On Mommy: Ohhhh, Mommy. You make the goodest chocolate milk in the whole world. It is! It's the goodest ever! And mac and cheese! You also make the goodest mac and cheese.
On Daddy: And you know what? Daddy makes the goodest chicken nuggets. He really, really does. You -- goodest chocolate milk and mac and cheese. Daddy -- chicken nuggets.
[A note from the healthy living editor who grew this child in her womb: He does, in fact, know what broccoli is. He doesn't eat it, but he does know what it is.]
We are blessed beyond measure. We spent yesterday sitting at my grandmother's dining room table and in the couch that stretches around her living room, talking about the many things we are grateful for this year. Today, I keep thinking how grateful I am this space, where I get to pour out my stories, cry out my worries, try very hard to make you laugh along with me, go on and on and on about pretty things, and share with you the tremendous, tearful, terrifying, trying and very entertaining experience of raising my boy in this city.
When I started Sassafrass, it was meant to be part love letter to my life, part place for me to write without expectations or (sorry about this) too much editing. But, in meeting you here, in making friends out of strangers, in finding writers who awe and inspire me, in receiving more support in single motherhood and beyond and in more ways than I ever could have imagined -- I thank you.
See? So so so blessed.
May the sun you wish to feel on your face shine brightly today.
I'll meet you back here with a fuller Thanksgiving run down after a restful weekend.
We got home last night and both of us were exhausted. I'd been running all day -- around the park, with work, trying to fit a week's worth of to-dos into two too-short days. Lil E had been running all day also -- around the playground, on the obstacle course in his classroom, leaping from the car to the front porch to my dad's lap. But there were pies to bake and in a tradition that goes back to when I was a little girlwith my grandmother in the kitchen, it was our job.
It is one time of the year that I don't mind cliches, and so I poured a glass of wine, prepped my ingredients, pushed up Lil E's sleeves and set about our labor of love. Lil E and my dad cranked the apple peeler, my mom dug through cabinets for corn syrup and mixing bowls, kept me company and conferred with me on the details of each recipe.
I brought my favorite measuring cups and spoons, but we used tools my mother now keeps that my grandmother once used. The pie pans and pastry mixer and cookie sheets are worn with decades worth of use, and it always makes me feel like I am doing a better job by placing my hands and dough on the same handles and surfaces my mother and grandmother did.
We made apple, a favorite for me and my dad, and pecan for my other grandmother and aunt, and a chocolate truffle experiment at the request of the small child. As much as I love those hours putting pies together, it got late, Lil E got tired, and I felt rushed to get home and finish work left on my laptop screen.
And so the pies were not perfection. Not that they ever are, but they are not as pretty or symmetrical or tidy as I would like them to be. I wanted to linger over the fluting and even out the pecans, but my time and energy was drained. I needed to be done. Just before I slipped them into the oven, I put all those expectations aside and carved a heart into the top crust of the apple pie. Nothing fancy, very uneven. I just felt there needed to be a heart there in the center.
Hours later, Lil E was sound asleep and I was wrapping up work and the movie "The Waitress" came to mind, the one with Keri Russell as the diner server who escapes her small town existence and unhappy marriage by baking pies. It wasn't so much the storyline or many crazy recipes she makes that crept into my thoughts as the song she sings throughout the movie. I needed to find it right then, felt compelled to hear the lyrics to the song that I knew I would recognize when I heard the first few bars.
As soon as I pressed play, I knew I'd found it. It's lovely, simple, perhaps a little too sweet. What got me, though, were the unexpected lines in the middle of the chorus, words I hadn't remembered at all.
Right there, after the familiar
Baby, don't you cry
Gonna make a pie
was nestled
Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
and followed by
Baby, don't be blue
Gonna make for you
and once again
Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
The poetry of it is not complex and is cliche. It is that time of year, though, where those words are welcome, when the hands working all working all kinds of dishes come into contact are inspired by much more than a recipe or exquisitely peeled apple or the smell of sage, when the only way to set aside the distraction of time and demands and family complications is to just stop for a moment and make a place for the heart.
It's all a big slice of sappiness, I know this. I choose to believe that the song came to me for a reason, as a reminder, as something to sing when I forget how unimportant precise measurements, prettiness and perfection really are.
On death: Wait..wait..waaaaiiiit. When you die, does your body automatically go to the gravestone. When your body dies, is it already in the gravestone? Or...how does it get right in there? What about your spirit? It's in the gravestone, too, right?
On transcendence: What is your spirit? Is that like, "Ooooooooooooooohhhh, I'm a ghoooooooosssssst! Oooohhhhhh...."? Like all spooky at the gravestone?
On what happens next: I think heaven is like going on vacation. But you don't need a plane because, like, YOU are the plane. Then -- blooop! -- you go right to your vacation in heaven!
On the many possibilities: So some people think everything gets all black and it's then it's like over, for real life? Orrrrr, you could go to heaven. OR --ooh! Mommy! -- you can come back to life as a dog or kid or something? Like, I could come back as a kid who is smart and funny and knows all about Star Wars? I think I believe in heaven. What do you believe? I think I believe in heaven, too, Mommy. And we will all be there together. And we can play games and stuff!
On God: God has a cane. He does! He really does! A creaky old man cane. Like, "Crrrreaaakkkkk, I'm an ollllld, ollllld man. Where is Jesus?" When I see God in heaven, I will say, "Hey, God, where's your cane?" and I will do this thing [stroking an imaginary beard] on my beard like he does...and like Grandpa! HAHAHA. God and Grandpa both have beards!
The idea of trading in your leftovers and in-laws for a night brightened by expensive put-your-eye-out glow-up plastic whirly white tiger toys and pretzels slathered in nacho cheese might not be your idea of how the holiday should be spent. OR...it could be the Best. Thanksgiving. Weekend. Ever. At the circus, which has moved over to the United Center and the Chicago tour stretches through this holiday weekend.
Still not convinced? Consider this:
It's too dark to see a football game and too loud to listen to that one great-aunt tell that one story again. Those inadequate paper hot dog holders don't need to be hand-washed. No matter how much you dole out on souvenir toys that the kids will leave in the car and forget all about hours later, you will be spending far less money than you would if you were standing in line at Toys R Us.
We saw this season's show, ZING ZANG ZOOM at the beginning of the Chicago tour. Lil E adored the funny, little trained dogs and played "tiger tamer" for days and days. Just as last year, I loved the amazing aerial acrobats, who gracefully maneuvered themselves in, out, climbing up and sliding down beautiful floor-to-ceiling fabrics. It lacked the "oh!" moments that last year's showhad, which my parents and I agreed was more cohesive, even glamorous. But really, this is the circus, people. It's fun, crazy, and all about the silly. It's a good time, and a bigger show that, all tallied costs the same or less than seeing a movie this weekend.
A note to parents of sensitive kiddos: ZING ZANG ZOOM has many loud booms and flashes. I would have packed ear plugs to soothe my own boy's ears and fears had I known.
There are plenty of shows playing this weekend in Chicago (click here to find one that fits in your schedule). If you live outside this fair and freezing city, get tickets before the train pulls into your town. Best of all, Sassafrass readers can purchase tickets at a special rate of $44 for a 4-pack
of tickets (valid Monday-Thursday and Friday Matinees, excluding
holidays) and can save $4 on all weekend shows by logging onto Ticketmaster and entering the coupon code: MOM.
Have you seen ZING ZANG ZOOM? What did you think?
We were given tickets to see and review ZING ZANG ZOOM. If you and your family would like to see the show, please do take advantage of the reduced Sassafrass rate.
Sorry to spill the secret so early in the season, kittens. Urban Outfitters is speaking our naughty knitwear language and I must answer back ($78 and so worth it!). Imagine how much more fun dinner at your granny's house and the office Secret Vague Winter Mascot gift exchange will be while you're wearing this little cardy.
Mix a few butter baby shots with the entertainment of watching the IT guy not stare at your mittens and you've got yourself an evening of hilarity!
I highly recommend pairing my delicious winter wear gift with tights, just like this 11 year old model has. Of course, you'll need proper shoes, making this the perfect time to whip those Halloween boots back out. Add a sprig of mistletoe to your feather headband and you'll be a cozy package of yuletide joy!
Before the in-depth discussion of gross motor skills, code-switching, class leadership and imbuing a sense of responsibility for caring for others, letter shapes and sounds, independent play, and the sad goodbye to regular weekday naps, I paused at one of my favorite cafes.
I had a list of things to do on my brand new bad ass iPhone (which I am sure sounds more like "EeeeeeeeeePhone!" when I squeal about it), but there wasn't time to get too deeply involved in calls and follow-up messages and digging back through my inbox for those nagging, unanswered emails. I'd already used up most of my time to be productive running back home for a forgotten backpack and lunchbox. And because I stopped there to do a few little distracting tasks, I raced back to the school once again without the backpack and lunchbox. At that point, with just shy of a half-hour left, there wasn't ample time to make one more trip or worry about much else than a few articles in a paper from yesterday left behind and a random text from a friend.
I took that time to sip a very strong latte, have a few bites of one of my very favorite sandwiches -- brie, prosciutto and fig jam -- andlet my sore legsand buzzing mind rest.
Not too much time passed before I headed off to Lil E's parent-teacher conference, where his teacher told me all is happy and well and on target for him in the classroom. I was at ease to hear what I knew but still was reassuring to hear and, for the first time, to enjoy that time alone, without the tension of having The Ex sitting beside me.
We covered a lot in twenty minutes, and after that, there was still one final trip home and back to be sure my boy had a sandwich of his own to eat for lunch. It was a busy morning, but the deep breath of that time for coffee and a bit of breakfast lingered.
I wonder what my days would be like if I pushed pause, if only for fifteen minutes, on more of my mornings.
I ran 11 minutes in a row today, lovelies. ELEVEN MINUTES! This is nothing to all of you who are seasoned runners and those of you who don't spend a majority of your life elevated in five-inch heels. But for me, it is big. Eleven minutes is a little bit longer than the block of commercials in between each really important, intellectual, action-charged segment of "The Hills". It's way longer thanI can be on a dating sitewithout doing a screen grab of some poor sucker's profile and emailing it with snarky comments to all of my grrrlfriends. Hell, it's even longer than I can stand to sit still on the couch before I grab my laptop. Far more impressive to think of it that way.
While I'm busy sweating and sprawling myself out on my dining room floor rehydrating and stretching, here are a few bits for you to ponder. As soon as I can speak again, let's discuss thoroughly. We will also discuss how in the name of all things gloriously rack-related, Lynda Carter kept it all in the bustier, even if she only ran a few feet for each take. Until then, this stuff:
When he turned five, Lil E graduated from the big Duplo block to itty bitty Lego. It's pretty incredible to see what he can already put together. It's also pretty maddening to search the entire interior of the car in the dark to find the tiniest plastic light saber of all time (Lego Anakin needs some serious grip strength rehab). Maybe one day, if the passion and the playing continue (and if a good portion of the pieces steer clear of the seat cushion cracks), my boy will graduate to this level of Lego awesomeness. How cool is that?
When I saw that Single Mom Survivescreated videos for Follow Friday on Twitter, I had to check her out. I can barely get a list together of the people who write tweets that make me go from skim to laugh in 140 characters, so I was all kinds of impressed by her. I immediately followed every single person she recommended. How could I not. And then, something magical happened. She featured me in her next round of Follow Friday videos. I was so excited, I messaged her to say she was bringing me to tears. She promptly told me to shut up or she would come steal my shoes and make me cry for real. I am a little in love with her now. Check it out here. I am #FFfamous, y'all! And in fabulous company, too.
While you're at it, do visit me on Twitter. My tweets are protected (like my heart, my shoes, and the 4,000 random facts about Clone Troopers passed on to me in confidence during the morning commute) but if you ring the bell, I will very likely let you in to the party.
Speaking of what happens in my car...why, yes, lots and lots of jamming out. As much of a vehicular rock star as I am, there is a reason I will never ever turn a camera on while I am shaking and singing on the stage of my C-RV. And if I ever waiver, I will let this be a reminder of why it's good to just live in the moment rather than archive it online for all time.
My patience was tested cropping and printing and cutting photos for a class project Lil E brought home last week. The kids had to create a cube, and on each side, place or draw a picture of some aspect of their family life. They are in the middle of a big unit on families, which is important to both Lil E and me, as he learns about all the ways these kids he knows live differently and similarly to our own.
That meant a small project had big meaning. I dug and dig for recent pictures of him with his dad, only coming up with a few that we've already used for other class projects. We narrowed down which parts of our life were important and which he wanted to share on this piece of construction paper folded into too few spaces. He made thoughtful choices and I tried -- hard -- to minimize my irritation with a tempermental printer and ink that smears easily to put together this mosaic with my boy.
The first photo to finally be glued on the cube was in the "favorite family vacation" spot, and shows a very happy and relaxed Lil E and me on the fine, white sand of Anna Maria Island, Florida, with the blue, blue sky and bluer water behind us. We sat silently for a moment, staring at ourselves in that photo.
In the end, it wasn't an easy trip, but it is one we will take again early next year. I felt a wave of comfort wash over me just thinking that, in a few months we will be back there, that we have these plans in place. As a family.
Lil E chose to use a side of his cube to draw a picture of he and his dad swimming in a pool in Portland, alongside the photos from his Star Wars party and steering the boat at the lake and the two of us sitting on the porch of my parents house. It was work getting those individual pictures to fit just right. But after some shifting and editing and trimming and negotiating, it all came together. It looked just like it should.
I loved seeing him turn that cube over and over in his hands on our way to school. Watching from the rear view mirror, it almost looked like a flip book -- Mommy and Lil E, Daddy and Lil E in the pool, Florida, Lake, Star Wars party, holidays.
And yes, while it all and we all do meld in some way, I selfishly love that this is the picture he chose to replicate in a follow-up to the cube class project.
I love the ocean and the half-sun and the grains of sand. I love our hands holding on to one another, his spiky hair, sunglasses and the detailed surf shirt. I even love my googly eyes behind big glasses and the strange appearance of a coconut swimsuit (swimsuit! swimsuit! that's what we're choosing to believe it is). There we are, floating silently and still for a very brief moment, one turn away from everything and everyone else.
I tried on these shoes many times during three different trips to the chaotic shoe department atone of my favorite places to find heels perfect for a date for dinner at one ofmy new favorite restaurants, a drink with my grrrlfriends at a swanky little wine bar, or just across the playground for preschool pick-up.
Many of us know how unreliable these kinds of shoe departments can be. There's no guarantee that the shoes you're drooling over will be in your size or will even be there after you lap the store one time. You have to act quickly.
Usually. Fortunately, on my third time visiting these lovelies, they were waiting patiently in a 7-1/2 (I usually have to go a size down with Steve Maddens), pristine, untouched, and still with the silicone package tucked into the peep toe.
I don't buy every single pair shoes I love (honestly) but I do have a rule that if I am still lusty after a pair several weeks later, I can give them a second (or in this case, third) chance. Even though I wondered how many times I would really wear these leather ruffle heels, I bought them anyway.
How could I not? They were a steal at $39.99 and I've been wearing them a lot. I've paired them with jeans, a gray pencil skirt, and a simple black wrap dress.
I love that I get to have a touch of the animal print trend without going all jungle-janky. In fact, I love that idea of animal printing my feet instead splashing a cheetah print across my rack or draping myself in fake fur, that I also bought a pair of silver snakeskin knee-high boots by Nine West. They rang up at $59.99 (on sale for $99 here) and I will wear them until the heels are tiny, clicky nubs.
There are times when I long to feel the shallow breaths of the baby curled up like a bug on my chest, cooing in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping my necklace.
There are moments when I swear I can smell the lavender oil I once smoothed across his newborn skin, days when I see a photo of him bathing in the sink and would like to relive those giggles and splashes.
Sometimes, I go back to the evenings we spent in the kitchen of our old apartment, me spooning homemade applesauce and him flicking Cheerios from side to side of the high chair tray. I bounced on an exercise ball in front of him and we danced in our seats to Nickel Creek, Jack Johnsonand Missy Higgins. And in that quiet before the storms hit that household, I wish to be be there for just a few more songs.
Occasionally, I think I'd like to watch my boy toddle from couch to coffee table to ottoman again or pull him tight to my chest while I nurse the baby to sleep.
I remember the excitement of tallying the words he could say by the time he was only months old and I would like for him to fit back in those little leather monkey shoes and crazy-small onesies and maybe even carry him around in the sling for a while.
I'm not a mother who has preferred one age over the other. I've loved every age for some reason or another, even when the heartbreak of crying it out or teething or time outs or potty training has temporarily silenced all those other delights.
And as I guess we all do, I see those legs stretch and his face change and it is bittersweet to know my baby boy is not just getting bigger, he is growing up.
All of that longing for the early days, for the completely dependent and swaddled infant were set aside last night. Last night when my heart exploded as we lay on the hallway floor, laughing so hard at an inside joke we've been laughing at all week.
All of this over Mrs. Peabody, a character in the book we read devoutly every night. Mrs. Peabody, who's character is inconsequential because her name is so freaking hilarious to preschooler who can't stop giggling every time her name is mentioned.
"Does...this...mean...she....pees...with...her...whole...body? Or....that...her...body's....made...of...peas?", he somehow got out in between gasps for air and shrieks of laughter.
This led me to draw up a picture and scribble out a poem about the newest Jedi, Master Peabody, in one of his daily lunchbox notes this week. And that led to a parody of this ear-worm of a song, which morphed into a slew of normally un-funny riddles revolving around the entire Peabody clan.
I know, none of this has any of you in hysterics. And wouldn't even if I mentioned that most of these performances apparently require recitation by a nakey 5-year old. But there we were, locked in a moment that can only happen when your kid gets to a certain point, to this point.
Of course, I miss fitting my child's whole body between my palm and my elbow. But now, there is this. And this is very different and still so good.
Last night, I did something I don't do much anymore. I stayed up late watching Ellen DeGeneres on "Oprah." She was funny and engaging in that not-raunchy way Ellen is so good at being.
And then her wife Portia deRossi came out. They talked about meeting each other, confessing their feelings for each other, falling in love, getting married. Grateful. As the clips of their wedding dayplayed and the camera panned across the two of them watching themselves on screen during those intimate, sacred moments, I had tears of my own.
I'm convinced they are the real deal. Oh, how I hope they are the real deal. It made me realize how rarely we see that on television and in the goss rags, when we turn all this stuff on. Yet, I think we want to see it. We want to believe it is there. So we are disappointed when people we think we know, we think seem like great couples falter or even fall apart.
Maybe I am blindingly seeking that in the faces of this couple. But I don't think so. I think that it is there, the thing you are overwhelmed by at some weddings and startled is absent at others.
One day, I'm going to feel my heart explode with all that goobiness again. Yesterday, it was a blessing to catch a piece of that confetti floating down from these two.
For three years, I've participated in NoBloPoMoand I didn't anticipate this year would be any different. To the best of my ability and maybe with an eensy bit of back-blogging, I've spent the last few Novembers posting as many every days as I possibly could. I blogged during the days I filed for divorce and in my early days of blogging, and so I was pretty sure I could muster the energy and inspiration now that I am in a much, much better place.
And I did for a week. Or rather, a work week. Then the weekend arrived and I waited for the late-night panic to set in that I hadn't yet posted. DURING NOBLOPOMO! I waited for the push to put up something -- anything -- after I'd had a few glasses of wine (sorry we all missed out on the brilliance that could have been). And you know what? Nothing came. The only thing that was there was a desire to have a real weekend. A real weekend off. You know, the kind where you magically get a break from working.
So I decided to say screw it to this idea of posting daily and do something a little more manageable for me. I'm going to spend the month posting on the weekdays and practicing logging off on the weekends. Those are definitely equal challenges for me. I guess that means I am still participating, just to a degree. I'm doing this, but with boundaries that don't carry the stress and backpedaling and worries of doing something every damn day. More than belonging to some blogging challenge, I need that. I choose that sigh of relief.
Just in case this thing is being graded, I just wanted you to know that I've officially changed the assignment. I've got gold star stickers to give out to the rest of you and I think I'm going to be fine without sticking one on my screen.
In a slight pause before a big weekend, we stopped off at a coffee shop for after-school treats and a little quiet time together. Lil E asked to practice his letters, so I sipped a latte while he wrote out lower case r after r after n after n after h after h. It was by far the best moment of the week.
Of the thousands and thousands of photos of this child living on my hard drive, this may be my favorite. He wore that newsboy cap without flinching and the hint of the smile was already well-practiced. I hadn't yet worked up the courage to take for his first real haircut and instead snipped little bits while he played in the tub or sat wrapped in a blanket on my lap. And there it is, peeking out, reminding me it is time to let the wispy baby hair go.
Or maybe it is telling me to hold on, one last moment. To the cheeks and round belly and willingness to be held for hours. That's all gone now -- and for good things like attempts at winking and a toothy smile and long legs stretched out and running. But I've still got a lot of that baby held tight in my heart, like we all do. And tucked into the corner of the lid of my jewelry box and inside the front cover of my favorite books, I am also keeping close some of these little, precious moments.
Whenever I think of the circus, I can almost immediately smell the warm cotton candy and my eyes get all hazy with the thought of glittery costumes and bedazzled horses and acrobats hanging from trapeze swings and rings suspended from the rafters and each other.
So when I was offered tickets to take Lil E and my parents back to the circus when it comes to town this week, I quickly shuffled our schedule to make sure we would be there to see a new show that I imagine will stir up all those same nostalgic feelings.
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey's ZING, ZANG, ZOOM tour lands in Chicago tomorrow night and runs through Thanksgiving weekend. This show promises to include magic and illusionists alongside classic acts like human cannonballs. After our visit this weekend, I will be putting up an honest review of the show that I promise will only be biased if there are baby Bengals or I get a full stick of pink cotton candy to myself.
Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey has kindly offered a reduced ticket rate to Sassafrass readers. If you'd like to slide into the holiday season by getting your own ringside seats, simply click herefor more information. Sassafrass readers can purchase tickets at a special rate of $44 for a 4-pack of tickets (valid Monday-Thursday and Friday Matinees, excluding holidays) and can save $4 on all weekend shows by logging onto Ticketmaster and entering the coupon code: MOM.
Years ago, I participated in what was then the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk. The challenge was to team up with several of my grrrlfriends and walk 60 miles over three days.
Since it was long before the economic dive in this country and because I am fortunate to have many loved ones who care about this cause the way I do and were able to make donations of all amounts, the fundraising was easier than I imagined it would be.
The training was harder. But I treated it like an A-student doing a social studies project. I walked and I walked and I walked. I walked miles and miles to Wrigley Field and back in a thunderstorm. I walked up and down side streets in neighborhood after neighborhood. I walked on treadmills next to the old men in tube socks and slippers who live at the Y. I walked on forest preserve trails and on the sculpture walk to the 'burbs and around and around and around my block, until I was confidently and completely prepared for the event.
It's about time for a new challenge. It's not like I needanother thing on my list. But when Foodmomiac asked me to join a team of mom bloggers in training for a relay next summer, I said yes without thinking twice. We won't know for a few weeks if we'll actually get to run in that relay. But if we do, each member of the team will run three legs of four to six miles. It seems like a long time away, but friends, I have a lot of work to do.
The difference between this challenge and all the walking I did years ago is that running scares the hell out of me. I've tried many times to force myself into loving itbut have never committed to it long enough to let that feeling grow from the the place where the sheer disdain for it lived.Still, I've had many opportunities to bow out of this commitment already and I am still in. I am still signed up. I am still doing it.
I don't know why, but I have an idea I need something big, powerful and hard to work toward that is not about my job, Lil E, or anything or anyone else. I think I need to prove to myself -- once again -- that I can do this. I've hidden in the safety and serenity of yoga and walking, and that has been necessary and wonderful in slowing myself and my life down to manageable gait. But sSomething is pulling me, step by step and breath by breath, out of that.
I won't be fundraising for this event. But I certainly can use your support. If you see me lapping the park near my house, feel free to fall in line with me. If you have words of playlists, advice or your own inspiration to share, please do. If you want to join me in running toward a new and big challenge, I'd love it.
For now, I'm taking this as I am trying to take everything else right now -- one time at a time until it really does feel good and I can honestly say I am just as confident, prepared and anticipatory as I was all those years ago.
In the car, driving home in the dark (thanks, Daylight Saving Time), trying desperately to have our routine "5 things about my day" conversation.
Me: Did you take a nap at school today?
E, shaking his head no: My brain and my body just wouldn't let me.
Me: What centers did you play in?
E: I didn't play at all today.
Me: In preschool? Really?
E: OK, I played, but only a little bit.
Me: Maybe you could tell me one thing -- anything -- then.
E: Mommy! Mommy! Mommy, guess what? One time, when I was leaving a Chicago Fire game with Daddy, we were in the parking lot and I saw an old lady...WITH ORANGE EYES! SHE HAD ORANGE EYES.
Me: Yeah, I'm not buying that one bit.
E: Mommy! She did. For real life.
Me: Well, if you say it was for real life, then...
E: I saw her! I did. She had orange eyes! It totally freaked me out.
Me: It did?
E: Yeah, I was totally cheesed out, man!
Me: Cheesed out...man?
E, breaking in to song:
Ollllllllld lady, old lady
She needs to concentrate
reaaaaaaaaaaaal hard
Old ladies have canes
And they concentrate on things
Frankenstein goes with fruit
Because they both begin with F!
And old, creaaaaaaaky lady
What are you talking about?
It. Is. Windy. And. Darrrrrrrrrrrrrk.
There are goopy, green things
That look like boogers.
The Biiiiiiiiiible tells me so!
As awkward as it is, these moments, the ones when the child loses all grip with reality and the English language and launches into some kind of preschoolian babble song, the only option for sanity that remains is to act like a Very Important Mommy Call has come in on the cell phone and proceed with a pretend but far more coherent conversation with with blissfully silent airwaves.
Eventually, the song will give way to uncontrollable giggles. Then, and only then, is it safe to give your attention by scooping up the cute but clearly crazy kid in the car seat.
Halloween went, as these divided holidays often do, just fine. Lil E got to spend a few hours in our neighborhood with four other boys (and two toddler girls -- one as a bug and one as a garden gnome...so funny -- who tried very hard to keep up with the super heroes and Rebel Alliance representatives who sped up and down the steps of each house). After a breather of passing out candy to kids from our own front porch, he took off for the suburbs with his dad for more trick-or-treating.
The next morning, he happily agreed to send his very-full pumpkin bucket of candy back to his dad's house and turned in a big pile of mini chocolate bars we had here for a Star Wars action figure. Not to worry -- there are plenty of Reese's left in our house, but I am loved that the tricks I touted on channel 5 Saturday morningactually worked once Sunday rolled around.
I also admit I had a great time sipping my treats on Saturday night with one of my favorite grrrlfriends. Although I haven't been out to a bar or adult party on Halloween in years and years, the scene was pretty much the same -- lots of priest costumes, some puke on the bathroom floor, and the obligatory sexy nurse working her way up and down any Mad Hatter, Michael Jackson, or NASCAR driver who came her way.Oh! And a very drunk shiny cop. It was good fun.
My favorite costumes of the night? The dude with the baby from "The Hangover", Billy Ray Cyrus and one of the Texan polygamist's wives. The cult wife costume lady said she just HAD to take a picture with me, which made me think maybe we both were dressed as people being lured to the Dark Side.
Despite my failed prediction that there would be a lot of Balloon Boys and Kate Gosselins, there was a Mr. Incredible who took a shine to my friend. He's apparently looking for just the right lady to wear the Mrs. Incredible costume he has hanging in his closet at home. No, really. I think he might have to keep looking, but I let him try on my Leia wig anyway.
The final pic: Leia's very practical running shoes and the cowgrrrl's roping boots.
Sassafam
Jessica Ashley That's me. I'm a single mama in the city who is an editor, writer and social media host. I wear inappropriately high heels to the playground and know too much about light sabers.
Lil E Star Wars-obsessed, Tae Kwon Crazayyy child who eerily/awesomely knows exactly how both high-fructose corn syrup and autopsies work. He also compliments my shoes. My work here is done.
It is mine. All mine. Everything written here is copyright me and only me. Do not even think about using it without permission. OK, now back to nice grrrl me.
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