Wherein I finally talk about birthdays.

WARNING: This post is going to be rather photo heavy.

We have a lot of birthdays in this family. Of course, this is to be expected when you have as many people in your family as we do (at last count, our personal calendar had 60+ family birthdays on it - that's not including any of the friends and coworkers who might make their way on there). We have a steady stream of them all year round, it seems, but fall and winter seem to be particularly heavy on the calendar. I blame New Year's (let's be honest: it's not a day well-known for the making of good decisions) and Lent (many in our family are Catholic ... and if you can work out my rationale behind that, then you have my sympathies). Jude celebrates in September, Scout's b-day is in October, and mine rolls around in January. Toss Thanksgiving and Christmas in the mix, and I've got myself a party to plan five months in a row, which is just the way I like it (and yes, I usually plan my own birthday party... and yes, I am pushing 30... and no, I don't care that I "shouldn't care" about my birthday anymore because I'm a "grown up" ... I care. I care very much).

Party planning, as many of you may not know, is an area of expertise for me. Picking themes, blowing up balloons, designing and/or making cakes, putting up decorations, planning menus, putting together favor bags ... I love it all. In 2010, when Scout turned 3, she wanted a "Peter Pan Pirate Party," so we dressed like pirates, went on a treasure hunt, walked the plank, passed the pirate parrot, listened to maritime music, ate Caribbean skewers, and drank grog (aka: root beer and ginger ale). She even had a little girly Jolly Roger on her ice cream cake. It was pretty much amazing. My biggest regret is that I wasted such an epic party on a three-year-old. She probably won't remember 90% of it by the time she's an adult.

Photographic proof that we are pretty much the best parents ever.

The pirate princess herself.

Of course we busted out the cannon at our three-year-old's birthday party. Didn't you?

What? You don't even have a cannon? What a sad life you must lead.

For Jude's first birthday party (earlier that year),we went to the zoo, and of course I made cupcakes for the occasion:

I might have stayed up until 1am the night before decorating these bad boys, but they sure were beautiful,

even after the sun made them a bit drippy.

Of course, after the epic bashes of 2010 (and Scout's equally-epic harvest-themed first birthday party, complete with hay ride and carved pumpkins spelling out her name), I had to aim high in 2011 to outdo myself. I have to hand it to my kids: they sure made it easy on me. Jude loves dogs. I mean LOVES dogs. He is madly in love with our dog Missy (who, to be honest, merely tolerates him). But his love is not limited to our dog. We see a dog anywhere, and he needs to pet it, talk to it, and otherwise love on it. So for his birthday this year, it was obvious that we needed to have ourselves a dog party. We sent invitations telling people to expect a "howling" good time. I made puppy chow, a pasta salad that looked an awful lot like Missy's dog food, hot dogs, and homemade corndogs and hush puppies. We served the food out of (new) dog dishes. B's mom made cookies shaped like dog bones. We made (and subsequently wore) dog ears and painted puppy faces. The kids got goody bags with "kibble" and puppy stickers and Scooby Snacks in them. There ended up not being any time for games, but we had planned for a rousing round of "Pass the Puppy" (basically a modified version of the aforementioned Pass the Pirate Parrot with "Who Let the Dogs Out" playing instead of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme). It was a great time.

Scout and her "Aunt" Kristi (who never misses a birthday, despite living in Virginia)

modeling their cute puppy ensembles.

I always make complicated cake orders (and have kids with weird names to boot), so I always dread delivery day, thinking I'll have to send pics to CakeWrecks ... but our local DQ always pulls them off flawlessly.

Hot dogs and hush puppies... no nutritional value,

but high in deliciousness.

Scout started planning for her birthday this year in August. She repeatedly told me that she wanted a "rainbow party ... and possibly also My Little Pony ... or Strawberry Shortcake." Sometime in the two months prior to the party, I introduced her to Friendship is Magic (I swear it's not just for kids!), and the party ideas came together to form the perfect storm: A Rainbow Dash Birthday Bash. We had rainbow EVERYTHING. Rainbow fruit skewers. Six different drinks. Tacos with the toppings arranged in rainbow order (tomatoes, cheese, lettuce, avocado, purple onion, etc.). Balloons. Everything. And our activity? Well, we tie-dyed, of course. What else would you do with a group of 2-6 year-olds at a rainbow party?

The birthday girl sporting her Rainbow Dash-esque hairpiece.

Drinks, plates, napkins, cups, silverware ... EVERYTHING was rainbow, you guys. We were not messing around.

The rainbow and the pony were made from hand-painted (by me) fondant.

Please also note that the candles are tie-dye. Because, seriously.

Oh,and did I mention that the cake was actually six different layers of color, so when you cut into it, it was AMAZING?

It would have looked about 20% cooler if I had used synthetic dyes, but Scout doesn't do Red#40 (yes,we are THOSE people),

so I had to use all natural dyes.

And of course we sent all of the kids home with crayons and Skittles.

So there's the birthday post I promised you several months ago. And then some. Let me know if you need some help with your kid's party (or your own for that matter - I'm not here to judge). I don't want to brag, but I am a veritable fount of party ideas. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in the wrong line of work...

I'll talk later this week about my own birthday. It seems slightly less exciting in comparison to all of these festivities; plus, I'm about out of energy for the night.

Okay, about that "every day" business

Let's be honest. I don't turn on my computer most weekends (except to do homework, which, as you know, I will not be doing for another five weeks). To keep my weekends free to party (and by "party" I mean "nap" and "take my kids to the farmer's market and/or library"), I'm going to revise my previous "I will blog every day" statement. I will blog every WEEKday. It seems more manageable and gives me time to recharge my wit over the weekend so that I can regale you with tales of hilarity and/or woe throughout the week. Besides, don't you have better things to be doing with your weekends too?

So ... this is the part where I'm supposed to regale you with a tale of hilarity and/or woe, huh? Let's get down to business, then.

So, Friday afternoon, the kids and I went over to visit B's grandma (who is also our next door neighbor, you may recall). We decided to take the "road" (read: circular driveway) instead of walking through the grass because it had rained half the day and Grandpa had just mowed, so there were clumps of wet grass everywhere. We had a lovely visit and then, because I was feeling frivolous (Guess whose husband got a job! What up?) and it was just me and the kids for dinner, we decided to go get Chinese takeout. We placed our order (chicken and mixed veggies for me, chicken lo mein for the kiddos) then went next door to the grocery store for some beverages and dessert (skinny cow ice cream sandwiches for me, popsicles for the kiddos). Scout was ecstatic because she got to push the little cart (I tell you , it is the highlight of her LIFE). We got a lot of "Oh, isn't that just darling?" looks, and everyone was freakishly kind. I later realized it was probably because I recently purchased these headbands, and people probably thought I had cancer because my hair is so short you can hardly see it when I have them on. Morbid? Perhaps, but I have a feeling it may come in handy if I ever have 21 items in my basket and need to use the express checkout lane. Who is going to begrudge a young, tumorous mom one measly extra item? That's immoral. I digress. (I also meticulously count my items if I plan on using express checkout because I am terrified of being "that person" and the prospects of someone confronting me about my abuse of the 20 items or less lane. I digress from my digression.)

Anyways, we came home and ate, and after dinner, the kids were covered in MSG and popsicle residue, so I decided to plunk them in the tub. They splashed; I scrubbed; we drained the tub (a mini-poem, just for you). As I was lifting Scout out of the tub, I saw what I thought was a freckle under her chin. I thought, "Huh... How is it possible that I have never noticed that freckle before?" Upon slightly closer inspection, I decided it didn't look like a freckle so much as a scab. I thought, "That's weird. How did she get a scratch on her neck?" Then I did what any normal person would do: I scratched at it. (What? Don't act all affronted. I'd like to see you resist the siren call of a mystery scab.) It didn't come off. At this point, I was totally confused, so I had Scout lay down across my lap and tilt her head back so the light from the bathroom vanity would illuminate the mystery spot. I peered at it. I peered closer. And then, I saw what no mother wants to see...

The spot had legs.

Blogger keeps shrinking my images, making the text difficult to read
(and making all of my hard work on the non-magnified parasite
completely worthless). Lame.

Eight, horrifying legs. This is the part where I totally impressed myself. I simply said, "Scout, I need you to lay (Lie? I have a degree in English, and I still don't know the lay/lie rule.) right here and wait for me. I'll be right back." Then I calmly walked out of the room and called my sister-in-law. Since Handsome, her husband, is a firefighter/EMT, and they are both "outside people" (unlike me, a strictly inside person), I figured they'd be able to tell me what to do. It was very cool for me to be able to interact with Handsome in that capacity. I got a tiny glimpse (or earful, as the case may be) of him on the job, and he was totally in his element. I half expected him to call me "ma'am" or something. He didn't even say anything remotely terrifying to try and freak me out (which rarely if ever works anymore because I am totally used to his antics). He confirmed that it was, in fact, a deer tick on my child's jugular and told me how to go about removing it. He also suggested that I keep it in case we needed to take it to the doctor (which is why I have a Ziploc bag on my fridge that reads, "Scout Deer Tick 5/20/2011, Do Not Open or Throw Away," and every time I look at it, all I can think is, "Dead Dove. Do Not Eat." Love that show). Equipped with this knowledge, I went back to the bathroom armed with tweezers and the parenthetically aforementioned Ziploc and set about trying to remove the nasty little parasite.

At this point, I should mention that Scout fears the tweezers more than death itself. Once she realized I wanted to use them so close to one of her major blood vessels, she kind of, sort of, freaked out a tiny bit lot. While she kicked and screamed and flailed and I tried to remove the tick without puncturing her artery, I managed to pull the body off, but the head remained in her neck. When she kicked at me again, I noticed that she had another one on her thigh. Abandoning the disembodied head, I decided to try for the one on her leg instead. I'm not sure how, but I managed to get that one out completely without severing her femoral artery. When I tried to go back for the remnant of the one under her chin, she clung to my neck shrieking, "I'm scared! I'm scared, Mom! I'm a-scared of the tweezers! I'm just SCA-AARED!!!" At which point, I am pretty sure my heart looked like this:

Contents may have shifted during delivery.

She broke it right into a million, zillion pieces. It was heartbreaking, that's why. So I returned to the phone to ask my sister-in-law if it was imperative that I get the head out and/or if this was emergency-room-worthy (since we live in Western PA, where "deer tick" often equals "Lyme Disease"). She consulted Handsome, who did not seem to think so, but they agreed to call his mother (a nurse) and get her to call me. A few minutes later, she rang to say that we could wait until Monday to call the doctor, and she was pretty sure the remaining head would come out on its own, but she had a few tactics I could try to get it out without tweezers. (Both were a bust. Sorry, Leah.) In the end, I got Scout to settle down, put her and Jude to bed, and we all went about our weekend with Scout telling anyone who would listen that she had two deer ticks on her (cue the serious face) and it was very scary (insert gravely emphatic nod here).

I took her to the doctor this morning, where she was a total champ (probably because no tweezers were involved), and they put her on a round of antibiotics just to be safe. She's not running a fever and her bites haven't turned rashy, so I'm thinking she's out of the woods (both figuratively and literally; we don't need her going in there and getting more of those little bloodsuckers on her). The part that has me the most confused is where on earth she picked them up in the first place. Although I suppose when you're 38 inches tall, even walking into the as-yet unmowed yard to pick a dandelion could land you with them. Who knows? All I know is that this has firmly reinforced my "inside person" status.

Stories from my Three-year-Old: Volume 1

Scout is a master storyteller. Here's one she shared with me just a moment ago. I should point out before we begin that Scout hasn't entirely grown out of her l/r speech impediment (she's good with most words, but a few still give her trouble), so everywhere she says wolf it should be pronounced as woof. Also, as an added challenge, you can try to guess which Bible story is being allegorically referenced in parts of the story. Without further ado, a tale of some noses, some bears, and a wolf trying to cross a river...

There was one day a bunch of noses. And there was a big, old wolf. And there was also a bunch of bears. And some of the bears were really ever so giant, and then there was a baby bear. And the bears were going to run, but the baby bear said, "No, Mom. I'm going to get at that big, old wolf." And the baby bear went down and said to the wolf, and the big, old wolf sat down and was quiet.

But then, the big, old wolf ... well, there was also a river. A really, ever so big river. And the big, old wolf, he went into it, and then he was going down it, and then he fell over a really so big waterfall!!!

At this point I asked, "And did the bears live happily ever after?" and Scout said, "Yes. And the bears went down the river, and they were happy."

The end.

My daughter thinks Jesus is Soren Lorenson

Have you ever seen the adorable Disney cartoon Charlie and Lola? It's based on a series of equally adorable children's books by Lauren Child (who has authored several other fabulous-looking books; I cannot wait until Scout is old enough to start the Clarice Bean series). Well, in the book, I Am Too Absolutely Small for School, Child introduces us to Lola's imaginary friend, Soren Lorenson.

Soren Lorenson is Lola's invisible friend. Nobody knows what he looks like.


Lola and Soren Lorenson have adventures together.


Sometimes, Soren Lorenson can get Lola into trouble.

Scout is kind of in love with Charlie and Lola. She loves the books, the show, the toys, everything about them. I've always loved them, too. In fact, we first brought Snow is My Favorite and My Best and But Excuse Me That is My Book home from the library a few years ago because I thought they were so painfully cute. What quirky artwork! How fun to read in a British accent! I found them all the more adorable when I saw the show, and when I first saw Soren Lorenson, I was in LOVE. (Part of this may have stemmed from the fact that I thought his name was "So Unlonesome" because of the funny way that Lola enunciates it. What a perfect name for an imaginary friend, no? Apparently not because ... that's not his name.) Thus Charlie and Lola were born into our lives and over time have practically become members of our family. They are our go-to books at the library. We DVR their show, and unbeknownst to her, Scout is going to have a Very Charlie and Lola Christmas (complete with talking dolls and, hopefully, the entire box set of DVDs - or at least the so-cute-it-makes-me-itchy Christmas special).

Jesus has also been a big topic in our house lately, what with Scout being a big three-year-old now, who can actually sit still for long(ish) periods of time and who has a little personality and thoughts of her very own. She loves to go to Sunday school and read her little picture Bible. She even insisted I buy her some Jesus stickers at the Christian book store this summer (which we then used as potty prizes, meaning she got to stick one on her little potty every time she "went," which her father deemed "a misappropriation of the image of the Lord"). Scout loves to talk to Jesus (incidentally though, if you ask her to "pray," she will flat out refuse. Ask her to "talk to Jesus," though, and she is all about it). Half the time, her "prayers" are more like a grocery list of things she did that day, just in case He might have missed something or forgotten. Last night's dinner prayer, for instance, was, "Jesus, thanks for the grub [at her Nonna's prompting]. And thanks for soap. And for washing my hands before dinner. And ..." until someone prompted her, "What do you say when you're all done praying?"

"Oh," she said. "Thank you."

"No," I said. "The other one."

"Oh. Aaaaaaaaaaamen."

It was darling, really.

At night, now, instead of B or me praying for her, we let her do the talking with just a few prompts.

"Would you like to tell Jesus some things you are thankful for today?"

This usually results in a list of things, sometimes crazy, off-the-wall things, like "the number seven" or "pancakes" (even if we haven't eaten pancakes in days).

"Would you like to tell Jesus some of the bad things you did today and that you are sorry for doing them?"

This response usually features such classics as, "I pooped in my pants again," and "I got out of bed and made a mess during nap," followed by the cutest, "Sorry, Jesus," you have ever heard.

"Can you ask Jesus to help you to be a good girl tomorrow?"

She usually ends up saying, "You be a good girl tomorrow, Jesus?" but we all know what she means.

"Can you ask Him to help you grow up to love Him and follow Him?"

[Insert an adorably botched version of the above statement here.]

"Now what do you say when you're all done?"

"Amen, Jesus."

That's the basic format. A few nights ago, after her birthday party, she was listing AAAAAAALLL of the things she was thankful for (it was a long list; it had been a good day). Then we moved on to the, "things I could have done better today" segment. She started out with the staples, then she suddenly said, "And, Jesus, I like graham crackers." When I mentioned it later, her Nonna said, "She has got to be one of His favorites." (Sidenote: We know He doesn't play favorites. We've read the epistles.) She's just so random like that, and we all love her for it.

So there's the praying and the Bible reading and the Sunday school going, and now whenever she misbehaves we ask her how she thinks Jesus feels about her behavior, and she apologizes to Him for making Him sad. It's all very cute and (hopefully) laying the foundation for a real and lasting relationship with Him in the future.

As long as the whole So Unlonesome Soren Lorenson thing doesn't get in the way.

"Wait, what does this have to do with Soren Lorenson?" you ask (not unjustly. I feel like I'm all over the place this morning. Trying to write while two small people vie for your attention is no easy task).

See, Scout seems to think that Jesus is like Soren Lorenson. He is her imaginary friend. No one can see Him but her. Occasionally, she will point upwards and say, "Jesus is up there, Mommy. He is up in [the sky/the clouds/my ceiling/my ceiling fan/etc.]." A few moments ago, she was looking out the kitchen window, talking to Jesus, who was apparently in the driveway, telling Him how happy she was that she just had a birthday and how excited she is for His upcoming one (Sidenote: Her obsession with birthdays is really going to pay off this Christmas, I think, when we talk about how it's Jesus' birthday ... even though it's actually not, but whatever).

Sometimes I worry that she will think she made Jesus up, that He is like "Eeny" (her imaginary "best cousin and also friend"). I don't know how to make her understand the bigness and realness that is God and Jesus and His plan for humanity. I worry that she's going to think He is this imaginary person she has conjured up or that we are going to create a "false god" and make her think He is a big guilt-monger by explaining to her that she hurts His feelings when she misbehaves. I hear these stories about people who were saved at the age of four and five, and I wonder, "How can I get my kid to that place? How can I get her to understand the concepts of personal responsibility and sin and redemption at so young an age?" How do I help her to understand that Jesus is not in her ceiling fan or some magical person in the sky that she has to spend half of her life apologizing to? What do I do to keep her from blaming Jesus for the things she does wrong (like when Soren Lorenson talks Lola into misbehaving)?

No, really. That's not rhetorical. How do I do these things? Anyone with older kids have any advice on how to take them from "Jesus lives in my ceiling" to "Jesus died for my sins?" I'd love to hear what others are doing/have done to move their tiny people toward a true relationship with Christ. I feel like this is one of those areas where it might be best to use the aid of a village to raise my child. Anyone with advice, please feel free to post a comment. Even if that "advice" is, "You worry too much. You should just relax and do another post about your eyebrows. I miss those."