Volume VIII, issue ii. February 2012
PART ONE: The Party
PART ONE: The Party
Eve’s
Baking Birthday Party
You know the eerie quiet that tickles
the edge of your skin, telling you that a storm is muscling in and will soon
arrive in all of her destructive fury?
That’s what February was like at our house.
Many of the hours too innumerable to mention that
I spent on the couch being with child with Charlie were spend in a
half-daze. The half of me that wasn’t
dazing was planning future parties. I
would imagine a world sans nausea, full of pink, ruffles, and the tinkling of
little girls’ laughter.
On Saturday all of my dazy, dreamy planning came to
tempestuous fruition.
When I’m in party-planning mode, I'm like a tank barreling towards a confetti-laden war-zone. Eric likes to
ask me who the party is for. I look at
him seriously and reply, “For me. I’m
not even pretending that it’s not.” And
if the kids happen to have a little fun too, well then hallelujah!
Just for the record, several of the girls happen
to have commented that it was the best party they’d ever been to. But you didn’t hear that from me.
I wasn’t really listening. I was too involved with the frosting up to my
elbows, the rogue threads peppering my pants, and the greedy smile so wide it
was like a hanger yanking up my sagging, sleep-deprived eyelids.
We were on a maniacally tight schedule, but we were able to gulp down all of the activities on the menu.
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| PS Cakelet is my new favorite word. Try it in a sentence. You'll see. For example, "Good morning, Cakelet! How are you today?" |
Marie sat close to me as I rolled and twisted and manipulated pairs of socks to make them look like cupcakes for Eve’s party guests. (Don’t. Just don’t.) After a few minutes, she proudly held up my leftovers that she had repurposed into her own project. Apples and trees. Don’t get me started; I’ll get too excited.
PART TWO: Everything Else
Somewhere
over the Rainbow
The stomach bug that waged war on my system last
week was some Arnold Schwarzenegger/Terminator-type version that came back and
came back and came back. As I was
retching in the bathroom with the door closed, I heard it creak open a crack
and saw two little blue eyes peering through.
Peter’s voice piped in, “Hey Mom! Ya throwin’
up?”
Groan.
As I staggered down the hall, Peter hop-stepped
beside me, singing out, “Well, what color was it? Was it green?
Was it blue? Or was it RAINBOW?”
Groan.
Secret
Super Peter Power
Peter had a buddy over for a play-date and they
requested macaroni and cheese for lunch.
I set out the haute-cuisine with flourish, the partially hydrogenated
goodness still steaming on the plate.
Peter’s friend dug in with gusto and winced and spat from the heat.
About a minute later, Peter said, “Mom, actually
I’m invincible.”
“Oh, really?
You are? What makes you say
that?” (I love the moment of anticipation between questions like those and
Peter’s twinkly-eyed answers. I can never even begin to guess what is coming
next.)
My little Irish sprite answered, “Heat doesn’t
bother me!” and he took a big bite of his lunch with smug self-satisfaction.
* * *
Peter's other (more well-used) super-power is that he is quite commanding when he's hungry. The other night as he waited to be waited upon for his evening meal, he got up from the table and stormed over to the stairs and yelled down to his siblings:
"Come and set the table, you fools!"
* * *
Peter's other (more well-used) super-power is that he is quite commanding when he's hungry. The other night as he waited to be waited upon for his evening meal, he got up from the table and stormed over to the stairs and yelled down to his siblings:
"Come and set the table, you fools!"
Valentine's Day
(Lollipop Valentines and Heart Pizzas and Over-doing it, oh my.)
Brace
Yourself
(Lollipop Valentines and Heart Pizzas and Over-doing it, oh my.)
The night before my mouth was encased in metal, I
felt much like Han Solo before he is so cruelly housed in that carbonitey
stuff (you bet I googled that). I sat on
my bathroom counter like a sad little adolescent bird and inched my way close
to the mirror. I studied each
out-of-place tooth and gappy chasm in my criss-crossing rows of teeth, knowing
that they would never look the same. I
appreciated their imperfect charm.
On the eve before Holden was scheduled to get his own braces, I revisited my adolescent nostalgia. Braces are his official welcome into the world of the pre-adult—the world of pristine rows of expectations and social norms. I was a little sad about the whole thing.
Yippee! A
free cupcake!
If he has his braces for
eighteen months, he can get SIX cupcakes!
That’s only $650 for each cupcake.
Yes, Holden. . . THEY are the ones who are "SO NICE."
(Seriously, though. Going into that office is like entering
Oz. They make you feel like you’re
walking the red carpet with glittery ruby stilettos when you come in for your appointments. The orthodontist is like Robin Williams playing the part of the concerned,
altruistic-yet-witty orthodontist. The
glow in that place almost made me ask for a headgear just so I could be
included in all of the caring.)
It’s
a Bird. It’s a Plane. It’s Caleb.
Caleb’s basketball game and his debut viola performance
at the Madison Music Festival were both scheduled at 10 AM on the first Saturday
of this month. No worries. This kid can leap small scheduling conflicts
in a single bound.
We layered his basketball ensemble under his
fancy festival-playing get-up and he was ready to play strings or hoops or
whatever was next on the docket.
When we ran to the car after his flawless
performance of French Folk Song, I teased him about needing to locate the
nearest phone-booth for his quick change.
He had to make do with the back of the car, but his shy little grin told
me he appreciated the joke.
Charlie. Oh, Charlie.
No answers yet.
Except for this one: I love this boy.
