Peter's Toy Story Party

The invitation:


I felt so much pity for Woody when only one boy chose the "Woody Side" that I actually made a couple of them make the switch without their knowledge (as in "Here, let me fix your cape for you, Buddy!"). How can you watch Toy Story an estimated gazillion times and not have your heart-strings pull for the cowboy?

When I was pregnant with Peter and found out I was having boy #4, people asked me if I was disappointed. Are you kidding me? My internal organs get all soft and sappy when I think of little boys and I could never get enough! I could have just squished all these boys together and made a little pie of cuteness and eaten the whole thing myself. (I don't know exactly what that means, but you get the general gist, right?)

I had been wanting to do a Superman Party, but finally gave in (and you can plainly see how I still stubbornly used some of my super-hero ideas in the planning).

The green grapes were a must on the Pizza Planet menu. Every time we're in the produce section and Peter sees them he yells delightedly, "Look! Buzz Lightyear grapes!"

Just looking at this busty creation makes me feel slightly sick, like a mandatory nap is around the corner. This fellow bordered on confectionary deviance. I was insanely determined to master a 3-D Buzz cake, so I planned out my strategy for days before the party. I ended up using THREE cake mixes, two pans, about six hours of after-hours labor, and absolutely no common sense. When I finally tucked my frosting-covered, obviously stupid self into bed some time after 4 AM, I had to get up again and take about twelve pictures of the cake because I was sure it would somehow be magically destroyed by morning.

When we were chowing down on the cake, Caleb looked at me between sweet mouthfuls and said wryly, "Well, it looks like this is the last party this Buzz is going to!"

No, you di-unt. Yes. We did. We just used a butter-knife as a party guillotine and lopped the poor guy's cranium clean off. It was too funny to watch Peter's expression as we served it up on a platter (I will refrain from making any inappropriate Biblical allusions here. Sorry, Mr Baptist, for even thinking of it.)

Volume VI, issue viii, August 2010

Caleb's Big Day

Even though Caleb's 8th birthday was in April, he chose to wait until July to be baptized so that his cousins could be there (with the exception of his only cousin on the d'Evegnee side, who was still too little, having just been born a few weeks earlier--HOORAY for MATTHEW!).

When I leaned close with my proudly glistening eyes after the big moment and reverently him asked how it felt to be baptized, expecting spiritual pearls to spring forth, he said, "Everyone has been asking me that."

I chuckled (which makes me sound really old and matronly and like I'm wearing a mandatory floral jumper, but that is what I did) and prodded a tad, "So. . . how DO you feel?"

My newly purified offspring looked back at me and said, "How do you think I feel?"

* * *

(On the sweeter side)

A few weeks before Caleb's baptism, we were having Family Home Evening and I was giving the lesson about choices and consequences (sound familiar?). I told the kids that I always wanted them to make good choices so that we could always be together as a family, sort of like on the same "team." I told them that we need to plan now so that when they get older they will still be able to feel the Spirit in their lives. I asked them what we could do as a family to make sure that happens. The other kids gave some great responses, but Caleb was quiet as he studied his folded hands.

As the others stampeded into the kitchen for the treat, Caleb stayed behind and whispered, "I know what we can do to help us always be together."

"What, Caleb?"

He softly answered, "We can always try to feel the way we feel when we are holding Marie."

(I can't even write about it without getting several lumps in my throat.) That's when I sure he was ready to be baptized.

All Petered Out

(Spoiler : This contains my favorite story in a good long time. And THAT is saying something!)

Peter has been a man of few words for a long time. We've tried to encourage him to "use his words" and we've even helped him pray for "more words" during his bedtime prayers. Perhaps there was no need for him to talk with Caleb the "Peter Whisperer" around, or perhaps he didn't want to waste his words on those of us who wouldn't appreciate them. However, during the last few months, both Peter's personality and sentence structure have blossomed into an irresistible mixture of humor, charm, and sincerity.

Peter's Sunbeam teacher from Primary tracked me down last week and said she had a "Peter Story" for me. I said, "Oh no." She said, "No. . . it's funny."

They had been having a lesson entitled "I am Thankful for Food" a few weeks ago (they like to tackle the deeper issues of theology in the Sunbeam class). The teacher asked the kids what foods they liked to eat and Peter raised his hand and started squirming with excitement in his chair. His teacher called on him and he bounced up and down on his little behind as he started to talk.

He took a deep breath and said, "I went to Gamma and Gampas. . . . and. . . . there was FIRE!. . . . and there was. . . .CRACKERS!. . . . and there was. . . MARSHMALLOWS!. . . and there was. . . . CHOCOLATE!!! And. . . and. . . (by this time she said he was wiggling so much in his chair and speaking with so much passion that she was on the edge of her seat) . . . . and it was. . . it was. . . . it was. . . .LOVE!!!!"

As he reached that climatic last word, he sighed and sunk down into his chair with the pure emotion of his story, and grinned with satisfaction.

All Things Bright and Back-to-School

Unbel-EVE-able

Eric: When is it time for me to spank your butt?

Eve: My butt is too adorable to be spanked.

* * *

Eric was spread out daddy-fashion on the couch when Eve came up to nestle her way into her usual spot in his arms. He looked at her, raised his eyebrows and said, "Why?"

Eve responded, "Because you love me. . . and you MUST."

Eve got to cheer for the good ole' Madison Bobcats (WAHOO to Jon, Dave, Tom, and Cheer-Queen Auntie Em!) after attending the cheerleaders' fund-raiser/cheer camp/booty-shake-fest. (I don't know what the Madison High Cheerleaders are called, but you MUST believe me when I tell you that in the 80's the drill team used to be called the Bob-Cadettes. But there was a minimum bang-height requirement, so I never would have made it. Luckily we moved before I had a chance to seriously consider it.)

During half-time, as Eve clapped and smiled coquettishly at the crowd, I leaned over to one of the other moms and said, "I am just a little ashamed with myself for how cute I find this." I was simultaneously haunted and pleased when someone said, "Wow. Eve is really good at that!" The Eleanor Roosevelt in me huffed a little at the anti-feminist display, while the Kathie Lee part shrieked drunkenly and struggled to get up on the field and shout out Eve's name and perhaps join her in a few hip-gyrations (luckily Eleanor was there to restrain me).

A Shout-Out to Gregor Samsa

Holden has an enviable social ease that has been present since he was a baby. During my hours of piano-lesson teaching and otherwise bringing home the proverbial bacon for my student-husband, Eric used to take Holden on long walks around Provo to survive the stress of speeding his way through school while working at his early morning janitorial job and dealing with a pregnant wife. Even before he was a year old, Holden would wave his bechubbed fingers in such a cheerfully diplomatic way as he hailed any passer-bys within the sound of his high-pitched, "Hi!" that Eric dubbed him "The Senator." Heck, I'd vote for him.

Holden isn't phased by the blowing social winds of middle school, being content with whatever clothes or hairstyle his Mom chooses. For school pictures, we (meaning I) decided to try a new coif that was short around the back and sides, but just a tad longer in front--that sort of "I-just-gelled-my-hair-and-then-ran-into-a-wall look." I cut and styled his hair that morning, telling him how handsome he looked and how much I liked the tween-o-centric style (although I didn't use those exact words).

Even Eric got in on the praise (with a side of teasing, of course) telling him how much Ally Rigby (a heart-breakingly cute blonde in our ward) would like his haircut. Holden shrugged it off and rolled his eyes. But as he put on his jacket to leave and Eric started to put his hood up, Holden swatted his hand away and said, "No! My hair!"

Uh-oh. This scares me much more than Kafka ever could.

I Can't Believe I Didn't Have to Use Butter!

I had to jump on this photo-op before her calves came springing out of the boots and the skirt went zinging off into the trees. I'll probably have to erase this when she's old enough to understand it, but for now, we can exploit her chubby-kneed-ness. When I pack her into little skirts like this, Eric starts to sing a little "Big Legs, Tight Skirt!" Thank you, John Lee Hooker, for not discriminating against the clothing-challenged.

Top d'Evegnee

The Mission: To make 250 bite-sized servings of French Cuisine to be sampled by the youth from our Stake.

I was given the assignment by my friend, Shannon, who is in the Stake Young Women's Presidency. I was thrilled to accept the challenge, but not without my sous-chef, Eric, by my side. (This blog will self-destruct in two minutes. . . or at least the writer will at this rate.)

Eric and I had a little tête-a-tête and settled on whipping up a little vichyssoise and some crepes. I delusionally patted my own back for exercising restraint, but after all of the chopping, cooking, and flipping (out) that went on during the whole process, I can see now that I "over do it" even when the little voice in my head assures me in such a convincing, yet harried, way that I'm not overdoing it. Why didn't we just do one dish instead of two? Looking back, I realized that I honestly had a part of my brain that was hoping the judges would be extra impressed by my execution of two dishes instead of one.

Wait. There WERE no judges! This is reality, Sarah. Not a cooking show, honey! (Too much Top Chef. Too much Iron Chef. Too much Chopped. You caught me!)

Eric and I kept a running gag going about feeling like we were on a reality show, but the pathetic truth is that more than once I felt like I was going to get kicked off the show or lose points if I didn't season our dishes perfectly. . . and I was nervous.

I actually caught myself at one point thinking, "Now, when Shannon comes to our table, I have to make sure I get her a fresh, hot sample."

When I fretted about the seasoning of the soup, Eric tasted it and said, "Well, it's not bad, but I'm not sure what Tom Colicchio is going to think about it."

More than once, Eric and I frantically shouted, "Time!" as we scrambled to get our food completed before 7:00 and then we'd burst into a fit of giggles (that makes Eric sound much too feminine for his liking. . . sorry, man). We started chopping veggies at about 3:30 and barely screeched into the chapel at 6:55.

We gained more empathy for the contestants on those cooking shows, but how many of them have to try and take care of and feed SIX kids while trying to complete their dishes?

The recipes are on the Recipe Blog!

Our kitchen counter was piled high with grocery store bounty, making it look like we had just breezed in from a French Country Fair (We actually had gone to the Madison County Fair the day before, and what it was. . . was NOT breezy. [Unless, that is, your idea of breezy is a combination of toothless carnies, Rexburg Poofs, and chickens. . . lots of chickens]).

When Eric and I used to teach the French Culture Class at the MTC in Provo, he could whip up about fifty crepes in 30 minutes with no errors. (Can you see why I married the kid?) Yesterday he did not disappoint.

We were frantically ladling up soup and setting out samples for a good fifteen minutes before the wave of hormones, acne, and social awkwardness descended upon us. And that's before the youth even got to our table (HAH). Seriously, though, there is a reason you are blind to the reality of adolescence when you're smack dab in the middle of it. I don't care how many clichéd movies there are trying to convince you that you'll learn much-needed life lessons by somehow going backwards or forwards in time or switching places with one of your progeny through magic or voodoo or fortune cookie or hot-tub or DeLorean--you couldn't pay me to go back there.

The hair flipping, flirting, screeching herds milled about the gym in a controlled, orbit-like , caste-based motion that was quite beautiful actually.

And so hypnotic. . . .a whole universe of socially arbitrary, cruel satellites. . .

Both Eric and I watched them for a good three minutes of open-mouthed, horrified silence until we snapped ourselves out of our stunned stupor and looked at each other in mutual gratitude.

We started serving the crowd. Again and again the word "vichyssoise" caused them screw up their faces in that teen look of repugnance I adore so much.

I smiled and told them reassuringly, "It's potato and leek soup," as if that would make their slack jaws and misshapen mouths go back to normal.

Wrong.

I had somehow forgotten that an unknown word like "leek" would wreak havoc on the appetite of our adolescent audience. When I said the word, they looked at me like I had told them I had put a small, fanged, woodland creature in their soup.

Our mind-bogglingly extroverted friend, Derek, helped us serve our French fare, but kept calling the soup, "Viscious Swans" and saying "Craypes" to get on our nerves. He swaggered up to youth, girls or boys, and would say, "Are you ready to eat the most mind-blowing thing you've ever tasted?" After about twenty minutes, he said to Eric, "Okay, I started annoying myself ten minutes ago." That's why we love him, even though he comes from the opposite end of the social spectrum.

Luckily for us, Derek was on our team and the teens reluctantly tried the soup. One of them said to her friend, "Hey. This is just potato soup."

On Saturday, Eric flipped out dozens more crepes for our little frenchies at home for breakfast and we feasted on Vichyssoise, french breads and cheeses for lunch.

Eric insists that our kids say crepe with a french accent, which causes some obvious (but hilarious) linguistic ambiguity. Yes. I do like to exploit my children. But it was so funny I had to get it on tape.

Marie's TWO-TWO Birthday Ballet Bash

Marie turned two an embarrassingly long time ago, but I couldn't bear the thought of not throwing the party I had been planning since I had my ultrasound two-and-a-half years ago.

WARNING: You may want to slide on your sunglasses if you have an aversion to things that are hyper-pink (as in pastel-pepto--which you may need after you witness this overdone party).
Like the two and three year old ballerinas we invited, I like invitations to be interactive so that I can move them from side to side and play with them before I have to take my nap. Marie's invitation was designed for dancing (just like me. . . I love it when I'm so tired I just don't care anymore. No self-edit button? No problem!)

You know it's a rockin' party when a few belly buttons make an appearance! Woot! Woot!

This is a group of people I could hang out with all day and not get tired of. YUM! Is it bad if you kind of want to eat your party guests with lots of whipped cream and frosting? (Don't answer that. I'm not going all Jonathan Swift on you.)

The day after the party, when we were all feeling mighty hung-over from the sweetness of the day before, Peter woke me up too early for a summer morning and dragged me out of bed so I could slop some breakfast in a bowl for him. But he didn't want cereal for his post-party meal. He said to me, "Mom. I want some Barbie-que cake."

The sound of my own belly laugh woke me up. (Especially because I remembered Eric trying to find all sorts of inappropriate locations for the two candles on our cake. . . use your imagination. This is a family blog!)

When we cranked up the classical music and told the pint-sized ballerinas to dance, they all started spinning like little tutu-clad tops and wouldn't stop. They kept turning and turning until we noticed that they were starting to tilt ever so slightly. And then, like some sorority of dizziness, they began to topple over like girls who had had their first taste of tainted punch at the prom. Take a close close look at their little nausea filled faces. Ahh. I do SO know how to party.

As we were prepping Barbie to be eaten (please don't read this aloud to your kids!), Ethan looked at her sugary gown and said, "That cake went straight to her hips!"

Volume VI, issue vii, July 2010

Camp d'Evegnee is brewing with a vengeance now that Dad has a little vacation time. This week should probably have been called "My Big Fat Camp d'Evegnee," but we've chosen to call it "Greek Week."

Holden instructed us all about the in's and out's of Greek Mythology and we did the cooking and crafting as a team of giggly, giddy familial olympians. To cap off the week, we had chariot races and our own Olympics.

I've decided to post all of the recipes on my recipe blog so they don't take up too much space here. There is a link on the sidebar or you click here: RecipeParty.blogspot.com.

Let me just say, though, that our tastebuds were in Olympus with all of the earthy, homey flavors. We were so happy to see our little geeks, uh. . . I mean, greeks gobbling down spinach and eggplant, among other things. Eric says he wishes that every week could be Greek Week just because of the menu.

After one of our evening feasts, Ethan made up this joke:

What do you call a Greek God after he eats too much?

An O-limp-ian.
On Wednesday night, we watched "Percy Jackson" and tonight we watched "Clash of the Titans" (with a little light editing. . . kids only need to see so much dismembering of mythological monsters).

During a break in the movie, Eve looked up at me and said cheerfully, "Hi, Goddess of all Moms!"

After the scene where Percy learns that the Gods can't hang out with their mortal offspring, Eve said to Eric, "I'm glad you're not a God. . . so you can spend time with me."

Ethan rode the Zeus Mobile and chucked cardboard lightening bolts at the other chariots, while Holden painted a huge white skull on the front of his chariot and proudly represented Hades. Caleb raced in the "Sea Mobile" (C-Mobile, get it?).

Eve chose to ride her chariot for the Goddess Athena and we told her she could write anything she wanted on the side of her vehicle. She asked me for some help on the spelling, but she honestly wrote the line: "Wisdom is an experience."

We asked her where she had heard the phrase and she shrugged her shoulders and explained that she hadn't heard it anywhere. Okay. . . not to brag because I know she's my daughter and all . . . but what can I say here?