

And it's even better to know that I'm not the only person looking older these days. 

"Ethan, you need to shave."

"Yeah, I do."

"You look a lot older now.  But just the number, not old with wrinkles on your face like a garbage can."

"Thanks, Cael." 

Sumpin' Suspicious

I think it's safe to say that the drought that plagued us last year is officially over.  I'm sure the experts had all come to that conclusion through countless scientific measures, but I need only look out the window at the grey sky and wet pavement. 

Or the water in my basement.

For those of you keeping count, this is the ninth flood we've had in my house in only five years.  And while one was man-made, two were toilet-made and two were dishwasher-made, the others have all come courtesy of Mother Nature, that old hag. 

As soon as I realized that there was water in our storage room, I began moving things around, pulling back carpet and setting up fans in an attempt to salvage the carpet as we have been successful in doing the previous eight times.  At this point, rapid water removal is just as second-nature to me as brushing my teeth or making a hasty escape from the grocery store.

I called my Dad over to ask his opinion regarding the state of my downspouts, and if they were to blame for the excess water.  In the process, he inquired about my sump pump, and if it had been working overtime to compensate for the heavy rain we'd received.  Truth be told, I'd never heard the telltale hum of the sump pump.  Never.  Or in the words of Taylor Swift, "like, ever".  I knew that the machine, which had been installed mere months before we moved in, was supposed to be a quiet machine, but I started to get suspicious.

In our main storage room, a very large and heavy wooden shelving unit had been installed directly over the pump, so in order to check its condition we had to clear the shelves.  It was at this time that I deeply regretted using these shelves to store what felt like cinder blocks and anvils. 

Once every dense object from my past was removed and cluttering up the living room, we shoved the unit out of the way and got our first look at the suspicious pump, which was suspiciously not pumping water.
 
BECAUSE IT WASN'T.  PLUGGED.  IN.
Let's review.  The sump pump, our one line of defense from encroaching water, was not (and had never been) plugged in during the entire time we've inhabited this house.

I'm completely infuriated, and now I find myself examining every problem I encounter to see if I'm missing the obvious solution.  When the power goes out in a storm, has someone accidentally turned out the lights?  When Graham and Cael misbehave, is it because I never told them I prefer it when they follow directions?  When I struggle to lose weight, is it simply because I'm eating the wrong foods and not exercising enough?  Oh, wait...

No matter the answer to those questions, one thing is clear.  No weather-related flood will plague my house again.

Like, ever.

Weather Boy

"Mom, that tornado was fun yesterday."

"That wasn't a real tornado, Cael."

"But you said we had to go to the basement bathroom because of the tornado!"

"We had to go there in case there was a tornado.  But we got lucky and it didn't happen here."

"How did you know?"

"Well, you would know if there had been a tornado here.  But mostly because I was watching the news and listening to the meteorologist."

"Who is the meat-or-jist?"

"Meteorologist.  He's a guy who studies the weather and can predict what it will be like.  And they can see on their maps where the worst weather is happening.  Yesterday the worst weather was here, but we got lucky that there was no tornado."

"I want to be a weather person."

"You can do that when you grow up, if you want."

"Yeah, that's what I'll be.  And I'll tell people when it's going to rain, and when it's going to snow, and when I want to eat meat."

"Meat?  That has nothing to do with weather."

"Sure it does.  I'm a meat-or-jist!"

Sanitation Violation

Sometimes I feel like every time we tackle one developmental milestone, we take a tumble and land in the mud.  For example, as soon as I felt that Cael grasped the concept of apologizing to soothe a friend he'd hurt (whether intentionally or unintentionally), I got a note home from school indicating that my son was using his "sorries" as a make-shift "get-out-of-jail-free" card.  But rather than erecting some new tiny red hotels on the Boardwalk, Cael demolished the best wood-block efforts of his classmates with an evil smirk on his face.  But it was okay, because he was "sorry and stuff".

See?  Two steps forward, one step back.

I can say with underwhelming confidence that Graham has mastered the potty.  He has an accident every now and then, but he can't be blamed for his immature ability to predict his need to pee.  So in an effort to avoid wet pants in public, we visit the restrooms at every store we frequent-- multiple times, in fact, and whenever Graham indicates that he might need to go, we run, not walk, to the nearest potty.  And that is where we take a huge developmental step backward.

No matter how many reminders I give, or whatever manipulation I employ to avoid it, Graham cannot keep his hands to himself.  He grabs the toilet seat, the urinal, the trash can, toilet paper on the floor or gum on the wall.  It's not a quirk I've noticed from him at home,  rather one that he saves for the frighteningly unknown cleanliness of public restrooms.  Most recently, Graham and I rushed to the bathrooms in our local Walmart, probably a more prolific source of bacteria than a hospital's quarantine wing, and he was immediately drawn to the filth in the room.  Before I could lock the door to the roomy handicapped stall, my son saddled up to the toilet and gripped the seat of the toilet.

"Graham!  Yuck!  Remember, you're not supposed to--"

"--ACHOO!"

Before I could chastise him for palming the toilet seats, he sneezed directly in my face, stopping me short.

"Oh, Graham.  This is not going well.  The next time you need to sneeze, please remember to cover your mouth.  It's super gross to sneeze right in someone's face."

 And because the "ick factor" of the event had clouded my judgment, I forgot that things always seem to come in twos.  My mischievous boys, Graham's filthy palms, still anchored on the toilet seat, the two butt cheeks of the stall's previous tenant, and yes, even sneezes.  So before I could stop him, Graham removed one hand from the germ-ridden seat and slapped it directly across his mouth as he sneezed, the other quickly wiping beneath his nose before he reached up and hugged me, anxious for the praise that he was sure would come for remembering to cover his mouth.

I wish I'd covered mine.  In fact, I wish that just this once, he'd simply wet his shorts so that I could clean him up from the safety of my own car.  But he's still mastering this developmental milestone, and the fault was mine.

I'm really sorry and stuff.

Thinking of Thirty

We have a lot of holiday birthdays in my family.  My Dad was born on Mother's Day, my nephew and my brother-in-law have New Year's Eve birthdays, my husband is often forced to celebrate on Thanksgiving, and this year, my birthday fell on Father's Day. 

I would have been perfectly happy to skip it, as I am vastly in favor of bypassing thirty altogether.  But my husband, my family, and the biggest display of flowers I've ever received wouldn't let me off that easily. 

I got to thinking about how quickly we go from wanting to get older to... not wanting to get older.  It's not even that I'm afraid of thirty {shudder} or forty or even fifty.  It's more that, if given the choice, I would choose to halt time rather than urge it to continue.  Ten years ago when I was turning twenty, I was so excited to be leaving my teens behind, to embrace the newfound credibility of being "in my twenties" and to grow closer to the few remaining milestones I hadn't yet reached. 

So this year I think I'm going to try to focus on all of the best parts of being thirty. 

1)  I don't get carded anymore.  And before you point out that this may indicate I'm looking older, I am choosing to see it as a blessing.  Because for every every person that doesn't card me, that's one less person that has to see my driver's license photo.  Those people should view this as a blessing as well.


2)  I'm young enough to have more kids, and old enough to stop.  Or, in layman's terms, I'm foolish enough to want another, but smart enough to know better.  I've met my kids, and I don't have the energy for another.  I'm not 29 anymore.

3)  I'm not concerned with what's cool.  It's been years since I kept up with music on the radio, usually only picking up on particular songs after they've been overplayed, used on countless commercials and are now only $0.99 on iTunes.  And if I want aqua-colored sunglasses that are too expensive but probably not at all in style, that's just fine with me, because I love them.

4)  I've enjoyed another year with people I love.  I spend an awful lot of time on this site poking fun at my family and even myself, but the truth of the matter is that I am incredibly lucky to have so many people in my life that care about me.  And if it takes turning thirty for that to continue, then bring it on, life. 

Within reason, of course.  Thirty is enough for now.

Juvenile Machismo

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, Graham?"

"When I'm older than you, will I have to make you lunch?"

"You'll never be older than me, Bubba."

"But when you're a boy and I'm a girl, will I have to make you lunch?"

"No, you'll always be a boy and I'll always be a girl."

"But when I'm at home and you're at school, will I have to make you lunch?"

"Graham, none of those things will happen.  When you're older and living on your own, you can make your own lunch, or lunch for your kids.  But right now I'm the one that makes the lunches."

"Then hurry up, Mom.  I'm hungry."

Marketplace Apologies

To the employees of HyVee - I am so sorry for the ridiculous display my children made in your produce section last Sunday.  They don't really think your store smells like "farts and Spaghettios".  That was just their unique way of ensuring my birthday was memorable.  And I'm sorry.

To the lady in the royal blue jacket - I am so sorry that my son knocked your pineapple on the floor.  He's not usually that aggressive, and when he yelled "It's a fruit bomb!", I think he meant that your pineapple was simply bursting with citrusy flavor.  And I'm sorry. 

To the cart retrievers - I am so sorry if the children's truck-themed cart we used was rendered useless after we drove it through your store's aisles.  My boys love riding in it, but executes a few ill-advised Chinese fire drills without leaving the vehicle, and I was too busy worrying about the impact of Graham's head with the floor to notice if the cart had been damaged.  Also, I hope the produce bag they wound around the wheels came out.  And I'm sorry. 

To the mother with two small children - I am so sorry if my children were a poor example for yours.  I remember a time when my kids were quiet and well-behaved (well, not really) and I felt critical of other parents whose offspring were loud, mouthy or otherwise poorly behaved.  Sadly, that era didn't last, and before I knew it, my boys were shouting things like, "Quit looking at me!  I'll show you my nipples!"  I hope your sweet girls don't repeat that.  And I'm sorry. 

To Cael and Graham - I am so sorry that I took you into HyVee with me.  I would never have left you alone, but in hindsight I can see that my desire for fresh produce outweighed my common sense.  I should have let Daddy run into the store and stayed in the van so that no one would have heard your very loud fake belches.  Those were incredible disgusting, but I apologize for saying that your behavior was "more abhorrent than a deadly automobile collision".  I could tell right away that you didn't know what I meant, and it wasn't my intention to make you feel inferior or unintelligent.  I just wanted you to shut your mouths and stop embarrassing me. 

And I'm sorry.

Happy Father's Day

The men in my family are really hard to shop for, but for different reasons.  My brother-in-law Gabi (Gabriel) is the kind of man that finds an extra $20 and looks for ways to spend it on someone else.  My Dad, just as selfless, is difficult for a completely different reason.  As his birthday or holidays approach and he finds himself being asked for gift ideas, he spends more time contemplating what he wants and then goes to purchase those items for himself mere days before he might have received them as a gift.

Seriously, every year.

But my husband is a completely different animal.  His interests lie so far afield from my own that I am unable to come up with ideas myself.  If I am so lucky as to extract a suggestion from him, I go to purchase it from the nearest store only to discover that he's researched said gift, the available merchants, shipping practices, customer reviews, colors, sizes and quantities, and has determined a custom order so specific that a store return is simply unavoidable.

What I'm left with, year after year, is the gift certificate.  I'm not sure why I have such a negative feeling toward those little pieces of plastic.  After all, they do allow the recipient to pick and choose what they want, eliminating the need for countless returns and exchanges that, while toted as "a quick trip in while you wait in the car... no more than ten minutes, tops" turn into 45 minute shopping excursions as the boys scream and cry "where is Daddy?" from their car seats and I regret the 20oz. diet soda I drank on the way as I wiggle and dance and fear I might pee my pants.  All because I can't shop for my husband.

Ahem.  I got a little off-track there.  Sorry about that.

So this year, I bought a little of everything.  I got the customary gift certificate, but I also got a camping gear bag and a few camping gadgets, as well as a set of throwing knives.  (Something else he'd been wanting that I'll never understand.)  I got the wrong kind though, so those will need to be returned.  I'll make sure I haven't had anything to drink when that happens.

But as much as I tease, I can't pass up the opportunity to mention how, along with an enthusiastic love for returning gifts, my husband has an enthusiastic love for playing baseball with his sons, and wrestling on the living room floor.  He has a love for camping as a family and grilling dinner for us to eat.  He loves movie nights and ice cream runs and playing outside with the kids.

And if that's not worth a trip to Gander Mountain, I don't know what is.

Mobile Disasters

On Tuesday, I mentioned in passing that my beloved iPhone had taken a brief swim in the toilet.  I left it at that, but then had a handful of people (who I didn't know were readers) inquire about the details of that particular story.

It happened back in March, during that dark week when I didn't post at all, and no one seemed to notice, prompting me to convince myself even further that the fates were conspiring to do me in.  When I emerged from my den of distress, I tried to pen a post about it but found the entire thing so utterly ridiculous that I kept that epic to myself.  Until now...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of cell-phone-less-ness.  More specifically, it was the age of Joel's Spring Break music trip, during which time he, the chaperones and students would tour the east coast for a week.  I had the option of going along as a chaperone, as I always do being the director's wife, but the bone-chilling fear of relinquishing control handing my children over to someone else (even someone I'd trust with my own life) always keeps me home while my husband and 100 teenagers gallivant across the country.

The week started out fine.  His painfully early departure drove me back to bed, and an early showing of Toy Story 3 kept the boys occupied so that I could sleep in.  In fact, the whole day was lazy and uneventful, dotted with trips to the store and meals with my family.  But when I woke up Saturday morning to a knee that was grossly swollen and even more grossly bruised, I should have taken it for the omen it was.

A visit to the doctor revealed that I had likely torn the bursa sack around my right knee, and fluid and blood were pooling under the skin to create an impressive watercolor of blue and black.  But as I dealt gingerly with my knee, I prayed that it would be the worst of the week's adventures.  But when Monday came, trouble came too.

Warning:  Here's where things go south.  I have always set out to create a blog that was appropriate for my whole family to read, and I will do my best to preserve that sentiment.  But this story is so bizarre that you might want to get out now.  I wish I had.  Need something do instead?  This will kill ten minutes.

Back to the story. 

In the midst of an already challenging time, not so much because Joel was gone, but because my children's temper-tantrums seem to align with his departures much like the tides to the moon, I was battling a period of particularly rough language from my sons' mouths.  But amidst the traditional potty talk that I battle daily, I heard something particularly jarring. 

"Graham, where is the f---ing fire truck?"

The floor dropped out from under me.  I knew that Cael had already discovered that word, because an unfortunate rhyming incident a couple of years ago yielded a dramatic response.  I hadn't, however, heard him weave it into regular conversation so effortlessly, as if he was using one of Thomas the Train's pithy figures of speech. 

Fizzling fireboxes, I was shocked.

We had a lengthy conversation, a time-out for good measure (because I knew that HE knew how inappropriate that was) and the boys vowed to pull it together for the sake of their poor, tired, husband-less mother.  Only they didn't.  The language was better, mercifully, but the behavior continued, and although already starved for adult conversation, I holed us up in my home and avoided my Dad and sister so that they wouldn't be subjected to the horrors of that particular week.

Eventually my boredom won out and I invited Amy and my nephew Keaton over for supper.  Just as they were preparing to leave, I began to feel "unsettled" and feared I might have eaten something bad.  Over the next hour, as no one else felt sick and I got worse and worse, I accepted the inevitable; I had stomach flu.

But alone as I was, I dragged the garbage cans to the driveway, loaded the dishwasher, fed the dog, and kept it together as much as I could until the kids were in bed, and all hell broke loose.

I was absolutely miserable, and solely responsible for my two kids to boot.  I was forced to open my doors to outsiders my Dad so that he could help with my kids and let me sleep, since my nocturnal digestive pyrotechnics kept me from getting any real rest.

By the time Friday morning arrived, and with it returned my appetite and energy, I was very ready for Joel to return and give me a much needed break.  I eagerly got up, got dressed, and I was getting my makeup on my bathroom, contemplating whether or not I was capable of eating a sausage biscuit on a plate nearby, my cat jumped up to steal said biscuit, knocking my iPad off the counter.  iPad fell on the bathmat, iPhone went straight into the open toilet.

Immediately everything went green, my stomach and my expression included.  Not only had I likely just ruined my phone, my pathetically important link to the outside world, but it fell in the same toilet that I had not only recently used, but where I had spent two days emptying the contents of my stomach.

In the end, two weeks in a bag of rice and on a vent brought my phone back to life, or at least close enough to it to function.  And even though my camera (and a few other features) are a little out of sorts, it was a real full circle experience.  The week began with a sore knee and bad language, and I closed it out with a sore muscles and, well, some more bad language. 

Sounds like it's my turn for a vacation.  Watch out, Joel...

Oops, I Did it Again

I took the boys back to the park. 

Despite the fact that I shared my park woes just yesterday, that event took place last week and just enough time has passed for the worst of it to leave my subconscious.  The boys wanted to play in our backyard so badly, but the lawn having been mowed a mere hour before meant that my yard had been transformed from a grass carpet into a swampy soup of water, grass clippings and swarming mosquitoes.

(My apologies for these horrendous photos taken on my iPhone.  Who would have thought that taking a dunk in the toilet would have rendered my camera incapable of balancing light?)

So I took the boys back to the park.  I deliberately chose the school playground this time for its chipped tire landscaping, thinking that the bugs would not flock to it as they would a grassy environment.

WRONG.

Although there were many other kids there (which would normally encourage me to choose another park) I noticed that the other children present were mostly older, and I assumed they would not interact or behave negatively toward my kids. 

WRONG.

I even thought that visiting the park a little later in the day would save us from the worst of the heat and sweat and that I could maybe, possibly, avoid having to give the kids a bath immediately upon arriving home on what already promised to be a late night. 

WRONG.

But as I stood and chatted with a friend, and my boys ran off with her son to navigate the slides and ladders and climbing wall with smiles, I criticized myself again for even considering taking this opportunity away from them.  Graham has made great strides physically through climbing and jumping, and Cael clearly needs a zone in which he can yell and squirm and burn off his excess energy.  This is good for them.

And then a bird crapped in my hair.

So much for the park.

Park Place

What is it about going to the park that transforms my kids from regular children into addicts searching for their next fix?

"I need to go to the park, Mommy.  When are we going to the park?  The park, Mommy.  Now!  I have to be at the park.  I need it, Mommy, I need the park!"

Cael is no better.

"I can smell the park.  I know we're close.  Take me there.  Make it happen."

If it weren't for the absence of shaking and twitching, I'd be checking for contraband in all of the juice boxes and inside the cavities of any of the less important stuffed animals in the toy closet. 

The similarities end there, I suppose.  Whereas an addict would relent and relax after finally getting their fix, Cael and Graham get even more riled up.  They run from one end to the other, yelling at the top of their lungs simply because they're allowed to do so.  They spend less than one minute reacquainting themselves with each piece of equipment despite the fact that they've visited this park countless times in their short lives.  And all the while, I plant myself in the two square feet of available shade, my head shifting back and forth like a tennis fan in the stands, and wait for the inevitable moment when I have to intervene to prevent a dramatic park emergency.

It could be an injury, like Cael's swan dive from the slide while camping.  It could even be damaged property, like when Graham nearly threw my iPhone in a nearby lake.  But the other day when we visited the park, it was the words "this spaceship is OURS!" that abruptly caught my attention.

We all know that Cael and Graham are confident about who they are and what they want.  And I'm counting on that characteristic to serve them well in adulthood, or at least in court if they ever find themselves needing defense.  But at three and five, being confident sometimes means being rude.  Or downright mean.

As I approached the spaceship, clearly a hotbed for playground activity as there were four kids crammed inside and my three (Cael, Graham and my neighbor boy) stood outside, I had already prepared my canned parenting speech.

"These kids can play here too, boys."
"Make sure you're taking turns."
"If we can't play respectfully, we'll go home."

But the closer I got, the more the picture seemed to change.  Instead of seeing my kids on the warpath, I saw the aggressive posture of the four children defending the spaceship and began to hear the dialogue taking place.

"We're in here now.  You can't come in here."

"But can't we play too?  I want to hold the steering wheel."

"No!  We have the steering wheel.  You go away."

I looked around for the kids' parents, hoping that they would intervene and I wouldn't be forced to upset either party.  But as I began to crane my neck to see the other side of the park, one of the offending children reached out with two dusty hands and shoved my sweet Graham back by the shoulders in a display of aggression much better suited for an adult than a kid of no more than four years.

Like an addict who has been sold a bad product, maybe.  I guess this wasn't his park of choice.

So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the same child grabbed a handful of playground rock and threw it, point blank, in Graham's face. 

Oh no, he didn't.

Parents or not, I had to say something.  It's always a very fine line to walk when talking to other people's kids, but this was a completely unwarranted attack on my baby, and that's not something I tolerate.

"Whoa!  Absolutely not.  You cannot throw rocks at people-- any of you.  Someone could get really, really hurt.  Now either you need to play nicely together, or find somewhere else to play.  Understand?"

Miraculously, everyone scattered, and within five minutes, I saw the attacker and what must have been is brother being wheeled off in a jogger with their Dad at the helm.  I don't know if he witnessed the attack and my subsequent lecture, but the general mood at the park became lighter almost immediately.

Forty-five minutes later, and it was time for us to go.  After experiencing the near-rumble, Graham's launch from a fast-moving merry-go-round, four bathroom breaks, shoes covered in dog poop, several bug bites and an accidental kick to the crotch, I was sure they'd never want to visit the park again. 

"Mom, when can we go back?  I love the park.  That was the best.  Can we play with those kids again?  What a great day..."

Makeover

Hey everybody!  I hope you like the new look of the blog.  I'm nursing a sick three year-old and doing a little more web maintenance today, so feel free to look around and let me know what you think!  Also feel free to comment if there are any features you'd like me to include or specific posts that you'd like me to list as favorites.

Check back tomorrow to read about our adventures at the park.  And don't forget to click the blue "Join this site" button to follow the blog.  Thanks so much for your patience!  At least someone around here still has some...

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

With a few practices under his belt, Cael and his T-ball team enthusiastically played their first game on Monday.  If you've ever watched a group of five year-olds try to pay attention to something other than a movie for more than seven or eight minutes, you know that things are bound to become interesting.  And probably sticky.

Cael was the first one from either team to bat, and he gave the other team his game face.  This is also his "you-took-my-brown-crayon-and-now-I'm-going-to-find-someplace-equally-dark-to-shove-it" face, but these kids don't know that.

He made contact with the ball, and we all went nuts.





For a brief moment, I thought I'd stepped into a weird alternate universe.  I could imagine Cael's ball making a powerful arc across the field as he ran a complete circuit around the bases.  In my dream, he'd slide into home plate and everyone would jump to their feet.

Just then, though, Graham let out a particularly loud huff of boredom from his perch on my lap, and I awoke to the reality of Cael trying to run to second base while the ball was already in possession at first.  I also saw, through more realistic eyes, that the fielding members of the other team were nowhere near as concerned with Cael's progression around the bases as we were.

From that point on, it was much less about the fantasy, and much more about trying to keep my family in line.

Cael went to bat several more times, always hitting the ball, but failed to maintain the same level of focus while fielding.  Instead, I watched him make faces at a member of the opposing team for nearly ten minutes and spent several more gawking at the girl doing cartwheels and headstands.

I turned to make a comment to Joel about Cael's preoccupation with the gymnast, and discovered that my husband had regressed to match the mental level of those on the field.  Graham was just being himself.

For the rest of the night, things continued in much the same manner.  I cheered for Cael, Graham cheered for me, Joel yelled at the persistent gnats in our faces, and Cael rounded the bases for home. 

That night was the first of what will probably become hundreds of ball games in my future.  And while I can't pretend to understand all of the rules, or deny the fact that Pinterest was accessed a time or two during the game, I'm glad that Cael knew he had a cheerleader on the sidelines.

And I'm glad I was there, too.

Death By Chocolate

I'm officially out of my comfort zone.

Normally that might indicate that I'm not wearing sweatpants, but as I'm watching kids and essentially playing Russian roulette with food and/or bodily fluids, sweatpants it is.

I was referring to my latest cake decorating project.  If you've followed the blog for any length of time, you've probably caught a post or two about my adventures in sleeplessness creating cakes that make my kids' eyes light up.  I'm not a professional, of course, so you should take what I say with a grain of salt.

You know what?  Until further notice, take everything I say with a grain of salt.

In the past, I've made cakes featuring Mickey Mouse, trains, The Hunger Games, Toy Story and volcanoes/dinosaurs and more. But when my nephew Keaton's birthday rolled around and he made his thematic request, I nearly turned down the job.  I already had several ideas in mind; a video game cake, a Lost cake (after we'd all watched the show from start to finish on Netflix and Keaton had gotten hooked), and a camouflage/gun cake. 

But Keaton wanted zombies.

Photo credit here.

Now I know as much about zombies as I know about pouring concrete, or maintaining a healthy weight.  So when he mentioned his love for the show "The Walking Dead", all I pictured were greenish-greyish semi-decomposed people walking with their arms out in front of them like I do when I'm trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I was worried that those zombi-fied people just wouldn't look right with fondant.  I could envision Keaton, uncovering his eyes to see the zombie cake I'd been working on and instead finding a cake covered with green and purple creature more closely resembling muppets.  It wasn't going to happen.

I had to come up with a new plan.  I did a little research about the show and found that, for cake decorators, an image from the first episode depicting some locked doors was by far the most popular.  I decided that I would incorporate that as it was something Keaton would probably recognize.

Photo credit here.

From that point on it was trial and error.  Ethan was there to help me with ideas, and to keep me upright and awake.  I sketched out a plan of attack, mixed my fondant colors, crunched up some chocolate cookies for makeshift "dirt", and got to work.

With the doors done, I decided I'd reached a good stopping point.  Because I didn't get started until about 9:00pm due to Cael's t-ball game, the work I'd done took me to 11:45pm.  I took Ethan home and prepared for bed.  Only when I was putting on my pajamas, I thought that I should probably get a few more things done on it before heading to sleep, since I didn't know exactly how much time I would have the next day to get it done.

As it turns out, it didn't matter.  There were no other good stopping points, so I worked through the night and finally packed up my fondant and tools at 3:45am.  It wasn't that I was done, but more that I was nearly hallucinating with exhaustion.  At one point I thought there was a bird in my house.  At another point, I probably would have attempted to pour that concrete with expert precision if asked. 

I needed sleep.

The next day there were just a few finishing touches to be added, including a padlock on the linked chain I'd constructed the night before as well as a skull and bones for effect.  A few strategically placed piles of mashed strawberry designed to look like "guts", and the cake was finally finished.  The end result was even better that I'd anticipated.  The final concept had Keaton, a zombie himself, locked up inside the cake, one hand bursting through his grave marker to escape.

He loved the cake.  And as happy as I was to see him pleased, I was even more proud of myself for making it happen.  I think I might need to expand my cake-related horizons more often.

Maybe after I've slept.  Happy Birthday, Keaton.

Twelve Steps

I'm a bit of a night owl.  While my husband is able to execute a shockingly fast zero-to-sixty awake-to-asleep maneuver in less time than it takes me to excise the remote from beneath him, I'm one of those women that has a multi-step bedtime routine that often has me closing my eyes well after midnight.

First there's the bath.  Then there's the makeup removal, which, thanks to Clinique, no longer involves simply washing one's face but engaging in a twelve-step program for dirt removal, complete with a letter to loved ones and the serenity prayer.

Then when I'm done, and busy putting on lotion or painting my nails, and Joel is sleeping soundly, things are happening below.  Unbeknownst to us, Cael and Graham are beginning a twelve-step program of their own for the destruction of our sleep cycles, and quite possible our sanity.

Step One:  Wake Your Brother

This can happen in one of two ways.  Either Cael gets up to pee and wakes up Graham, or Graham gets up to pee and gets distracted.  After playing around in the bathroom sink, stacking some buckets or waging an army man battle, he wakes up Cael in the loudest way possible.

Step Two: Turn the Lights On

No plan for world domination can place in the dark.  And when your nemeses (your parents) are larger than you, one of the best ways to disarm them is to effectively blind them with 300 watts of incandescent light at 1:30am.

Step Three: Change/Swap or Take Your Clothes Off

I have no idea why they do this.  Then again, I have no idea why they do any of this.

Step Four:  Acquire Toys

What fun is being awake in the middle of the night if there's nothing to do?  And what better time is there to break into the storage room, where all of the decommissioned and off-season toys are stored?  The boys will pull out anything and everything they see and drag it across the carpet and into their room, leaving a path of smashed carpet fibers that would alert a crime scene investigator to the potential of a body having been dragged to its final resting place.  Only it's not a body, it's a life-sized toy motorcycle.  Or perhaps my dignity.

Step Five:  Acquire Books

Just like the previous step, the boys have to hoard as many items in their room as possible.  So rather than grabbing one toy or one book, the boys will empty their bookshelf and arrange them in a tiled pattern on the floor of their room.  They have no intention of reading anything, because these late-night escapades are in no way educational.  For them, that is.  I learn a little something about restraint every time it happens.

Step Seven:  Acquire Food

I have a sweet tooth, and as a woman, I know a little something about chocolate cravings.  But these boys, having already pilfered any and every piece of candy or chocolate during a past late-night heist, will resort to eating straight brown sugar or honey directly from the jar. 

Steps Eight & Nine:  Be Stealthy & Steal

Around three in the morning, when the sugar high is wearing off, the toys are old news and the books have been walked on more than they've ever been read, there are only two choices.  Go to bed or find something else to capture their attention until the sun rises and brings with it two unhappy parents with a messy basement and inexplicably sticky drawer knobs.  Wanting to prolong the inevitable, one or both will quietly climb the stairs, army crawl into my room and around the bed to steal my iPhone from its resting place on my nightstand.  Then, upon returning to their den of destruction, they will proceed to delete apps, photos, and text people messages that read, "hhgghhhj^7785w9r68rwy".  Stupid autocorrect.  Where are you when I need you?

Step Ten:  Make A Movie

Because a small child is anything if not vain, my boys love looking at pictures of themselves.  And what's better than a photo of oneself?  A video, taken in the middle of the night with a stolen phone, that commemorates this special event with a lot of very loud screaming and uncomfortable close-ups.  (The video is smashed and distorted because the boys took the videos in portrait orientation and iMovie won't adjust for it, not because I've added an effect to demonstrate just how hallucinogenic this experience truly felt.)

Step Eleven:  Capture

It was the yelling that did it.  You might think I would have heard them earlier, since this event lasted for nearly two hours and spanned the entire house.  But my own sleepy haze clouded my head until a particularly loud shout jolted me out of bed.  I did a quick assessment, probably overreacted to the prohibited use of my phone, and tucked them back in bed with their adamant reassurances that it would never, ever, happen again.

Step Twelve: Repeat.  Again.  Keep Parents Up ALL Night

Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...