Dear Santa . . .A Thank You

Dear Department Store Santa,

I could just kiss you!

Even though it was late and your shift was almost over, when my kids walked in the door you opened your arms, smiled wide, and said, "My babies!"

You even managed an eye-twinkle.

Amazing!

And when a ketchup covered Ellerie hugged you fiercely and declared, "I love you!", you hugged her right back with the same intensity . . . even though you quite probably became covered in ketchup too.

But my favorite part of the evening was when you noticed that my oldest, Abbie, was hanging back, standing in the shadows, away from you.  Clearly, she is in that in-between stage this year.  She knows the truth but she still wants to believe. So, when you motioned for her to come closer, and then smiled and called her by her name, her eyes became wide with wonder. She couldn't hide her smile despite the fact that she was trying to figure out how you, a department store Santa, could have possibly known her name.

Forget about the fact that she was wearing her cheerleader sweatshirt with Abbie embroidered on the pocket, Santa.

What you did?

That was true Christmas magic.

And as for me, Santa?

I will always believe.

Fondly,

Annie

A Bad Ass And A Booger Picker

Yesterday I had the pleasure of taking my kids to get their influenza immunizations.

I know.

I know.

You are jealous.

While in the office, the nurse explained that the kids would be getting the flu "sniff". The sniff vaccine is a mist that is sprayed  in the kids' nostrils one at a time, and after it is sprayed, the kids must sniff heartily.  Easy peasy.

When the nurse was finally done with her explanation, Ab asked her, "Is this the one that drips down your throat for a bit afterwards?"

The nurse indicated that it was, and that's when my first surprise of the day occurred.

"Then give me the shot!"  Abbie stated emphatically.

The nurse raised her eyebrow in disbelief. Clearly, not many kids requested a shot instead of the sniff.

I confronted Ab.  "What? You would rather have a shot? Are you sure you are my kid?"  I asked not believing it could be true. 

She explained simply, "I hate that feeling of the stuff running down my throat."

Well OK.

I could understand that, and let's face it.

My kid was a bad ass.

Who knew?

So, Ab bared her arm and was shot up.



picture compliments of newsofworld.com



Ethan, however, opted for the sniff vaccine.  After snorting mightily to his own delight, the nurse chuckled and instructed Ethan, "Now, don't blow your nose for at least 30 minutes.  We want the medicine to take effect."

He nodded, and we were on our way.

Later, as I picked up the kids from school I got surprise number two.

"How was your day E?" I asked as we walked home together.

His smile filled his entire face, and he replied, "Great!  I picked my nose three times!"



picture from kidzworld.com



I stopped mid stride and looked at him.  "What?"

He stopped too and continued grinning.  "I said . . . I picked my nose three times!" He enunciated slowly to show that he wasn't kidding.

As his mother and a registered germ-a-phobe, I was completely grossed out.  "Why Ethan?  Why would you pick your nose?  You are old enough to know how to use a tissue!"  I scolded.

He looked a little perplexed when he answered, "But the nurse said not to blow my nose, " he paused and then finished, proud of his own ingenuity, "so I picked it instead." 

Nice.

I have a bad ass and a booger picker.

What other mom can have claim to that?


And . . . on Aunt Crazy's recommendation . . . I am linking up to Kmama's Proud Mommy Moments . . .
Bad Asses and Booger Pickers apparently qualify.
:)


 


*************************************************************************
Come join me on twitter . . .  @annieinsanity

Wishing That Time Would Stand Still Sometimes . . .

This week Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompted bloggers to write about a moment that you realized your child was growing up.  I wrote this post almost a year ago as Abbie approached her 9th birthday, and now that her 10th birthday is just days away, I am feeling these same bittersweet feelings.



Abbie getting a feather put in her hair.  Definitely a tween in the making.

 Her Days Are Numbered . . . originally posted 8/23/10

"What do you think of this?" Ab asked as she walked into my bedroom. For the last hour, she had been trying on clothes from her closet and mine. Her fashionista vibe was in full force, and she was creating some very interesting outfits to prepare for the new school year. I was more than a little worried that I would have to veto her latest creation, so I cautiously emerged from my closet to take a look.


I was not prepared for what I saw.

There was my Ab, my little girl, looking very much like a young lady. She was wearing my black and white graphic short dress, except on her, it came down to her knees. Ab combined the dress with black leggings, and in her short cropped blonde bob, she sported a white headband. She topped off her ensemble with red sandals that let her cute painted toes peak out from underneath their straps. It was a great outfit.

"Mom?" she questioned, breaking me from my daze. "Well, what do you think? " she asked as she did a giddy little twirl. I could tell that she was happy with herself and with her look. She radiated her confidence.

And it hit me.

She was so beautiful. . . and . . . she wasn't a little girl any longer.

Oh, my brain knew that she still liked to snuggle with me before bed, and that she still enjoyed playing with her Littlest Pet Shop animals for hours on end, but my heart knew that that twirl and that confidence marked a turn for Ab down the road towards being a big girl, a young lady. Abbie was growing up, right before my eyes, and apparently I was not ready for it. Not at all.

"Oh Ab," I sighed, "You look beautiful." I felt like my words were choking me, as I fought back my tears.

Ab smiled, then responded, "Mom? Are you crying?" She came over and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

We were almost the same height.

I smiled through my tears and answered honestly, "Yes. I am. I'm your mom and I am allowed to cry. Now, if you would please go in your room and stop growing, I will stay here and stop crying."

She rolled her eyes at me, gave me a squeeze, and said, "Mom, you are so weird sometimes." And, with that, she skipped back into her bedroom.

And I watched her. Intently.

Acutely aware of how blessed I am to be a part of her growth . . .

And acutely aware of how my days of having a little girl are numbered.

To Meet or Not To Meet . . .

Dear Abs,

I love you.

You are such an awesome kid.

I love that you will spend an afternoon designing and sewing a pillow pet for your sister.

I love that you have finished 10 chapter books this summer already.

I love that you are developing quite a snarky sense of humor.  You raise your eyebrow like no other.

I love that you love to swim.  You do 20 laps without realizing how hard it is to do twenty laps.  You glide through the water like a Cullen glides through the forest, eerily arriving at your destination without effort or undue exertion.

You are amazing, my girl. 

Amazing!

So, please keep all of these wonderful qualities close to your heart when I tell you that  . . .

I do not love your swim meets. 

They are torture my girl.

Torture.

They are 20 seconds of excitement followed by hours of sheer boredom, in 90 degree heat, with other stinky, sweaty and tired parents.

They are volunteering to corral 100 kids that are not mine and that can not understand why they can not be in the pool until their race.

They are listening to little Suzy's mom explain how little Suzy is swimming in the winter so that she can bump up her scholarship opportunities.  Scholarship opportunities, mind you, that will not be available for at least another 7-8 years since little Suzy is 10 years old.

They are being available to be the mosquito buffet for the evening.

Swim meets suck, plain and simple.

So, christen me the summer time Grinch, but I can find no good quality in a swim meet.

No good quality except for the wide smile you give me when you finish your race.

For that, I'd endure anything.

With love,

Mom

PS To recap . . . Love you!  . . . the swim meets? Not. so. much.

*****************Linking with Shell's PYO*****************************

________________________________________________________________________________
Also . . . join me on twitter.  My handle is @annieinsanity !!!!!

Gleefully Coming Out of the Closet on Vacation

Vacation was fabulous.

Thank you for asking.

While in sunny Florida playing by the pool and relaxing at the beach, there was only one thing that bothered me.

My hair.

It was in that in-between stage.  The stage where is doesn't fall quite right.  Usually this stage comes before long hair, but truthfully in 10 years, I have never made it past this stage.  I try to endure the hair in my eyes, and  I try to embrace the messy look, but after 27 days of wearing a bandanna to tame my locks, I usually give in and cut.

It is a vicious, vicious cycle, and I reached the end of the cycle while I visited Florida. 
The only solution to my problem was to do the deed, so I found a hair salon, walked in, and had them cut it.

No problem.

It isn't the best cut that I have ever had (remember when I was scalped????), but I figured that it would grow out and my girl (whom I love, love, love!!  Thank you Patty!!!) could fix it.  I was feeling quite good, and back to my sassy Annie-self.

That is, I was feeling quite good until Ab spied my new do.

Her comment?

"Mom, you look like the boy that likes other boys on that singing show you watch."

Yes.

Ab thinks I look like the character, Kurt, from Glee.




google images


Apparently, I now resemble a singing, openly gay teenager.

Seriously.

Stop laughing.



google images



It could be worse.

I could look like Puck.


(Incidentally, I am quite sure that hubs thinks that I pulled a bait and switch on him since I had long hair when we married.  When I cut it the day after our honeymoon, I think that hubs even shed a tear.  I, however, did a dance of joy!)

When Skydiving Equals Sex . . .

Clearly, I have some more explaining to do.


This morning my group-on coupon email detailed a tandem skydiving adventure for 50% off.  Knowing that hubs is terrified of heights, I joked with Ab, "You think that I should buy the tandem skydiving jump for me and dad?"

She rolled her eyes, started giggling nervously, and said, "No!  We don't want anymore babies in this house."

Huh???

What???

I gently prompted her, "Hon?  Why would jumping out of a plane result in more babies?"

She blushed and then answered in a half whisper, "You know. . . you and dad will be strapped together like when you . . ." and then she paused, glanced over her shoulder to look for hubs, and breathlessly finished, " . . . have sex!"

With difficulty, I contained my laughter, and explained, "Well, just hugging a person close is not the same as having sex.  You wouldn't get a baby from jumping out of a plane holding someone close."

Relief washed over her as she exclaimed,  "Oh!"

I chuckled at the way her mind worked, and thinking that our conversation was over, I went back to my morning coffee and emails.

Then she dropped the bomb.

"So what parts of the body do have to touch . . .exactly . . . to make a baby?"


Clearly, I have some more birds and bees explaining to do.


*******For other birds and bees explanations . . . see Basking in the Afterglow,  Lyrically Speaking,  and Visiting Santa.  (And no . . . Santa is not a pedophile . . .)******

And, after going through these links I realize ( even more) that I could use some help with the birds and bees explanations from any of you out there.  Help a girl out, won't ya? :)

Tales of A Girl Scout Drop Out

My daughter is a Girl Scout this year. 

There are multiple problems with this.

First, I am a Girl Scout drop out.  I quit the girl scouts in the 4th grade when I realized that the boys were camping in tents, and we girls had to use cabins.  I was filled with injustice!  (Apparently I was a little feminist in the making.)  Today,  I would take a cabin EVERY TIME.

Secondly, I have already "forgotten" to pick her up after her girl scouts' meeting.  I thought hubs was getting her.  He thought I was.  There sat Abs.  Not a good day in the mommy chronicles, I tell you.  Not. A. Good. Day.

And finally, the last and worst problem with Ab being a Girl Scout are these.

Yes.

Ab is selling Girl Scout Cookies.

Heaven help me . . . and my thighs.



In honor of this momentous occasion . . . I give you this repost from last year's girl scout season, when the devil itself did not reside within my own house.

Enjoy!
**********************************************************

Dear Girl Scout,


I have you figured out!

You dress in your adorable uniform, you approach me with your smiling toothless grin, and you know.

You know.

Yes, you know very well that I will be unable to resist your little girl charms. I will inevitably buy a box or seven, just because you are cute. Forget about the fact that the Thin Mints are delish, and the Samoas taste di-vine crumbled up on vanilla ice cream. When you approach me with that box of cookies, and ask for my help, I will be transported back to when I was a girl scout (before I quit because they wouldn't let me tent camp like the boys). I will remember how hard it was for me to approach an adult and hock my baked goods. And when that memory comes rushing back, I am a goner.

And you know it.

You can smell the sale like a dog can smell fear.

I am but a victim in your entrepreneurial endeavors, and frankly, I may as well just set up a direct deposit into your cookie bank account.

I am that much of a lock.

So, please forgive me if I advert my eyes from your eager gaze. And, please don't take offense when I close the curtains and hide in the dark as you ring my bell. I am doing it for my own good.

And while you may not thank me for it, my ass will.

Sincerely,
A drop out scout,

Annie

What To Say When Your Kid Asks, "Is SANTA real?"

 When Abs said yesterday, "Mom, I need to know the truth,"  I thought that she was talking about the truth about what I really put in my meatloaf (vegetables!  HA!) , or some other little white lie that I tell to get through the day.

She was not.

Instead, Ab wanted to know the answer to THE holiday question of all questions.  The BIG ONE.  Virginia's question.

You know the one.

"Mom,  I need to know the truth about Santa," Ab said with a stern face.

I stopped wiping up the counter, looked up to meet her eyes, and then answered, "Are you sure you can handle the truth?  Are you ready?"  I was clearly channeling Jack Nickelson in A Few Good Men.

She held my gaze and replied, " I'm ready mom."

And the moment was here, before I knew it,  and I WAS NOT READY TO ANSWER.

So,  I took a deep breath, threw the dishrag in the sink, and pulled up a stool next to Ab, and this is what I said:

Ab,  you know that there was an actual man, St. Nicholas.  He was a good man that made and gave toys to children in his village to celebrate Jesus' birthday.  He placed the toys and treats in the children's stockings that they had hung by the fire to dry. By giving children gifts to celebrate Jesus' birth, St. Nick brought great joy to many families.


But, St.  Nick was just a man, like you or like me, and  eventually, he died.


The people in the town wanted to continue to feel that joy that St. Nick had brought to the village.  So, they continued in his tradition.  They gave gifts and placed them in stockings, just like he had done.  St. Nick's spirit was alive in those people as they continued to feel the joy in giving to celebrate Jesus being born.


So,  yes,  Ab, Santa or St. Nick was just a man.  


But,  is he still alive?  


My answer is yes, my girl.


Santa is ALIVE.  He is alive in each and every one of us when we honor Jesus' birth by giving to each other.  He is ALIVE when we gather as a family to decorate the tree.  He is ALIVE when we sing Christmas carols. He is alive when our family treks across the frozen tundra to chop down a Christmas tree.  


He is ALIVE when we think of others rather than ourselves.


SANTA is alive.


And, now that you know the secret, Santa is alive in you too.  




Abbie had been quiet the whole time, and when I paused,  I scanned her face to check her reaction.

"Well, what do you think baby?"  I finally asked.

A slow smile inched across her face, and she replied in a half-whisper, "Cool."

I laughed and grabbed both of her hands in mine,

"Yep.  It is pretty cool," I agreed.

We sat there holding hands for a moment, and then she broke our silence first and said,  "Can I help with the presents?"

"Sure.  You are part Santa now, so, yes, absolutely."

She smiled.  "And the elf on the shelf?  What about him?" she questioned.

"The job is yours if you want it, " I answered simply.  Then I teased, " . . .Santa."

Her hands flew up to her face and her eyes sparkled.  "I do!   I do!"

And off she went, to plan and to be Santa.


It is just one more reason that I can't wait for Christmas this year.

Her Days Are Numbered . . .

"What do you think of this?"  Ab asked as she walked into my bedroom.  For the last hour, she had been trying on clothes from her closet and mine.  Her fashionista vibe was in full force, and she was creating some very interesting outfits to prepare for the new school year.  I was more than a little worried that I would have to veto her latest creation, so I cautiously emerged from my closet to take a look.

I was not prepared for what I saw.

There was my Ab, my little girl,  looking very much like a young lady.   She was wearing my black and white graphic short dress,  except on her, it came down to her knees.  Ab combined the dress with  black leggings, and in her short cropped blonde bob, she sported a white headband.  She topped off her ensemble with red sandals that let her cute painted toes peak out from underneath their straps.  It was a great outfit.

"Mom?"  she questioned, breaking me from my daze.  "Well, what do you think? "  she asked as she did a  giddy little twirl.  I could tell that she was happy with herself and with her look.  She radiated her confidence.

And it hit me.

She was so beautiful. . . and . . . she wasn't a little girl any longer.

Oh,  my brain knew that she still liked to snuggle with me before bed, and that she still enjoyed playing with her Littlest Pet Shop animals for hours on end, but my heart knew that that twirl and that confidence marked a turn for Ab down the road towards being a big girl, a young lady.  Abbie was growing up, right before my eyes, and apparently I was not ready for it.  Not at all.

"Oh Ab,"  I sighed,  "You look beautiful."  I felt like my words were choking me, as I fought back my tears. 

Ab smiled, then responded, "Mom?  Are you crying?"  She came over and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. 

We were almost the same height.

I smiled through my tears and answered honestly, "Yes.  I am.  I'm your mom and I am allowed to cry.  Now, if you would please go in your room and stop growing,  I will stay here and stop crying."

She rolled her eyes at me, gave me a squeeze, and said, "Mom, you are so weird sometimes."  And, with that, she skipped back into her bedroom.

And I watched her.  Intently.

Acutely aware of how blessed I am to be a part of her growth . . .

And acutely aware of how my days of having a little girl are numbered.

To Ab on her 9th Birthday . . .

To my baby girl, Ab,

Nine years ago today, I resembled Violet from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I had only one purpley blue outfit that fit me, I waddled when I walked, and my face was permanently flushed pinky-purple from the 90 degree heat that I endured during my last month of your pregnancy. Let's face it girl. Your momma was not pretty. Not pretty at all! But one thing is for sure, my Ab, even though I was HUGE, and hot, and cranky and in pain, I walked into that hospital with a smile on my face, because I was headed to meet you.

My girl.

In your 9 short years, you have taught me so much about myself and about the world. I remember changing your diaper in the hospital, and you screamed and screamed, and I said to you, out loud, "C'mon kid. Give me a break. I am new and learning this on the fly," and miraculously, you stopped crying. You gave me the benefit of my inexperience and were patient with me, a new mom, from the get go.

Thank goodness!

We learned some things together. While you learned your ABC's with Elmo, I had to learnhow to be patient when I had to listen to you sing the ABC's with ELmo repeatedly on a 12 hour car trip. When you learned how to exert your independence by saying, "I don't like that!" when choosing your morning outfit, I learned how to pick my mommy battles. Consequently, you went to the grocery store in cinderella's gown with socks and Dorothy's red ruby slippers.

Obviously, your love of fashion started early!

And as you grow, you give me more and more opportunities to learn. When I got overprotective and scared for you the day you told me about the school bully, I shouldn't have worried. The next day I learned that you and your friend ate lunch with the little girl in the wheel chair so that she wouldn't be lonely and so that the bully wouldn't bother her. How proud I was of you that day! You have such a big heart that is so full of love. Your Pollyanna outlook on the world inspires me every day to continue to look for the good in people. I have come to believe ,through you, that if I look for good in people, I will usually find it.

What a great lesson!

Finally, last night as you took the stage at your performance, you rocked out. I was pleasantly surprised to see that you had a solo ( a fact that you had neglected to share with me!), and you sang your heart out. You were confident and happy and enjoying your moment, and my heart swelled. I was so happy to see you embrace your joy. Again, you made me such a proud mom.

So,my love, I wish you a happy ninth birthday. I thank god each and every day that he picked me to be your mom. I am so very lucky.

Smooches,

Mom

PS There may be lots and lots of this letter that you think is weird or silly or just plain dumb, and that is OK. If all you get out of this letter right now is that I love you, then I am happy. But, someday, someday, you may be able to look back on this birthday letter, and you may be able to see just exactly what a wonderful gift you have been to me and your dad these last nine years.

The Good, the Bad, and the PINK

Bad news.

Abbie awoke with the crusty eye that signifies pink eye.

Good news.

I got to stay in my jammies an extra hour this morning because of it.

Bad news.

I couldn't find a photo to enter in this week's I heart faces competition.

Good news.

This week's theme was "PINK" in honor of breast cancer awareness month.

Problem solved!

This was after 2 rounds of antibiotic drops.

Hope your day was pinky!

To Shoot the Impossible Shot

Have you ever tried to do something impossible?

Say . . . climb a mountain or run a marathon?

Or, what about trying to get a picture of three squirmy children, when they are all looking in the same direction, smiling pleasantly, and not picking their noses?

No?

Well don't try!  I am here to tell you that taking an acceptable picture of my crew is an

 impossible task!  You will be much more successful if you attempted to climb that mountain or to run that marathon than if you attempted to photograph my kiddies.  They are moving targets!

Just look at the lovely pics that my crew treated me to one afternoon this week . . .

El!  What a ham!  It's amazing that this is in focus.  She rushed me with a huge "cheese"!

This was an attempt at a 3 man pyramid.  Except that El was literally choking Ab, and . . .

E has no balance, whatsoever!  He landed with a thud, distracted El, and Ab was finally free to breathe and smile.

Another attempt at the pyramid produced this gem.  I remember thinking that 2 out of 3 kids wasn't too bad!  And finally, after much perseverance and a bit of colorful language (under my breath of course) . . .

I shot this pic.  While not technically fabulous, they are all looking in the same direction, they all have pleasant expressions, and there is no nose picking.  A miracle to say the least.

Professional photographers earn every penny and then some!

Time Keeps on Slipping . . .

Picture day!

And my baby . . . 

My first baby.

Steals my breath away.

 

A long-legged awkward colt, 

Becoming a mare,

Before disbelieving eyes.

Part little girl.

Part young lady.

Part of me.

I grab at time.

But it skips through my fingers.

Laughing and knowing,

That it will always escape my grasp.

Instead,

I grab my girl,

And fiercely hug her,

Smelling her youth and beauty.

And drinking in her loveliness.

****** This photo was taken by a friend, Carmen, of Blink of An Eye Photography.  It was a candid that captured that all encompassing, full of love feeling that I have for Ab.  I also like that I was very pregnant with my other favorite girl, Ellerie.  It is a favorite photo of mine.  Recently, Carmen was asked by Chic Mom magazine to use the photo for its online cover.  I was flattered and of course said yes!  So, hop on by Blink of An Eye Photography or Chic Mom Magazine and check them out!

Dreaming

Back to school.

Back to work.

Back to routine.

Wish we were back to the beach . . . dreaming.

********This is part of I heart faces, contemplative faces week.

Antagonizing E

Recently, after a morning of following his sister around and being a normal pesky little brother, Abbie had had enough of her brother Ethan!  She looked pointedly at me and pleaded, "Maaaaa- oooooom? Can you help me?  He is driving me crazy!" 

I instantly sympathized because I, too, was the big sister, and there were days when my younger sister drove me batty too.  I nodded yes to Ab and turned my attention to Ethan who was hiding behind the door in an attempt to scare Abbie as she walked by it.

"Ethan.  Can you please stop antagonizing your sister?"

He paused and hopped out of his hiding place.  I knew that that was too easy, so I waited for his next move.

"Mom, what's tag-o-nize?"

"Antagonize.  It means to try to drive your sister crazy on purpose.  It means to do things that you know that she does not like just because you can do them, " I reasoned.  "It makes her not want to play with you."

He pondered my words, hopped off my lap, and went to play with his Star Wars men in his room.  I figured that he had understood my explanation and that was that.

But it was not.

Yesterday, after our Sunday dinner, the kids asked if we could go get an ice cream treat.  Ice cream sounded good to me ( and really, when does it not?), so I loaded up the kiddies in the mom mobile and headed to the local ice cream shop, a Dairy Queen.

On the way there, Ethan asked from the back seat, "Mom?  Can I get a tag-o-nize blizzard?"

I didn't understand him right away.  "What E?  What kind of blizzard do you want?"  I questioned.

"A tag-o-nize blizzard.  I saw it on a commercial,"  he explained.  "It has peanut butter cookies and it will make me drive Abbie crazy."

This time I paused.  What in the world was he talking about?  Hmmmmm.  Then our earlier conversation dawned on me, and I had it figured out.

"Do you want an antagonizing blizzard Ethan?"  I asked.

Instantly, he smiled ear to ear and said, "Yep!  I want peanut butter and to drive Abbie crazy."

I laughed. 

Abbie did not. 

 "Ethan.  There is no antagonizing blizzard.  There is no blizzard that will magically give you power to torture your sister.  There is, however, a Tag-along blizzard at Dairy Queen, and it has peanut butter and chocolate cookies in it."

His smile disappeared briefly and he said, "Well, I suppose that I'll get that one instead."

He was quiet, but as a mom, I could spy into his heart, and I knew . . .

he really wished there was a tag-o-nize blizzard. 

Poor guy.  

Although, after a dose of sweet cream and sugar, he was certainly back to his pesky, antagonizing ways.

I should say . . . poor Ab.

Because really . . . any blizzard is an antagonizing blizzard when it comes to little brothers.

Parlez-vous francais?

When we moved into this OLD house and my daughter said that she wanted a "French" bedroom, I seriously was at a loss for what to do. Her room at the time was a teal green hue everywhere. Molding, baseboards, doors and walls were all bluey green. Not hideous, mind you. Just not my Abbie girl, and definitely not french.

So, I pondered the room and the situation for a bit, and finally I was struck with inspiration. I was out shopping for the girls when I spotted a darling lavender swing top with navy blue grosgrain ribbon detailing. The Gymboree tag said that the top was part of their Paris line, and voila! I had it. I knew what to do!

That weekend, with swing top in tow, I headed to my local Home Depot. I used their color matching system to create a dreamy lavender paint for Abbie's walls. Step one was done. Then I ordered their decorator white paint ( yes, that is the official name of the white) for the trim and moldings.

That weekend I spent painting, painting and more painting. My hair looked gray from the specks of lavender and white that the roller deflected there. Then I hit my first dilemma.

The former wallpaper boarder was applied incorrectly and would not come off. Try as I might, I couldn't strip that paper ( and I have stripped loads and loads of paper). I was frustrated that my vision was not going to be, until . . . I figured out a creative solution. I just painted that border with the decorator white paint. Instantly, the border looked like it was part of the room's molding. It looked great, but I knew it was lacking . . . something.

Later, I discovered just what it needed. I found navy blue grosgrain ribbon, just like the inspiration shirt. I took the ribbon and hot glued it between the border and the wall. It was perfect!

Then, I knew that the beautiful doors that were so shiny and so white were unlikely to stay that shiny and white with my three kiddies running through the house. I decided that if I couldn't beat them (and have shiny white doors), then I could join them and let them get those doors good and dirty. So, one afternoon I painted the interior squares of molding on the doors with chalkboard paint. Instant character and instant fun! Abbie and the other kiddies love them!

For the windows, I found some navy blue and white toile fabric at the local fabric store for 50% off. Score! I hemmed them on the sewing machine (to this day, I can only sew straight lines)and then, I gathered them up with more ribbon. I used the existing window hardware and sheers leftover from my old house to create the whole window look.

Darling!

Finally, what french room would actually be a french room without the Eiffel Tower and some french phrases? I used three leftover white shelves of varying sizes from my old house to create the tower base and then I used oops paint to freehand the tower. The french phrases we checked online ( I wanted to be sure that I was putting up G rated phrases.) and then I freehanded those too. I could have used vinyl stick phrases, but frankly, I was too cheap.

The furniture and bedding was already white so there was no expense there. I did buy some navy pillowcases from ikea for a boost of color. The total cost of the room for paint, ribbon, fabric, and pillowcases was approximately 75.00. Not bad for a whole new room!

The result?

A darling girl's room that is not too juvenile, but not too grown up either.

Just perfect I think. I just love, love, love it!

What about you?

*****This post is a part of DIY Thursday at ASPTL and also the Shabby Chic Cottage's Transformation Thursday.

To Abbie on her 8th Birthday

Dear Abbie,

I have had a very hard time writing this letter to you, and I don't know exactly why.  Maybe it is because words are just not enough sometimes to describe the love that I feel for you, my girl.  Maybe it is because there are just oh so many things that I love, love, love about you and the young lady that you are becoming.  And, maybe it is because I don't like to admit that my baby is growing up.

Seriously girl.  How is it possible that my first baby, the one that baptized me into motherhood, is already 8 years old?  I look at you as you work on your own blog, and I am truly amazed that you are the same person as that screaming, chubby, drooly bundle.    Amazed.  And, blessed.

Just a few months ago, you had a program at your school.  You were supposed to dress for your future career.  You, of course, picked to be a fashion designer.  Considering your flair for your hair, your clothes, and even your room, I thought that it was a totally appropriate choice.  But, when you walked down the stairs with your head held high and a big smile plastered on your face to show dad and I your outfit, I was floored.  You wore your black and white graphic smock with black leggings.  On your feet were too cute flat shoes, and on your head was an ultra cool scarf.  Your blond bobbed hair was super chic and you topped off your fashion designer outfit with oversized sunglasses.  You were perfect, my girl!  You looked oh so grown up, and I realized that your were not a little girl anymore.  

I remember that I felt oh, so proud of you, but at the same time, I was a little sad too. I know.  I know.  That sounds crazy, but it's true.   I think that I was sad to think that my baby, the one that would never let anyone but me hold her, the one that would run around in her diaper with her Jessie from Toy Story outfit on, that girl . . .  that girl didn't quite need me in the same way anymore.  It was a hard thing  for me to realize.

But, as I think about it more and more, that realization was a good thing. It was a good thing for me to realize that while you are growing, I am growing too.

So, as you grow each year, my Abigail, remember that I am growing as your mom also.  Be patient with me, my first born, as I am with you. I am still learning everyday how to be the mom of a young lady that is eager and ready to learn about the world.  And, although I don't know what the future will hold for you, I am excited that as your mom, I get to be a part of it, as we learn and grow together as mother and daughter.

I love you, my Abigail.  I thank God for his precious gift, you, everyday.

Love,

Mom

P.S.  Remember, you are never too old to snuggle with your mom before bed.

****Yes, I know that this is not your real birthday, but we'll consider it a "celebrate" birthday as Ethan would say.

Letting Things Slide . . .

A few days of summer rains and cloudy weather and I am running on empty (even after the stroke of genius that was the cloudy day lemonade stand today).  This week is particularly hard because it is hubby's mini-camp week for his football team.  He has been gone every night this week during the witching hours of dinner, baths and bedtimes,  and frankly, I am dog tired.

That is why . . .

Ellerie is currently running around in her "pwitty soos" (translation- pretty shoes) . . . and nothing else.

Ethan emerged from his solo bath time with a chocolate ring around his mouth.  When I asked him if he had washed his face, he replied, "Yeah, mom!"  all the while smiling with that crooked, chocolate moustache.  I think not!

I didn't flinch when Ab removed all of the cushions from my sofa and built a massive fort in my living room.  Though the site of all of the bits and pieces of crud in my couch was actually offensive, I was waaaaaay more excited to find my tube of missing mascara.  My eyes have been naked for days!

There are dishes in the sink, crumbs on the floor, and a laundry volcano that is ready to explode, yet, I am choosing not to touch or engage any of it.

So,  all in all,  it is an insane evening around here once again.

I am so blessed!

True or False?

The family has a new show that we have become quite addicted to watching.  

It is Discovery Channel's Cash Cab.  Basically, unsuspecting New Yorkers hop into a cab to get to . . . well . . . wherever, and when they give the cabbie their destination address, the cabbie reveals that they are in a cash cab, a trivia game show.  Contestants are asked random trivia questions and accumulate money for each correct answer.  If they answer incorrectly, however, it is a strike.  If they gather three strikes, you guessed it, they are out.  Literally out.  They have to get out of the cab right then and there, even if they have not reached their destination.  It is fun to watch and even more fun to participate.  The whole family gets involved, including Ethan.

So, lately, the role-play game of choice has naturally been  the Cash Cab.  Ethan always wants to be the "cabber."  In his terminology, the cabber is the driver and the game host.  He gets to ask the questions.  As we cruised around town this week, Ethan has asked us such gems as, "Is the sky blue?" and "What is my favorite color?"  Variations on a five year old theme, I suppose.

Today, though, was by far, the best family episode of Cash Cab.  

E started out the show by using his deep announcer voice, "Welcome to the Cash Cab!" Here he paused to do some sound effects.  "I am your cabber Ethan.  Let's go!  Round one: fifty dollar questions . . ."

Abbie and I glanced at each other and giggled at Ethan's antics.  We were ready!

He jumped right in with the first question.  "True or False?"

We waited for a few moments for Ethan to finish his sentence, and when it appeared that he wasn't going to finish it, Ab looked at me for direction, and I posed the question to E.

"E?  True or False what? What is True or False?"

Obviously frustrated with us for not understanding, E repeated a bit louder, "True or False?"

He clearly was not getting it!  So, I just went for it.  "OK, Ethan.  True,"  I answered.

He paused dramatically and then stated in his booming voice, "Nope!  That's wrong.  Strike one for you mom!"

At this point Ab's giggles were turning into full force laughs, and they proceeded to get worse when E said, "Question 2:  True or False?"

I was laughing too by now, so I looked at Ab for help.  She posed her answer.  "OK Ethan.  False, my answer is false!"

Sure enough E came back with, "Nope!  Strike 2!  Just one more strike, and you are both out of the cash cab!"

Our laughs boiled over with his latest exclamation.  Ab and I had to wipe the tears from our eyes before we could speak coherently.  

So,  a winner at cash cab I am not. But, after laughing like that, I felt like a winning mom!

Now, onto teaching Ethan the logistics of a true and false question . . .

Not My Child! Monday

It is Monday and in the spirit of mixing it up, I will still be joining MckMama's crazy Not Me! therapy ride, but this time it will be a Not My Child!  Monday.  I think that I have enough material to write an entire book on the Not My Child! theme, so feel free to stop whenever you feel that your eyes start to cross or bleed from overuse.

Onto the insanity that defines my kiddies . . .

It is certainly not my child that continually likes to stick her chubby little fingers into her freshly pooped in diaper.  My child would not enjoy the feel of that gross poopie, and she certainly would not choose to paint with it whenever no one was looking.  My child would follow in her mom's footsteps and embrace a love of the clean smell of white vinegar and/ or chlorine bleach.

It is also not my child that still removes every stitch of his clothing each and every time he uses the facilities.   And, lord knows that my child would never strip down to his birthday suit even when we use public restrooms.  My child would also know better than to sit down on the public restroom floor while naked in order to redress himself.  Clearly, I would have taught my child the dangers of germs and would never have allowed such crazy behavior.

It was not my child that did not have her hair brushed for 3 consecutive days last week.

And, furthermore, it was not my other child that accompanied me to the grocery store while still in her summertime pjs.  Ridiculous!

Finally, it was not my children that decided to draw pictures in the remodeling dust that accumulated on our dining room table.  My children would use the proper tools like crayons and paper!

I am sure that I have many, many, many more, but these are just the ones that happened in the last few days.

Happy Monday!

***** The links are to more in depth stories about those specific Not My Child antics.