I Can't Lie

I can't lie. This is not a virtue, but an annoying fact. I often wish I could lie, but I have a vividly mobile face that does not let me get away with eh-nee-thing. I always knew I was deception-challenged, but this reality was driven home to me when I told a tiny fib on Skype. (I started Skyping to get to know our exchange student before she arrives next month. She is awesome and I can't wait to be her host mom, but I'm not going to blog much about her because she might not like it). Here's the scenario:

I was "meeting" Hildy's mom for the first time, and I was terrified. She was trusting me to take care of her teenaged daughter in a foreign land for a whole year, and I wanted to make a good impression. We were talking about chocolate, and I mentioned that Silas liked chocolate. Her mom seemed slightly surprised. I thought, Oh dear! She must think I'm turning my 2-year-old into a sugar junkie, and will be a rotten host mother to her daughter. I added, "Don't worry, I only give him chocolate, and only once in a while", which is mostly true, but not completely. I happened to glance at the tiny box in the corner of my computer screen, which shows me my own face, and I was horrified to see that I had "I'm a big, fat liar" written all over my face. Not "I exaggerate sometimes", but "I'm telling you an awful untruth and I feed my toddler ice cream, cake, and candy bars for breakfast." I didn't know my face was so treacherous and dastardly. No wonder I've hardly ever been able to get away with lies, from minor exaggerations to outright falsehoods! As this revelation sunk in, I remembered telling a former boss a semi-truth that I thought was pretty plausible, and her basically calling me a liar to my face. I was furious at the time, but upon learning that my face amplifies every little feeling of guilt or sneakiness, I can't blame her!

I've always known I had a hard time pulling off lies and half-truths, so I've tried to keep them to a minimum. I do try to live a life that's pleasing to God, but there have been times it would have been really convenient to lie, and I probably would have despite my convictions that lying is a sin, but I didn't, because I knew I probably couldn't get away with it. As a result, I am more in the habit of being honest than if I had been more capable of deceit, so it's a blessing in disguise. It's also a real pain in the butt.

Zoë

I realize I don't talk or write quite as much about my daughter as I do my son. This certainly isn't because I think of her less, or find her less interesting. It's just that most folks don't find each gurgle and coo of hers as adorable as I do. But let me tell you about Zoë; she's entrancing.

She is the single most snuggly baby on the planet. She is almost five months old, with hair like Einstein or a rock star. She's my baby genius rock star. She hardly ever cries, and when she does, it's always for a good reason. I don't believe in reincarnation, but when I look in Zoë's eyes, the phrase "old soul" comes to mind. She has a very peaceful, placid look to her. She smiles benevolently upon mankind. She was born mistress of the art of Zen. (I'm not really sure what it is, but I'm pretty sure Zoë defines it). I am afraid to take her anywhere near Asia for fear someone will kidnap her and crown her the next Dalai Lama. She's "like a miniature Buddha, covered in hair," to quote Ron Burgundy.

When someone picks her up, she just nestles down on their shoulder. She lets people (even other babies) run their fingers through her hair. She doesn't complain when her toddling cousins yank on it or steal her hair barrettes. She reminds me of a therapy dog. It is impossible to stay stressed or crabby while holding this baby. If I'm stewing about something, and am enjoying my cranky, dramatic state, I stay the heck away from Zoë, because she will quickly reduce me to a mellowness before I get the chance to stomp around and bang my pots and pans.

Little babies are so pure and beautiful, it almost physically hurts me to look at them sometimes. Zoë is no exception. Some evenings, she'll open her eyes impossibly wide and just radiate love at me. Her first sentence, starting a couple weeks ago, is "I love you." She stared up at me, her whole clean heart in her eyes, saying over and over, "Ah wuv you." It kind of freaked me out. Granted, her first word was "poopoo", so that brings her down to earth a bit. She also has said "Mommy" and "Daddy" once each, and spent an hour smiling at Silas and saying, "Brudder" at him, while he toddled around and pretended not to care (with a secretly pleased expression on his face). She even said, "Brudder, Ah wuv you," a couple times. She adores her two-year-old brother, and gazes up at him in awe. She does, however, find it hilarious when he is throwing a tantrum. She laughs and grins from ear to ear. (It is pretty funny).

Well, I'd better get back to tending my hairy Zen baby. Talk to you later!

Sarah Jo's Dress

Admittedly, my friend Sarah Jo is a little weird. That doesn't detract from her charm; it's a blessed fact. She lives out in the middle of the woods without running water, attracts weirdos, and manages to make the oddest-looking garments look cool. For example: once I gave her several pairs of Banana Republic dress slacks. She slashed them with scissors and wore them over long johns, and got compliments on her get-up. Go figure. So, when I offered to make her a Monique dress like Sarah C.'s, and we went to the fabric store, I shouldn't have been surprised when she wanted me to make a classic dress in a redneck print. So, here ya go. Here is Sarah Jo's redneck "Monique" dress, complete with Bambi and his whole family. She'll make it look cool. I don't know how, but she'll manage.

Staycation

This wasn't intended to be a staycation. We are supposed to be in Los Angeles today, taking my sweet grandpa out for a Mexicali breakfast, looking out the window at the palm trees, and anticipating a nice get-together with my aunt and cousins. I should have had a nice dinner catching up with my childhood girlfriends and their families. My husband should have been able to catch a karate class with a top-notch instructor 5 miles from my grandfather's retirement community.

Instead, I am sitting in a folding chair, typing, with my runny-nosed toddler wedged between my knees, whining at me to pick him up. "Mick me mup," he whimpers, stuffily. I refuse, because I have been holding him half the day, and he whines just as much in my arms as he does on the floor. Besides, he is so hot and sweaty, he slips right out of my arms.

All right, I caved in, picked him up, and pushed him in the swing for 15 minutes. Then he had a bath in the water table on our deck. As a bath, it was somewhat counterproductive, because he "dropped a log" the size of his arm while splashing around. Luckily, Josh saw it first, so he was on clean-up duty. Now he is napping peacefully in his room. I also ran to Walmart and picked up a couple fans, so the heat (and life in general) is more bearable.



What happened is our whole family came down with a nasty cold right before we were set to fly to L.A.. We decided we couldn't very well stay at Grandpa's retirement community in good conscience in our contagious state, so we canceled our flight with Southwest. The airline was good enough to give us the full credit of the ticket prices to use at another time. However, we bought these tickets months ago when they were much cheaper, and the credit we have wouldn't go very far purchasing more tickets say, next week, so our trip has to be postponed. This makes me very sad, because my grandpa is going on 92 years old, and I haven't seen him in over a year. It really sucked calling him the night before our scheduled trip to say we weren't coming after all. Even though he was incredibly nice about it, I felt intensely guilty.

Well, anyway, here we are having a staycation. Despite the lingering runny noses, it is surprisingly pleasant. One of the hidden blessings of having a sick family is that everyone gets extra cuddly. The dishes remain unwashed while everyone just piles into bed with Mom and Dad and sleeps. We spent Monday and Tuesday doing just that. Josh recovered the fastest, and he went to work giving our bathroom a mini makeover. Fresh paint on the walls and cupboards, a new shower curtain, fixtures, and a curved curtain rod (to make the shower feel bigger), and the tiny bathroom is transformed. He is about 3 quarters of the way done, and it looks so much better. The walls had originally been puke green, then repainted blood red, and now they are a safe, normal "Country Cottage White". The nasty wood veneer sink base is repainted a silvery sage green with brushed nickel drawer pulls. My hubby is awesome.

I've been busy, too. I've almost finished the dress I was working on for my friend Sarah Jo, and I signed myself up for Zumba class. The instructor has an impossibly skinny butt, but she redeemed herself in my eyes by sticking with choreography that even I could follow (for the most part). I had a surprisingly good time and am still reaping the benefit of all those endorphins.

So, even though I could be in L.A. with my extended family and friends, it's still pretty darn nice just being at home. In closing, I will include a picture of my hubby and our incredibly hairy baby. I love my cute family.

Behold, the fruit of my labor!  I gave Sarah C. the dress yesterday, and it fit her perfectly!  Even better, she loved the dress and looked like a million bucks in it.  I just love the 1950's style of Kay Whitt's Monique dress.  I made it with fabric from Laura Gunn's Poppy Collection.  Here are some pics of Sarah with her adorable daughter, Lily.  

 Lily kept giving me the stink-eye, which cracked Sarah up.  Lily is a tiny force to be reckoned with.

 Lily decides that maybe, just maybe, I'm okay.  

Happy mommy, happy baby.  I'm so glad this custom-made dress worked.  Yay, me!

Creativity Amidst Chaos

You need to be a mom of young children to really understand just how great it feels to get something accomplished.  Oh yes, reading your children stories, keeping them clothed and fed and somewhat clean is a feat in itself, but for me, every day just runs into the other if I don't have something tangible to show for it.  So, in between changing diapers, kissing boo boos, and looking for misplaced toys, I have been sewing.

Recently, I discovered the pattern designer, Kay Whitt.  I am crazy about The Monique Dress No. 109.  Now, I'm the queen of goofing up the most basic directions, but hers are practically goof-proof.  I decided to make this dress for my friend, Sarah C.  (I have two friends named "Sarah": Sarah Jo and Sarah C.).  Sarah C. is my fashionista friend.  She is always doing thoughtful things for others.  She prepared an amazing brunch for me the morning of my wedding, massaged my back and painted my toes when I was pregnant, and is always there to provide a listening ear and give me her candid opinion.  Did I mention that she also can swear like a sailor when properly annoyed, which contrasts comically with her tiny frame and big blue eyes?  She's awesome.  Sarah looked through my stash of fabric and picked out this great print from Laura Gunn's Poppy Collection.  

I loved sewing with this fabric!  It made me happy just looking at it.  I'm glad I still have enough left to make myself one.  Now, this was truly a labor of love.  I sewed diligently through half a dozen toddler tantrums, four nursing sessions, cooking dinner for my hubby, and even while slightly buzzed, as I sipped liquor to cope with the toddler temper tantrums.  (No lecture, please.  I hardly ever do that, my husband was home to mind the kids, and you know what?  It was delicious.  An occasional flirtation with alcoholism keeps Mommy sane).   Zoë kept needing attention, Silas was frightened by the sound of the sewing machine, the whole house was in a shambles, but still, I kept sewing.  And I finished the dress.  And I feel awesome.  

I'm going to give the dress to Sarah C. tomorrow!  More pictures to follow.

  Stitching the contrasting hem onto Sarah's dress.

                                       

                                           This is my work area, and yes, I know it's filthy.

                                       The finished product!  I can't wait to give it to Sarah C.

Find the Yellow Mini Cooper!

I am sitting down, gasping for breath, trying to recover from my son's tantrum, which has been happening on and off all day.  My son is two.  His name is Silas.  He's adorable, he's precocious, he's mischievous, and right now, he's a soggy, sobbing mess upstairs, because I've failed him as a mother.

I cannot find his equivalent of a security blanket, his toy yellow mini cooper, from his Marmee.  It's been missing since about lunchtime, when he went outside with it, and came in without it.  I've looked everywhere outside: in the garden (where I discovered several trampled lilies--thanks, kid), under the grating in the deck, on the swing, under the slide, and even on the other side of the fence, in case he flung it in a spasm of joy.  No luck.  I looked high and low inside the house, behind furniture, even under the stove.  No luck.  Once, I thought I'd found it, wedged between his toddler bed and the wall.  "Silas, here it is!", I yelled excitedly, which was a big mistake.  It was the white Mini Cooper, looking deceptively yellow against the wood.  Oh, the weeping that ensued.

As I type, still drawing deep breaths, I hear my toddler whimpering: "Marmee's Mini Cooper.  Find it.  Find it."  He pauses, trying to calm himself.  "No whining, no whining," he murmurs, as if by minding his manners, he can will me to pull it out of thin air.  Now he has reverted to throwing his less beloved cars around his room in anger.  I'll let it pass.  I'm just grateful my four-month-old daughter, Zoë, is sleeping.

In my mind are thoughts like: "If I have a shot of honey-flavored whiskey to help me cope with my son's meltdown, am I a budding alcoholic?" and "One day I'll slip on a toy mini cooper and break my back, and then Josh will have to both look after me and find the yellow Mini Cooper when it goes missing."

Yeah, I think I need that drink.

--Ooh, I think I know where his toy car is!  He dropped it down one of the garter snake holes in the yard.  Maybe Target still carries yellow Mini Coopers.