Crappy Cupcaker

A good cupcake maker I'm not. I know this. Have for a long time. Yet that didn't stop me from volunteering my services for the cake walk at the school carnival tomorrow. I don't know what led me to believe that my skills were all of a sudden Magnolia Bakery-of-NYC-and Sex and the City-fame worthy.

Why did I think that my confections would rise above the rim of the paper cup and be anything other than the sunken pieces of dough they usually are?

Well, that's because they did:

Come on. An eight year old can make better looking cupcakes than I can. I'm perfectly capable of opening a box, adding oil, water, eggs, and mixing. But it's a measuring thing. I can't seem to get the right amount of liquid into the cup.

And now, not only am I a crappy cupcaker, but I've reached new lows in somehow trying to justify my lameness. Like the fact that I can't visually measure the precise amount is a good enough excuse for the little messes that come out of the oven.

But don't be mistaken, they taste delicious. I should know. I ate two once I decided that I would make a trip to TOP Foods tomorrow morning and buy cupcakes. When J came home from soccer he ran inside the house with his cleats still on and fell on his way to the kitchen. As he was getting up he said, "I can smell the cupcakes." And yummy they smelled.

There were a few good looking ones.

Now that's a pretty cupcake. And the way I see it, I only have seven years before M will show me how to make perfect ones every time.

Now close your eyes and imagine that it has frosting on top.

Come to Momma, Carrie Bradshaw. Come to Momma.

BPW -- The New Triple Threat

Barf, Poop & Water

is not the new Earth, Wind & Fire; it's been our life the last several days.

It started Friday, game day for J and mom's night out for me. When I got home our bathroom was unusually clean. I managed to make enough noise to wake D up from his slumber when he then said that J had barfed all over the floor and toilet. Poor guy. Well, at least he was sleeping peacefully now.

The next morning started with berry smoothies. D went to work

and J lay on the couch. Unusual for a Saturday when on most weeks by 9 am he's asking what he can do in hopes that we'll say that he can play Wii. A few minutes later I heard a scream followed by some crying. When I arrived downstairs I was greeted by a floor splattered with red liquid, as were the walls, and the toilet. It was my turn to clean up what J later said must have been his smoothie, "right, Mommy? Because it was red." Yummy!

That was it for the day. Sunday was great. We weren't so lucky Sunday night. About midnight we hear THE shriek coming from his room. He was hot and sweaty when we brought him into our bed. He seemed comfortable for a couple of minutes. And then,

"I have to go poo-poo."

The sound coming from the bathroom was brutal.

Another scream.

Then what sounded like a waterfall straight into the toilet.

Barf.

Again.

Everywhere.

It's now close to 1 am and we're still scrubbing the floors, walls, and toilet.

And then there was peace.

(J in better days at the helm.)

D left to Eastern Washington a few hours later with very little sleep to speak of. J was doing a good job at keeping his very bland breakfast down. M was taking a nap. Earlier in the morning J had asked me to "Google to see if he had to go to school today." I may or may not have been doing so when I was at the computer desk and noticed water on top of it. It was strange but I wrote it off as a spill of some sort.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

Every few seconds.

Coming from the fire alarm in the ceiling.

This can't be good. I called Mike Nelson. He came over and agreed.

Not good. And probably expensive.

He left to go get the plumber.

And then all hell broke loose. Every single fire alarm in the house started going off.

LOUD!

M was crying hysterically. Jacob was yelling. I was running around w/ the stool and screwdriver trying to get the batteries out. All 100 of them!

To say it was a zoo around here would be an understatement.

When the men arrived, Mike perched himself atop his ladder with knife in hand ready to cut out a piece of the ceiling and find the culprit. The plumber decided to run upstairs to see if it was coming from another source.

Mike waited.

The plumber yelled.

The cut was halted.

The toilet was loose!

Could we have pushed it around so hard last night that we loosened it? I asked.

Could be, he said. He tightened it and the problem was solved.

No Charge.

WOW.

Yup, Barf, Poop & Water....The New Triple Threat.

Lucky 7

Today is our seven-year anniversary.

And while I don't know much about numerology, I do know that the number 8 is considered to be good luck in the Chinese culture; hence the start of the Summer Olympics in Beijing on 08/08/08 at 8:08 pm. I also know that 13 is not a good number, especially when coupled with a Friday. Many hotels and office buildings skip the floor all together. Twenty-one rates high both in bars and the blackjack table. I turned 44 on Monday. It seems like it should be a good number; the two 4s side by side give me that impression, but I have no rhyme or reason for my madness. My friend Christy informed me in my birthday card that this was the last year of my early-forties. Thank you, Christy. Maybe that's a good thing, but it remains to be seen.

Seven too is somewhat of a lucky charm. Three 7s in a row on a slot machine usually means a jackpot. On the flip side, there's seven years of bad luck if you break a mirror. And more importantly, on the marriage front, it invokes the seven-year itch. A period in your marriage where you start to evaluate your relationship that in many cases doesn't deem good results. It used to be the average marriage lasted only seven years back in the day when the term derived. I think now that number is on the lower end.

With no feeling of itchiness, the day began with an exchange of cards. D says this is the first time in seven years I have given him an anniversary card, and he may be right. I know I bought one for our first year, but we were in DC on the actual day and I forgot to pack it in my suitcase before boarding the plane from AZ. I quit after that failed attempt. This year, however, he got a card and a present: A new wedding band to replace the one he lost over six months ago. I thought it was the perfect gift for the occasion.

The morning continued and I tagged along with him and the kids on their weekly Sunday ritual of going to TOP Foods for donuts and coffee. The plan for the day was to go to Emerald Downs to the horse races with a pit stop at Ikea to pick up a new hamper but that fell by the wayside after Ms nap. D then decided to cook up some ahi tuna for dinner and went to Trader Joe's to pick up everything we'd need. When he got home he announced that we were leaving. We had no idea where we were headed when we piled into the truck. I suggested Boston Harbor and Burford Park. I'd heard it was nice and not a very long drive from our house. I had my flip flops on and no camera in my purse, which was insurance enough that there would be hiking and great views with no picture-taking capabilities. I didn't even have my phone.

I was right. We hiked from the park to the beach where we could see the capitol dome at the tip of the sound. The kids walked on the gravel, collected shells, and had a great time. Then came the playground where more fun was just waiting to be had.

Every calendar says that Sunday is the first day of the week. I get the whole thing about heading to church to start the week off right. I, however, see Sunday as the last day of the weekend and Monday as the first of the next seven that will make up the week. So when I say that the events of today were a wonderful way to end the week, it really did feel like the exclamation point at the end of a sentence!

April 25, 2003 was also full of wonderful events. The ceremony was beautiful. The food was delicious. The mariachi was great. The family was present. The friends were abundant. The cake was delectable. The dress was fabulous. The groom was handsome. The dance floor was packed. The love was surrounding.

Jim Valvano said in his now-famous espy speech that there are three things we should try and do each day of our lives. One is laugh. Two is think. And three is your emotions should be moved to tears, could be by happiness or joy. And if you do, you've lived a full day. "Do this seven days a week, and you're going to have something special."

April 25, 2003 was a full day for obvious reasons.

April 25, 2010 was too. I cried at TOP Foods after M said hi to what seemed to be a homeless man sitting in the cafe. He looked genuinely happy to reciprocate her enthusiasm with a wave and a smile. I can imagine that many people avoid his presence and he, in turn, avoids eye contact so as to not let others witness the sadness or the shame staring out from within, and that's why when he looked at M and the piercing blue eyes behind the scruffy demeanor smiled too, it moved me to tears. A couple of hours later I was reading an article in my Parenting Magazine about the pressures of a kindergarten mom to keep up with the classroom Jones' when it came to showing the class pet a good time on her weekend visit at their home. I laughed so hard that for the second time today I was brought to tears. And I thought. I thought about how lucky I am to have my life; thought about the little angels God has entrusted to me to care for and to love and how I don't want to fail them or Him; and thought about my husband who puts up with my many shortcomings and on most days does it without so much as a peep.

Unlike seven years ago, today's dinner can't be described as delicious. Like many marriages, the ahi from TJs didn't live up to the hype. We're lucky, my hubby and I, we've learned to improvise and try to make the best of what we have at our disposal. Today's task was easy: Cut up some of the kids' leftover chicken to pair with the sides, which were delicious; pour a couple of glasses of wine; and Wha-La, dinner was served.

I told D in that rare anniversary card that I didn't believe there was anything we couldn't accomplish together. God never said it would be easy, he just said it would be worth it.

For all the talk about how marriage, and especially children, age you, I think we've done pretty well. Here is a picture of us on our wedding day:


And since the aforementioned reasons prevented me from having one of us today, one taken on Monday, April 19, the first day of the seven that made up the week:

Not bad for two moves, two children, and seven years.

Out With a Bang

They, whoever "they"are, say you should pick your battles. Don't waste too much energy and time on unimportant things. Pick the ones that are and then go kick some but getting the results you want.

When it came to Ms hair there was no battle to fight once we got rid of what I'm sure you've all heard me refer to as the Mulhawk. It was easy enough, the bad hair days were finally over and now it was time to grow it out. All of it, bangs and all.

At about five months I caved. She didn't keep the clips in and the hair was constantly falling into her eyes. It couldn't be comfortable and I cut it. It was her first haircut. We went to Jack & Jill's, a salon specializing in children's cuts. We got a little card marking the occasion to which a little lock of her hair was attached. A scrapbook moment brought on by a little bump in the road leading to one-length bliss.

I had big ideas: as soon as the bangs grew to chin length we'd make another appointment and cut it all into an adorable, well, chin-length bob. It wouldn't be long (time wise).

Two months later, it was long (lengthwise) again. At least the bangs were. She still wanted no part of the clips and her beautiful brown eyes were being obstructed by the beautiful brown hair. I took matters into my own hands, literally, and cut them myself. I wrote a traumatic post on this unfortunate event back when it happened so I won't bore anyone with the details. That the hair was uneven is all you need to know.

Since then I've tried everything to avoid another visit to the stylist: Small clips, large clips, headbands, even the itty-bitty rubber bands I said I would never use in fear that she'd look more like a Flinstone than a Koong. She even pulls those out, hair and all. Clips can be found everywhere in the house; and in both of our cars; and in her stroller; my purse; and in the pockets of my pants, shirts, and jackets.

Now it's a battle! And she knows it. I swear I've noticed a smirk on her face when she's yanking out whatever the hair accessory of the day is.

So I'm done. She wins. She picked her battle and kicked some butt. Mine. There will be other battles more important than this one that I'll have to tackle in the future. This is one I'm no longer willing to fight. She'll win the battle, but I, hopefully, will win the war.

Feeling defeated from all the time spent in the combat zone and with my mom at my side, I drove her to Jack & Jill's once again, paid my 10 bucks (they gave us a discount because she cut so little), and no more than 15 minutes later walked out.....with a BANG!

(only somebody this cute can pull off hair that looks like this)

Really?

"Really, Pati? Another entry about how wonderful your kids are? Or let me guess, one of them met a certain milestone? Maybe they had another sweet sibling moment together? What is it this time, you show off? Get some new material, already"!

That's what I'm sure my followers are thinking.....and I don't blame them. But I didn't title the blog The Perfect Pair of Boots for nothing. And I really, really have to share this moment.

J just got an invite to the birthday party of a little girl in his class. This is the same little girl that I wrote about at the start of the school year that he was obsessed with; the same little girl who dictated when he could and couldn't sit on the bus with her. As I figured, it didn't last long. I had several conversations with him about how awesome he was, how he had other friends and didn't always have to play with O nor did he always have to sit by her on the bus. I ran into her mom a couple of months later and she mentioned that two kiddos were getting along just fine; that O had asked J to sit on the bus with her and he respectfully declined.

They've since become good buddies. At his birthday celebration at school the kids were asked to say things to J about what they thought of him...we heard silly, good friend, smart, and then O said that she loved him very much. Last Friday we went to Pizza and Bingo Night at the school. The two of them had got on nicely and a good time was had by all.

Fast forward to this afternoon after receiving the Evite. I mentioned to him that he was invited and that it was the same day that Abuelita (my mom) was flying into Portland but that we may be able to make it back in time for the party if he really wanted to go. He said that he did want to go and asked if Abuelita was going to go too. I said probably because M didn't know Abuelita very well and would probably put up a fight about staying with her to which he said, "But O doesn't know Abuelita at all!" I continued by saying that it would probably be okay but that I would call O's mommy and see if it was okay.

He then said, "Okay. And if she says no then we don't have to go either."

Really? This is coming from a child who lives for birthday parties and all that goes with them! Saying something like "and if she says no then she can stay here and wait for us," is more along the lines of what I thought he'd say.

Am I really raising such a considerate child?

Well, no. Not always. There are days that he greatly lacks in that department which makes today's incident all that more touching. Really.