Goldfish Crackers – why are they so good?!

Sisee! Sisero!

Where you at? Why you no write your country-livin’, immigrant big sis? I’ve been waiting patiently for 6 months for the big boat to bring a letter from you, telling me about the “big city” you live in.  But alas, hitching up the horse and buggy and taking it down the gravel road, while ol’ Farmer Brett is working the field, proves to be a disappointment… it’s usually just more barrels of fish and boxes of tea being unloaded by men with scruffy beards, dressed in sweat-stained, flowy button-down shirts. (It’s ok to write jokingly about immigrants when you ARE an immigrant, right? I hope so, cuz I do it pretty much all the time.) (And you like how even though we are Middle Eastern, our “Immigrant Experience” is straight out of Ireland? After I checked the docks, I went and “found mi-self a fawncy haat, fer church.”)

Sisee, I have major food issues. Food issues with the boys, that is. They are SO PICKY. It’s killing me. Evan especially – getting him to try anything is a battle royale. (Not to be confused with Casino Royale, the James Bond movie, which for the record, I LOVE. What’s with all the Daniel Craig haters out there?? Could he be a better Bond?? So he’s blonde – DEAL WITH IT! What is there, James Bond purism now? You know he did all his own stunts? Yeah. He’s amazing. And none too shabby on the eyes, either.)

Ok… yeah, ok: I don’t understand how this picky eating happened, when they both gobbled up those yummy veggie purees I HOME MADE, when they were babies. Carrots? Check. Broccoli? Check. Pears? With Apples and cinnamon? Check and check. Seriously, the other day, I had baked a CHEESE PIZZA… ok?.. cheese pizza… the food every kid likes, which frankly hasn’t the best nutritional value…. and I told Evan to eat at least 5 bites, and while he did, he also almost GAGGED on every bite. Like it was eel sushi. Pizza, sis. PIZZA. Same goes for: Spaghetti. Lasagna. Hamburgers. French toast. Regular toast! It’s completely and utterly maddening. Should I have made cheese pizza purees when he was a baby??

And actually, I know – I KNOW! – it’s TOTALLY my own fault. It’s this combination of my own selfish desire to avoid combat with the kids and my immigrant-based need not to see food wasted, that have led to this daily diet mayhem. Forget giving the kids vegetables – I can’t get them to eat pizza! What the WHAT! 

Anyway, I read this article one time, written by a mom who had slowly gained 15 lbs by guilt-eating her kids’ leftovers. NOT hard to understand. Nothing is more annoying than scraping perfectly good food into the trash. (Which, thanks to said article, I do, rather than stuff my own face with extra food I don’t need.)

So as of the last 6 months, I have eliminated almost all semblances of snacks from our routine (with minor playdate-related exceptions) and it has been working to a great degree. It’s amazing how much more eager they are to gobble up lunch and dinner, when they haven’t eaten a string cheese and a bowl of goldfish crackers 2 hours prior. (Not to mention, picky eater kids is such a first world problem... hey, picky sons – privileged much?) Our pediatrician always uses the tag line “No kid ever starved to death with a fridge full of food” which I totally agree with… but letting them starve until they get so hungry they will eat grilled salmon and steamed broccoli has its own problems:

A) The hungrier they get, the more grouchy and unreasonable they get. Well, they’re not the most reasonable people to begin with, so the worse their moods are, the more insanely difficult it becomes to take them anywhere nor do anything. Mom: “Get in the car, so we can go.” Son: “NO! I WANT TO LAY IN THE DRIVEWAY IN THE PUDDLE OF DIRTY WATER AND GET WET AND DIRTY!” You find yourself playing an intense game of chicken with… well, an unreasonable, small human being.

Then there’s…

B) The worse their moods get and the more difficult it is to deal with them, the worse YOUR mood gets. Dealing with endless, hunger-driven whining makes YOU more moody and annoyed! Then you’re snapping more, and yelling waaaay more, and in turn, they are getting worse… it’s a vicious cycle. Ultimately, it’s just so much easier to throw mac’n’cheese and a handful of goldfish at them, than make the whole family crazy. (And yes, Daddy feels it, when he gets home and has three cranky people waiting.) What is one to do??

As an aside, though – why are goldfish crackers so good?! They’re cheesy, they’re crunchy, they’re good with a side of cheese. They pair well with sweet and savory things! You can class’em up or dumb them down. If someone highbrow told me they put a teensy dollop of crème fraiche and a singular caviar egg on each goldfish and served them as an appetizer to their dignitary guests, I’d totally believe it. (Though, I'd definitely question their judgement.)

Well, hello there.
Wait... do I see NACHO on one of those bags?! Sold!

I recently discovered my own love of goldfish-and-raisin “sandwiches” – two goldfish on either side of a plump raisin. Or a Craisin. Or a couple of currants, which according to my (NON-IMMIGRANT, impulse-buying, American husband) are “Just like raisins, but tiny!” (BTW, do not buy currants. No one will eat them, EVER.) Seriously, the salty crackers with the sweetness of the raisin are freaky good – and I’m sure it’s “good for you” so eating the normal 47 “sandwiches” in one sitting won’t matter.

Also – dip goldfish into cream cheese. O!M!G! Maybe I should say, DON’T dip goldfish into cream cheese. You will not stop until one of the ingredients has run out. I tried it last night, as an after-dinner snack FOR THE KIDS. They had miraculously eaten all of their pasta (thanks Auntie Bev ;)) and plain yogurt AND fruit, but were still hungry (thanks to the NO SNACKS METHOD!) so I thought I’d see if they’d like a little cream cheese-dipped goldfish cracker. They LOVED it! The unfortunate part is that I loved it too. I loved it to the tune of an entire meal portion, thus ruining my own appetite for dinner. Mmm… goldfish. And the multi-colored ones – they’re so cute, right? WHYARETHEYSOCUTE?!?!

Sis, how is spring time in the land of East? We are having the usual rain-rage inducing Oregon “Spring”: Cold, rainy drizzle 6-8 days in a row, followed by random and senseless one or two days of 60-80 degree, kind-of-sunny weather. (So yes, the rainy days are colder than 60.) It makes me realize how much I hate Oregon some months of the year. Actually, let’s just say it – 10 months of the year, I hate living in Oregon. I’m not satisfied with the random warm day, when it’s the end of freaking April. It’s Spring. It’s SUPPOSED to be warm EVERY DAY. There’s a reason stores start carrying shorts, skirts, sandals and cute lightweight dresses in March – it’s because in the season called Spring, one is supposed to be able to wear those items, without a North Face fleece on top. 

Typical week in Oregon "Spring"...
But, hey, keep moving here, unemployed young Californians.

I was telling someone that the weather here is like a philandering husband, who on occasion, in order to make up for his constant betrayals, will try to appease Wife with some half-aced gift.  And she’s like… Yeah, thanks for the Jane Seymore collection open-hearts pendant from Kay Jewelers that I’ll literally never, ever wear, but maybe you could just stop cheating on me all the time, mmmkay? Anyway, I’m ready to move. And you know that says a lot, because I’ve really grown to love beautiful, conscious Portland and its endless supply of illogical but admirably-defiant and unending liberalism. I won’t miss all the Subaru's though.

Ok, Sisee. I hear the whistle of the tug boat, so I best be getting’ my letter to the dock. I hope you, my brother in law and beautiful niece are well in the big city and are “keepin’ yer wits about ya.”

Love you,
Ava

Tiny Plastic Pieces and Other Signs You Have Kids

Dear Sisee -

It’s 9:00 AM and I just now ate breakfast. I woke up at 5:45AM thanks to one Alec P. Of course by “ate breakfast”, I mean that while I stood at the kitchen counter, I attempted to shove half a banana smeared in almond butter and honey down my throat as quickly as possible (bananas, almond butter, honey: because I’m trying to eat in a more healthy manner… BOO! That’s not the point – FOCUS!) before a two year-old decided he urgently needed me. I also tried to drink an entire cup of coffee without it getting cold (HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I can hear you laughing! You’re also applauding my dedication to a dream though, right?)

Halfway through my meal, a little kitty cat appeared. A little kitty that looks like a beautiful two year old boy with a mop of curly hair and big brown eyes, who makes teensy high-pitched squealing sounds, while he tries to wedge himself in between me and the cabinet base, wrapping his arms around my legs.

Me: “What is it honey?” Alec: “Meeeeeewwwoooooo…?” That means pick me up. He knows how to say pick me up please in regular human talk, he just doesn’t want to. Also, he doesn’t know why he wants me to pick him up – I know this already. I just asked What is it, Honey? as a formality, and to buy time. What he wants is my attention, because his big brother is at pre-school and he is bored. And he is bored because we walked in from dropping off big brother 10 minutes ago, and he doesn’t feel like playing with the bucket of play-doh “toys” – aka: a million, tiny plastic pieces (that’s more or less how I classify toys: a million tiny plastic pieces and NOT a million tiny plastic pieces) – which he dumped out earlier. He dumped them out initially, not because he needed a particular mold/tool, or even that he wanted to play with play doh, but because he likes the act of dumping a million plastic pieces on a hardwood floor. It’s fun. It makes a loud sound, and everything scatters.

It will take a small act of God to get him to pick these up, and since I feel bad wasting God’s time trying to summon “The Miracle of Picked Up Toys” and also because I’m tired and don’t have it in me to Love-and-Logic-style seize the opportunity to teach some valuable lesson or other, I will just pick them up myself later. Later, that is, after I have pierced the heel of my right foot in that same exact spot that always lands on the sharp corner of something tiny and plastic. This is how I roll. It’s tradition at this point, and who doesn’t love tradition?

[BTW – thanks DADDY for impulse buying that super awesome millions-of-plastic-pieces play doh set, the one time I didn’t go to Target with you guys. Cleaning up all the tiny pieces AND constantly vacuuming dried play-doh crumbs is exactly the piece of the stay-at-home-Mommy fulfillment puzzle that had been missing. Who says only Moms buy uneccessary things at Target? Sarcasm? Yes. Truth? Also, yes.]

This was the account of one fraction, of one morning, of one day, of one week, of one month, of the last 4 years. I didn’t even transcribe this morning’s pre-school “Dance of the Crazy Mom” trying not to be late again.  (Suffice it to say that while I was upstairs for no more than 10 minutes, the kitchen faucet had been on at some point and not all the water remained in the sink. Also, some dry erase markers were involved. Do they know better? Yeah. But do they just really love messes and chaos? Oh yeah.)

It’s funny, on “days like this” I inevitably end up in some hurried conversation with a female who is thinking about having kids, or more kids, or lots of kids, and I catch myself saying something like “DON’T DO IT! It’s hard!” Then less than one second later, I say: “Wait, actually, do it. It’s hard, but it’s fulfilling in the most weird way, that I can kind of explain on most days, just not today.” Then I try to lighten up the awkwardness I just created with something funny like “Actually, do you like to sit down when you eat? Or do you even like to eat, at all? You should enjoy those things now.” (It’s funny, you see, because it’s TRUE.)

My point in all this is that it’s not easy, but there are more good days than bad days. I love my boys so freaking much it hurts, and honestly, 90% of the time, I feel truly privileged that I can stay home with them before they start school forever. At night, I sneak into their rooms, and I pray over them while running my hands over their sweaty little heads, and bend down and kiss them however many times I like, because they won’t push me away. But, do I have to pretend that every day is Mommy bliss? No I don’t. And I won’t.


Can we all just acknowledge that sometimes, it’s not easy and that’s OK? It’s normal. That there are mornings where you are tired, and listening to the tiny people's relentless and loud noise isn't what you were looking forward to? Let’s sympathize with each other and let one another off the hook. You ever meet one of those moms who pretend they love every second of it? You test the waters of Friendship Material by saying something like “It was total chaos this morning – Evan dumped out four puzzle boxes in the same spot, then mixed all the pieces up like soup. WHY would he do this?!” And she gives you that closed-mouth smile, like she has no idea what you’re talking about but is just being polite. Then you give her that sideways smirk, because you both know she’s pretending stuff like that doesn’t happen to her or at least phase her and you BOTH know she’s a liar. (You know who you are – stop it right now, and join forces with the rest of us!) Then one of your kids sneezes and green snot comes out – not because he has a bad cold, but because the tip of a green marker had been up his nose earlier. (All true stories, btw.)

Anyway, it is 10:52. It took, 1 hr 50 min to write this. In order to make it happen, I allowed Alec to open a deck of cards, and scatter them about, while bending and tearing some of them. I also had the tv on. Some other messes were made, which are so routine I don’t have it in me to explain. For a while, he played in my car, in the garage. Also, some of the paragraph starting with “It’s funny” was written with him laying sideways on my lap. Like a cat. I gave him kisses, and squeezed him. Because I love him a freaking ton.

Love you a ton too, Sisee!
Miss you – COME HOME!

Ava

Everything Makes Me Cry - So Annoying!

Dear Sisterella –

Can I just begin by saying how ready I am for Kelly Clarkson to take a break from the YOU GO GIRL! single female empowerment ballads? We get it, we get it! You’re single and it’s AWESOME! You don’t need a MAN! That break up made you STRONGER! You’re INDEPENDENT! Cliché much, Kelly? Your voice is above this. Or is it? I don’t even remember / care anymore. A self-respecting artist creates one over-played-but-absurdly sad song after another, (like Adele), makes the world uncontrollably weep (and the world’s husband change the station in the car, because even he realizes that some songs are just “way too sad”) and moves on. I seriously can’t take one more “you don’t know a thing about me” from her. No, we do… we know at least one or two things about you now, trust me.

Oooh, remember how I hate actors and celebrities? (Except for Tom Hanks. He’s just so friggin likable!) But yes, even the ones I like, I really just hate on a lower level.  (I know God wants us to love everyone – I KNOW - this one’s gonna be on the “My dear child, I need to have a talk with you” list when I get to the pearly gates.) It’s just so hard to respect, much less love, people who (mostly) without college educations, and via paths that contribute in precisely ZERO ways to the well-being of other humans, make grotesque amounts of money, then proceed to spend it all on themselves. If a cardiac surgeon made $20 million every time he operated on someone’s heart, got his picture plastered on millions of magazines and websites, and inspired kids to be just like him, I’d be totally cool with it. But don’t even get me started on the fine “art” of acting, much less reality “stars.”  

Thanks to our friend Shay, I was recently watching an interview with Jon Hamm (of Mad Men fame, y’all!) and… wait, I totally lost my train of thought. It was a funny interview… he said some witty stuff. Ah, heck, it’ll come to me.  Why was I even picking on him? Hm… suffice it to say, he’s on the LOWEST level of actor hate. Yes, because he’s funny... and extremely handsome. (I’m not a robot, people!) Oh!... ok, it’s actually Jessica Simpson, whose status as a “fashion mogul” sent me down this dark path. I was watching “Fashion Star” (I have zero self-control and can’t resist) and was VERY puzzled that she’s one of the mentors on the panel of experts (WOW, so many of those words deserve quotation marks, that I can only push shift+’ so many times. “Mentor”… Really?!) so I turned to the ol’ Google for some research.  Apparently, her “brand” is worth… are you ready… a BILLION dollars. BILLION! This Jessica Simpson, who has no discernible talents, and who for the majority of her tenure as a celeb has been known for having TERRIBLE fashion sense (and a creepy dad – another story), has a BILLION DOLLAR fashion line. Meanwhile, physicians spend 40,000 hours (forty thousand!) training and with an average of $300,000 of debt before they start practicing. It’s not hard to see why so many kids think becoming “famous” is a viable career goal, and it makes me CRAZY! Rant over. And Jon Hamm, I’m sorry I dragged your handsome, “cartoon pilot” face (I love you Tina Fey!) into this.

OK, remember how I cry about everything? And you do too? And so do all non-psycho people who have children? It all started after Evan was born, and it got kicked up a notch with the preview I saw ONCE for that Ben Affleck movie where he loses his corporate job and struggles to find his identity. Man, I cried at the THOUGHT of that commercial, like four times. So, I saw the SADDEST commercial the other day. (BTW, why is it always commercials? I think the advent of DVR has caused advertisers to have to step up their game and get viewers to watch and not forward.) It should be noted that I saw said commercial without volume, because I had headphones on while Brett watched tv.

Anyway, so in the commercial there is a family with a sweet little girl, and there are a series of things that lead the audience to believe she MAY have a terminal illness. Ok? You following me? Like, her parents are looking at ex-rays and reports and stuff and she’s like 5 and wears adorable glasses and is laughing and playing with NO IDEA, and they keep giving her those “trying to suppress deep, deep sadness” smiles. They hold her hand and they hold each other’s hands like “we are in this together” and other incredibly sad gestures. Then they take her to the hospital, and she takes off her shoes and gives her mom her favorite stuffed animal to hold, while she slowly lays down and goes through the MRI machine. She’s being so brave, Sisee. Then it shows the doctor with her parents, serious looks on everyone’s faces, pointing to the images of her lungs, and suddenly… they all smile BIG smiles of relief. She’s ok! She’s not dying! They’re so happy! And I’m so happy! Thank you so much… SIEMENS MRI MACHINE….?! The commercial is for the MRI machine. Yes. No, I’m not lying, it is. First of all, I thought the little girl was… I can’t even write it. It’s so sad, the thought of losing a child, I feel like it’s wrong to say the words. Seriously, too heartbreaking to even imagine. You know what’s NOT sad, though? Siemens MRI machines. I want to strongly-worded-letter-punch those guys in the face for sending me into near-hysterics with their inappropriately sad commercial. Really, guys?! Why was it necessary to be THAT sad? I assume MRI machines cost hundreds of thousands of dollars – (Oh!... Google just informed me the average cost is between $1-3 MILLION DOLLARS!)… clearly, I’m not the target audience for purchasing one. Is a hospital exec gonna be watching tv one night and see the super sad commercial and suddenly decide to order one? I don’t get it. Man. Sad! OK, I have to find the commercial on Youtube, and you can tell me if it’s indeed a tear-jerker, or if I should consider a prescription for some “happy pills.” (Which a friend once called “Mommy’s little helper” – haha!)

As a sidenote, the whole time I was writing that paragraph, Brett had been alternately flipping channels between It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, making it more or less like trying to read Jane Austen while a crazy clown dances around you. Not an easy feat.

Sad story part 2: 50/50. The movie called 50/50, that is. My beloved husband brought it home to “cheer” me up last week, on a day when I’d had a looooong day with the boys. A very sweet gesture.

I was like: “Um… isn’t this the movie about a guy who finds out he has a FIFTY FIFTY chance of surviving cancer?”

Brett: “Oh, is it?”
Me: “I think so, yeah.”
Brett: “Yeaaaaaah… I realized that on the way home, but it’s supposed to be a comedy, so he probably won’t die.”
Me: “No, it’s supposed to be one of those poignant sad comedies, where you laugh at a bunch of funny stuff, then get SUPER sad, cuz… you  know… he dies of cancer.”
Brett: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just heard, thas’all.”

So we started watching it, and the whole time I was just fighting back tears at the thought of adorable what’s his name dying. So I stopped watching half-way through. I can’t. I won’t. Moral of the story: you get sad a lot more about stuff after you have kids. So annoying.

Sisee, today the boys were wrestling on the couch, and when I paid closer attention to make sure they weren’t getting hurt, I noticed they were really just aggressive cuddling! It was brotherly love, in the form of tumble-hugs and occasional kisses. So sweet! Boys can be so loving and cuddly. Alec especially, makes kitty cat noises and plops himself sideways into my lap, all the time. Poor Evan, who is more “independent” shall we say, was watching tv one afternoon, and I saw Alec shimmy up to him trying to get his attention with some cutesy meow-like noises. Realizing that Evan wasn’t interested, he finally settled for just sitting quietly as close to Evan as possible without sitting on him, facing backwards, then gently leaning on him cheek-to-cheek. And seeing as how it wasn’t really obstructing his view of the tv, Evan just let him sit like that for like 2-3 minutes, left-cheeks pressed together. Cutest thing ever. I love those boys so much. I tried to reenact it for Brett, and I couldn’t stop giggling!

Alright sis, gotta go. Um… you ever gonna write back, or no more Sisees?? Love ya anyway. Give my niece and her bouncy curls a big smooch!

Xoxo

Ava

First World Problems

Sisee!

Why have we not blogged in so long?! Obviously, as with almost all other things, it’s either the kids’ fault or the kids’ fault. Amiright or amiright?? Ladies?? I feel like I could give a recap of the holidays and blah blah blah, but you already know the lowdown, so let me instead just complain about other people’s children: why are they so LOUD? Hey, kids… SHHHHH! They’re like tiny little 80’s boomboxes, except the 8 giant batteries never run out and “Take On Me” by “A Ha” plays over and over and over again. I was at the Children’s Museum none too long ago, and the volume was craaaaazy! At one point, in the pretend “café” – (yes, soooo Portland to have a pretend coffee shop in the children’s museum –  I imagine in the Alabama Children’s Museum they have a pretend gator pond. If you are from Alabama and wondering whether or not you should be offended, the answer is, YES. That was indeed offensive to you.) – anyway, where was I?... yes, ok, I was sitting at one of the faux bistro tables in the pretend kids’ café watching Evan and Alec fill up their canvas reusable pretend shopping bags with the pretend organic fake food and this not-so-little girl (like 9-ish) (PS. Why aren’t you in school right now?! This does NOT count as homeschooling – tell your Mom.) kept bringing me literally tray after tray of fake sushi and fake panini, trying to engage me in some sort of play. Uh… what’s that all about?! At one point, having been unsuccessful at discouraging her, I actually said “Sweetie, WHERE is your mom? And please clean all this up.” I should have added “PS. You see those two boys – who are btw, THREE and TWO – I’m watching THEM.” Anyway, from wherever her mom had been undoubtedly texting and facebooking on her iphone, she suddenly turned up and was all “Kennedy, sweetie, bring that over here.” Yeah Kennedy, go… go now!

Disclaimer #1: I, too, was texting and facebooking on my iPhone, which is the real reason I was annoyed – I didn’t pay for an annual museum pass so my own kids would nicely play while I then had to play with someone else’s kid. That would be crazy and a “bad investment” as they say in money talk.

Disclaimer #2: I have no idea what the kid’s name actually was. I just assume Kennedy because this is Portland and that’s what hipster liberals all name their kids. Frankly, I can’t believe I haven’t met any little girls named Clinton. It’s just a matter of time.

Sis, can we chat about First World Problems for a minute? WHY does DVR only record TWO channels at once? How has technology not yet advanced enough to allow me to simultaneously record as many ridiculous tv shows as my heart desires? Really, only TWO?! What’s next – I’m thirsty, so I walk to the local well and fill up my jug? Unacceptable.

I can imagine trying to explain this archaic technology to Evan while we sit at Starbucks in like 10 years, and he’ll say “What’s DVR?? So the little box couldn’t just scan your brain and show you what you want on the “screen”… whoa!” And he’ll use finger quotes around the word “screen” because by then we’ll just have 3-D holograms to watch wherever we want, rather than that crazy clunky tablet called the “TV.” In fact, I’ll just be talking to Evan’s hologram at Starbucks because the real Evan has to be at home doing homework. (The hologram will be impeccably dressed like the real Evan who will hopefully not have that shaggy dog Justin Bieber hair that HAS to be making an impact on the quality of our youth’s vision – how do they SEE with all that hair in their faces, HOW?!) Oddly enough, I’ll still have to buy him a juice or milk from Starbucks, which - with the Starbucks index of inflation – will assuredly cost in the ball park of $25.00 by then. You got me again, Starbucks, even though your mean barista still refuses to thank me when I grab my Americano, even a decade later! And yes, this is all in ten years. Get to work tech scientists – my brain waves aren’t gonna read and start marketing virtual goods to me, by themselves… get crackin’!

So Sis, how is potty training going? Other than being the immense joy that it is, I mean. It’s funny, when you are young and picture yourself with those sweet little cherubs all decked out in their Baby Gap winter plaid, saying cutesy things like CHEE-YOS (Cheerios) and BABA (bottle), it never for even a second occurs to you that you may at some point have to touch pee. And poop. Over and over again. Evan is almost 4 and we STILL have to convince him that he does, in fact, HAVE to go to the bathroom. Son, it does not matter that you already went this morning, or last night, or yesterday… you STILL have to go. It’s not optional. If you eat and you drink, you have to pee and poop. We don’t like it either. I was changing Alec’s #2 diaper today (which he promptly notified me of by repeatedly yelling EWWW! POOP IN MA PANTS! POOP IN MA PANTS!) and as Evan observed the diaper change he suddenly spoke the wisest words to be declared by a 4 year old child: “Poop is gross, Mommy.” Yes, Son. Poop is gross.

Well, Sisee I better go. It’s been short but sweet, no? We covered all the things that needed to be communicated, so I need to take the boys and do some grocery shopping. They will undoubtedly want to ride in one of those ginormous, police car / fire truck / race car shopping carts that I will have to maneuver with the strength of a professional football player. Unsuccessfully. Man alive, do I hate those carts but man, do I love my boys.


Huge kissies to my delectable niece and to you my beautiful Sisee.

Xoxo

Ava

Mother of perfect angel or being held captive against my will? We'll never know.

My Dearest Sissy:

Hope all is well with you and the family. I love your poignant and astute additions to the Three Little Pigs. It was funny that you should mention that, because Sofia loves the story and I often show her the old Walt Disney classic “silly symphony” of it on youtube. She loves yelling out “huff, puff, huff, puff!” and interestingly, they show the first two “lazy” pig brothers singing and dancing while the hard-working pig is laboring with the bricks.  True to form, the lazy, hippie-artist brothers, also keep singing the taunting song “whose afraid of the big, bad wolf” over and over, even though they’re clearly scared, and never once thank the industrious brother for saving their lives. Your endings, particularly the one about paying rent and building their own brick homes, is infinitely better! Sofia, by accident, found another short cartoon about Pluto’s birthday, and basically the entire cartoon is about how Pluto is tortured by the birthday guests, when all he wants is a slice of cake. At the end, the mean, and thoughtless guests, eat up all the cake, leaving poor Pluto in tears! Then, after they all leave, and Pluto is crying, does Mickey “surprise” him with a slice of cake. WHY? why was all that necessary? and frankly, he was owed that cake, so in the end, to make up for all the torture, shouldn’t he have gotten his cake, plus damages for pain & suffering? Old cartoons are either sad or scary. 

Speaking of cartoons, Dean and I have decided to wean Sofia off of Caillou. Not really because I have such a problem with him, but Dean has developed a sensitivity to Caillou’s backtalk. As I’m sure you’ve witnessed, Sofia learned, “I don’t want to!” and “No, that’s MINE!” and “GIVE ME THAT!” from the little, bald headed fellow. I’ve grown a bit attached to the cartoon, because, well...a)Sofia has learned a lot of great things from him and b)I’m pretty sure he’s bald due to cancer of some sort. I know, I know, they say he doesn’t have cancer, but I’m certain they just don’t want us to treat him any differently. Meanwhile, I’ve got Sofia watching a few episodes here and there, not to cut her off cold turkey. I took more of a methadone approach to Caillou, better to give her a non-euphoric dose, lowering it as time goes on. She now watches one episode a week. She’s taken to liking “Little Bear” on NickJr...which, at least is calm and quiet, but just gives me the creeps. The whole show gives me the creeps. Can’t put my finger on it, but it just does. Thankfully, she loves musicals, so tv-time can mostly go to clips of Sound of Music “Do Re Me” and Annie’s “Tomorrow.” Do you remember before having children thinking we’d never use the television to babysit our kids? We were judgmental losers who didn’t know anything. 

I can’t believe how big Sofia has gotten. She’s turned into this little lady who loves tea parties, pretend feeding her babydolls, and cooking. Wow, now that I write that, am I raising a girl in 1950s deep south? Anyway, she’s obsessed with her bumblebee costume and any type of shoe in general. Do you ever just wake up and think, “omg, when did I become a mother” and do things like literally kiss snot, because my adorable daughter said, “Mama, nose running. Kiss it, make it better?” It was disgusting, but I couldn’t stop myself. And why do I take outright abuse as being hilarious. Just yesterday, I was changing Sofia’s diaper and her feet were close to my head. She actually asked me, “Don’t kick mama in the face?” It was an urge, that she thankfully QUESTIONED. WHY? All I could do was laugh. Why do we do these things? 

I truly believe motherhood is best compared to Stockholm Syndrome, the phenomenon where hostages express empathy and positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. Just think about your life prior to children and how much has changed. Think about how loyally and fervently you adore your little boys. Now tell me, what have they done to deserve this unconditional love? Mostly abuse us. They cry, they need constant attention, they throw tantrums, they make huge messes that they can’t clean, you certainly can never leave them, you cook for them, feed them, change them -even changing their diapers is a fight, wake up at all hours to soothe them...I mean logically, they are irrational people who need constant coddling. They hold us hostage and after a day of tantrums and exhaustion, after they are asleep, we actually MISS THEM and wish they were awake to kiss them 1000+ times. Sissy, we love our captors. It’s that simple.

Sometimes I wonder if Sofia is Marilla from Anne of Green Gables: aka, no-nonsense girl. She rarely cries, has slept through the night from 8 weeks old, and just like Marilla, she knows when to a) mind her own business b) stop the needless gossiping and c) go to bed at a reasonable time. Okay, the first two aren’t really applicable, but Sofia’s sleeping habits have always been amazing. Besides sleeping 8 to 8 and taking a good nap during the day, she has strangely taken to putting herself to bed at times. Last week, she was tired, and came and kissed us “night, night.” Normally I have to prompt bed time, so Dean and I decided to see what she was going to do. We watched as she turned off her light, slammed the door shut, and (viewed from the monitor) ran and jumped into her bed and went to sleep. Seriously? She did this two days in a row. Oh, and if we get back late one evening, and she goes to bed past her bedtime, she’ll sleep in to 10am. The kid likes her beauty sleep! Come to think of it, Marilla wouldn’t sleep in and certainly wouldn’t appreciate Sofia’s puff-sleeves, but would find her a kindred spirit of sorts. No fuss’n about food, sleep, or chores. 

Alright my beautiful Sissy. I miss you and my smart and funny nephews more than you know. I wish so much you could come out here for a visit. You’re the best in the biz and never forget it. Philly expects a visit sometime this year...

Love you with all my heart,

SissySara

Football Gear and Photo Ops

Dear Sisee -

First of all - do Texans have a patent on "y'all"... cuz it's such a useful and effective way of communicating "you all."

Just a mini letter follow up about the pure, unfiltered mayhem, associated with taking pictures of kids. Last weekend, in honor of the Duck game, Brett and The Boys were all dressed in their over-priced gameday best. It was a lovely sunny day on top of that, so I thought Hey! Why don't I just snap a few quick pics of the 3 Duck fans? You know - just real quick! Easy peasy!

I get out the iPhone (which you know can snap a continuous stream of pics pretty quickly) and it took no less than 51 - yes, FIFTY ONE (I just counted) - shots to get a semi-decent one where:

A) neither kid was trying to run away,
B) no one was backwards, bent over, looking down or crying,
C) Brett wasn't blinking, nor looking frazzled-with-a-hint-of-anger at having to endure this for ONE. FRIGGIN. PICTURE. and,
D) no one was blurry.

I'm frankly just surprised it happened in 51 takes. But I remembered your long-held conviction that it takes a "minimum of fifty" shots, before one looks even remotely decent. Insanity.

Alas, here is the winning entry, if you will....

It took a small miracle and 51 shots to make this happen.

The things we do, Sisee, the things we do.
Love you. Miss you. Give my Sofi the Kissies.
Ava

Two Kids: Way Harder than One Kid.

Dear Sisee –

I’m so glad you faired ok during Huricane Irene. Sorry you had to suffer the inconvenience of staying in a hotel and having to throw out a bunch of food. WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?? WHY?? Right, Sis? BTDubs – WORST hurricane name EVER. Who names these things? Irene? Really? It’s 2011, and Irene is soooo 1970’s. Why don’t they just call it Hurricane Sara, since that’s what they CALLED YOU IN COLLLEEGGGE! (Said in Party Girl voice)… WHAAA! Haha – don’t you love it when people boast about ridiculous nicknames like that? Boasting about nicknames takes just the right recipe of inappropriate and self-important, no? If you recall, we know a guy whose vanity license plate said “PARADOX” which I imagine made him feel extremely witty. (For our reading audience, I should clarify that said vanity plates were on a giant, banana-yellow Hummer. So really, if you think about what kind of guy drives a giant yellow Hummer with a vanity plate that says PARADOX… it’s not so much a “paradox”, yes? In fact, it’s the exact opposite of a paradox. It’s “I know exactly what kind of person you are and it makes perfect sense.”) Ah, Paradox, with your crushed velvet super-snug t-shirts… where have you gone?

Sisee, you and I have discussed on numerous occasions the rage that can suddenly come about as a result of trying to get kids to stand still for photos. This past weekend we had booked our “annual” family photos, and the rage, Sisee. The rage! I understand they are young. I understand a 3 year old and a 1.5 year old aren’t going to openly embrace the idea of posing repeatedly for a camera. But oh man alive, it was COMPLETE INSANITY. First of all – typical of Oregon’s own in-your-face, defiant weather – it had suddenly and for no apparent reason stopped being sunny and warm, and was now cold and drizzly the day of the photos. Having anticipated the shift, I had bought the boys sweaters, and I personally think overcast days make for beautiful photos, so nothing was gonna get me down.

So we get to the new location for the pics (a covered but still outdoors hybrid option, if you will) and as the photographer begins snapping away Evan suddenly decides he is STARVING and needs “cheesy chicks” RIGHT. NOW. (Yes, cheesy “chicks” – the Target brand version of Goldfish crackers, which frankly aren’t as good, but we had a box and he’d spotted them at some point and convinced Brett to put them in the diaper bag.) So… yes, 5 minutes into the shoot, every time he was asked to smile, sit, look at the camera, walk in a certain direction, look at a certain thing, his response was “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Hey Evan, can you hold Daddy’s hand and walk toward Joshua? “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Ooh Evan, what’s that over there – can you look at the flowers? “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Ridiculous. And INFURIATING. It’s as though the thought of said cheesy chicks had wholly consumed him, and he was LITERALLY incapable of doing or thinking about anything else. At some point, Brett got a small cup out of the car and put some cheesy chicks in it, which he kept in his back pocket - we would placate Evan with a few in between shots. CRAZY.

Then there’s Alec, who God bless him, had taken on his usual stance of “I will do whatever I want, whenever I want.” There was a moment where the boys were on a (dry) platform, and Joshua was trying to get some candid pics of them laughing and playing, and I swear Alec KNEW – he just KNEW – to only bend, turn, face the EXACT OPPOSITE direction as the camera. At one point, I tried to gently rotate him, and he whipped his head toward me, clenched teeth and growled “Nooooo Mama.”


What?! What do you mean “No Mama”?? Actually, YES MAMA. Ok?! Yes. You WILL turn to face the camera, you WILL give Joshua your adorable smile, you WILL do something cute and charming which will result in your curls bouncing up and down, and you WILL understand that Daddy goes to work every day and works hard to provide you with a good life so that you can have food to eat, a roof over your head, clothes on your back and ANNUAL FAMILY PHOTOS, so you WILL be cute and adorable for the camera and give Mommy at least ONE 8x10 that will make Mommy smile every time she passes it in the hallway. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? END OF STORY!!! ARGH!!! (Ps. He didn’t understand.)

We haven’t gotten the disk back yet, so Lord Almighty only knows how many good prints we can get out of that session. I'm just relieved poor Joshua didn't throw his hands up at some point and storm off. God bless people with more than two children who do this every year. I don’t know how they keep their sanity. Maybe they just wait and get family photos after the youngest turns 5. Not worth it before that. SIGH!

Sis, have you ever read the Three Little Pigs? For some reason, Evan loved this book for several months and we would read it to him every night. The book was a very condensed board-book version of the story, with the illustrations directly from the Disney cartoon. I think the reason Evan liked it so much was the “twist” with the Big Bad Wolf, who “huffed and puffed”… I think it’s Evan’s first introduction to a character who is the bad guy in the story.

Anyway to sum up the story, there are three little pigs who are supposed to build houses for themselves. The first two are lazy and don’t like to work (this is how the story describes them), so the first pig builds his house out of straw (which to me actually seems like it would be quite difficult – how do you get straw to stick together and form a house?! Not easy, but for the sake of the story, let’s assume it’s super simple.) The second pig is also lazy and likes to “dance and sing” so he wants to get the job over with and builds his house out of sticks. BUT… the third little pig is “wise” and works hard to build his house out of bricks, which he double-secures by painting it with “wolf-proof” paint. This is where my first major problem with the story comes in – if third little pig knew the wolf was gonna come along (as evidenced by the wolf-proof paint), why didn’t he tell his brothers? Were they SO lazy that they would’ve still preferred to build their homes out of inferior materials? Really?!

So the brothers 1 & 2 are hanging out together, singing and dancing (what lazy kids did before the advent of X-Box, I imagine – those activities would be considered extra-curricular, and beneficial, today.) Long story short: Big Bad Wolf sees them, chases them, follows #1 to his house of straw, blows it down, #1 gets away to #2’s house, that gets blown down too, and the two of ‘em hightail it to 3^rd little pig’s brick house. Pig #3 is all “Whoa, come on in! DON’T WORRY. My crib’s totally made up of bricks YO, so like no problemo Little Dudes.” Should not have put quotes there, I made that up. Yes, Third Little Pig is Keanu Reeves in a number of movies made before 1995.

Creepy photo of Father, anyone?

So… BBW comes to the house and tries his whole huff and puff schtick. Doesn’t work. He climbes over the roof and tries to go down the chimeney, at the bottom of which a random and totally nonsensical giant caldroun of boiling water is awaiting him. His bum gets burned, and he books it outta there and swears to never chase the little pigs again. Then… THEN… (this is the part that irritates me to no end)… the 3^rd little pig and his selfish, lazy brothers live happily ever after. That’s it. C-Ya!

Just dancin' it away. No consequences for their actions.

  

Ok… WHERE do they live?! In that little studio brick house with the creepy picture of their father as a Ham hock? All THREE of ‘em?! And the two other little pigs just get to live somewhere safe and don’t suffer any consequences for their laziness?! WHAT?! I’m so annoyed by this ending (and what is frankly a terrible lesson): Hey lazy kids, no worries ok? Your hardworking responsible family member is always like totally gonna bail you out, ‘right lil dudes? Tubular! (Yes, Keanu, again.) What is that all about?!

So every single time I’ve read the story to Evan, I have added a few senteces to the end, like:

“Then the 3^rd little Pig allowed his brothers to live at his house for 2 weeks until they built their own brick houses and moved out.”

Or: “And the first little pig and the second little pig paid their brother rent until they could get back on their feet again.” 

Also (this one’s my fave): “And the third little Pig taught his brothers how to build brick houses for themselves and in exchange they cleaned his place and cooked for him while they lived at his house.” MUCH BETTER moral of the story, riiiight? As the French (who sound infinitely more wise than other nationalitites because of their charming, difficult to understand accents) say: “Tres Ridicule!”

Kids stories from our day had some pretty scary things in them, right? I was thinking about Snow White, and how her stepmother hated her so much, she tried to KILL her with a poinsoned apple! Because she didn't like that Snow White was more beautiful - that's it. OH! – And when she found out Snow White wasn’t dead, she hired someone to kill her and bring back her cut-out heart as evidence. Oh! Em! Gee! Can you imagine reading this to Sofi?? Yikes!

OK, can we talk for a minute about hipsters?  I feel like one of the perks of having moved to the East Coast is that you don’t have to deal with hipsters aymore. Their off-trend skinny jeans and wrinkly plaid flannel shirts, with some sort of “vintage” tee underneath, and that weird parted-from-waaaay-too-far-one-side-of-the-forehead hair.  Living in a $550,000 1912 bungalow, which either mom and pops rent for them, or they bought themselves with their 3/4 –up-the-latter management position at Addidas salary, which is not in the ubber rich “inner” east side hood, but in that one pocket that’s been “up and coming” for like 7 years, which everyone pretends hasn’t REALLY been gentrified, but good luck spotting dark skin anywhere.  Raising chickens, and getting their farm shares (both of which admittedly, people in my suburban neighborhood do too – further evidence that the most conservative person in Portland may probably still be a crazy left-wing liberal in Texas) and driving the “best” version of the Prius. Talking like they’ve got a PhD in agricultural studies whenever the subject of “certified Organic” comes up – because EVERYONE knows that the REAL organic farms do waaay more organic-y stuff and wouldn’t ever stoop to try to get that sell-out certification, anyway. Growing beards without regret, and wearing hemp clothing. Anyway, you get the point.


So while I was at a Starbucks on the east side (aka: hipster side) of town recently (after a certain appointment where I was assaulted with a high-powered laser – please see last blog entry. We both know I don’t leisurely stray east of NW 10^th.) I noticed a couple waiting for their lattes, all plaid and glasses, pouting on each other, the male of the species senselessly wearing one of those 80’s arm sweat bands, just in case his one arm suddenly starts profusely perspiring. I had paid for my Americano with the Starbucks app on my iPhone (YEAH. THAT’S HOW I PAY. BACK OFF people!)(Seriously, only reasons for not doing this: A) jealousy, B) no iPhone/Droid, C) being too good – for Starbucks, iPhones, Whatever. Only possibilities.) Two women behind me noticed my payment method, and both asked to see what was going on. I showed them, and they agreed that it’s some seriously awesome business not having to tote your wallet into Starbucks, and as I turned toward the finished-drinks waiting area, I TOTALLY caught hipster duo give each other The Look… about me! I was like WHAT! I KNOW YOU didn’t just give ME The Look! Me? You’re giving ME The Look? No! I am giving YOU The Look, hipsters. Whatever, I Iet them pout on, and as I was leaving, I saw that they were driving a Mercedes S Class. I was like, Wait, what kind of hispsters drive a MERCEDES?! Then I realized, Ooooh that’s riiiight – the same hipsters who go to Starbucks… aka: FAKE hipsters. So, I guess they weren’t real hipsters after all. In fact, I’m guessing they are from California, and within a year they’ll be selling that $700K remodeled 1924 Craftsman and moving into a micro-mansion in Cedar Mill, which’ll be awesome for his commute to Columbia Sportswear.

Well, Sis I had more to say, but my kids are trying to go into the garage and play with potting soil in an unused flowerpot. I’m actually considering it, if it buys me another 20 min.
Love you – and Happy Birthday, my beautiful Sisero!

XOXO

Ava