Happy 4th Birthday, Cheeks!

I'm way overdue to write about Neve's birthday!  It was a whole lotta fun.  We invited family and friends to meet us at the park for chili dogs and cake. 

She felt special and loved, as she watched each of her buddies from all of her cute separate worlds (church, school, neighborhood, Daddy's work, etc.) collide into one big circus-themed party.  The weather was perfect, and we even got our $20 deposit back (despite the mess the rented elephant made).  A girl couldn't have a better day I tell ya.

The above cake was my gift to her, as I stayed up until the wee hours rolling, cutting, and dyeing fondant.  I posted it on FB already, and it received some really kind comments.  But let me just tell you, it was all show.  Fondant is the grossest tasting stuff next to marzipan.  Actually, at least marzipan has that almondy flavor, but fondant tastes like a plastic Strawberry Shortcake doll.  How do I know, you ask?  Don't pretend like you didn't lick them too when you were a kid, hoping that the taste would be as good as the smell.  You did.  Anyway, I was lucky the cake-cake part tasted good, otherwise I might as well have made that Amy Sedaris cake I've been meaning to try.

My dog is scratching at our door for the 9th time in the past hour, so that is my cue to say goodbye.  Well actually, in the time it took me to write the previous line, he just pooped in the laundry room.  I better go before he takes himself to the pound.

Neve's Birthday Update

Everyone, exhale... I know you're dying to hear the latest about Neve's upcoming birthday.

Really, I'm only posting this because I'm so pleased with how it turned out.  Bragging.

Alas, we have flipped the flop again.  As much as I'd love to have a Wild Things party, I'm afraid it would be more cost efficient to do a circus theme.  Don't ask me why, but it just seems to be so.  And Neve could honestly care less what the theme is.  I think she said she wanted the theme to be "cheese" at one point, and I don't even think we have enough money for that.

While I happen to love the way the invitation turned out, I will not be putting the budget concern explanations in the baby book.  That is for blog eyes only.

Sewing the Seeds of Love

(to listen to a Tears for Fears jam, click on the title.)

I'm loving a few great books these days.  The first is The Creative Family, by Amanda Blake Soule.  The second is Cute Stuff, by Aranzi Aronzo.  And the third is Pure Style, by Jane Cumberbach.  All three are overflowing with inspiring ideas for making things (most of which are intended to be done by or with your children.)

Fiona, in particular, really enjoys using her hands.  Without a project for those busy hands, she will surely find "work" in other unwanted places of the home (such as adding water to my 2 day fermented sourdough or cutting her own hair or cutting her sister's hair or drawing on the undersides of my indoor plants' leaves, just to name a few from today).  So it is very important that I keep a series of craft projects available for her in rotation.  Always.

Fiona loves to sew, but she especially loves to embroider.  It's most fun to draw directly on the muslin and then embroider the drawing with colorful thread.  Neve is less interested in anything beyond drawing and coloring at home right now, but her teachers assure me that she does well with finger knitting at school.  Moreover, the girls really just enjoy telling me what they want me to make them, so that they may use my labor of love for 15 minutes, proceed to crumple it up, and finally toss it in the farthest corner of their closet.

Here's the latest:

(This is Fiona's embroidered drawing, sewn into a bean/rice bag.  We put some rosemary and lavender essential oil in it .  And voila!  We're ready for the season's first earache.  Minus a few stitches here and there, she did the whole thing by herself.)

(And these felt bags were inspired by a bag in "Cute Stuff".  Fiona asked for a rabbit [hidden by Neve's suh-weet pose] and Neve got a panda.  Currently found crumpled in the back of their closet.)

is that a gnome in your pocket (or just a peach pit)?

So, I'm officially a preschool teacher. Alright, only a preschool teacher's assistant, but you know... baby steps to living the dream, right?

I have so many amazing stories to tell about the last month (which, by the way, is also the first month in over 6 years that I've been back in the work world), but cannot. For many reasons. The first being that in the spirit of apple-appliqued denim jumpers and sneakers, teachers are mature and responsible and loving and are politically correct and indiscriminate. (And they like kids.) In my mind, they don't blog, unless it's to document some crafty creation that only supports their case in being even more sweet, respectable, and quilted. (Yes, they themselves are quilted.)

I'm happy to report that my fears of not being "teachery" enough have faded. I've found my inner Shari Lewis. I'm outfitted with a pocketed apron (my shield), and with finger puppet gnome* residing in that pocket (my sword). My armor is complete with chainmail Waldorf-approved finger plays and songs, newly added to my alto repertoire. I've gained mastery once more in self-controlling any incidental flatulence that was a byproduct of my 6 year stint of being a stay-at-home-mom. (A relief to know that I'm not an 80 year old trapped in a 29 year old body.)

And... drumroll... I do in fact like children other than my own! What a relief!

These kids, I love them already. I only work 3 days a week, and let me tell you... I find myself thinking about them those other days that I'm away. I wonder and hope what they are doing and if they're enjoying it. Each little kid's quirks makes me smile, as I reminisce about my 4 hour day with them... how simultaneously precocious and innocent they are. And, it has served as a reminder that my kids are amazing, but not the only amazing kids in existence. (Friends' kids are an exception of course, as I've always known they were special.)

The first time I pulled a felted faceless finger puppet out of my pocket in a sweaty desperate attempt to get them to peacefully transition from bathroom to sink to sitting on the rug indian style- I mean, crisscrossapplesauce- without smothering each other with 2 year old affection,

I saw their faces light up.

Like really light up. Not in an I'm-humoring-you-because-you're-obviously-a-sweaty-desperate-teacher-impostor kind of way, but in a hey-you're-a-finger-play-genius kind of way. And the gnome went back into the pocket victoriously.

Not one kid made fun of me, not one kid rolled his/her eyes, not one kid gave me the gong, and not one kid (even the one I thought would be the Simon Cowell of the bunch) blinked as I sang about apple trees, personified winds, and bruised produce (that I think makes it's way into our neighborhood's ghetto supermarket.)

In all seriousness, if you're at all inclined to brush up on Waldorf preschool philosophy, you can click here to read more about what/how/who/and why (do my kids play with peach pits in a school that costs as much as a mortgage payment?). Seriously, it's a beautiful thing.

*Gnomes in pockets souncded scary and creepy at first, but are now proven effective in the classroom.

Get your own on etsy.

When She Asked, I Said...

"Well, um (clear throat), when two people love each other, their love makes a baby."

This was not enough. "But how does the love make a baby?"

"Daddy and I kissed, and the love in our kiss made a baby."

"Oh. And you had a baby in your tummy after that?"

"Mmm hmmm."

She then instructed me to immediately kiss Daddy when he gets home from work, so that she may have another sibling. Preferably a boy sibling, thankyouverymuch.

That was when I found this in her room, I suppose to act as an inspirational how-to in case the urge arises:

"Good night, Terry." And then BAM- the following morning, reality sets in. "Terry? Terry?"

It all seemed like yesterday that I was pregnant. And as quickly as I made our son (note the male appendage), he had arrived with similar haste. In Fiona's reality, my gestation period is the same as that of a goldfish.

When I asked Fiona to tell me about each character in the drawing, she explained, "The picture of you with the big belly was from before the baby came out." Ok, gotcha. "And then he pops out, (*POP*) and Daddy is so happy he starts dancing." And I see the post-delivery belly sag. The girl is all about some accuracy. "And then you take his picture. And then we tickle him." You say tickle, I say ticill.

We've been here before. And by here I mean the hell-like place that is somewhere between truth (I hate being pregnant, and I'm too vain to get pregnant and gain 80 lbs again) and fable (when does the stork arrive with our bundle of baby boy joy?). And yet, somehow, this 6 year old girl knows just what to say to make me actually consider the happiness of an addition to casablanca.

THACSOLOTMOMYE

This vacation has been wonderful. I'm sad to see it coming to an end. Between beach visits, feeding dolphins (!), visiting with dear friends, and eating great food, we've also been alerted that our oldest has superpowers. Or so she says. After all, vacations are golden opportunities for delusions of grandeur.

Last night, we were sitting around the dinner table playing our annual Scattergories game with our favorite Brits, when Fiona decided she wanted to go out the back door without telling us. When asked what she was doing, she replied, "I'm going outside to save the world" (with a hint of "duh" in her tone). I told her that it was too dark to be playing outside without us [next to an unlit creek], and that we would take Banjo for a walk when the adults were through playing our game. She clearly didn't appreciate us trivializing her responsibilities to save the neighborhood by referring to it as "playing".

With a stomp and a pout, she went into the guest bedroom and began drawing. I assumed it was cased-closed for "Rainbow Dash" (the super-hero name she gave herself. "Turning bad guys into rainbows" is her superpower. Awesome, right?)

Our game of ridicule and ruthless mockery, I mean Scattergories, ended. (Click on the above link for a Scattergories explanation.) We said goodnight to our friends, and Fiona emerged from the bedroom. She threw a piece of paper at me and ran off.

What I'm about to tell/show you is very embarrassing. I can't believe I'm even able to laugh about this now (on a blog, mind you. NOT in front of my mean child.):

I had no idea that I was looking at the cartogram to my demise. Totally unaware and with a big smile, I asked her to tell me all about "this lovely picture you've drawn". She seemed a bit embarrassed to have to explain to me that each figure was a carefully executed anger-fantasy. (What on earth???)

From the top:

The crown-looking things within circles are her eyes. And those aren't crowns. They're flames.

Beneath her angry eyes is the title of her creation: THACSOLOTMOMYE. Translation: Thanks Alot, Mommy.

The figure falling into a hole? That's me. Falling into a hole.

The picture of a sad woman with the <--> Mom next to it?

And the figure next to the sad Mom? That's Fiona, sticking her naughty tongue out at me.

At the bottom of the page, Fiona is scaring me. And enjoying it.

This is disturbing on so many levels.

We leave for home (reality) tomorrow. There we will be enrolling her in an anger management program. For super heroes.

Greetings From Wonderland

We are on vacation, and it is so good. It's a place where:

Skin is sun-kissed, heads are clear, smiles are frequent and big, tummies are always full, and grandmas get unsolicited hugs.

In the midst of all the fun, Fiona and I had a moment to discuss birthday plans. She will be 6 years old next month (I can't believe it!!!), and every year she challenges me to launch a fun party around the most bizarre themes. Luckily, this year she chose something I'm sure to have a lot of fun with:

I was so excited, I spent this entire evening making her invitation (above). Imagining:

a not-what-it-seems tea party, a round of plastic flamingo croquet, and a kiddie hookah bar.

Maybe not the hookah bar... but my wheels are spinning. If she changes her mind, so help me.

Don and Tiny

I'm neither sure of the origins of the title or the story behind this cute rodent narrative. (Fiona is asleep now, but if her explanation is good I'll post an update tomorrow.) All I do know is that this was the title she gave Terry, and this is so telling of my daughter.

While her 3 year old sister has a wider vocabulary than her (granted Neve could talk the horns off a billy goat), clearly she has a lot she's thinking about and wants to say. And I love seeing it spill out onto paper.

My mother (an old fashioned Italian woman) is positive that it has something to do with "serving a man". I'm sure she was clutching her chest with bursting pride as she made this observation. Ah, madonne.

Isabelle Abramson Ceramics

(found on ffffound)

When Crafty Went Cool

For those in the area:

More info here.

I Heart Hallmark Holidays

Mother's Day. Big 'ole mixed feelings about this day. On the one hand, yes, it's a Hallmark holiday. On the other hand, who cares if it's a commercially-inspired holiday or not? Mothers can use all the help they can get. So if Hallmark or American Greetings wants to have my back one day a year, then by all means, pressure husbands around the world to celebrate mothers for their calendar-illiterate children. I won't protest that.

But, being that Terry and I also have mothers, we must pay homage to their matriarchy this day as well. And where did our children inherit their calendar-illiteracy? From their parents, of course. So, in order for me to want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a beautiful card on M.D., I better be prepared to give a little to my mama as well. And if I happen to drop the Mother's Day ball (for the 28th year in a row), I like to think it's only because it's just a Hallmark holiday. (By the way, your birthday's week-proximity to Mother's Day does make things a bit more difficult, Mom. Jeez.)

So, with that said, if my mother is absent from all of my Mother's Day photos, don't think I'm the worst daughter on the planet. Confession: I did not see her on Sunday. Instead, imagine family gathered around a birthday cake in honor of her birthday (and her motha' flippin' hood too) only days before. Not to mention that my mother is the leader in the anti-commercial holiday revolution. You've not heard of that? I just made it up.

As for the mama at Casablanca, she did get just what she wanted on Sunday. I had breakfast served to me. Coffee. This awesome card. Fiona deciding that she likes her name spelled with a "y", rather than an "i". Happy Mother's Day!

I had the opportunity to go grocery shopping alone. And this truly a luxury when there aren't children [wanting to be into and then out of carts] in tow.
And then the simple pleasure of emptying out packaged goods into my own jars and canisters, post-grocery shopping. I love doing looking at everything through glass.

And some of us celebrated Mother's Day with a nap. That'ah girl.

Meanwhile, Terry was thoughtful enough to tackle the nasty job of clearing out the aggressive wisteria that has taken over the chicken run in the back yard. There's not nearly enough pretty purple blooms to make up for it's choking ability.


Fiona and I played together. Playing "Pony on Pillow Mountain" is the perfect way to celebrate Mother's Day in my opinion.

And we ended our day with dinner al fresco. Life can't get much better than this. Being a mom is as good as it gets.

On Record

When I first met Terry, he embodied everything I wanted in a man. He was tall, handsome, kind, gentle but masculine, he made art (that I fell in love with before meeting him actually), he liked my food which made me feel like a rescuer (some inherited busomy Italian gene?), he was weird in all the right ways, he was of pedigree extraction (McKay's and White's probably had high tea while the Bennett's and Angileri's were drinking homemade wine from the bathtub), and he was forward thinking, I thought. He was always thinking, in fact. And drawing. Quiet. Funny. Musical. The list could go on and on, for the record.

However. He once said something to me, very early in our "courting" days, that struck me odd and out of character for someone who I had classified as "forward thinking".

We were looking at something drawn, perhaps a childrens book illustration or something, that I mentioned I liked. He, without a second thought, said:

Terry: "A woman drew that."

Just by his tone, I knew that was not a good thing.

Me: "How do you know?"

Terry: "It looks like butterflies are about to fly off the page. It's flowery and curly and... look at how she drew the man in the book."

The man looked just like the way I'd have drawn a man.

Terry: "He's soft and sweet. I bet she was in love with him when she drew him."

By the way, Terry and I met in art school. Where I had planned on making art. For a statement to come so easily from his mouth, as though he'd thought this gem up long before then and waited for the perfect time to reveal his true chauvinistic side (once I was locked into the relationship, I guess), I was annoyed. And paranoid that I was one of those Lilith Fair artists. I shouldn't have cared, but it sunk deep at 18. Not completely his doing but having played a big part, I changed my major to experimental video. A major deserving an explanation for another post.

Since then, the issue has come up as we see illustrations, cartoons, and art made by women who draw with their {a word that looks like Regina, sounds like angina} apparently. Or so says Terry. And I still find offense in that after all these years.

Last night, he said it again:

Terry: "...like that time you drew me when I went to your mom and dad's house for the first time?", har, har, har.

I remembered exactly which drawing he was referring to, inside the very first sketchbook I kept in college, as sentimental as his shoe boxes full of concert stubs he's stashed away under our bed. I drew his profile sitting on the couch watching tv, and it was a darn good portrait, if I may say so myself. It wasn't sappy. He was fully clothed. It was just his profile. Because he was there. What hurt most was that I had no idea, 11 years later, that he thought it was bad.

Terry: "I never said it was bad. I said it looked like a girl did it. And you're a girl."

Me: "Don't patronize me. You think it looks fairy-ish."

Terry: "I think it looks like you loved me when you drew it."

Me: "Then I need to draw a picture of you now..."

Terry: "It was cute. Don't get your feelings hurt. I loved it. It was like this...", he pulls out Fiona's sketchbook and starts drawing.

{5 minutes later, and stifling a mouthful of laughter}

While he drew this, I tried drawing him again. And it looked like this:

I made his hair extra fluffy and lips extra pursed just to make him extra mad.

Instead, he tried to make me feel better with these:

Terry: "Ok. Well, here's how I would have drawn you in 5th grade."

"...or like this":

I laugh. Things are better. But, for added insurance...

Terry: "And here's how one of Banjo's {rhymes with witches} would draw him."

Post Workday

the new chalet de poulet, compliments of Dad and Terry. Ginger LOVES it, as you can see.

peaking baby snap pea sprouts, said in the most annoying baby voice possible.

already delicious-looking lettuces, basking in early morning light.

and the yard at large. (Although, I confess that I used the camera, not my honest husband, Terry. You will never see my house or yard in full. I'm hiding more than you, Erin!)

My Thing

We pull up to my parents house early Saturday afternoon. My dad has already begun building the coop, to which he has no connection. No connection, that is, other than his connection to me by way of being my father. He won't eat the eggs they will lay (I think him and my mom are secretly part of the pasturization safety committee), he could care less about Ginger, our current neglected chicken, and he is certainly busy making other things, coops being at the bottom of that list. Regardless, he has already been to the hardware store and back, and he's begun building the frame for this marvelous chicken chalet. He has an enthusiastic way about him, in spite of the fact that he's committed an entire Saturday for this.

Before Terry strapped on his tool belt (a welcome sight for these lumberjack-loving eyes), my dad shows us his latest creation, a stunning oak and mahogany communion table for his church.

A brief history about my parents: they make stuff all. the. time. Like, quilts by the week, new lovely wardrobes for my children every year, mandolins, violins, and pieces of Shaker-style furniture far more often than you'd think those things could be manufactured by 2 people who complain about their sciatica and poor arch support. (I still swear that they're hiding a sweatshop on some secret floor of their home.) Paintings, drawings, and other types of 2 dimensional art as often as I make shopping lists. It's inspiring and maddening all at once. Every time I visit them, I notice new "mades" all around their already lovely home... things that my mother has clearly already forgotten she's made (a new set of pin striped curtains say, or a new table runner on the salvaged wood dining room table my dad made), having moved on to other forms of creativity that my brain has barely even had time to think about, let alone do.

Last year: "So, mom? I started my garden last week... wanna hear what I'm planting?", I glance out the living room window to see a veritable rain forest of lush zucchini vines, their fruits waiting to be picked. My parents don't even eat zucchini! My mom, "Oh honey, that's wonderful!"

Everything they create is practically perfect, and always at the highest level of craftsmanship. I keep telling myself that it's due mostly to the luxury of being newly retired, stuffing those memories of my homemade childhood Christmases when I unwrapped gift after homemade gift that have now made their way into the arms of my children. Just thinking about how much they do makes me want to unbutton my pants and eat a log of Pillsbury cookie dough on the couch.

This apparently does not go unnoticed by even the young:

Fiona: faint nail gun and table saw noises coming from my dad's workshop downstairs, "Mom? Why does Papi make stuff so much?"

Me: "Because it's his 'thing'. Everyone's got a thing, you know?"

Fiona: "Yeah. Mina Ro's (my mom's) thing is sewing me dresses."

Me: "Yes."

Fiona: "And Mina Lani's (Terry's mom) thing is doctor." Just to clarify, my mother-in-law is a nurse. Her 'thing' is not doctors, although not a bad hobby if you're single I suppose, but the practice itself.

Me: "Yup."

Fiona: "Daddy's thing is drawing, because he makes cartoons." Sort of. He does the ecards and design on the website for the network you'll never be allowed to watch, and the one your grandparents think is porn.

Me: "Mmm hmm."

Fiona: "And your thing is 'making-up'."

Me: "Making-up? What's that?", visions of me picking fights with people and quickly saying I'm sorry. Just for fun.

Fiona: "You know? Making-up beds."

I've got to go now. I'm going to unmake my bed, and then remake it again. {Chills}

an apology

for such infrequent postings. Even as I write this, I realize there's a good possibility that it will sit on my virtual dashboard as a draft for all of Blogger eternity. The last few weeks have been wonderful and busy, keeping me from my lover, I mean my computer. Here's what's been going on around here:

1. Fiona started kindergarten. We are usually pretty backwards in the way we do most everything around here, so it only seemed right for me to enroll her 3/4ths of the way into the school year. It's kind of a long explanation as to why I chose to do it now (one better saved for another post, as it too has a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" quality), but rest assured, now was as good a time as any. Sort of.

1985 = dumb kindergarteners. 2009 = Mensa kindergarteners. I can't believe the amount of homework this kid's been bringing home. Grandparents, Fiona is reading reading! Not the kind of reading I said she was doing a few months ago when she sounded out BUS STOP (that took her 5 minutes to do), but is now actually reading Dick and Jane books!

2. The Spring garden is in full swing. We (me and my gardening partner in crime, Sarah Sport Weasel) just finished tilling the enormous plot again (this time it'll be 60' x 27'!), we're having a garden fence built now to keep out Thumper and his other hungry friends, we had it filled with beautiful stinky humus, and we (mostly she) built some lovely tent-like structures for some snap peas. There are a few flats of some romantic-sounding heirloom tomatoes and peppers that are germinating nicely on their heating blankies in my laundry room. It's all coming together quite nicely (thanks to all the extra hard work of Sarah), and we can almost taste the yumminess it will deliver in a few months. By the way, if I baby-talk every time I speak of this garden, I apologize again. Cute little seedlings seem to be quenching my thirst for a baby right now. (That came out so gross.) I will post pictures shortly (imagine little bonnets on beets).

3. We just ordered... (are you ready for this?)... 25 chicks yesterday. I know some of you don't know where or how we live, but let me tell you- it's not the country. We're in no way prepared (or allowed) to keep that many chickens in our (relatively urban) backyard. There was a minimum number you could buy and have shipped (to keep the little girls warm enough while en route), so we'll have to give away at least 1/2 of the chicks we're getting next week. The kids are already prepared to emotionally detach themselves from half the fuzzy flock.

I'm hoping our coop will look like this when all is said and done- CASABLANCA POLLO:
Ahem, Dad? Terry? Are you ready? 25 chickens will be at our doorstep next week, and they cannot live in our laundry room! It's already doubling as a greenhouse. I need to do laundry again, seeing as how I now have a child in school (said in my most twangy country voice).

Oh, and the coolest part of it all is the chicks we ordered are mixed breeds... some rare, some not. But this variety will give us blue, olive green, brown, white, and cream colored eggs! Please- if you know anyone in the Atlanta area who is interested in some vaccinated* chicks, I'd love to be your poultry dealer.

4. I've been inspired by so many lately. This has truly been an answer to prayer for me, because there are many days that the only thing that inspires me is the thought of bedtime. (That sure came out dour.) In any case, I'm always grateful for those unexpected "awakenings" in life. When suddenly you find the everyday beautiful and fresh. Spring is also guilty of doing this to me, as I'm sure it does to you too. Birds seem to chirp sweeter in Spring, one finds themselves gazing at perky daffodils as their car almost veers off the road, bikes are dusted off, and children go back to the place where spills are no problem and jumping is welcomed- outside! Spring is truly inspiring to everyone.

But the first specific inspiration I'm referring to is that of monetary well being: Sarah at Devastate Boredom has some really amazing money-saving tips accompanied by some very witty observations about life, food, and the series "Lost". (What's that? Don't ever write a synopsis for you again? Ok.) She's inspired a dimension of Dera that I didn't think could be inspired. I'd rather get a Brazilian wax than listen to Suze Orman tell me to "take ownership of your finances". I know, ho. But somehow, Sarah's delivery makes me like the idea that I can do it, and perhaps it could even be simultaneously fun. Have you ever thought about taking your show on the road, Sarah?

The next inspiration variety I'd like to discuss is that of physical/emotional well being. With the help of friend Sarah at Sport Weasel (who is, by the way, one humble warrior in the kitchen), I've been inspired to get back to basics here at Casablanca too. Soaking grains? You betcha. Ginger beer? I'm making it. Live active cultures? Not just for Jamie Lee Curtis anymore. Super Foods? Well, so far every "super food" I've tried tastes "super gross", but I'm trying them anyway. (Bitters, cod liver oil, nutritional yeast, Noni juice,- blech.) And, by the way, thank you Mama Lani for my "Healing With Whole Foods" book. I love it!

And not to make this post all "I wanna give a shout-out to...", but let me just say how great it is to have a mom that is talented and maternal? She's like the best of both worlds- she's inspiring creatively and inspiring as a mother. I have some photos to upload soon of some of her latest "mades".

Ok, I just realized that it's daylight savings today, so my already irresponsible 2am post has just turned into me hating tomorrow in advance. I should have known that spending 30 minutes photoshopping chickens and clouds into my coop diagram was unnecessary.

*Did you know that along with getting your chicks vaccinated and dewinged you can also get them DEBEAKED!? If you thought you couldn't muster up any sadness for a chicken, wait until you see a chicken's lips.

A Blog Named Sam

Although a bit random (and even a little phallic, by our dirty adult minds), this photo was the inspiration for the creation of Fiona's blog. We took this together on St. Simon's Island, where little white mushroom speckled the ground as far as we could see. Her eyes sparkled as she imagined this place an enchanted world of fairies and gnomes, each mushroom a separate home.

There's an explanation as to why we created a blog for her on the sidebar of her... blog. (I seriously hate that word.) I know I'm her mom, but it's cute. She'll be posting her creations there, awaiting your in-depth critique, I'm sure. Enjoy:

Sam

Parents and Grandparents- HIDE YOUR SCISSORS!

Fiona and Neve return home last night, after spending the previous night with my parents.

Fiona looks different.

"Do you like my new haircut?"

The sides of her once beautiful hair have been chopped at the ear, while the back of her head still sports (and I do mean sport) long golden locks.

My parents have already come and gone by the time she confesses, quicker than their usual visit. I now understand the reason for their hurry.

I'm still appalled, saying nothing.

"Mom? Do you like how I cut my hair? Did you hear me?"


"Fiona. When did you- where did you- WHY!??"

Her bottom lips begins to quiver way too soon, almost as if she anticipated this very reaction, but with faint hope that I may have loved it.

"I thought you'd like it..."

"I don't. But even if I did, it still would have been a bad thing for you. KIDS CAN'T CUT HAIR!"

At the moment I blurted it out, I was thrown back to the time I shaved my brother's hair with my mom's Lady Bic razor when I was maybe 12 or 13 years old. (He was 6 or 7.) I proceeded to drape a towel over his butchered head and carefully escort him downstairs to my poor parents. In all my tweenie stupidity, I proudly revealed my brother's unwanted makeover to my (very) angry parents. "Ta Da!"

"You never said I can't cut his hair", was my answer to the same question I just asked Fiona. My dad went on to list all the things I'm never allowed to do to my brother (and myself, as it came to him). Some were funny, some were absurd, and some were seriously dark. Life has come full circle.

I cannot articulate in writing the funniest part of last night's events. I'm still not sure why, but Neve, actually, was the one who got upset for Fiona. She began screaming,

"Don't cut her pretty hair! No, no! She's going to look like a boy!!!!", sob, sob, sob. She had real, big tears in her eyes as she pleaded with me! Even Fiona looked confused over Neve's reaction, which made me and Fiona laugh and broke the ice.

"Neve, step back. Fiona, you will look like a boy. An ugly boy. And you will remember, every time you look in the mirror, that KIDS CAN'T CUT HAIR!"

Of course the vain mother in me overruled that idea, doing my darndest to keep from giving her an ugly boy's haircut. I kept mumbling, "WWAHD?", What Would Audrey Hepburn Do? Her haircut may not have achieved Audrey Hepburn standing, but at least we got beyond Patrick Swayze ranking.

"I Wanna Knit Knit Knit You From Your Head To Your Toes"

I wish I knew how to track down this artist. I could probably google "knit tv oprah", but I'm feeling too lazy right now. Terry found it on fffound.com (a wonderful site), and left it sitting on the desktop. I, in turn, discovered it, and haven't stopped thinking about all the other tvs that this person may have made.

My first instinct was to send this to Sportweasel and ask her to knit one for me. But then I couldn't think of anything to put on the screen other than my face. And that's not clever. That's vain. I'll just stick to my original request for knit food.

(food images found on fleegle's blog)

Pants On Fire

I feel I've been dishonest. I need to confess something. I did not make this:
I confess that my only contribution to this beautiful garment was the phone call I gave my mother a day before the little girl's birthday party, begging her to make it for me. I hung it. And took the picture.

After the second comment left on my Flickr photostream, I realized how deceptive it was to post it up there and even categorize it under "made", as in "made by me, not my mom". Apparently sharing her uterus for 9 months 28 years ago doesn't qualify as the same maker of this lovely shirt.

But I made this:


And the funny thing about this "made" gift was that I did NOT want to claim having made it. Originally, Fiona was the one who came up with the idea of making a "French doll" for Sophie (it was a Parisian themed party). That somehow morphed into a "French bunny doll", which eventually revealed itself to be an average bunny from Georgia. I just didn't have time for the cheeky berét. But because Fiona's mommy is an absolute control freak who couldn't hand over the project to her sweet and creative daughter, I worked on this bleepin' bunny for 2 days straight. And somehow the guilt from not letting Fiona help or the embarrassment of getting really into this stuffed animal made me a liar. Again. On the way to Sophie's party, I asked Fiona if she was excited to give Sophie the bunny she made.

She was all, "But, I didn't make the bunny."

"Yes, you did. You helped."

I've never heard a child this young counter an argument with a question,

"When did I help?"

"Uh, (stutter, stutter) when you told me you wanted to make the bunny."

"You did the whole bunny. I said 'French doll'. I still want to make her the French doll too."

Dang.

So, two lies for one party. Oh, but let me clarify- I did tell the recipient's mother that my mom made the shirt. It was just a little white Flickr lie.

I'll post pictures from that party later (which was beautifully done, by the way). Mad props to the queen bee for all the homemade decorations, eiffel tower made from toothpicks, homemade cake, and wine at a 5 year old's afternoon birthday party. Fun for the whole family.

It's The Little Things

a garden started from seeds (which may not look like much, but you shoulda seen it 3 weeks ago!),
a homemade crown for the birthday boy/ Taco King (he's 32! damn!),

watching tomato and daisy sprouts sprout ($1.00 bin at Target!),

seeing the fig tree leaves bloom after a season of no green,

a new wall organizer for my sewing corner (found in the Lotta Jansdotter sewing book),

my first collaborative pillow. terry designed the "W" (for white, if you couldn't guess), and i sewed it on,

a clean children's room (for now),

a new chalkboard wall.