Year: 2012

Motherhood, In the Eyes of a Childless Craigslist Buyer

As mentioned here, after months of searching, I finally found a decent patio set on Craigslist—for $50. Most patio sets are well worn, which is why the seller is selling it. But this family was moving, had no time or desire for negotiation, and just wanted it gone. I happened to be the first to contact the seller—he said I could pick it up at his moving sale Saturday morning at 10am. He lived about 55 minutes north of me, so early Saturday morning I woke up Andy.

“You have to take all the seats out of the van,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“Seriously, you have to get up. You have to take all the seats out of the van so I can pick up a new patio set. You know, the one I found on Craigslist,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Yes!” I said. “It’s only $50! There is no way I’m going to find anything else this nice for this little money. And I don’t want someone to buy it from under me! Plus, you have fantasy baseball drafts today and tomorrow—I totally deserve two hours of driving alone. Unless you want to pick it up for me?” I asked.

“I’m not picking it up for you,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll take the seats out,” I said.

He took them out.

I got to the seller’s house a minute after 10am. The table fit in the van perfectly. It was nicer than I imagined.

“It comes with chair cushions, too, if you want them,” he said.

I noticed the tags on the cushions said Pottery Barn. Outdoor cushions aren’t cheap, especially from Pottery Barn.

“Yes!” I said.

I offered him more money. (I know. I should never be allowed to run a business.) He refused.

When I got home, Andy was trying to watch all three kids while also prepare for his draft.

“Can you help me unload the table and chairs and put the seats back in the van?” I asked.

“Can’t we do it when I get back?” he asked.’

“No!” I said. “Your draft is, like, eight hours long. What if I have to go somewhere while you’re gone?”

So, he put everything back—all the van seats, all three car seats. It took about 30 minutes.

Cut to mid-afternoon. While the boys napped, I posted our old patio set on Craigslist for $50. Immediately, the e-mails started coming in. I replied to the first person who responded. She was young, a recent University of Cincinnati law school grad and had just purchased her first house—and was in need of a patio set for her deck. She loved our set (which surprised me as there was a lot of rust) and loved our price. She could fit two chairs in her car, but nothing more. She seemed nice (via e-mail). She brought back memories of when I first used our old patio set. It previously belonged to my roommate’s boyfriend’s parents. My roommate, Jenna, and I spent many afternoons sitting at that set. When Andy and I married, she insisted we keep it. And we did. For seven years. I called Jenna on my way home from buying the new set, asking her what I should do with the old set. She agreed with selling it. I promised her the money. She insisted we all go out to dinner with it, instead.

Cut to late afternoon. Recent UC law school grad arrived in a tiny car, while the kids and I were playing outside. She was a beautiful 20something in tight black yoga pants, a law school T-shirt and perfect ponytailed hair. I felt, I don’t know. Mom-ish.

The 20something, kids and I walked to the backyard, where Tucker was playing. I opened the gate and Tucker was ecstatic at the site of this new visitor. He bounded toward the gate, sniffed her shoe and then sensed an opportunity. Two seconds later he pushed past all five of us and was bolting down the street.

“Noooo!” I screamed.

We all ran to the front yard where I swear Tucker was yelling “I’m free! I’m free!” He was running and sniffing and peeing on everything.The kids were crying. They weren’t quite sure what was happening but they sensed I was frazzled and they knew Tucker was supposed to be in our yard, not a yard three houses down from ours.

“What can I do to help?” the 20something graciously asked.

I thought. I needed a collar. The front door was locked.

“Make sure my kids don’t run into the street,” I said.

I ran to the back of the house, ran up the deck steps, went through the back door, grabbed Tucker’s collar and unlocked the front door. It was clear this 20something had limited experience with children. Two of my children were sitting on the sidewalk, crying, after being told to “stop.” Sophie was screaming “Tucker!” I grabbed all three kids and shoved them inside.

“Please make sure they stay there,” I told the 20something.

I then chased after Tucker. Finally, I caught him, peeing in yet another yard. I drug him back to the house, shoved him in the front door with the kids (who were still crying/screaming) and promised them all that I would be back in one minute.

“Stay right here,” I said.

The 20something and I walked to the backyard and I (finally) showed her the old patio set.

“Mommy!” I heard. I looked.

This time, it wasn’t Tucker who escaped. Rather, it was my children. Sophie managed to open the front door, get both boys out and walk them to the backyard. Our house sits close to our street. Which is close to another, busy street. Which is close to a gas station. They’ve never walked outside on their own. I was exasperated.

“We just wanted to see you,” Sophie said.

Owen started crying again. I started telling Sophie how dangerous it was to go outside without me.

And then, as if on cue, the 20something, wide-eyed, looked at me and asked, “Is this what motherhood is like?”

I thought for a moment. I thought about lying, but she had already seen too much. So I told her the truth.

“Not all the time,” I said.

She loaded up two of the chairs and paid me $30. I told her she could keep the remaining $20 until after I delivered the table and remaining two chairs.

Cut to the evening.

Andy came home from the draft.

“I sold our old patio set!” I said.

“Really?” Andy asked.

“Yes, but I have to deliver the rest of it.” And then, tentatively, “Can you take all the chairs out of the van again?”

“What?!? No. That’s not how Craigslist works. They pick up. You don’t deliver,” he said.

“But it’s a done deal!” I said. “She’s already picked up two of the chairs and she’s super-nice, just graduated, just bought her first place—we can help her out, can’t we? This is what good people do. Plus, she sort of watched our kids for me while I rescued Tucker,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

I told him the story. We put the kids to bed. Both boys snuggled with me on a big cushy chair while I read “Goodnight Moon.” I wished the 20something could have witnessed this. Andy began the (long) process of taking out the van seats (again).

“Please tell me you went somewhere today,” Andy said, hoping his earlier seat re-installment wasn’t for nothing.

I was silent.

“Lie to me,” he said.

“We went somewhere,” I said.

He grunted some indecipherable response.

I drove the rest of the old set to Madisonville and helped the 20something put it on her new deck. I told her about the boys snuggling, about “Goodnight Moon.” I told her motherhood wasn’t all completely and totally crazy. At least, not every moment of it.

She gave me the remaining $20. I drove the van home. Andy reinstalled the van seats and car seats, for the second time that day. And threatened to use his web developer skills to ban the Craigslist website from our house. Again.

The next evening I set up the umbrella, put all the cushions on the patio chair seats and sipped a glass of red wine while watching our cardinal swoop around our yard. And wished the 20something could have witnessed that, too.

“Mothers are all slightly insane.” —J.D. Salinger

Paper Cut Art

I love Nikki McClure‘s beautiful paper cuts. Her work graces several children’s picture books, including “To Market, To Market” and Cynthia Rylant’s “All In a Day.” While visiting my brother, Kyle, in New York City, I found a set of 15 postcards, each of a different McClure paper cut, titled Take Care at The Powerhouse Arena. I bought it.

At Target I found small white wooden frames, for just a couple dollars each. I bought 12.

I then did this, in our entry:

They were originally arranged above cubbies filled with baskets filled with toys. This made sense to me, as I associate McClure’s work with children’s picture books and many of the paper cuts feature children. But then friends graciously gave us a piano—and the wall with the cubbies was the only place for it. Still, I like the small framed paper cuts, above the piano. And it was an inexpensive way to fill empty wall space with work I love and memories of a wonderful weekend in NYC with my brother.

“So live it well, make it count,
fill it up with you.
The day’s all yours, it’s waiting now …
See what you can do.” —Cynthia Rylant

Picnic on the Porch

“There are few things so pleasant as a picnic eaten in perfect comfort.” —W. Somerset Maugham

Our Chandelier

I like Craigslist. A lot. I like it because it allows me to buy things I could otherwise not afford. I like it because it’s reusing and it’s a win-win situation: I’m helping the seller get something out of his house he no longer wants or needs and for a small price, I receive something I need or want. I like it because (thanks to a smartphone app) I can spend a minute or two a day quickly searching for one specific item (for example, “chandelier”) and, with patience, I’ll eventually stumble across the perfect one—no spending weekends at garage sales, no scouring furniture stores for sales. When planning lighting for a remodel, a Recessed Lighting Calculator ensures accurate spacing and brightness.

Some of my best finds include a barely used 9×12 wool Pottery Barn rug for $80. A patio set (including a table, six chairs, umbrella stand, umbrella and six Pottery Barn cushions) for $50. A large Step2 outdoor play set (that had previously only been used indoors) for $30. These three things alone represent a couple $1,000 in savings. (The best finds, I’ve learned, come from wealthier people who are in the process of moving or who have just moved—they don’t care about how much money they are making from the sale, necessarily, rather they’re just grateful that you’re coming and getting it out of their house.)

But, perhaps, my favorite find is our entry chandelier:

According to the manufacture (I looked it up online, where it’s currently on sale for $1,250—but free shipping!): “Contemporary design fuses with historic craftsmanship in this amazing ball of light. The floral sphere is comprised of hand-formed, Murano glass petals mounted on individual arms, with simple spherical finials for the look of an illuminated hydrangea suspended in space.”

I love it.

We paid less than $200. But the low price came with, well, a price. A high-end lighting retail store was selling it. It was hanging up in their showroom. I can see their showroom had strong shelving options for busy shops. The ad on Craigslist mentioned that the buyer was responsible for taking the chandelier down and transporting it, and that the seller took no responsibility for broken glass.

I forwarded Andy the ad. Again and again and again until he finally agreed to go look at it with me simply so I would stop forwarding him Craigslist ads at work.

It was gorgeous. And big.

“It’s too big,” Andy said.

“I love it,” I said.

“It’s too big,” Andy said.

“I love it,” I said.

We agreed to buy it.

That was a Friday. The following Monday Andy’s alarm clock went off absurdly early. I shook him.

“You have to get up,” I said. “You have to dismantle my chandelier.”

The showroom opened at 6am. And closed at 5pm. Andy had to go before work to do this for me. He mumbled some words I couldn’t quite understand, gathered moving blankets, bins and tools, and left.

About two hours later Andy texted me something about leaving … it wasn’t clear if he was talking about the showroom or me. Turns out, to take down this chandelier, every single flower had to be unscrewed, wrapped and packed. And there are, I don’t know, close to 100 flowers. This, while standing on a very tall ladder.

Once home, Andy asked me to pick up the plastic bin full of Murano glass flowers. I could barely lift it. “No way our ceiling will support that,” he said.

“We can’t sell it!” I said. (I’ve been known to buy things on Craigslist, especially very large rugs, only to discover they don’t match/they don’t work/they don’t fit, which means immediately turning around and reselling it, a process Andy loves to hate.)

I reminded him that this, this one thing, I just really, really loved.

Reinforcing the ceiling required cutting a huge hole in the ceiling and doing I don’t know what to an electrical box that still had parts leftover from when our entry was lit by gas (we live in an old house).

This, of course, also took a very.long.time. Which I tried very.hard not to complain about, seeing as I was the one who was requiring the ceiling to be reinforced in the first place.

Eventually, we were able to install the new chandelier. We washed each glass flower. We spent two hours, together, screwing each one in. Ridiculous? Yes. But oh, look at the result!

I imagine many of you are thinking, Wow. I would never put that in my house. But to me, it’s so different. It’s like this huge glowing glass flower ball welcoming you to our home. And I like things that are different. I like that not every house has a huge glowing glass flower ball welcoming people into their home.

We have, however, discovered our huge glowing glass flower ball takes (20)40w T4 G9 120v Xenon light bulbs. I have no idea what all of those numbers mean except, according to Google, these light bulbs are not cheap. (Andy was thrilled with that discovery.)

Still, I love it.

“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.” —Oscar Wilde

An Early Spring

It’s cold tonight. This should feel normal—it’s March—but it’s not normal. Not this year. Sophie’s birthday is Friday. In my very first blog post, here, I wrote about spring. It arrived while I gave birth to Sophie. But this year, it came early.

It’s a gift I’ve gladly welcomed. I like winter. I like seasons. But this winter has been so mundane. Chilly. Rainy. Slushy dustings of snow nowhere near enough in volume for a snowman (this, despite Sophie decorating our front door with snow-themed stickers in an attempt to make it snow).

Early March I found myself in the attic, digging through bins for summer clothes. Fearing it would get chilly again I haven’t packed the winter clothes away. As such, every bedroom is filled with boxes and bins, and the closets are becoming a mis-match of seasons. The boys still wear different sizes. And both wear smaller pant sizes than they do shirts. So I’m dealing with four different sizes, lots of hand-me-downs (which I’m so grateful for) and numerous seasons. The task to sort it all out has become so daunting that I’m avoiding it, which is just making the entire situation worse.

The flowers that graced our backyard trees eventually fell. To there.

And here.

And everywhere. Some nights, at dusk, I watched my children play as a warm breeze blew petals around, as if soft pink were falling from the sky. It was so idyllic.

I mean, at one point they were sliding down the slide into a pile of petals. 

A gift.

The previous owners must have loved birds for there are gorgeous birdhouses all over our backyard.

All three of my children love to feed the birds. They each take a turn with a small, metal bucket and spill seed all over the feeder, Tucker and grass. And laugh.

Lately Sophie has perched on top of our play set pretending to be a bird. She tweets, loudly, talking to them.

We found this lovely nest. There are two cardinals that swoop low while we play outside. I love that. The children love that. Tucker really loves that. Sophie recently found two red feathers in the yard, which I later discovered she decided to store in a plastic container full of M&Ms. “So the boys wouldn’t take it.”

Of course.

Today was chilly, though, as was tonight. The boys, however, played outside in their sandals. They had no choice. Last week I took all three children to Stride Rite for summer shoes. Another woman was there, with a daughter a little older than Sophie, twins a little older than my boys and a newborn. (I can’t imagine.) Every time the salesperson asked any one of the six children to run around the store to try out a pair of summer shoes, the five remaining children followed suit. It was loud. Totally chaotic. And there were boxes everywhere (in part because I asked the woman to kindly try several different sizes/widths for each child considering the boys will only have one pair of shoes each and they’re expensive and I want them to be exactly right). I know. They had to hate me. Anyhow, as I was rescuing tights hung on a wall from James while simultaneously stopping Owen from going into the back room, I noticed the salesperson collecting our boxes. I had assumed she put the boys’ winter tennis shoes in them. But that wasn’t her job. That wasn’t her responsibility. And frankly, she was probably exhausted from the 30-minute chaos before. So I paid for the shoes. Left the store. All three children rode home in their new sandals. Sophie’s winter shoes somehow made it into a box. The boys’ did not. And the boxes sat, in our entry, for two days before I opened them and realized what I had done. I called the store. They were there, with dirty socks still stuffed in them. And I still need to pick them up. But the idea is kind of exhausting to me. So I haven’t. But I should. I’m sure the boys had cold toes today. And I’m sure the people who work at Stride Rite don’t need two random pairs of shoes, and dirty socks, lying about. Tomorrow. I will tomorrow.

New sandals. The wisteria is blooming. I’m (slowly) cleaning out winter-ravaged leaves from beds. Open windows have allowed us to air out the house. The children are happier. Dirtier. And the inside of the house is cleaner. Calmer.

A gift.

“Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day.” —W. Earl Hall

Parents’ Night aka Sophie’s Night

Several weeks ago was Parents’ Night at Sophie’s preschool. We took the boys with us. This was not smart. Sophie goes to a Montessori preschool, although I imagine any preschool has low-lying shelves with lots of little things on them. They boys’ eyes were big, their hands, everywhere. And Sophie was less than thrilled with their presence. Honestly, she’s pretty good about sharing. She has her toys that are hers only (as she should) and she keeps them in her bedroom, often playing with them by herself, while the boys nap. But she has her moments. We all do.

Still, her reaction at her preschool surprised me. It shouldn’t have. After the fact, it made sense. Her preschool time is her time. That night was for her to show us what she does—not what the boys can do with a tray full of beads. She was irritated and frustrated with the boys grabbing things, touching things, exploring things. Andy and I each took a boy, making sure things that were played with were put back exactly as they were found. And while doing this all-consuming task, we also tried to listen, watch and learn from Sophie.

We couldn’t.

She made that  clear, in her own way. But I feel bad. We should have seen it, five minutes in, instead of 30.

So Andy took both boys outside, to walk around. And I sat on a rug with Sophie and finally  got a taste of what she does every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, from 9am to 11:30am. I know she loves preschool. But watching her solidified my belief. And I’m sure that much of this has to do with the fact that it’s something for her, and only her. She spent so much of the boys’ first year stuck inside with me, listening to me say “wait,” “hold on,” “in a minute,” “just after I finish pumping,” “just after I change this diaper,” “shhh, the boys are sleeping.”

And then, preschool started. And she was free. Free to leave our house. Free to make friends her own age. Free to do “work” without the boys messing with it, free to do craft projects without the boys crinkling it, free to do her own things on her own time without having me say “wait,” constantly.

And she blossomed.

So I get her frustration Parents’ Night. This was not our night. And definitely not the boys’ night. But her night.

After some time Andy and I switched, and I took the boys outside and Andy sat with Sophie on a rug, watching, listening.

It’s funny. We went to Sophie’s school that night to learn about the things she’s learning about when in fact, we were the ones who were taught.

That said, having had children, I now believe children are the best teachers, no matter how much we try to reverse that sentiment.

“Children are human beings to whom respect is due, superior to us by reason of their innocent and of the greater possibilities of their future.” —Maria Montessori

 

Catch Up

I feel like it was just yesterday when we were tromping around a hilly field, looking for the perfect Christmas tree. And just like that, on Monday we dragged what was left of it in our backyard to the curb (I know, I know, it’s March and we should have recycled it with the rest of our neighbors in January and yes I did feel ridiculous dragging a totally brown Christmas tree out to the curb in 70° weather).

Some days I feel so behind, on everything.

So here’s a post of the many things I had hoped to write about this winter, and didn’t.

We went with Nini and Pop Pop to see a most amazing model train exhibit, in the basement of one of my dad’s co-workers. That marked the beginning of Owen’s current obsession with trains (or choo-choos, as he calls them).

Annual holiday dinner party at Ferrari’s with friends. I was too busy keeping two toddlers well-behaved in a nice restaurant to take good pictures, but I do have this one, of Sophie playing peek-a-boo with Mya.

Play date/Christmas cookie decorating with Angel, Zoey, Mya, Christine, Connor, Jenna and Hannah.

Zoey and Sophie always exchange Christmas presents. Early fall Sophie asked Nini if they could make a blanket for Zoey, together. So they did. We went to a fabric store and Sophie spent a long time contemplating different designs before choosing this one. She then spent a day with Nini, pinning and cutting and tying (and trying it out, of course). Zoey and Sophie exchanged gifts before decorating cookies together. Sophie was so excited. (Thank you, Nini.)

Tis this season for surprise packages in the mail. Through this blog I have connected with Andy’s Aunt Cheryl and Uncle John in Texas. And although we’ve never met in person, I’ve loved conversing with them (thank you, technology). They’ve shared old photos and memories with me, and over the holidays sent me some lovely tea cups for my collection, as well as Texas-themed ornaments and little stockings filled with candy for the children (which was met with much glee).

James and Owen fell in love with Little Bear on TV (they’re watching it in this picture). “A Kiss for Little Bear” is one of my favorite children’s books and I’ve long loved the series—the show is quite beautifully done, with lovely drawings, classical music and sigh-worthy story lines. If they’re going to fall in love with a TV show, I’m happy it’s this one.

We had to keep all of our chairs up on the table so the boys wouldn’t climb on them and fall. This was a huge pain. Also, Sophie danced. A lot.

The boys realized a dream of theirs—sitting on top of a refrigerator.

The boys also learned how to climb out of their highchairs, even with straps, so we gave up highchairs, with great trepidation. It was so wonderful. So great. They embraced the chairs (even though they often eat standing up on them) and because they are now allowed on chairs, they no longer care about climbing up on chairs—and the table—and the chandelier, and so we were finally able to put (and keep) all the chairs back on the floor, where they belong. I realize this sounds like nothing but oh did it irritate me, putting those chairs up on the table and taking them back down every time we ate.

We celebrated birthdays.

My cousin Kelsey cuddled with Sophie (and Owen learned how to say “Kelsey” perfectly).

Sophie tried on my riding boots.

James spent many a days wearing Andy’s winter hat.

We spent a most wonderful, snowy weekend in Michigan, visiting our good friends Matt and Christi, and their son, Quinn. We ate out, ate in, went to a children’s museum, stayed up late talking, cared for the kids together and played with the kids together. Christi and I escaped for an evening, to a movie and La Dolce Vita in Ann Arbor for dessert. Andy wore his OSU sweatshirt everywhere.

Sophie played with her baby doll.

We all got colds. Caring for the children while sick wasn’t easy, but their cuddles helped quite a bit.

Sophie wore her beautiful poncho, which my cousin Emily made.

I found the exact kitchen island I’ve long wanted on Craigslist, for half the price. Part birthday/part purchased with freelance money, it’s now become a favorite snacking spot for the kids.

Our house smelled like spring much of late February (thank you, Angel).

Sophie fell in love with Nini’s iPad.

The Lapthorn family visited—and brought pizza. Sam and Sophie are close in age, as are their twins—Charlie and Nathan—to our boys. Needless to say, we always have much to talk about when together.

There was a lot of this.

And now we’re airing out the house (thank God) with windows open in March. And soon it will be spring. And summer. More time to get ahead. And fall behind. And so it goes. So it goes.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: It is the time for home.” —Edith Sitwell

Lost Keys

I was cutting bananas, half-awake, bleary-eyed, while Owen and James, in their footed pajamas, clung to my legs pleading for “bana.” Sippy cups of whole milk. Glass of milk for Sophie. Yogurt for Sophie. Cut bread, made toast. Just butter for Sophie. A (little) cinnamon and sugar for the boys. Made coffee. Fed Tucker. Let Tucker out. Let Tucker in. Found outfit for Sophie. Dressed Sophie. Listened to Sophie insist on some modifications (aka red sparkle shoes instead of tennis shoes, bright orange ribbon tied to her wrist, barrettes halfway down her hair). Modified. Brushed Sophie’s hair. Listened to Sophie complain about the necessity of daily hair brushing. Another banana for James. Another piece of toast for Owen. Pleaded with Sophie to let me pin her bangs back, which are growing out so  s l o w l y.

Throughout all this, Andy was getting ready for work. He noticed his keys (the only set we have) on the living room floor (why they were there, I don’t know). He only had to grab his coffee—he thought, he’d get them when he walked back through the living room.

Except, one of the boys got them first.

Gone. Completely gone.

We don’t have a garage. Both our station wagon and van were parked in the driveway, the station wagon (which Andy drives) blocking in the van. There’s no way we can get the van out, because of trees, without moving the station wagon.

Stuck. Totally, completely stuck.

Andy and I looked for an hour. Everywhere. We pulled cushions off of furniture. Crawled around on our hands and knees. Emptied every toy basket and bin. Looked inside the play kitchen’s cabinets, the fireplace, the china cabinet, under the piano, under the buffet, behind the couch, through the cat door which leads down the basement steps. I frisked the boys, thinking one of them may have dropped them down their footed pjs. We gave them the van’s keys and watched to see what they did with them. We asked them, over and over and over, “Keys? Where are the keys?” To which they responded, “Keys, Mama! Keys, Dada! Look! Keys!” They would then drop on all fours, look under furniture, pop up and say, “Keys!” Not helpful.

Andy called into work, saying he had to work from home. We had to tell Sophie we couldn’t take her to preschool (that went over well). Andy and I argued. I claimed he was mistaken, that he didn’t see them on the floor, that they were in a coat pocket or pants pocket or in our bedroom or in the fridge, next to the coffee creamer (I looked there). He went down to the basement (we have a finished room down there) to work. I continued looking. Off and on, while taking care of the boys.

For five hours.

I thought for sure I had found them when I discovered a half-full container of cinnamon in the kitchen trash can. That meant the boys had been throwing things away that morning. That meant the keys had to be in there. I pulled out the container of cinnamon and washed it. And then went through every piece of garbage, piece by piece, with plastic grocery bags wrapped around my hands.

Nothing.

I pulled everything out of the pantry and the pantry’s bottoms shelves.

Nothing.

I rechecked everything.

By this time, my mom had come over. She must have sensed my frustration. (Moms are good at sensing frustration.) She helped take care of the kids while I looked. She looked. Andy spent his at-home lunch break, looking.

It was parents’ night at Sophie’s preschool that night. We promised her we would go. “We’ll walk,” I said. My mom called my dad and he said he’d come after work, so we’d have another car. We promised Sophie, promised her, we’d be able to go.

“Should we call a tow truck?” I asked Andy. “To move the Subaru?”

Searching for a near me tow truck? Piasecki Towing Service delivers prompt and reliable towing services for cars, trucks, and motorcycles.

In our living room we have a set of French doors that open all the way, against our living room walls. I checked behind those doors several times. Andy did, too. They weren’t there. They weren’t on the floor behind the doors.

My mom was looking, in the crack between the French door and the living room wall.

She noticed something.

This.

Either Owen or James had tossed/shoved/put the keys between the door and the wall and they landed, looped around a hinge.

I squealed and hugged my mom. Andy gave me a I-told-you-they-were-on-the-floor-and-not-in-a-pocket look. Sophie, still upset about missing preschool, asked me if we could have a treat (aka candy) now that the keys had been found (in her mind, any celebration deserves a treat). The boys continued napping.

We have a key bowl. It’s in a cabinet, in our entry. We’re just so bad about using it.

Changing that. Changing that now.

“If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ’em go, because man, they’re gone.” —Jack Handy

What have your children hidden from you?

Dressing a Ballerina

This week, we signed Sophie up for her first extracurricular activity/class/sport etc. of her life—ballet at the YMCA.

The class meets once a week for 30 minutes and is free with a family membership. She’s been dying to take a dance class, specifically ballet, ever since she went to a preschool friend’s birthday party held at a dance school. She had to be 4 years old, though, to attend the class. She turns 4 March 30 and per the Y’s rules, she was able to sign up the month she turned 4. So we signed her up.

The afternoon of her first class, I was frantically trying to find the boys’ shoes, having not paid attention to the time, having not been used to 4:45pm activities. Sophie was wearing a black-and-white striped dress and, because it was cool, I insisted she wear leggings. As I was putting her (gray) leggings, socks and tennis shoes on, she looked at me, horrified.

“This is not what ballerinas wear!” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“This is not what ballerinas wear! I need shoes, tights, skirt and a little top. Pink.”

“Oh, Sophie,” I said. “This is just a casual thing. No one is going to be wearing an entire ballerina outfit. Your outfit will be just fine, I’m sure.”

Cut to the class.

Every single child was wearing soft pink. Soft pink leotards, in various cuts and styles. Soft pink tutus. And tights. Some soft pink. Some white. And ballet shoes! Everyone had ballet shoes.

Sophie glared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Truly, I had no idea. We’ll get you an outfit.”

Andy left work early to watch her, just for her first class.

“What is she holding?” he asked when he arrived.

“She’s not holding anything,” I said. “She’s wearing a large, plastic, Disney ring from a cupcake she got at her last birthday party. She was worried her outfit wasn’t going to be fancy enough.”

“She was right,” Andy said.

When I played T-ball, I had a uniform. In fact I remember my dad showing me how to tuck my socks into my pants, just like the pros did. Artists wear smocks. Musicians have instruments. I suppose I should have realized ballerinas, even at 4 years old, wear ballet shoes.

So, today, we went to Target.

And now I have a very happy ballerina.

“I wanted so badly to study ballet, but it was really all about wearing the tutu.” —Elle Macpherson


Morning Snow

“Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.” —Bill Morgan, Jr.