Just Say "Yes"

As the mother of two children under the age of five, there are a lot of times that I find myself saying, “No.” “No, you may not have ice cream for breakfast.” “No, you may not lick the dishwasher.” “No, you may not bring that earthworm/dead mouse/giant tree branch into the house.” “No, you may not run around the neighborhood naked.” “No, you may not have a third popsicle.” “No, you may not go to the grocery store wearing only Perry the Platypus underpants and a plastic crown.” And despite the fact that I know I am saying “no” for their own good, sometimes I feel like I’m always the bad guy, always putting the kibosh on my kids’ fun.

So I decided that every time I start to say “no,” I’m going to stop and think about whether I really, truly need to say it. When the question is, “Can I stick a fork into this electrical outlet?”, the answer obviously needs to be “no.” But when the question is, “Can I have a popsicle for supper?”, or “Can I wear my tutu to church?”, or “Can we go outside and stomp in the puddles while it’s raining?”, sometimes the answer can be “YES!” When the issue is not danger, but rather my own convenience or my own comfort, sometimes the answer needs to be “Yes.”

Last week, my daughter wanted to paint in the kitchen. Being 2-1/2, her painting tends to cover not only the paper, but also the easel, the floor, the sink, her clothes, herself, and me. I knew we needed to go pick up her brother from preschool in an hour, so I initially said, “No.” But then I thought about it, and realized that no-one would care if I brought her to school with paint streaks covering her arms and her face. No-one would care (or even know) if I left the kitchen floor covered in dried paint until I got a chance to scrub it off later in the day. So I took a deep breath and said, “Yes.” I stripped off all her clothes except her diaper, gave her a handful of paint brushes and an entire jar of purple paint, and let her loose. She started off with a few tentative brushstrokes on the paper, but was soon slathering her palms with globs of paint and announcing, “Pawprint!” while slapping her hand onto the paper, flinging bits of paint across the room and all over her face and mine. She dunked her hand into the cup of water, happily watching it slosh over. She noticed the drips of paint on the floor and touched them with her toes, at first tentatively, and then sliding them into long colored streaks with great glee.

It looked something like this:

Actually, this was only the midpoint. But the time she was done, her face was covered in purple war paint, there were purple streaks in her hair, her legs were coated from thighs to toes, the cup of water had been knocked to the floor, and we’d even added a bit of pink and yellow paint for contrast. The kitchen floor looked like a demented rainbow.

And we were both grinning and laughing.

She announced she was done 15 minutes before we had to leave, so I tossed her in the bathtub, sprayed her off with the showerhead (which made us both grin and giggle even more), and got rid of most of the paint. I put her in fresh clothes and we hopped in the car, happier and more relaxed than either of us had been in a long time.

It’s not always easy, you’re often tempted not to do it, but sometimes, the best thing to do is to just say, “YES!” Because although “yes” rhymes with “mess,” it also rhymes with “de-stress” and “success”!

The Care and Feeding of Picky Eaters

I was a picky eater myself as a child (and, to a lesser degree, still am as an adult), so it was no surprise that I gave birth to a couple of picky eaters. After much trial and error and putting on a few pounds (okay, more than a few) from eating my failures and tearing out my hair, I’ve discovered a few survival tips for moms trying to cook for picky eaters.

1.  Presentation is key

Food that is appealing to a kid’s eye will also be appealing to his or her taste buds. Instead of serving fruit on the side of the plate, use it to make a smiley face right on top of whatever you’re serving – scrambled eggs, pancakes, a sandwich, a slice of meatloaf, a scoop of pasta. Instead of (or as well as) fruit, pick whatever random treats your kids like: a couple of jellybeans, a handful of breakfast cereal, pickles and olives, goldfish crackers, chocolate jimmies. You can even add some "goop" for dipping, like ketchup, ranch dressing, hummus, or jam. Your kids will eat the fun stuff and then forget to stop when they reach the healthy stuff underneath. (Hopefully.) And don’t underestimate the value of cutting things into interesting shapes. Cookie cutters aren’t just for cookies; they work on sandwiches, toast, cheese, cold cuts, pancakes.

And on the flip side of this one, if you make it look – or sound – over-the-top disgusting, kids (especially boys) will eat it out of pure curiosity. Be sure to make lots of repulsed noises while the child is eating. Thanks to Calvin’s mom for this advice.

Admittedly, this approach has a few drawbacks.

2.  Creative use of leftovers

If your kids are anything like mine, there are always leftover bits on their plates. One of my kids eats the hotdog and ignores the bun; the other demolishes the bun but ignores the hotdog. So I offer each of them both bun and dog, then swap their plates. Or I’ll save the uneaten hotdog slices and throw them in with some leftover mac & cheese at the next meal. When I make soup and there’s lots of leftover broth, I throw in that half-serving of rice, handful of cooked carrots, and few bites of grilled chicken left over from last night’s dinner and make myself a bowl of soup. If sandwiches are on the menu, I use their uneaten sandwich crusts to fill out my meal of that same leftover rice, carrots, and chicken. 

But my favorite use for leftovers is to do a "smorgasbord" lunch. Fill a plate with tiny servings of a lot of different things: a few bites of pork, a tiny spoonful of peas, a plop of applesauce, six blueberries, half a graham cracker, two broccoli florets, a few cheese cubes - whatever's on hand. Mix a few treats in with the healthy stuff, like a small handful of sweet cereal or pieces of their favorite fruit, and get creative with dipping sauces - let them try some spicy mustard, salsa, or balsamic vinegar along with more familiar sauces. 

Sometimes I sneak in a few "exotics," like marinated artichokes.

3.  Let them help
My kids love to help in the kitchen, and they will eat (or at least try) almost anything that they helped make. Even the littlest kids can help tear up lettuce, beat an egg, stir together batter, and mix meatballs. Kids who can read can help you follow a recipe or directions. Older kids can break eggs, measure ingredients, chop vegetables, and use the stove. As well as keeping them where you can keep an eye on them while you make dinner, you get the added bonus of an opportunity to teach nutrition, hygiene, chemistry, math, and reading. Not to mention, it’s laying the foundation for having them prepare dinner on their own once in a while so you get a break from kitchen duty!

This approach may take a good bit of practice before it’s successful, however.

4.  Variety really is the spice of life

I’ve read all kind of statistics stating that children need to be offered a food X number of times before they’re willing to try it, or that they need to try a food Y number of times before they decide they like it. I’m not sure if I buy any of those statistics, but I do know that kids are moody and sometimes they’re not willing to try something but other times they are. So I keep offering them different foods, even if they have tried them before. I don’t force them to eat more than a taste, and sometimes not even that, but the foods are there if I happen to catch them in the right mood. Maybe it’s only a 1 in 100 chance that they’ll try it, but if it’s not on their plate, it’s a 0 in 100 chance.

Even when it doesn’t work, the results can be quite entertaining.

 5.  Reverse psychology really works

My husband often puts a forkful of food on the edge of my son’s plate and warns him sternly, “Do NOT eat this. This will make you grow tall and strong, and I want you to stay little. You had BETTER NOT eat this!!!” Naturally, my son immediately grabs it and sucks it down, giggling triumphantly as my husband moans in mock horror. Likewise, my daughter won’t eat a bite of the food that’s on her own plate, but if I leave a forkful of the exact same food on my own plate and tell her, “That’s mine, don’t eat it!”, it will be gone before I can blink.

The grass broccoli is always greener on someone else’s plate.

The bottom line is, you just never know what might make a child try or like something, so just keep experimenting and offering. With apologies to Thomas Edison, you haven’t failed. You’ve just found 1,000 things your kids won’t eat.

Remembering Dad(s)

My dad passed away when I was in my 30s, years before I met and married my husband. I often wish they had been able to meet. I have no doubt they would have been fast friends, bonded not only through their mutual love of me, but because they were cut from the same cloth.

My favorite memories of my dad are from my early childhood. I remember him as a dad who involved us in what he did, whether it was fixing the car or noodling on the piano or the guitar or setting up the camper. When I was little, my "help" was along the lines of holding the flashlight or passing him a screwdriver or reading the next step in the instruction manual. When I was older, I got to actually use the wrench or the soldering iron or the hand saw. I never truly appreciated what he did for me until I saw my husband doing the same thing with my own children. That was when I realized that a child holding the light does not really help Dad see anything, that the screwdriver passed to him was often the wrong screwdriver (or, frequently, not a screwdriver at all but a wrench or a drill or pliers or whatever else was handy that seemed to fall in the "tool" category), that a 6-year-old attempting to read directions including words like "torque" and "receptacle" and "ventilation" is not particularly conducive to understanding what you should do next. And seeing my husband's endless patience with our children as they "help" him makes me appreciative of my dad's endless patience with me.

I also see my dad in my husband in their remarkable shared ability to be both stern and silly. Sometimes, when my husband barks at the kids, my heart jumps in a visceral, deeply-ingrained (and probably Pavlovian) response as in my mind I hear my father's voice barking at me. I often have to stifle a sense of unfairness as I realize my husband is right in chastising them, since they are generally doing something dangerous, foolish, or clearly forbidden. And I realize again that my dad's barking, like my husband's, comes from a place of deep love and a need to protect his family. That deep love also sparks a delicious - and often unexpected - silliness and playfulness. I also see my dad when I see my husband carelessly shed his dignity to roll on the floor and wrestle, to start a tickle fight, to make silly faces, to allow a small child to wrap him in a blanket like a mummy or put a sparkly tiara on his head or whack him with a pillow.

Even though my dad has been gone for 10 years, there are many moments when I miss him so much my heart hurts. There are so many parts of my life I wish I could share with him. I wish he could have been there to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, to see that his quiet and wise advice and example had led me to choose such a good man to be my partner throughout life. I wish he could have been there to see my beautiful children, his grandchildren, take their place in the world. I wish I could watch him be stern and silly with his grandchildren. I wish he could be here so I could tell him how much I learned from him, how he made me a better person, a better wife, a better mother. But since he isn't here, I can tell my husband the same thing: Thank you, sweetheart, for being the kind of dad I had, for being loving, and kind, and tough, and silly, and all the wonderful things you are.

I look forward to seeing my son carry on his grandfather's and his father's legacy as a dad. I know he'll be fantastic.

Red Carpet Review: The 2014 Tony Awards

The Tony Awards aren't usually the same sartorial explosion as, say, the Oscars, but there are generally a few noteworthy or at least interesting gowns. I'm going to jump right in with a critique of the gowns that stood out to me, for good or for ill. In no particular order:

Fran Drescher has always had a striking sense of not only what is fashionable, but what is flattering on her. This multi-shaded orange gown hugged her amazing figure and made just the right amount of splash. I loved that some of the fabric had a sparkly finish and some was matte. This girl knows how to walk the fine line between tacky and elegant, and she fell nicely on the side of elegant here. 

Vera Famiga was a fashion flop in this dull black column. The geometric details at the shoulders and hips were flattering, but they weren't enough to relieve the unrelenting boredom of the dull black. Boring neckline, zero sleeve details, somehow managing to be shapeless even while snugly fitting her curves, even the train somehow seemed lifeless. Perhaps it could have been saved with a better hairstyle or some flashier accessories.

Sutton Foster's gown was an example of how simplicity CAN work. Every detail, including the bold color, full skirt, slim belt, criss-crossed bodice, matching gold cuff and clutch, and smooth updo, set off her feminine but muscular figure. Very eye-catching!

The silhouette and fabric of Anna Gunn's dress really worked for me. The shiny-backed brocade and princess seams had a nice vintage look, and the long hem trailed into a graceful puddle. But the overblown, oversized crystals at the neck seemed to match neither the scale nor the style of the rest of the look, and her limp updo seemed like an afterthought.

Maggie Gyllenhaal is a beautiful woman, but she (or her stylist) has no idea how to dress herself in a flattering way. She consistently attempts to wear unusual styles but just can't pull them off. This feathered monstrosity might possibly have worked on a more petite, more curvy figure, but on her tall slender body, it looks like she got herself tarred and feathered. And then stapled on some extra feathers at the hem for good measure. And I won't even talk about her hairstyle, other than to wonder if it was done with an egg beater. Her light, natural makeup is lovely, at least. 

Adriane Lenox started off with a pretty terrific but unusual look. The structured, vivid orange coatdress with matching belt over what seemed to be either a romper or a pair of white shorts was striking and intriguing. The clunky shoes were a bit of a misstep, but it was the hat that threw the whole shebang completely off the rails. Was it a gourd wearing a crocheted tea cozy? Was it a 1970s fringed lampshade? It was a hot mess, whatever it was. More emphasis on "mess" than "hot."

Lucy Liu's black and white gown with plunging decolletage and asymmetrical bubble skirt had a beautiful line that managed to not overwhelm her tiny size. Her tall, bouffant-style hair balanced the width of the dress with a bit of added height. And the simple black sandals and diamond choker were lovely, proportional accents. 

Kate Mara seemed to be channeling the worst of the 1980s in this dress. The mix of black and silver was striking and interesting, but the giant squared-off shoulders and puffy texture of the fabric made her look like she was wearing a formal parka. The slicked-back hairstyle did nothing to improve her her look, nor did the severe eye makeup and the vaguely pained grimace (although that may have at least been evidence that she knew this was not a good look for her). 

Audra McDonald's huge poppy print dress was surprisingly successful. Her long, wavy 'do and chunky bracelet and ring balanced the large lines of the gown beautifully, and the coral lips perfectly matched to the gown were a nice touch. Oh, and that SIXTH Tony statuette she toted home was a pretty sweet accessory, too. 

Presenter Leighton Meester fell victim to the overly simple gown trap, as well. If her simple white column had been made of a more flowing fabric, or had an contrasting detail at the hip, or had a more interesting neckline, it could have worked. But as it was, it looked a bit too much like she grabbed a bedsheet on the way out the door.

The gorgeous iridescent color of the fabric in Idina Menzel's gown would have had me in love with anything made out of it, but the style of this gown would also have been fabulous in almost any different color and fabric. The angled, flared shoulder straps; the soft ruching along the diamond-shaped center panel; the soft, not-quite bow draped across the bodice; the swirling mermaid flare at the hem - I loved it all. The soft, shiny hair, nude lips, and barely-blingy earrings and clutch were the icing on the cake.

Kelli O'Hara did slightly better than many in the category of simple gowns. The champagne color worked well with her complexion and golden blond hair, the softly draped lines flattered her figure without being too va-va-voom, and the halter provided cleavage but support. Not one of the more memorable looks of the night, but certainly elegant, lovely, and flattering.

Anika Noni Rose did well with a less traditional style. Her one-shouldered, belted, chiffon animal print had a slit up to there showing off nicely toned gams. Her choice of minimal accessories and simple hair and makeup was a wise one. 

Emmy Rossum's sleek silver gown was one of my favorites of the night. The woven detailing of the bodice created the flattering silhouette of a corset without looking as restrictive, and the center front braid leading down into a soft, ruffly slit that moved beautifully softened the entire look, blending sleekness and movement flawlessly. Her dark hair and barely-there lip color were lovely contrasts to the sleek silver, particularly against her gorgeous alabaster skin.

And because it just seems right, I'd like to end with one of the technical awards that was presented earlier and not included as part of the Tony broadcast: Linda Cho, who won Best Costume Design of a Musical, for A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder.

I'm not sure if she designed her own gown or not, but it was so terrific that she deserves credit for it (as well as for the beautiful costumes for which she won the award). The soft curve of the top of the bodice echoed in the gently curved side panels, the flowered hem details echoing the bodice flower, the bright purple shoes, and the sheen of the apple green fabric all worked together to make this gown as much of a winner as its wearer.

I Think My Daughter is a Spy

You know how, in spy novels, there's always some secret catchphrase or password that the secret agents use to identify each other, to determine who's a good guy and who isn't? Something like, "The eagle flies at midnight" or "Joe sent me" or "A Volkswagen Carmen Ghia has no radiator" (if you've seen the movie Cars 2 a million times, as I have, that last one should sound very familiar). My daughter has been uttering phrases like that all week long, to everyone she meets, obviously hoping for a countersign. Some of the more common ones are, "Max the dragon has lost his glasses," "Rocks can't talk," and "Follow me, Gossie!"

I'm pretty sure she's a spy.

It's not just the secret passwords, either. I often find her speaking into random objects, like a Barbie doll, a toy car, a stuffed animal, or a shoe (Maxwell Smart, anyone?). And if I ask her what she's up to, she immediately puts on an innocent face and, with an angelic smile, informs me sweetly, "Nothin'!" I'm not buying it, though. I think she's setting up a meet with her weasel. But as it's generally in code ("Murth dawonga weebo, na poopah"), I can't be sure.

She likes to play with my Kindle Fire, my smartphone, and my desktop computer, all of which connect to the internet. And every time she finishes using one of them, the history only shows innocent sites like Lego videos and episodes of Nick Jr. shows and PBS Kids' Games. I'm not buying that, either. I'm pretty sure she's already computer-savvy enough to wipe the browser history and plant an innocuous trail of games. I'm starting to think that "Curious George: Roller Monkey" and "Elmo Asks, 'Where's Telly?'" are really just ways to pass along secret information on other spies; "drop sites," if you will.

The really scary part, though, is that I'm not entirely sure she's a good guy. She tends to cheer for the villains more often than a secret agent on the right side of the law should. The adoring way she announces, "Exborgs!" when the villainous army makes an appearance to fight the Power Rangers; the excitement in her voice when the letters crash down from the coconut tree in "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom"; the giddy laughter when one of the cartoon bad guys gets the best of Word Girl - those are all signs that she may not be playing on the good guys' team.

On the other hand, being a spy seems to be teaching her some really useful life skills. She can apparently speak multiple languages (one of them sort of being English), her computer hacking skills are right up there with the average freshman at MIT, and her innocent face could win her an Academy Award. When it comes to disguises, she is the queen of dressing up. She can transform herself into a princess, a hoppy frog, or a dragon in the blink of an eye, with a minimum of accessories. And she is almost hamster-like in her ability to squeeze into and through small spaces.

Oh well, maybe having an evil secret agent in the family isn't such a bad thing. Evil spies have minions, right? I could do with a minion or two around here. Preferably one that does laundry. And windows. Maybe even an evil pool boy minion. Yeah, I could get behind this secret agent thing. Okay, Joe sent me. Now get him to send me those minions!

Beautiful/Not Beautiful

I am not beautiful.

My features are not perfect and regular and symmetrical. They are not balanced and harmonious. They are not delicate and feminine.

My teeth are neither perfectly white nor perfectly straight. They are a bit too large for my face, a bit disproportionate and overly prominent. They are crooked. 

My skin is not creamy and smooth and unblemished. It bears scars, wrinkles, sun damage, stretch marks. There are furrows on my brow and crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes. I am developing a bit of a turkey wattle.

My hair is gray, and often unwashed. It is rarely styled, or even blow-dried.

My waist is not tiny, nor are my breasts full and ripe and “perky” any longer. I have a pooch, the remnants of two pregnancies after the age of 40. There is not even a hint of a gap between my thighs. My muscles, such as they are, are hidden beneath a layer of pudge.

There are bunions on my misshapen feet. My right hand is twisted and gnarled, like an old woman’s.

There is no physical perfection in me.

But my eyes have seen my children grow. They have watched over, and protected, and soothed. They have gone without sleep as I rocked and calmed and quieted a fussy child. My ears have listened to childish prattle, and childish wisdom. They have stayed alert for cries in the night. There are marks around my mouth, from laughing, and from weeping. The wrinkles around my eyes are from smiling, and from pain.

My teeth often show in a smile, a smile of pride, a smile of joy, a smile of relief. I smile back when my children smile at me, when I see them enjoying life, enjoying the world around them, enjoying the thrill of discovery. My smile may not be perfect, or beautiful, but it is genuine. It is heartfelt. It is sincere. It is joyful.

My skin may not bear the softness of youth, but it bears the kisses of children and the handprints of small people gazing intently into my eyes as they ask me questions about life and the world and their own existence. My scars are the reminder of the pains of my own childhood, reflected in my children’s pain – pain resulting from their curiosity and their exploration of the world around them and the imperfection of the same – and in the joys of discovery. The sun damage is from hours spent outside myself, curious and exploring. The stretch marks are badges of honor from carrying my children in my own body, of the months of nausea and anticipation and tears and excitement and fear and delight and watching my body change before my eyes. The furrows on my brow are echoes of my worries about my children – will they be happy? Successful? Employed? Lucky in love? Will their morals echo my own? Will they value God? Education? Family? Philanthropy? Will they be good people? Am I being a good mother? Am I teaching them what they need to know to have a good life? Did I raise them so they will make the world a better place?

My hair may be gray and unkempt, but its color is unnoticed by the small hands who stroke it as they fall asleep, who brush it and comb it and put combs and clips and barrettes in it, who kiss it and nuzzle it and tug at it and are fascinated by it.

The size of my waist doesn’t matter to small people who throw their arms around that same waist, who wrap their legs around it as I play horsey. My breasts may not be as pert as they once were, but they provide a soft pillow for a sleepy or sad child. What I think of as “pudge,” they see as embraceable, comforting softness. The limited muscle I have is enough for a piggyback ride, a toss in the air, a boost into the car.

The bunions on my feet don’t matter, as long as my children can stand on my feet as we waltz or tango around the room, laughing gaily. The twisted fingers of my hand can still comfort and soothe and snuggle. They can still steady unsure feet, swing a small body into the air, “scritch” a tired back, soothe a fevered brow.

There is no physical perfection in me. And yet, I am here. I care. I comfort. I love.

To my children, I am perfect.

In their eyes, I am beautiful.

No other eyes matter. To them, I am beautiful.

I am beautiful.

 

The Art in my Heart

When I was a young, working single, I was surprised by how often executives had children’s art displayed prominently in their offices. The rest of their office décor was generally tasteful prints or paintings, interesting sculptures, various trophies or framed awards, a family portrait here or there. But amidst the “true” art, there would be a crayon drawing, a small handprint in paint, an unidentifiable lump of fired clay. I understood, at a certain level, that these were pieces of their children, mementoes of the smallest members of their families. But until I had children myself, I didn’t understand fully what these bits of immature artwork represent.

I don’t have an office, but my refrigerator is covered in such artwork. Twice a week, my son brings home a project from school. In the recent past, it has been a cutout paper window with two red felt tulips glued in the center, a letter C covered in cotton ball clouds, a smiling bunny made of miniature marshmallows glued onto pink paper, and – my personal favorite – a flower made from a green paint handprint with a photo of my son’s smiling face pasted in the middle. (His shame-faced admission that he had tasted the paste was the icing on the artistic cake.)

I understand now that the beauty of this art is not only in seeing the developing motor skills of a child, but in the sweetness of that child’s excitement in presenting the results of his artistic hard work to a beloved parent. Its beauty is in capturing a moment in time which will pass all too quickly – the small hand reaching for mine now will become a larger one seeking its own way. The messy, random brush strokes will mature into controlled, well thought-out technique. The teacher’s handwriting will soon become his own, at first labored and later neat and even. This artwork is a moment in time, a moment of innocence, and sweetness, and confidence, and potential. It captures, even more than a photograph can, the split-second of my son as he is now.

It’s not just the art on my fridge. It’s the art in my heart.

Stupid Ways to Hurt Yourself

Way back in high school, I jumped off a high brick wall and managed to give myself something that the doctor referred to as a “bone bruise” on the bottom of my right heel. I remember that it didn’t hurt that much right away, and it didn’t swell, but there was a deep ache that felt like it was coming from my heel bone rather than the muscles or flesh below it, and the ache lasted for days. So when I hurt myself a few days ago and the pain reminded me of that old injury, I googled the term “bone bruise” to see if maybe that’s what it was. The category my injury fell in was called, rather impressively, a “subperiosteal hematoma.” And the most likely cause: “High velocity trauma to a bone: In general, any type of direct impact or high velocity trauma to a bone brought about by an incident such as a car accident, a high fall, or a blunt force can result in a hematoma, a contusion, or a bruise to the bone affected.” In my case, the cause was blunt force.

In medical terms, I am currently suffering from a subperiosteal hematoma caused by high velocity impact on the phalanx of my digital secondus manus by a glacialis slab of ground Bos primigenius.

In common terms, my right index finger is throbbing because I whacked it really hard with a frozen hamburger patty.

This has got to be the stupidest injury I have ever incurred in my entire life. And that bar is set pretty high. Aside from the previously mentioned jump off a wall, I knocked out my two front teeth falling off a balance beam, I have a scar on my left hip from attempting a high-speed turn in sand at the bottom of a steep hill on a bicycle and another just under my left eyebrow from attempting to see what was on top of the dining room table, I gave myself a goose egg from poking at a giant icicle hanging from the eaves, I nearly burned off one of my fingerprints in metal shop in junior high, and I’ve fallen out of more trees than I can count. But hematoma by burger is by far the stupidest. And the funniest.

And yet, it doesn’t hold a candle to my husband’s stupidest (and funniest) injury. When he was in college, he thought it would be funny to steal a keg of beer from a neighboring fraternity. A FULL keg of beer. Which he attempted to steal by himself and promptly dropped on his own foot. To make a long story short, he now has only 9-1/2 toes.

I can’t mock him too much, though, because stupid injuries seem to run in my family. My grandfather managed to accidentally both drill through and cut the tip off of my dad’s finger. (Same finger; two separate accidents.) My sister once crashed her bike into the neighbor’s trash cans and knocked out (and subsequently swallowed) one of her teeth. My mom slipped on some ice on the way to the mailbox and broke her toe. Twice. (Same mailbox; two different toes.)

So I can only imagine the stupid sorts of injuries my children will come up with over the years. But judging by the scrapes they’ve gotten into thus far in their short lives, I have no doubt they will be spectacularly stupid. If they want to outdo their folks, they’ll have to be.

First Birthday, First Shiner. A Portent of Things to Come?

The Art of Making Art

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly artistic person. I can’t draw a straight line to save my life; my attempts at a self-portrait are barely recognizable as human, never mind as myself; and the only thing I’d ever be able to sculpt from a lump of clay would be, well, a lump of clay. I do, however, consider myself to be creative. And there are two places where I consider myself most creative: at the stove and at the sewing machine.

Although I generally like projects that require precision, I dislike the need for perfect accuracy in baking, so my kitchen exploits have always leaned more toward cooking than baking. Baking involves chemical reactions and balanced equations, and a bit too much of this or not quite enough of that changes not just the taste but the texture, and indeed the entire composition. You can’t just “play with” the amount of baking soda or salt or butter in a pastry recipe and come out with a good result.

Cooking, in contrast, allows the chef a huge amount of creative freedom. Recipe calls for shallots but you don’t have any? Throw in some onions, maybe some scallions, whatever you happen to have on hand that sounds good. Like it spicy? Go ahead, double the Tabasco. Got a more delicate palate? Scant that tablespoon of chili powder. Leave out what’s not to your taste, add things that aren’t called for but that sound interesting, test and taste and fiddle and create.

My favorite cooking category for creativity is soup. I rarely use a recipe for soup. I pretty much start with a basic idea, perhaps “chicken soup” or “bean soup,” so I pour some chicken or beef broth into a pot and start adding whatever I have on hand that sounds good. Some vegetables, some meat, some pasta, some herbs. The problem is that I usually keep thinking of more and more good things to add, and although the final result is invariably delicious, there also tends to be a lot more of it than I intended by the time I’m done.

This weekend I discovered that making a hat is very much like making soup: You start with a general idea, but then you look around you and keep finding wonderful additions, and you end up with a delicious concoction but one that is quite different – and significantly more voluminous – than your initial idea.

The reason I was making a hat is that my husband and I were attending a Kentucky Derby party. We had attended the party last year, and it included a competition for the best hat. My hat had been one of the winners. 

That particular hat was intended to be tall, voluminous, and bold. I knew I would have a tough time outdoing myself in terms of sheer size, so I decided to take a totally different direction and make a funky but petite fascinator. I poked around my sewing table and came up with a piece of fake leather that I had bought to make a grill cover that I could use for a base. A few more minutes of poking unearthed some lime green chiffon left over from a Tinkerbell costume I had made for my daughter a few years ago. I made a couple of small chiffon florets and stitched them to the base, but although the color was striking, the overall effect was a bit dull. So I dug out a few fancy buttons I had cut off an old, worn-out dress and added them to the flower centers. Better, but still too two-dimensional. I needed a bit of architectural structure. Perhaps some brightly colored pipe cleaners? A quick forage through my kids’ art drawer yielded only brown pipe cleaners, and once curled they didn’t have the height or visual interest I had in mind. One brief Google search and one trip to the recycling bin later and I was cutting an empty water bottle into a spiral, covering it with ruched fabric, twisting it into a funky coil, and stapling it on.

My creation was beginning to earn the name of “fascinator,” but it wasn’t quite done yet. It needed some kind of backdrop behind the plastic coil, so I dug back through my fabric bag, coming up with some bits of green and white tulle. I zipped them through the sewing machine, stapled them on, and surveyed my work. It was coming together, but something was still lacking: color. The fabric was bright and eye-catching, but it needed some contrast. I had learned many years ago in a theatrical costuming class about a concept called a “poison color.” A poison color is a small splash of contrasting, even clashing, color that sets off everything around it. A bright blue dress might have a vivid orange sash as its poison color; a pale pink shawl could be held in place with a deep emerald brooch. I needed a solid contrast to my acid green. Yet another trip to my craft drawers unearthed one of the red roses that had graced last year’s hat – perfect for the Run for the Roses! And right alongside it were a few black and white feathers from last year. In for a penny, in for a pound – three or four staples later, and I had my poison. My petite, graceful, feminine, delicate fascinator was complete!

Well, okay, it was neither petite nor delicate. But it was graceful and feminine. And cool. And much like my results when I make soup, it was unlike anything I have ever made before, and I don’t think I could recreate it if I tried. But it was wonderful in its uniqueness. And in its creativity. I suppose, if you were feeling generous, you could even call it art.

Photo A Day, Day 30: Something Silly

Rainy days can go either way in my house: whiny, cabin-fevered children getting into fights and complaining they’re bored, or happy children enjoying the chance to do inside projects. Today, thank goodness, turned out to be the latter. We started the day with a play date at home with some friends, the kids all chasing each other around and wrestling (yes, even Katie) to burn off energy, but once our friends left, the kids were impressively mellow and asking for an art project.

My son has discovered a fun concept called “Artzooka,” which is basically making things out of found and recycled objects from around the house. We’ve made jet packs for stuffed animals out of empty water bottles, rubber bands, and tissue paper; we’ve made pinwheels out of construction paper and straws; we’ve made interesting but indescribable sculptures from broken toys and scotch tape. And today, we made a minecraft helmet out of an empty baby wipes box, construction paper, and magic markers.

You can’t see it in this photo, but there is a big smile hiding behind that swath of cardboard. And there were lots of silly noises coming from inside it. And I have no doubt there will be lots more silliness coming from both inside and around that helmet for the rest of the afternoon.

What better way to spend a rainy afternoon than by doing something silly?

Photo A Day, Day 29: Contrast

To find a contrast in my life, I only have to look as far as my children. One boy and one girl; one brown-haired and one blonde; one carnivore and one near-vegetarian; one night owl and one early riser; one truck- and rocket-lover and one tutu- and crown-wearer; one fond of orange and one of pink; one who doesn’t nap and one who does; one who’s built like a tank and one like a delicate flower. 

Even where there isn’t an innate contrast, there is often a passing contrast: he’s cranky when she’s cheerful; he’s sleepy when she’s wide awake; he’s in the mood to play outside when she’d rather stay in; he wants a PB&J when she wants a grilled cheese; he wants to race around when she wants to snuggle. Fortunately, many of their contrasts are actually complementary. When we have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, he eats her spaghetti and she eats his meatballs. When he finishes playing with the Legos, she’s ready to start. He wants to hear one bedtime story, she wants a different one. When she’s ready for bedtime, he’s happy to play for another half an hour. Just when my ears start to bleed from listening to his favorite song 27 times in a row, she demands her favorite 27 times in a row.

But even beyond just my children, my husband and I demonstrate some contrast. He’s an extrovert; I’m an introvert. He’s technically inclined; I am not. I am more comfortable with the written word; he’s more comfortable with the spoken word. He loves being in charge; I’d rather take orders. He prefers red wine; I lean towards white. I love ethnic food; he’s a meat and potatoes guy. He likes the Hilton; I’m happy with Motel 6. He is a human GPS; I can get lost in my own neighborhood.

The four of us together, however, are proof that contrasts can be complementary. Among the four of us, we’ve got blond hair, brown hair, red hair, and bald all covered. We’ve got tall, average, petite, and husky. We’ve got short sweater, long sweater, vest, and jacket. As long as we’re all together, someone will be happy with whatever’s on the menu; someone will know how to get where we’re going; someone will find a toy that makes them happy; someone will like whatever is on the radio; someone will have an interesting story to entertain guests with. And someone will look terrific in whatever family theme colors we’ve decided on.

I’m pretty okay with that contrast.

Photo A Day, Day 28: Chaotic

“Chaotic.” That one word pretty much sums up every day of my life for the past few years. Particularly recently. At this moment, I am attempting to potty train two children at once, which, as any mom will tell you, is an exercise in chaos. You have to be prepared at any moment, no matter where you are, to rush to a bathroom. You need to be able to unhook, unbutton, unzip, or otherwise undo various assorted garments in a split-second. You need to be able to locate and reach a bathroom in any public place in under 30 seconds. You have to have the magical ability to determine the exact urgency of the situation at a single glance. You must develop secret psychic powers to determine the exact moment when a child needs to relieve him- or herself and somehow get him or her to a toilet before all hell breaks loose. The word “chaos,” in this instance, is an understatement.

This pretty little potty chair looks so innocuous, doesn’t it? And yet, it is the hub of chaos for every parent for a period of approximately 6 months per child (although in my case, I’m starting to have the feeling it’s going to stretch out to closer to 6 YEARS). For those 6 months, your life seems to revolve around potties. You let your child watch you use the potty. You watch Elmo use the potty. You talk about using the potty. You talk about Elmo using the potty. You watch videos, read books, and have conversations that all revolve around toilets. You invent new words for bodily functions involving toilets. Your world, for a period of time, is centered around toilets.

It is a sad, sad period of parental life.

But eventually (or so they tell me) it is over, and the chaos transforms into freedom. Freedom from diapers, freedom from diaper pails, freedom from diaper bags, freedom from all things associated with diapers. I yearn for that day. But until then, I will just deal with the chaos.

Photo A Day, Days 26 & 27: "Enjoy the Little Things" and "Under My Feet"

I suppose this could be considered cheating, combining two days into one. And even though I was a couple of days behind, I honestly intended to write two separate entries for this weekend. But when I found my subject for “Enjoy the Little Things” and realized it was also perfectly appropriate for “Under My Feet,” I couldn’t help combining them. And when you see my photograph, you’ll understand why.

Tiny toys are the bane of every parent of small children. As much as kids love big play kitchens and oversized stuffed animals and giant toy fire trucks, it seems like they spend even more time playing with the tiny cheapo toys that came from McDonald’s or in a 30-pack from the Dollar Store or the local party store. (Or the tiny not-so-cheapo toys that came from the Lego store.) And these tiny toys have two major problems: 1) they are so small that they are constantly getting lost (between couch cushions, at the bottom of Mom’s purse, under the seat of the car, in the pocket of a seldom-worn jacket), and 2) they are constantly – and painfully – underfoot.

The most obvious case of tiny, underfoot, hated-by-parents toys are Lego blocks. Not the big Duplos that you can convince your kids are Legos until they’re about 3 years old, which are much softer underfoot and come in bright colors that can be seen from the moon, but the genuine article, the miniscule, same-color-as-the-carpet, only-one-way-to-make-a-spaceship-from-this-set, 3,000-pieces-per-package, sharper-than-a-serpent’s-tooth, Daddy-will-you-put-this-together-for-me stuff of parental nightmares. The one minor advantage to Lego blocks, of course, is that since you have 500,000 of them around your house, any one piece that gets broken or “accidentally” thrown away will not be missed by your child. (It may suddenly be missed by you when you are attempting to construct that scale model of the Millennium Falcon that your kids have been begging you to build for weeks, however.)

But with pretty much any other tiny toy, your child will know – and weep – when one is missing. At the moment, my daughter’s favorite tiny toy is a pair of plastic pteranodons that Santa bought by the dozen at the party store and tucked into her stocking on a whim. Now, we can’t leave the house without mother and baby pteranodon in tow. Conveniently, they’re small enough to fit both of them in a pocket or purse, and they’re soft plastic so repeatedly dropping them on the floor in church or, say, a dance recital (not that that has actually happened, of course, but hypothetically) is not disruptive to others nearby. But because there are so many places they can be tucked, there are also so many places they need to be looked for every time they disappear. I now plan on leaving the house 15 minutes earlier than usual no matter where we’re going so we can stage a massive dinosaur hunt before getting in the car.

But I’m glad that my kids do know how to enjoy the little things. Even if those little things do tend to end up under my feet.

Photo A Day, Day 25: Remember

Do you remember when February and April vacation seemed to last forever?

Do you remember when an hour blowing bubbles on the front porch was the most awesome hour you’d ever spent?

Do you remember when a playground with swings AND a slide was heaven on earth?

Do you remember when your idea of gourmet food was macaroni and cheese with hotdogs in it washed down with a juice box?

Do you remember when all your problems could be solved by eating a blue popsicle?

Do you remember when a kiss from Mom could cure any hurt, emotional or physical?

Do you remember when life was so exciting that you hated going to bed at night and couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning?

Do you remember when playing tag with your best friend was the best possible way to spend an afternoon?

Do you remember when reading a book all by yourself was a tremendous source of pride?

Do you remember when curling up in your dad’s lap while he told you a story before bed was your favorite part of the day?

Do you remember getting up early on Saturday morning, making yourself a bowl of Captain Crunch, and watching cartoons until your folks got up?

Do you remember catching fireflies in the backyard?

Remember.

Photo A Day, Day 24: A Pop of Color

When I married my husband, our finished basement was beige. Off-white walls, beige couch, dull taupe rug, light brown furniture, even the single painting on the wall was black and white with a hint of beige. It had no color, no personality. It was just…beige.

But once small children entered (or, in his case, re-entered) our lives, so did color. The baby toys were vivid primary colors and bold, bright shapes. The toddler toys were slightly more subtle but still bright and vivid. The preschool toys are becoming a bit less of an assault on the eyes, but still solid, bold colors and patterns. And the toys are everywhere. So on every formerly dull, bland, beige surface, there can always be found a pop of color.

Today, I glanced at my beige couch, covered with a dull brown blanket, next to a boring black chair, with a single pair of plain white socks resting on it, and saw a single piece of bright red, glitter-coated tissue paper. A pop of color. And it made me smile. Because not only is it a cheerful color, it is also a reminder of the project that my son and I did together earlier in the day. It was a symbol of how my son can now read directions himself, how he can figure out how to put things together and how to make them work. It was a reminder that he loves to be creative, and that he loves for me to watch him and to help him in that creativity.

It reminded me how, in the sometimes dull beige of my life, my family is always a beautiful pop of color.