You’re almost here and the time has come to write you a letter. When your brother was in my belly, I had already written him numerous letters by this point. What a privilege it was that I got to spend that summer being a writer, a thinker, a dreamer. The only thing on my agenda each day that summer was to write as much as I could and so I would sit and think and wonder and rub my little Finny in my belly and imagine all of the wonderful things he would become and all of the great joys he would bring me.
You and I, little________, have had a different journey. While you have been growing arms and hands and legs and sprouting hair and forming eyes to see and ears to hear, I’m afraid I have not been so intensely focused on you. I have not been reading all the books; I have not been writing you letters. I have been teaching and grading and Christmas shopping and wrapping, but mainly I have been chasing your big brother. I’m afraid, little one, that while you have been busy forming into the little precious boy you are bound to be, I have still been very focused on your older brother. Such is the fate of the second born.
But even though you will never quite experience the one-on-one time that Finny and I have had these two years, even though you will not be the first at many things that your brother has already claimed, you will be our very first _________ and you will bring with you the originality that only our little___________ can bring.
We will not worry over you like we did over Finny, hovering over every noisy breath he took. We will likely not take 500 pictures of the first time you eat rice cereal or the first time you take your first steps. Many of your books will be chewed and torn and many of your clothes will be stained and worn. But only you will get to experience for the first time the great privilege and gift it is to be the second born. This is a gift that will in many ways shape who you become and it is a special bond that you and I alone will share.
I could spin you some tales of character traits that second born children inherit. I could tell you you are going to be easy going, independent, rebellious, a free thinker. I could tell you you’ll be the peacemaker, the people pleaser, the inventor. I could tell you that you may feel like you are often in Finny’s shadow or that you can do more mischief with less discipline. I could tell you you’ll be the stereotype presented in almost every TV sitcom—you’ll have the brains and the wit, but not the beauty. (Think Roseanne, Growing Pains, Family Ties, and Modern Family.) But who you’ll be is not for me to tell you. It is for you to show me. And I can’t wait for you to tell me the story you’re writing right now at this very moment as you punch and jab and deliberate about when exactly you’re going to make your decision to come out and play with us.
No, I can’t tell you who you will be or how being second is going to shape who you become, but I can tell you about one very special gift that you’ll have that Finny does not--you will have a big brother. And not just any big brother; you will have Finny. And likewise, he will have you. Because I am no fortune teller, I cannot predict that you will be buddies or best friends, that you will get along and always keep in touch. But I can hope. I can hope that Finny looks after you and you look after him and that you both look up to each other. And I can hope that long after your father and I are gone that you and Finny share and relish in the unique bond that comes with growing up in the same home. That you find comfort in shared values, joy in shared jokes, and warmth in the shared unconditional love that your father and I have for both of you.
We can’t wait to meet you, ___________. All three of us are anxiously awaiting the best Christmas gift any of us have ever received—our second born son, our little brother, our Christmas miracle. You’re almost here. It’s time now to slow down and focus in on you. To rub the belly, to dream the dreams of the wonderful things you’ll become, the great joys you will bring, and the captivating story you will tell.
Merry Christmas, _____________…
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Looking for Tinkerbell
It's been nearly two months since I've blogged, mainly because as far as life goes, I've bitten off a little more than I can chew. By that I mean, I decided to get pregnant again while raising a two-year-old, holding down two part-time jobs, and preparing for the holidays. Needless to say, naps have started to take precedence above all else.
But I thought I should take this moment to announce to everyone who reads my blog that my little boy has arrived.
No, not our second boy, who is still cozily curled up in my tummy attempting--in this ninth month of pregnancy--to pry my hips apart. My first little boy, Finny, has arrived, in all his boyness, just in time for us to spend long winter months inside together.
If you know Finny personally, you know that he is a very sweet-natured, cuddly little guy. I would say this is generally still the case. However, this past week, I've noticed a bit more of a shift toward that sort of aggression that comes with boys, like he just got shot with a dose of testosterone or puppy dog tails.
Phrases like "I break it!" or "I crash it up!" or "The monster!" or "Roar!" are now common pieces of our everyday conversation. Last week on our way home from the doctor's office, I heard some loud, violent growling coming from the backseat. I looked back and found Finny baring his teeth, gripping the arm of his toy stethoscope between them. When I asked him what he was doing, he responded in an Austrian California Governor sort of accent, "I break it!"
Yesterday, I found him doing the same thing with a plastic drum Christmas ornament. He had taken it behind the couch in the family room like a wolf bringing back his kill to the pack and he was tearing it apart with his fingers. When he saw me hovering over him, he looked up and once again responded, "I break it!"
Build him a tunnel out of blocks? Think he might want to admire your handywork as much as you do? Think again. "I crash it up!" he'll say as promptly levels it, sometimes before the last block is even in place.
Think lions, tigers, bears, and dinosaurs are the only things that roar? Think again. According to Finny, so do giraffes, pigs, and the occasional bunny rabbit.
Think Rudolph is the cute and cuddly star of the claymation Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Think again. All Finny talks about is "The Monster!" in his best abominable voice.
But just when I think I've lost him to the dark side, when he says "I break Mommy!" and comes charging at me, just when I sigh and say, "Okay, here we go. Bring on boyhood and all of the relentless destruction that comes with it," Finny will say or do something so gentle and sweet that will remind me that hidden behind the crashing, the breaking, and the obliterating, there is tenderness.
I had such a moment last night, as we were driving through a wooded Christmas light display at Sharon Woods park. Finny has recently discovered Captain Hook in stories and poems and has a mild fixation on him. One of the first light displays we pointed out to him was Peter Pan and Captain Hook engaged in a sword fight, but this time he wasn't interested in Captain Hook or Peter Pan. In fact, for the rest of the thirty- minute mile of lights, he was interested in none of the other light displays of snowmen and choo-choo trains, and zoo animals. For the next thirty minutes, all we heard from the backseat from his tiny, little bundled up head was, "Where's Tinkerbell? Is she in the woods?"
There was something so sweet and small in his little question that he repeated over and over again. Something so soft and little that made me just want to scoop him up and hold him close.
All the books have torn pages, at least four of the ornaments already need gluing, and I get horrifying glimpses of Lord of the Flies when Finny comes charging at me threatening to "crash mommy up!" But, little boy, no matter how big and destructive and aggressive you become, no matter how many toys get hurled down the stairs or how many towers get knocked down or how many Fantasy Football Leagues consume your mind some day, I hope there is always some part of you that is forever looking for Tinkerbell in the woods. Then I will know you are my little boy.
But I thought I should take this moment to announce to everyone who reads my blog that my little boy has arrived.
No, not our second boy, who is still cozily curled up in my tummy attempting--in this ninth month of pregnancy--to pry my hips apart. My first little boy, Finny, has arrived, in all his boyness, just in time for us to spend long winter months inside together.
If you know Finny personally, you know that he is a very sweet-natured, cuddly little guy. I would say this is generally still the case. However, this past week, I've noticed a bit more of a shift toward that sort of aggression that comes with boys, like he just got shot with a dose of testosterone or puppy dog tails.
Phrases like "I break it!" or "I crash it up!" or "The monster!" or "Roar!" are now common pieces of our everyday conversation. Last week on our way home from the doctor's office, I heard some loud, violent growling coming from the backseat. I looked back and found Finny baring his teeth, gripping the arm of his toy stethoscope between them. When I asked him what he was doing, he responded in an Austrian California Governor sort of accent, "I break it!"
Yesterday, I found him doing the same thing with a plastic drum Christmas ornament. He had taken it behind the couch in the family room like a wolf bringing back his kill to the pack and he was tearing it apart with his fingers. When he saw me hovering over him, he looked up and once again responded, "I break it!"
Build him a tunnel out of blocks? Think he might want to admire your handywork as much as you do? Think again. "I crash it up!" he'll say as promptly levels it, sometimes before the last block is even in place.
Think lions, tigers, bears, and dinosaurs are the only things that roar? Think again. According to Finny, so do giraffes, pigs, and the occasional bunny rabbit.
Think Rudolph is the cute and cuddly star of the claymation Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Think again. All Finny talks about is "The Monster!" in his best abominable voice.
But just when I think I've lost him to the dark side, when he says "I break Mommy!" and comes charging at me, just when I sigh and say, "Okay, here we go. Bring on boyhood and all of the relentless destruction that comes with it," Finny will say or do something so gentle and sweet that will remind me that hidden behind the crashing, the breaking, and the obliterating, there is tenderness.
I had such a moment last night, as we were driving through a wooded Christmas light display at Sharon Woods park. Finny has recently discovered Captain Hook in stories and poems and has a mild fixation on him. One of the first light displays we pointed out to him was Peter Pan and Captain Hook engaged in a sword fight, but this time he wasn't interested in Captain Hook or Peter Pan. In fact, for the rest of the thirty- minute mile of lights, he was interested in none of the other light displays of snowmen and choo-choo trains, and zoo animals. For the next thirty minutes, all we heard from the backseat from his tiny, little bundled up head was, "Where's Tinkerbell? Is she in the woods?"
There was something so sweet and small in his little question that he repeated over and over again. Something so soft and little that made me just want to scoop him up and hold him close.
All the books have torn pages, at least four of the ornaments already need gluing, and I get horrifying glimpses of Lord of the Flies when Finny comes charging at me threatening to "crash mommy up!" But, little boy, no matter how big and destructive and aggressive you become, no matter how many toys get hurled down the stairs or how many towers get knocked down or how many Fantasy Football Leagues consume your mind some day, I hope there is always some part of you that is forever looking for Tinkerbell in the woods. Then I will know you are my little boy.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
The Whiskey Aisle
When grocery shopping with my two-year-old, I often find myself searching, in vain, for the elusive Whiskey Aisle. It must be there somewhere.
As I search, I walk aisle upon aisle in a mad dash to the finish picking up tossed Cheerios, tossed milk cup, tossed loaves of bread as I go. I report the spilled plastic cup of pureed peaches that was hurled out of the cart in aisle eight. I pass heaping handfuls of deli turkey to my little beggar in the front seat. I sing a varied assortment of Sound of Music, Black-Eyed Peas, and "Itsy Bitsy Spider," and I narrate every last move I make:
“Oh, Finny! Let’s get some ground beef! Doesn’t that sound good? How about some coffee? Do you think we should get some apple juice? Can you find the apple juice? Where is it? Tide Coldwater or with Febreze or with Bleach Alternative? Doesn’t matter, does it? How many pears should we get? Can you count them? No, honey, don’t throw the apples!”
Yesterday, as I busily tried to get us through the last leg of our trip—produce and dairy—Finny decided to hold the bag of lettuce and munch like a rabbit. Only rabbits swallow the lettuce they munch. As I peeled chewed romaine from the top of his shirt and the floor of the cart, I realized that I had long ago abandoned any type of bargain hunting.
Organic green pepper? Fine! Can’t find the regular kind and this one looks kind of squashed and pricey but it’ll do. Don’t I have a coupon for Kraft shredded cheese? But I have to buy two to get a dollar off and it’s more expensive than the Kroger brand. I also have a coupon for Sargento… No time for basic math. Just need a bag of cheese.
Finally, I make it to the check-out and I wonder as I stand in the slowest line behind the check-writer who forgot spaghetti noodles, Why don’t they keep the candy and the gift cards in a glass case? I huff and puff as I pick Trident and Home Depot cards off the floor, Finny still reaching desperately for just one more leaf of romaine to chew up and spit out.
The bagger asks me if he can help me to my car. Normally, I would decline. Yesterday, six months pregnant and whiskeyless, I looked at him with pleading eyes, remembering that I’ve parked on a hill, “Yes, please.”
He helped me to my car and then kindly put my groceries in the back seat while I got Finny situated. David asked me later if I had tipped him. It occurred to me at the time, but instead I gave him a heartfelt thank you and got in my car, breathing a sigh of relief for the five minutes I would get to spend in the car before I had to attempt to carry it all in and put it away before lunch.
I’d like to think that not everyone expects a tip for kindness. I’d like to think that this nice man truly knew what a long journey I’d been on and enjoyed nothing more than the look of sincere gratitude on my face.
Besides, I spent my extra tip money on a $10 bag of shredded cheese, and I was sick to death at that point of reaching into my bag in search of treats. God bless you, sir, for all that you do to help the poor pregnant mothers of toddlers at the grocery store. And to the men and women who design a grocery store without glass-cased check-out aisles and a full service bar smack in the middle? A pox on your houses.
As I search, I walk aisle upon aisle in a mad dash to the finish picking up tossed Cheerios, tossed milk cup, tossed loaves of bread as I go. I report the spilled plastic cup of pureed peaches that was hurled out of the cart in aisle eight. I pass heaping handfuls of deli turkey to my little beggar in the front seat. I sing a varied assortment of Sound of Music, Black-Eyed Peas, and "Itsy Bitsy Spider," and I narrate every last move I make:
“Oh, Finny! Let’s get some ground beef! Doesn’t that sound good? How about some coffee? Do you think we should get some apple juice? Can you find the apple juice? Where is it? Tide Coldwater or with Febreze or with Bleach Alternative? Doesn’t matter, does it? How many pears should we get? Can you count them? No, honey, don’t throw the apples!”
Yesterday, as I busily tried to get us through the last leg of our trip—produce and dairy—Finny decided to hold the bag of lettuce and munch like a rabbit. Only rabbits swallow the lettuce they munch. As I peeled chewed romaine from the top of his shirt and the floor of the cart, I realized that I had long ago abandoned any type of bargain hunting.
Organic green pepper? Fine! Can’t find the regular kind and this one looks kind of squashed and pricey but it’ll do. Don’t I have a coupon for Kraft shredded cheese? But I have to buy two to get a dollar off and it’s more expensive than the Kroger brand. I also have a coupon for Sargento… No time for basic math. Just need a bag of cheese.
Finally, I make it to the check-out and I wonder as I stand in the slowest line behind the check-writer who forgot spaghetti noodles, Why don’t they keep the candy and the gift cards in a glass case? I huff and puff as I pick Trident and Home Depot cards off the floor, Finny still reaching desperately for just one more leaf of romaine to chew up and spit out.
The bagger asks me if he can help me to my car. Normally, I would decline. Yesterday, six months pregnant and whiskeyless, I looked at him with pleading eyes, remembering that I’ve parked on a hill, “Yes, please.”
He helped me to my car and then kindly put my groceries in the back seat while I got Finny situated. David asked me later if I had tipped him. It occurred to me at the time, but instead I gave him a heartfelt thank you and got in my car, breathing a sigh of relief for the five minutes I would get to spend in the car before I had to attempt to carry it all in and put it away before lunch.
I’d like to think that not everyone expects a tip for kindness. I’d like to think that this nice man truly knew what a long journey I’d been on and enjoyed nothing more than the look of sincere gratitude on my face.
Besides, I spent my extra tip money on a $10 bag of shredded cheese, and I was sick to death at that point of reaching into my bag in search of treats. God bless you, sir, for all that you do to help the poor pregnant mothers of toddlers at the grocery store. And to the men and women who design a grocery store without glass-cased check-out aisles and a full service bar smack in the middle? A pox on your houses.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Happy 2nd Birthday, Finn Michael!
Dear Finny,
Oh, what I would’ve missed out on if you’d stayed just two days old forever. I would’ve never known how smart and handsome and charming you would turn out to be at just two years old. Let me tell you a little bit about you at two, so that someday you will know just how special you are right now, September 29, 2010.
Today, on the playground, you stood at the top of the slide and hung by the bar above. I was amazed and so were you. What a daredevil you are becoming! I make you hold my hand when we cross the bridge on the big playground because there is a big gap and a far drop, but today, you bolted across without me before I had a chance to grab you and you declared, “I do it myself!” What a mixed blessing this is for a mommy. I, of course, want you to want and be able to “do it yourself,” but I also always want you to need me. Please remember this when you are thirty: if you love your mother, move out, but need her from time to time.
Right now, you are learning new things at such an alarming rate that I can hardly keep up with you. I’m quite certain when we visit the pediatrician tomorrow that he will declare you a genius. They will tell me what percentage you measure in weight, height, and head size, but if they could tell me your IQ, I’m quite certain that they would tell me you are one of the smartest two-year-olds they’ve ever seen. You are busy learning your colors and numbers and today when I asked you what types of things we see in the sky, you responded, “Moon, stars, and Venus.” Venus! You tiny genius, you.
When we ask you how old you are, you proudly respond, “I’m two.”
When we ask you what your last name is, you proudly respond, “I’m two.”
Even tiny genius’s have weak spots. Besides, VanHimbergen is right up there with Supercalifragilisticexpialidocius. It could take a while.
When I ask you how old Mommy is, you say, “She’s two.” You are such a little charmer.
I have so many moments throughout my day where I am just filled with complete and utter elation that we created you, but one of the best ones yet came last night when we were getting you ready for bed.
Tomorrow, you turn two and I love you more than I ever thought possible. You will never remember laying on my chest at just two days old when I looked into your tiny face and told you I didn’t ever want you to get any bigger than you were at that moment—my tiny, perfect, baby.
Oh, what I would’ve missed out on if you’d stayed just two days old forever. I would’ve never known how smart and handsome and charming you would turn out to be at just two years old. Let me tell you a little bit about you at two, so that someday you will know just how special you are right now, September 29, 2010.
Today, on the playground, you stood at the top of the slide and hung by the bar above. I was amazed and so were you. What a daredevil you are becoming! I make you hold my hand when we cross the bridge on the big playground because there is a big gap and a far drop, but today, you bolted across without me before I had a chance to grab you and you declared, “I do it myself!” What a mixed blessing this is for a mommy. I, of course, want you to want and be able to “do it yourself,” but I also always want you to need me. Please remember this when you are thirty: if you love your mother, move out, but need her from time to time.
Right now, you are learning new things at such an alarming rate that I can hardly keep up with you. I’m quite certain when we visit the pediatrician tomorrow that he will declare you a genius. They will tell me what percentage you measure in weight, height, and head size, but if they could tell me your IQ, I’m quite certain that they would tell me you are one of the smartest two-year-olds they’ve ever seen. You are busy learning your colors and numbers and today when I asked you what types of things we see in the sky, you responded, “Moon, stars, and Venus.” Venus! You tiny genius, you.
When we ask you how old you are, you proudly respond, “I’m two.”
When we ask you what your last name is, you proudly respond, “I’m two.”
Even tiny genius’s have weak spots. Besides, VanHimbergen is right up there with Supercalifragilisticexpialidocius. It could take a while.
When I ask you how old Mommy is, you say, “She’s two.” You are such a little charmer.
I have so many moments throughout my day where I am just filled with complete and utter elation that we created you, but one of the best ones yet came last night when we were getting you ready for bed.
Daddy was holding you after you brushed your teeth and we were all standing in our bedroom laughing. You wrapped one arm around Daddy’s neck and one arm around my neck and pulled us both in for a family kiss as you said, “Ahhh, Mommy. Daddy.” I’m quite certain in four years of marriage, your father and I have never been happier than we were at that moment.
Finny, at two, you are a wonderful human being. I learn so much from you every day. As bittersweet as it is, I can’t wait to watch you grow and grow to continue to see all the new and wonderful ways you will amaze me every day.
Happy 2nd Birthday, Finn Michael!
Love, Mommy
Train Wreck
Maybe it’s because we never had store-bought cakes growing up. Maybe it’s because my mom would show us pictures of all the fun cakes she made for us: clown cakes, Snoopy cakes, train cakes, etc. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen other, far more artistic moms do it and I wanted to keep up with the Jones Mommies. Whatever it is that compelled me to plan, design, bake and decorate a train cake for Finny’s second birthday, I hope its decapitated head gets hanged by magnet from the refrigerator somewhere beside the grocery list to serve as a warning to all other silly, stressful notions that compel me to do something far beyond my range of talents and capabilities.
It began in Kansas City when I went to visit my friend Cathy. I was just looking forward to spending time with my old friend and catching up, but figured while I was there, since Cathy is a professional cake-maker, I should seek out her cake-making expertise and her patient teaching nature to see if she could show me some of the ropes of cake-making. So, that weekend, she helped me make a delicious European butter cream icing and showed me how to carefully ice some train cars. The icing was a butter-lover’s dream-come-true that tasted positively sinful. The cake-making was an extensive, careful, time-consuming process that made me feel itchy, sweaty, and clumsy, not unlike how I felt during my entire career as a waitress or my short-lived stint as a seamstress. And yet, despite the intense anxiety I felt, which at 5 months pregnant could not be quenched by big heaping gulps of wine, I left there still determined that I could do this…on my own.
So I Googled it and I YouTubed it and I revisited the cake aisle at Michael’s again and again, just as I had the year before, but this year, I didn’t bail. This year, I purchased. I went home armed with a train-shaped cake pan, multiple spatulas, a serrated knife, cake decorating tips, and food coloring and I set my mind to the task of baking this train cake. Full speed ahead.
After carefully mapping out all the steps and buying all the tools and ingredients I would need to make the cake, I set to work on Tuesday whipping up the butter cream icing. I knew I could not attempt the European butter cream that Cathy had shown me. It involved separating egg whites and heating them to 160 degrees on the stove and then beating them into fluffy peaks, and despite how truly magical the result of all that was with Cathy, I knew if I attempted it on my own, it would end in third degree burns and a bad case of salmonella. I couldn’t do that to the baby, Finny or the twenty plus house guests I was expecting. So I went with the traditional American butter and sugar butter cream, and the icing, I can admit, actually turned out quite well.
Then, things derailed.
On Thursday, as soon as Finny’s head hit the pillow for his afternoon nap, I was in the kitchen ready to bake. Almost instantly, the itchy, sweaty, clumsiness ensued. The cake pan had called for a pound cake mix. I had my box of mix in one hand, while the other hand started scratching at my invisible hives as I noticed that the pan instructions called for two boxes of pound cake mix. I was stuck. Timing-wise, this cake needed to be made now, but I couldn’t leave. What could I do? I called Cathy.
She directed me back to Google and told me I could do it from scratch if I had all the ingredients. I found a Betty Crocker recipe online that sounded easy and I was equipped with all the flour, sugar, eggs, baking powder, butter, vanilla, and milk it called for. I thought I was saved.
Cake mixed and poured into the train cake pan, I put it in the oven with only one question about the baking—the time. The train cake pan is completely enclosed, so the only way to really test for doneness is to stick a toothpick in a tiny hole in the top and if it comes out clean, it’s done. The pound cake recipe suggested an hour and ten minutes to an hour and twenty minutes, the mix box suggested an hour, and the train cake pan instructions said 35-40 minutes. So, I set the clock for 40 minutes and I waited.
At 40 minutes, my toothpick was wet. At 55 minutes, it was dry and there was brown crusting around the edges of the pan, so I removed it and set it out to cool. When I took off the top pan, it looked great and I was so relieved. After all that sweating, this had turned out to be a piece of cake.
Or so I thought. After the suggested ten minutes, I flipped it and removed the bottom portion of the pan. It was then that I noticed that my train cake looked as if it had run a red light and been nailed by another oncoming train. It was sunken and raw in the center. Salmonella glittering on top.
I called Cathy.
She told me I could put it back in, so I did. After ten minutes, it looked as if my problem was solved. It looked over-cooked now on the edges, but at least it looked frostable and the toothpick came out clean once again. So I left it to cool and an hour later returned to frost it.
Apparently the Wilton Train Cake Pan people need to include longer toothpicks. I flipped it once again, and it was still raw in the center. Overcooked on the sides, raw in the center, and a complete train wreck all around. At that point, I got the icing out of the fridge and started tearing off the cooked chunks, shamelessly lathering them with icing and popping them in my mouth. Then, I dumped the rest in the trash and prepared myself for the long night ahead.
Once again, Finny’s head hit the pillow for bedtime and I was back in the kitchen preheating the oven. This time, I would make a dark chocolate fudge mix in two loaf pans. This time, I would be sure they were cooked. This time, I would make a side of cupcakes just in case.
After being on my feet baking and cleaning and tossing and baking and cleaning again until midnight, I finally went to bed and set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. and once again entered the kitchen, home of train cake hell.
I carved, I food-colored, I mixed, I shaped. Then I got out my chocolate engine and began to crumb-coat with icing. The wrong side. The crumbly side. Big chunks of train seemed to be chipping off everywhere as I awkwardly ran my spatula of blue icing over the steam engine. David came down the stairs to check on the madness. “Does it look anything like Thomas?” I asked. “Speedboat,” he offered. Yes, I thought, Thomas, the Speedboat, why not?
I “carefully” began to set my iced speedboat back into the fridge and set to work on the cars when the top of the boat collided with a refrigerator shelf and removed yet another large chunk of iced cake. I paused. I could try to place the missing chunk back on the cake or I could eat it. I popped it in my mouth and moved on. I was running out of steam.
The rest of the morning I spent covered in food coloring and icing as I crumb-coated, iced and assembled my train cake. I laid Kit-Kats for the tracks and linked the colored cars together with pretzels. I adhered Oreos to the sides of each car to represent wheels and then I filled the tops of the cars with Animal Crackers, Candy Corn, and M&Ms for tasty cargo.
Once I added the wheels to the speedboat engine, it no longer resembled a boat. Now, it looked more like a race car. I added crumbled Oreos to the back for the coal tender. Still a race car. I added stacked Reese cups to the front for the smokestack. Looking better, but still a race car. Finally, I figured that the only thing at this point that would truly make it look like a train engine would be if I buried the entire thing under a pile of crumbled Oreos and placed a picture of a train beside it with a little “RIP” sign beside it.
Covered in icing and food coloring and on my feet for so long at this point that I felt as if I might go into labor on the kitchen floor, I decided to pull this train into the station and call it a day. But first, I needed to show it to Finny.
I picked him up and showed him the cake and waited to see and hear the awe in his eyes and his voice as he carefully beheld the train cake I had just toiled over for the past week. This would be the true test. “Finny,” I beamed, “What is it?”
His answer: “A cake.”
And there you have it.
The next time I really want to impress a two-year-old with a cake, I will make just that—a cake. In nice, round, reliable cake pans with a couple layers of icing. And the next time I want to keep up with the Jones Mommies, I will visit this picture of my crumbly, speedboat, racecar, train cake and remind myself that I do an awesome Cockney accent when I sing the part of Burt in Mary Poppins and I’m pretty close to perfecting nearly all the voices of the Winnie the Pooh characters, but cake-making? I’ll let somebody else engineer that train. My train cakes are best left in the roundhouse with all the other race cars and speedboats that never quite got on track.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Baby Love
Last night he had a particularly endearing moment with his in-utero baby brother when we were walking side-by-side across the softball fields at David's game. As we were walking, Finny just started pointing out all of his body parts, saying "Legs! Arms! Head! Nose!"
I stopped him there and said, "There's Finny's nose. Where's Mommy's nose?"
"Right there!" he responded as he looked up and pointed to my face.
"Do you think the baby has a nose? Where's his nose?" I asked.
At this, Finny reached both arms in the air as if to say, bend down and I'll show you. When I bent down so that he could touch my belly, he pinched two fingers together on the surface of my belly and smiled as he said, "Honk! Honk!"
And that lit up my entire world.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
An Ode to My Bladder
*This candid blog is dedicated to leg-crossing sneezers everywhere and all pregnant ladies whose bladders have forgotten what it means to go pee-pee in the potty.
An Ode to My Bladder
Out of all of us, you, my friend, I’m afraid have taken the worst of it. At 5 months pregnant everyone asks how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, but nobody thinks to ask you, do they? But we know. We know , don’t we. I’m really doing just fine, but we know that you, my little trooper, my trusty bag of fluids, you are just barely hanging on.
I am trying to help you out as much as I can, but sometimes our little secret gets out, doesn’t it? And I’m afraid now with ragweed season approaching, well, we are just up shit creek and it’s only a matter of time before someone calls over the loud speaker, “Clean up in Aisle 5!”
In fact, it nearly happened yesterday, didn’t it? Even after I went potty right before we left the house. There was that sneeze in the car and then the sneeze in the parking lot and well, we both knew then that those khaki pants were a mistake as I shuffled the diaper bag around my back to cover the fact that our secret was seeping out.
And honey, I’m afraid you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. We’ve still got 4 months to go! From here on out, workout pants can only be black or navy and even modified jumping jacks are a no-no. From here on out, we must avoid travelling anywhere where a potty is not close at hand. And from here on out, all sneezing and laughing must be kept to a bare minimum. Only cordial chuckling will be permitted.
I know, I know what they say about the Kegels, but the truth is, the only time I can remember to do them is when there’s a slow trickle running down my leg. I’ll try harder, I promise. I’ll start right now while I’m finishing this blog post.
Oh, bladder, just hold on a little bit longer for both of us. I know you can do it. The diaper budget is already about to double, do we now need to think about tripling it for you, little guy?
Stay strong for me, will you? I’m only 31 years old and I’m gonna need you to put in quite a few more years for me. Potty training is gonna be hard enough with Finny. I can’t have you givin’ up on me too.
Your Faithful Friend,
The Pregnant Lady
An Ode to My Bladder
Out of all of us, you, my friend, I’m afraid have taken the worst of it. At 5 months pregnant everyone asks how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, but nobody thinks to ask you, do they? But we know. We know , don’t we. I’m really doing just fine, but we know that you, my little trooper, my trusty bag of fluids, you are just barely hanging on.
I am trying to help you out as much as I can, but sometimes our little secret gets out, doesn’t it? And I’m afraid now with ragweed season approaching, well, we are just up shit creek and it’s only a matter of time before someone calls over the loud speaker, “Clean up in Aisle 5!”
In fact, it nearly happened yesterday, didn’t it? Even after I went potty right before we left the house. There was that sneeze in the car and then the sneeze in the parking lot and well, we both knew then that those khaki pants were a mistake as I shuffled the diaper bag around my back to cover the fact that our secret was seeping out.
And honey, I’m afraid you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. We’ve still got 4 months to go! From here on out, workout pants can only be black or navy and even modified jumping jacks are a no-no. From here on out, we must avoid travelling anywhere where a potty is not close at hand. And from here on out, all sneezing and laughing must be kept to a bare minimum. Only cordial chuckling will be permitted.
I know, I know what they say about the Kegels, but the truth is, the only time I can remember to do them is when there’s a slow trickle running down my leg. I’ll try harder, I promise. I’ll start right now while I’m finishing this blog post.
Oh, bladder, just hold on a little bit longer for both of us. I know you can do it. The diaper budget is already about to double, do we now need to think about tripling it for you, little guy?
Stay strong for me, will you? I’m only 31 years old and I’m gonna need you to put in quite a few more years for me. Potty training is gonna be hard enough with Finny. I can’t have you givin’ up on me too.
Your Faithful Friend,
The Pregnant Lady
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