Blue in the Face

markers.jpgThis past Wednesday, we had friends over for dinner — a sweet couple and their two-year-old girl. The best part of having dinner friends is that we get to have real dinner conversation with real, breathing, adults who actually talk about something BESIDES Star Wars. However, in order for this clever conversing to occur, we needed something with which to distract the kids. A Secret Weapon, if you will.

Like a big ol’ box of crayons!!!!

YES! It’s only during Dinner Guest Time that the kids are allowed to get out the crayons. They don’t actually color with the crayons — that would be work — but they get to spread them out all over the (freshly cleaned) couch, lob them at each other, build little crayon forts, chew on them, stick them up their noses.

Yes, I’ll do anything for a bit of intelligent conversation. Thank goodness for whoever it was that invented the phrase “Non-Toxic.”

And so it was — the kids were merrily tossing and rolling crayons around the house like so many Mardi Gras beads, and the grownups were nibbling on Coconut Cream Cheese Flan (awesome) and discussing politics.

Politics!

Yes!

I know!!

How grownup is THAT?!?

Admittedly, the discussion did involve the word “Obamarama,” but it was immediately followed up with a bit about health care reform, and I figure the two cancel each other out.

However, all of this came to a crashing halt when we discovered that the kids had — somehow — managed to unearth the box of markers as well. You know how we found out?

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Yes, that’s Eleanor. For some reason, when our kids are presented with markers, they always prefer to color themselves instead of paper. Usually the face, but they’ll do the tummy if there’s tummy access. (Ella was zipped into her footie pajamas at the time, so the tummy remained, thankfully, unscathed.) Eleanor frequently likes to turn herself into a 13th-century Scottish warrior. Oh, how she howled when we pried the blue marker out of her chubby little hand!

“YOU MAY TAKE OUR CRAYOLAS, BUT YOU’LL NEVER TAKE OUR FREEEEEDOOMMMMM!”

We’ve scrubbed and scrubbed her little face daily since then, but the so-called “Washable” marker stains are still showing faintly on her nose. A blue nose. Like she’s from Nova Scotia or something.

I seem to be getting fond of matching up picture books for the events in our lives, so here’s another one:

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I Ain’t Gonna Paint No More by Karen Beaumont, illus. David Catrow. Completely addictive rhythmic text, rainbow-bright illustrations. This book pushes the Silly-O-Meter way, way up, and is excellent for teaching pre-literacy skills. A modern must-read for the preschool set.

Happy Half Birthday, Wimmy!

cupcake.jpgYesterday William turned six months old, and we continued the tradition we started with our first child and celebrated his Half Birthday.  We made half of a cake, put on a tiny half candle, and gave him a “half present” (a sweater I’ve knitted for him that has yet to be sewn up — I’ve gotta do that tonight).

The cake was the Brown Butter and Almond Cake with Caramel Apples from Sticky, Chewy, Messy Gooey — the pretty little cookbook Brian gave me for Christmas.  Sadly, I misread the baking time, so it was a little too brown on top, but it was still delicious.

William did a fine job at blowing the candle half out.  Jeffrey and Eleanor blew out the other half, a task in which they found immense pleasure.

We meant to play “half” versions of traditional children’s party games — like “Pin the Tail!” or “Blind Man!” or “Musical!” but after cake and ice cream (and caramel apples that took just too darn long to make) the big kids were just a little too tired and cranky, and so we packed ’em off to bed.

Just as a side note, if you are a fan of half birthdays (or cute babies in general), take a look at this book:

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Oscar’s Half Birthday by Bob Graham — some of the prettiest writing you’ll ever find in a picture book, with a topic that can’t be beat for cuteness: an urban family taking an outing to celebrate the baby’s first half year.  Darling.

Looking Forward

On Friday night, I was reading some poetry to Eleanor, and we came across a poem which contained the word “April” in the title. As soon as I read it, she became very excited.

“April!” she squealed. “That’s where my birthday lives!”

I don’t know why, but the idea that certain special times “live” within the calendar is so appealing to me . . .

Just as a side note, this is the book we were reading:

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Here’s a Little Poem: A Very First Book of Poetry — probably the best poetry anthology published last year, in my opinion. Jane Yolen + Polly Dunbar = Fabulous.

Neighbors as Well as Siblings

bunk-bed.jpgEleanor officially moved out of her crib and into the bottom of the bunk bed this month.  It’s been interesting and stressful, although the transition from bed-to-crib has been WAY smoother than Jeffrey’s was.

(Let’s just say that when Jeff made the transition, he spent quite a few nights sleeping on the floor behind his locked bedroom door.  It was THE ONLY WAY TO KEEP HIM IN.)

Ella, on the other hand, will gladly stay wherever it is her big brother stays — and that means that we frequently find her curled up on the top bunk with her brother.  She tries to reassure us that she’s safe as she’s climbing up there (“Don’t worry!” she shouts.  “I’m still lying down!”)

Tonight, however, we discovered a switch: Jeffrey had dragged his pillow, blankets, and required reading (Lego catalog) down to Ella’s bunk.  When we ordered him back on top, he protested.

“But I’m doing my Visiting Teaching,” he explained.  Clever fellow.

Good Eats

baby-bowl.jpgWilliam crossed the Food Frontier this week. And by that, I mean that we spooned some rice cereal thinned with water into his mouth.

Poor kid. For weeks he’s been watching us with intense interest whenever we eat, always trying to swipe the cookies, apples, water, or what have you out of our hands. (The funny thing is that he would always move his hand slooooowly up to the treat, cartoon-character-style, as if that would prevent us from noticing.)

Finally, we set him in the high chair, rope a bib around his little chicken neck, and bring out the bowl. He kicks his little chubby legs, and makes a grab for the spoon, grunting like a pale pink monkey the entire time. I have to hold his hands down just so I can give him some delicious — wallpaper paste!

Seriously, have you ever tasted the rice cereal? Completely flavorless. Who can blame William for the look of disenchantment? Who can blame him for letting the stuff just spill out of his mouth?

I wonder if rice cereal’s similarity to glue is the reason why so many second graders end up eating paste in art class. (“Mmmm! This Elmer’s is just like the kind Mama used to make!”)

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For his entire life, William has feasted on Triple-Cream Mama Milkshakes, served up hot and fresh on demand, but his introduction to the real culinary world seems like something an orphan would eat in a Dickens novel. Is this symbolic of Something?

“Welcome to the real world, kid! Here, have some gruel!”

Nah.

Gross Anatomy

lips.jpg“Mommy, does Baby William get milk from your lips?”

Eleanor was asking me this one afternoon as I held her on my hip in the kitchen.

“My lips?” was the only reply I could give.  What was she talking about?

“These, Mama,” she replied, patting my ample chest.  “Your lips.”

Ah.

“And I have lips, too!” she said, raising her shirt to show me.

How — how — how did this mix-up happen?  That’s what I want to know.

Glimpses

Every now and then, I get a glimpse: I’m rubbing lotion onto Eleanor’s back, her hair is pulled over her shoulder, and suddenly I see her when she’s ten, or sixteen, or twenty-one.  The adult Ella is there, masked behind the round toddler tummy and dimpled knees.  It’s like catching sight of an emerald snake darting through underbrush, or the flare of light within a lantern.  Something that catches you off-guard, but seems perfectly natural, once you catch your breath.

Jeffrey Waxes Poetic

bluebirds.jpgJeffrey asks, “Mommy, what are William’s eyes like?”

We had been discussing William’s eye color, but this question was puzzling.

“What do you think they are like?” I ask.  Jeff thinks about this for a moment.

“I think . . . they are like two bluebirds dancing with a sunbeam.”

Awwwwww.  How sweet.  And . . . pretty.  Really, I was impressed, considering that most of Jeffrey’s compliments or similies concern an object’s similarity with the various characters or robots from Star Wars.  (“William’s eyes are like Obi-Wan’s lightsaber!”)

Fashion Is As Fashion Does

quarter.jpgJeffrey got a haircut today at Joseph’s Coiffures, the barbershop in our neighborhood.  The people who work there know him well and are always sure to make him feel special.  They let him push the button on the singing, dancing statue of Dean Martin while he’s there, and let him use a little broom to help sweep up the sheared hair.  Most importantly, they always say what a handsome gentleman he’s turning in to.

Tonight, Jeff spent time combing his short hair and smiling to himself.

“Mommy,” he said shyly.  “Do you think I look like George Washington yet?”

Ah.  George Washington: Founding Father, First President, and Hairstyle Role-Model.

When I explained to Jeffrey that George Washington wore a wig, he was greatly intrigued.

“Where can I get a white wig like that?” he kept asking.

Oh, yes.  You can just see it now: all the little kids running around the playground, and mine is the one in the powdered wig.

Warning: Reading This Post Could Raise Your Cholesterol

pancakes.jpgLast night, I asked Jeffrey what his favorite food is.

“Anything I make,” he replied. This was an unexpected answer — usually Jeffrey’s homemade concoctions consist of a vague mash of raisins and Goldfish crackers created in the biggest bowl he manages to haul out of the kitchen. But then I remember that Jeffrey gets to do a lot of cooking at preschool.

“What food do you like to make?” I ask.

“Pancake spaghetti,” he promptly responds. Huh?

“You make a pancake, then tear it up into spaghetti,” he explains. “Then you put sausage meatballs on it.” Hmm. That sounds like it could actually work.

“Do you put spaghetti sauce on it?” I tease him. He makes a face.

“No, that would be yucky,” he says, giggling.

“So what else could we put on the pancake spaghetti that would taste good?”

“Um . . . how about . . . cream cheese?” he says.

Whoa. I was expecting “maple syrup,” but cream cheese sounds AWESOME. But wait — there’s more:

“And then we could FRY it!” he squeals. “And put maple syrup on TOP!”

Good. Gravy. My son is a culinary genius. Yeah, it sounds pretty much like a funnel cake with a cheesecake filling, but would that be such a bad thing? And who would expect it from a five-year-old? If I weren’t trying to lose the baby weight, I’d seriously think about giving the Pancake Spaghetti a whirl.

However, I really think that all this was caused by the influence of my sister-in-law, Kristen, who has stated on numerous occasions that her favorite color is “fried.”

Ah, role models. What would my kids be cooking without them?