Princess Hair Tutorial

If you have a toddler, you may have an aspiring princess on your hands.  My little monkin brought me a shoelace and a hair barrette one day and asked me to make her "Rapunzel hair."  So I dutifully clipped the shoelace to her short, sparse hair and sent her on her merry way.  I did that same thing approximately 2,487 times that day because, let's be honest, it wasn't a very good plan.  So that evening, I combed through Pinterest looking for tutorials on how to make "Rapunzel hair."  Turns out, it's super easy, which is good because there were later requests for Elsa, Anna, Belle, and Ariel hair.  Here is the long and the short of it (see what I did there?)...

WHAT YOU'LL NEED:

1 skein of yarn (will make 2+ wigs)
Scissors
Dining chairs or other "edge" that you can wrap yarn around
Almost no crafting skill whatsoever

1.  Figure out how long your hair will need to be.  For Rapunzel hair, you'll want strands that will be 9 or 10 feet long.  For Elsa hair, you'll want strands that will be 7-ish feet long.  For Anna hair, 6-ish feet; and for Belle and Ariel, 4 or 5 feet.  Then set a couple of dining chairs far enough apart so that you can wrap your yarn around the ends of the chair backs to produce the appropriate length of strands.  Here, I'm making Elsa hair, so from one end of the chair backs to the other is approximately 3.5 feet (but just eyeball it).  You want to wrap the yarn around 60 times, producing 60 strands in the end.  (I only had enough yarn on hand to produce 42 strands, so your braids will end up being fuller than the braids in this tutorial.)

If you're making Anna hair, you'll want to make 50 loops with the orange yarn and 10 loops with the platinum yarn. 

2.  Once you have your 60 strands, cut a small piece of yarn and tie it around one end of your loops.  This will be the center of your strands.  (I used purple yarn here just so you can see what I've done, but you will want to use matching yarn.)

3.  On the opposite end of your loops, cut down the center.  You now have 60 strands of "hair" ready to braid!

4.  Measure 15" from the center of your strands and tie off your strands, again using matching yarn.  (So, in this photo, the center is marked by that top bow.  The bottom bow is where I have tied it off at 15".)

5.  Untie that original center bow and begin braiding your strands from the 15" mark toward the original center.  For a toddler/preschooler, you'll want this braid to be 19" or 20", or you could just measure your child's head circumference and make this braid whatever size you need it to be.  Once you have your 20" (or whatever measurement) braided, temporarily tie it off and join the 2 ends of your braided section to see whether the unbraided tails are even.  If one tail is longer than the other, you can easily adjust it by unbraiding the shorter end a little and braiding the longer end a little.  So say one tail is 2" longer than the other.  You would want to unbraid an inch on the shorter end and braid an inch more on the longer end (or just play around with it until it's right).  Once you have your tails evened out, tie off the 2 ends of the braided section with matching yarn.

6.  Now tie the braided ends together to form a loop.  This will become the halo of your princess hair.  I prefer to do this with a bow instead of a knot so that you can adjust the size of the halo later if necessary.

7.  If you're creating Elsa or Rapunzel hair, you can just braid the tails into one long braid.  Tie it off, and trim the ends of the tail to make it even.  For Elsa, I then sew little snowflakes onto the braid every so many inches.  For Rapunzel, I tuck little flowers into the braid every so many inches (and then my child pulls them out, but whatever).

If you're creating Anna hair, you just separate the tails into 2 sections and braid each section.  Tie the braids off and the trim the tails.   

If you're creating Belle hair, you tie the tails into a loose knot at the base of the halo loop.  Trim the ends to make it look nice.

8.  If you're creating Ariel hair, you can either just trim the tail up to make it even, or your can take little sections of the tail and feed it back through sections of the braided halo to sort of spread the hair out across the back of your child's head.  To do that, take 8 or 10 strands from the outer edge of the tail on either side and feed them back through the third braid from the bow of the halo.  Then take 8 or 10 strands from the remaining tail and feed them back through the second braid from the bow.  Then take 8 or 10 strands from the remaining tail and feed them back through the first braid from the bow.  Repeat on the other side of the bow. 

The Sinking Shrine

Last week, my dad had the last two of the huge, 54-year-old pine trees cut down from the backyard of my parents' house.  My mom was heartbroken.  Two others had broken off halfway down the trunks in a fast-moving summer storm three years ago.  One of the remaining trees had actually been broken near the top in that same storm, but my mom couldn't bear to lose all the trees (or the shade they provided to her gazebo) at once, so my dad acquiesced and let her keep the last two.  But at 79, my dad knew that they didn't need the stress of those giant pines looming on the back of their property, so he had them removed.

Tucked away in the midst of those trees stood a tree house on stilts.  It, too, is very old--at least 43 years old or more.  Now, it sticks out like a sore thumb in the new openness of the back of the yard; and it's more clear now than ever that it's in disrepair.  One of the stilts has sunk so far into the ground that the front porch of the tree house is pulling away from the house.  The steps are slippery with green, moss-like mildew.  The lattice surrounding the porch is broken.  No one really even plays in it anymore because, frankly, it's not safe.

The man who cut down the trees around it offered to take it off my parents' hands.  "My daughter would love it," he said.  No doubt, if it was taken down and repaired, his little girl would love it.  My dad replied, "Let me think about it."  The next day, he called the guy and said, "We're not ready to part with it just yet."

You see, that sinking eyesore on the back of my parents' property is one of the most powerful reminders of my brother that my parents have left.  My dad and Mike built that tree house together when Mike was about 10 years old.  It doesn't hold a purpose anymore, but it holds memories.  So my very practical mother and my very safety-conscious father can't let it go.

*   *   *   *   *   *

When I was young, the tree house had a little dutch door in the front and a little plexiglass window in the back.  Both latched with a simple wood block closure.  Above the window was a small shelf with toys and books and treasures that were found on various and sundry adventures in the neighborhood or on the county farm that ran behind our house.  The walls were painted purple, and there was a scrap of yellow shag carpet on the floor.  Sitting along one wall was a small, plastic play kitchen with cardboard food that we would "cook" for my mom for lunch every once in a while.

My sister and my cousins and I spent untold hours playing in that tree house.

One year, a neighbor got a little play house with a bed in it, and we asked my dad to build us a little bed in the tree house.  He obliged.  He also replaced the door with a one-piece door with a plexiglass window and a proper latch.  My sister and I decided we wanted to "camp out" in the tree house after that, but we were afraid to sleep up there alone, so Mikey said he would sleep up there with us.  Of course, he was probably 25 or 27 by then, and he had a life and all, so he wasn't home when our bed time rolled around.  He called and told us that he would be home as soon as possible and that we should go on out to the tree house to wait for him.  So we went out to the tree house, locked the door from the inside with the little hook that my dad had installed and fell asleep before Mike arrived.  When he got there, naturally, he couldn't get in, so he knocked on the door.  We were caught off guard and scared to death at this sleep-fuzzy face lit by the camp lantern in the corner peering through the window, but after he told us about a dozen times that, "It's just me--unlock the door," we finally came to our senses and let him in.  The poor guy went to lay down on the floor to sleep, but because of the bed we'd asked our dad to install, there wasn't enough room for him to stretch out, so he had to sleep with his head under the bed.  I can't even remember if we lasted through the night.  I'm guessing we didn't.  I'm sure I got "cold" (code for scared).  It doesn't really matter.  It was a perfectly awesome comedy of errors experience.

*   *   *   *   *   *

I wasn't even alive when my dad and Mike built that tree house; but even from the time I was a child, when I looked at it, I thought about how they had built it together.  As I got a little older, I remember thinking what a cool project that must have been for Mike.  I could imagine how much fun Mike had working side by side with my dad as my dad (a shop teacher in his younger days) explained each step to him.  That 10-year-old boy must have felt like they had built a castle when it was finished.

As Mike got older, they went on to build an attic bedroom over the garage, an addition to the back of the house, a new barn, and a gazebo.  Yes, there are many memories of Mike scattered around my parents' property to take the place of that old dilapidated tree house, and I'm sure my dad treasures them all.  Still, I'm equally sure that none of those memories match the memory of that first project.

My mom asked me what I thought about it all--what should they do about the tree house?  Apparently, she had asked my three older sisters at a recent family gathering, but no one really expressed an opinion one way or the other.  I'm sure they were thinking what I was thinking:  What's the right answer?  I don't want them to worry about that old tree house collapsing in a heap or someone getting hurt on it, but I don't want them to tear it down.  So I kind of hemmed and hawed for a moment until my mom hinted that she and Dad didn't want to tear it down either by mentioning that Dad thought he might be able to fix it.  At that point, I said, "You know, what does it matter if it does just sink into the ground?  What does that hurt?  If you want to try to fix it, fix it.  If not, just leave it there."   I needn't have said anything, though.  They were already decided.  She was just looking for someone to tell her what she wanted to hear.

It's a sinking shrine.  It won't withstand the test of time, but they won't accelerate it's destruction.  There are just too many memories. 

One Day (But on Repeat)

The alarm goes off at 6:40, but I just can't do it, so I hit the snooze.  When it goes off again at 6:49, I'm still not ready to get out of bed, so I lay there, trying to go back to sleep but mind buzzing with thoughts of all the reasons why I should have gotten up nine minutes ago.  I pick up my phone and see a string of texts from my girlfriends (also toddler mommies), who have already been up for over an hour.  Two of them have even gotten in a morning run.  I feel unaccomplished and lazy.  I respond to the texts and then check my Facebook.  At 7:15, I finally peel myself off the bed, knowing that I should have done that 20 minutes ago.

I make my way down the hall to the kids' bathroom, treading carefully so as not to inadvertently wake the beasties. (It's leg-shaving day and our stall shower doesn't allow me the room I need to shave my legs before the spray washes away the suds).  I wash my hair, wash my body, and shave my legs as quickly as I can--there's no taking time to just soak the heat into my tired body--but it still ends up taking 20 minutes.  I poke my head out the door and around the corner to make sure my 3-year-old hasn't been roused by the running water. She hasn't; praise Jesus!

I tiptoe back down the hall and throw on some basic makeup.  It's just enough so that I don't frighten small children and skittish dogs when I leave the house.  I'm just about to start drying my hair when I hear, "Mommy?" from down the hall.  I hightail it to MK's room because we (and by "we," I mean me) are trying to potty train, and I need to get her on the potty before she pees in her diaper.  Although, "we" did great last week, "we" are on Day 3 of not-so-great.  MK's diaper is wet.  I give her the old, "We have to pee-pee on the potty speech," and she nods along and says, "OK, Mom," but I know we'll revisit this situation at least 4 more times today.  I get her dressed and then shuttle her down the hall to my room.

I situate MK on the bed and turn on a cartoon so that I can get back to drying my hair and getting dressed.  I admonish her to not wake up her little sister until I'm ready to get MJ out of bed.  By now, my hair is starting to air dry, so I grab my hair dryer and quickly try to salvage my part and tame the little unintentional bangs that have grown out from postpartum hair loss.  Ten minutes later, I click off the hair dryer and hear the giggles and screeches of my girls through the monitor.  MK has woken up MJ.

I go down to the baby's room and get her dressed.  It's not an easy task.  She's so excited to see her big sister that she's kicking wildly and screeching.  I try to get MK to go back to my room, but that just causes MJ to crane her head around to look for her.  After I wrestle my chubby little kicking cherub into her clothes, I go back to my room to get dressed myself.  I haven't done laundry in eight days, so that's not an easy task. 

Once I'm (finally) dressed, I look at the clock.  It's 8:15 now.  Panic washes over me.  I have exactly 30 minutes to feed these kids and myself before I start putting on shoes and coats and packing them into the car.

We head downstairs, and, because I'm Mother of the Year, I pop some Eggo mini pancakes in the microwave.  I pour milk for the girls while breakfast "cooks."  I tear MJ's pancakes into little bites while blowing on MK's pancakes so they aren't too hot to eat.  Once everyone else has their breakfast, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and pop a K-cup in the Keurig.  Just as I finish snarfing down my Cheerios, MK announces that she's finished and needs down from the table.  I glance over and notice that MJ is still eating.  That's good and bad:  It's now 8:30, and I still need to give her a bottle of milk, but maybe I'll have time to drink my coffee while it's still relatively hot.  It takes me about two minutes to get MK situated, grab my coffee, and settle back into my chair before MJ signals that she's just hoovered the last of her pancakes and is ready for her milk.  So I put down my coffee and grab the bottle.  She drinks about two ounces of it before pushing it away.  Of course, now it's 8:45 because, ohmigawd, those were the slowest two ounces of milk in recorded history.  So I put my coffee back down and start getting everyone into shoes and coats.

I cross the threshold from the kitchen to the garage exactly 7 times:  MJ into the car, MK into the car, grab my coat and purse...and then go back in because I almost forgot MK's school bag.  Now it's 8:55.  Thank God we only live three minutes from the preschool!

We get to school, and I have to get both kids out of the car and walk them inside.  It's cold and windy, so I'm trying to hurry without dragging MK behind me.  I walk MK into her classroom and take off her coat and hang up it and her bag, all while balancing MJ on my hip.  Then I sneak out and run back out to the car.

By the way, do I even need to mention what a pain in the ass it is to wrangle kids into and out of car seats?  It's 9:07, and I've already had to do it five times today!

MJ and I drive over to Target.  I need diapers, applesauce pouches, and a new pack of binkies because we are down to two.  (The other two are in Purgatory with half of our socks and my coupon and loyalty card pouch.)  I end up with diapers, applesauce pouches, Hershey Kisses, shampoo, a Disney MagiClip princess doll (potty training incentive), and Valentine-making supplies.  After checking out, I trudge back out to the car, buckle MJ back into her seat, and put all the bags in the trunk.  I get back in the car and start to pull out of the parking spot when MJ starts crying and I remember that I didn't get binkies.  Damn it!  But I am not dragging her back in there right now.  I'll just have to come back later.  Shit.

I want to run by this little boutique shop just a couple of plazas over, but I know that MJ is getting tired and cranky.  Besides, the last time I took the girls in there, I got some serious shade from the proprietors.  (I'm sorry, but I'm a SAHM.  If  I'm going to shop in your store, I'm probably going to have my kids in tow.)  So I turn left instead of right and head home.  Only...I really need to go to the grocery store.  We don't have enough milk to get through breakfast in the morning, and we're down to our last few chicken nuggets.

We drive past the turn to the house and head to Kroger.  MJ falls asleep around minute seven of the ten-minute drive.  I have no choice but to wake her up when we get to Kroger.  She doesn't really protest, but I know I'm on borrowed time now.

Since I hadn't really planned to go to the grocery today, I don't have my list pulled together.  So I stop briefly in the produce section to try to remember just how many nights my husband will be home this week (I don't really cook when he's not home) and try to throw together a quick meal plan.  The grocery shopping is slow-going because I have to keep pulling up recipes on my phone to figure out what I need to buy.  Everything I pick up, MJ wants to hold...and then throw on the floor two minutes later.  I make it all the way over to the milk when I remember that I need fresh basil, so I run back over to produce.  On my way back to dairy, I remember that I need bread.  I loathe shopping without a list!  I'm finally back to dairy when I remember that I need two packages of ground beef, and I only grabbed one.  If my FitBit bothered to clock steps while I was pushing the cart, it would be burning up by now.  MJ is starting to get grumpy at this point, so I decide that I just have to head to the check out.  My cart is full.  Surely, I have whatever I need.  I try to put all my groceries on the belt in such a way that it will be easier to unload and put them away when I get home, but the baggers always thwart my plans.

If it's possible, it's even colder and windier now as I try to load MJ and the groceries into the car.  My phone rings.  It's my husband.  He tells me to mark my calendar for next Thursday.  A business associate is in town and wants us all to go to dinner together.  Of course, my calendar is at home on the back of the kitchen door, so I can't mark it right then.  (Indeed, I'll forget all about that conversation by the time I get home.  Then he'll ask me Tuesday night if I have a sitter lined up for dinner on Thursday, and I'll say, "What dinner?  It's not on my calendar."  This happens all the time.)  I hang up and back out of the parking space, which is when my fuel light comes on.  Well, at least there's a gas pump right there, but, damn it, I don't want to get out in the cold again!

I finally get home, and the baby has fallen asleep in the car.  That's perfect because I now have exactly 15 minutes to put away all the groceries before I have to go back to pick up MK from school (three hours go by too quickly!), and it's so much easier to put away the groceries without my little shadow under foot.

 I open the fridge and realize that I need to purge some stuff before I can put away the fresh groceries--another consequence of not planning ahead for this grocery run.  I put away all the perishables and half of the non-perishables.  Then I run to the bathroom because I've been dying to pee ever since we left Target. 

MJ is still asleep when I get to the preschool, but I can't leave her in the car, so I try to get her out without waking her.  Success!  I did it!  But now MK wants me to carry her, too.  Are you kidding me with the tears?  I manage to pick her up, too, while holding her school bag, and we limp out to the car, MK slowly sliding down my hip and doing nothing to hold herself up.  MJ stirs as I put her back in the car, but manages to fall back to sleep during the three-minute drive home.  I don't actually want her to be asleep at this point, but she is.  MK and I chat about school while we drive home.

Once home, I try to wake up MJ, but she is out like a light.  So I take MK inside and fix her lunch.  Everyday she asks for the same thing:  "I want hanguber cheese, chicky nuggets, and yewwow gummies!"  I decide to make her a peanut butter roll-up, Goldfish crackers, and fresh strawberries, which I just bought because she has asked for them every day for a week, and we didn't have any.  While I fix and eat my own lunch, she eats the Goldfish...and that's all.  I have to tell her to eat her roll-up and strawberries over and over again.  I remind her that she has been dying to have some strawberries for a week, but she is unmoved.  An hour later, she has had exactly one bite of the roll-up and one quarter of a strawberry.  I give up.

At 1:30, I tell her that it's time for a nap.  "When the timers go off," she insists.  We live and die by "the timers" these days.  She doesn't want to do anything until a timer sounds.  Upside:  As soon as she hears that timer, she happily agrees to do whatever the timer was set to signal.  So I set the timer for one minute, and then we're off to bed.

Of course, MK won't go to sleep immediately.  No, she'll play in her room (quite noisily) until 3:30 or 4:00.  I'll remind her several times that she needs to quiet down, lay down, and go to sleep.  She'll say, "OK," but it's just a reflex, really.  In the meantime, I go back downstairs, lay down on the couch, and turn on Food Network.  But just five minutes later, MJ starts crying from the car.  So I go out and get her and make her lunch.  Much like her sister, she won't eat much of it.  Nor will she drink much of her milk.

By now, I'm exhausted, and the house is a mess.  However, I can't nap or clean because MJ is raring to go.  She demands my attention.  I can't get anything done.  I sit down to pee, and I hear the distinctive little thumps of two hands and two knees scurrying across the floor.  Before I know it, there's MJ pulling herself up at my knees.  I feel my rope begin to fray. 

I try to watch a little TV, but MJ isn't having it.  She's whining and smacking her hand on my knee, but when I pick her up, she leans over and tries to get back down on the ground.  I sit on the ground to play with her, and she tries to climb all over me.  Yet, again, when I try to hold her, she tries to squirm away.  We read "Hand, Hand, Finger, Thumb" over and over again.  (It's her favorite book.)  It's almost 3:00 now, so I try to put her down for an afternoon nap.  She doesn't sleep, but at least she plays quietly in her crib. 

MK is still not asleep.  She's acting out "Tangled" in her room.  If I wasn't so exhausted, it would probably be entertaining. 

I lay down on my own bed.  By now, I'm beyond sleep.  So I just lay there and rest my weary body.  I thumb through Facebook and AP news and play a quick round of Bonza.  My neighbors text at 3:45 to see if anyone wants to come over and play, but guess what...Molly has finally fallen asleep.  Damn.  I could have really used the adult conversation. 

Maggie has grown bored with playing in her crib.  I take her back downstairs, chuck her in the highchair, and throw some Goldfish on the tray while I clean up the kitchen and finish putting away groceries.  The next thing I know, it's 4:30.

I go upstairs to wake up MK.  She is still tired, so all she wants to do is curl up in my lap for a while.  MJ is out of snacks and starts to squawk.  I set MK down in the chair and go to get more Goldfish just as my husband texts to tell me that he's on his way home.  Shit.  Dinner.  I lost track of time, and now it's 5:00.  So I start to pull together the ingredients for chicken stew and find that I forgot to buy the kidney beans for it.  I text my husband and ask him to stop and get some on his way home.  As I look over the recipe again, I realize that I needed to start this stew around 4:30.  At this point, it won't be ready to eat until nearly 7:00.  That should make for happy toddlers.

MJ has decided that she is over the Goldfish and screeches to signal that she wants down.  I set her in the living room and ask MK to play with her.  MK beckons her to follow to the play room, but, instead, MJ pads out to the kitchen, where she sets herself right under my feet.  I'm trying desperately not to step on her or drop my knife on her or bang her head with a drawer.  She's whining and crying and clutching my leg.  I stop what I'm doing and carry her into the play room, but three minutes later, she finds her way back to my shadow.

By the time my husband gets home, I'm ready to hand him both the baby and the onions and walk out the door.  But I can't.  He tries to tell me about his day, but I'm only half tuned in because I'm thinking of the next step in the recipe.  I know he's tired and exasperated, too, but I can't even make myself help him when he puts MJ down to try to go upstairs and change his clothes, and she loses her mind.  I'm also so absorbed by the task of fixing dinner that I can't recognize that he feels neglected by my failure to even attempt to greet him at the door.  "Here, please take the baby before I lose my mind!" doesn't exactly translate to, "Welcome home, dear!"

By 6:00, the stew is simmering, and I sit down to try to rest.  Only, I feel like if I do that, my husband will think I'm "free" and will run off to do something for himself; so I jump back up and start putting whatever I can into the dishwasher.

The stew is finally ready at 6:40.  I call everyone to the table and serve up the food, cutting chicken and carrots and celery up for the girls to make it easy for them to eat.  I finally sit down myself to eat, and MK announces that she doesn't want her dinner.  We assure her that she's eaten it before and likes it, but she digs in her heels.  We cajole, and she protests.  Now she's fake-crying, and MJ has decided to join in the show.  That fraying rope?  It's mostly a pile of frizzy fibers by now.  I yell, "Enough!  I don't want to hear it anymore!  Just sit there, and don't say another word."  "Stop welling at me, Mama! Just be happy!" MK cries.  I feel ashamed and angry all at once.  My husband jumps in and tries to take over, but it doesn't help my mood.  All I want to do is get up from the table, get into my car, and drive off with the music blaring.  Instead, I cram my dinner into my face and then jump up from the table and start throwing (almost literally) dishes into the dishwasher.

I remind my husband that it's bath night, my not-so-subtle hint that he should take the girls upstairs and get them out of my face.  I continue to clean up the kitchen while trying to think of some legitimate errand that could get me out of the house for a while.  The binkies!  I stop in my tracks and run upstairs to run a comb through my hair and tell my husband that I have to run out for a minute.  "But I want to go wif you!" MK cries from the bath tub.  I try to tell her that I'm not going to do anything fun.  Neither she nor my husband believes me.  Yes, I'm leaving the house.  Yes, I'm going to the store.  Yes, technically, I'll be shopping.  But it isn't fun shopping.  It's I-forgot-a-sanity-saving-device-when-I-was-there-ten-hours-ago shopping.  The only truly enjoyable part of it is that I will be alone for at least 30 minutes.  I may even stop to pee (alone) while I'm there.  Still, MK cries, and my husband quietly fumes.

I run downstairs, grab my wallet, throw on some shoes, and head out the door.  For the next 30 minutes, I am free.  And I'm not free.  Now I'm wondering if MK is still crying.  Did that get MJ riled up, too?  I should hurry.  My husband prefers not to bathe both girls alone because MJ is a little hard to handle now that she's getting mobile and has no fear.  She's probably standing up in the tub, and he's probably getting nervous about it.  Plus, I still have to finish cleaning up the kitchen.  I wish I had finished before I left.  I'm never free from my thoughts. 

As I pull into Target, though, I almost forget all that.  That glowing red bullseye snaps me back to the world, and I remember that I can actually stroll through the toy aisle to find a birthday present for that party this weekend because I don't have any kids with me.  And I wanted to look through the clearance racks in the toddler section.  It's down to 70% off now.  I should probably run over to Hallmark and try to stock up on upcoming birthday cards, too...  I've been in the toy section for about five minutes when my husband texts to ask if MJ has any clean pajamas.  She doesn't.  Remember?  It's been eight days since I've done laundry.  Distracted by the thought that my clean children don't have any clean pajamas to wear, I decide to skip the gifts for now.  I'll just figure it out later.  I run over to the clearance racks.  Maybe I can buy some clean pajamas.  Another text.  Do I know where the binky is?  MJ is losing her ever-lovin' mind.  Shit.  Forget the clearance stuff.  I head over to the binkies, and, of course, they are completely out of the binkies MJ uses.  Are you kidding me with this?  Hallmark will have to wait because now I have to go to Meijer to see if they have the binkies.

Of course, Meijer is clear across the road in another group of stores altogether.  It couldn't be just next door.  That would be too easy.  So I get back into my car and drive over there...only to find that they don't have them in stock either.  Really?  Are Avent binkies a hot thing right now?  Well, I guess I'll have to try Buy Buy Baby.  I should have just gone there in the first place.

I'm flustered and aggravated at this point.  My 30-minute escape to peace and quiet has turned into a mad dash to get those damned binkies and get home (to a screaming kid no less).  I find the binkies at Buy Buy Baby, and just as I'm checking out, my husband texts again:  "MJ is fine now.  Drinking her milk.  Both girls bathed and dressed for bed.  Take your time."  I don't take him up on it.  I'm not in the mood to do any other shopping at this point.

I go home and return to loading the dishwasher.  I'm mentally and physically exhausted now.  I tell MK that it's just about time for bed.  "When the timers go off," she protests.  I set the timer on my phone for five minutes.

When the timer goes off, MK announces, "It's nighty-night time!"  We all head up the stairs.  My husband takes MJ to her room, reads her a couple of books, says prayers with her, and tucks her into her crib.  I take MK to the potty, and then she (slowly) brushes her teeth in between refrains of the Bubble Guppies teeth-brushing song.  It should be a cute moment that I make a point to burn into my memory, but instead, I cut her off and say, "Is it Mommy's turn to brush your teeth?"  Once we're finished in the bathroom, we head to her room to read stories.  I try to limit her to three, but some nights it's more like five.  Tonight, we read four.  Then it's up into bed, and I head back downstairs. By now, it's 8:50. 

I hand wash the day's bottles and the girls' dishes.  Then I clean up the toy room and the living room.  Finally, my "chores" are finished.  So I go out to the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee.  I sit down and start watching an episode of "Top Chef" from the DVR.  I'm still exhausted, but I'm not sleepy.  There's a difference you know.

MK is reenacting Frozen in her bed, and she's very loud.  I use the 2-way speaker on the monitor to remind her to be quiet.  Five minutes later, I am walking up the stairs to tell her again that she needs to quiet down and go to sleep.  She begins to cry and say that she's scared.  "Lay down on the floor, Mama," she says.  I try to talk her down, but she gets more and more upset to the point of hyperventilation, so I lay down on the floor next to her bed.  Every time she tries to talk, I shush her and tell her to go to sleep.  This goes on for 35 minutes until I'm fairly certain that she has drifted off, so I slowly and silently get up and head for the door.  Just as I'm lifting my leg over the baby gate in her doorway, she whips her head around and asks where I'm going.  "I have to go to the bathroom," I say, "I'll be right back."  That's a lie.  I don't have to go to the bathroom, and I won't be right back.  I feel terrible, but...

I put on my pajamas and go back downstairs to finish my coffee.  As soon as my show ends, I head upstairs to bed.  I don't contemplate the day at all.  I mindlessly thumb through Facebook on my phone, play a round of Bonza, then turn out the light and pray that no one wakes up.  It's almost 11:00.

At 12:30, MJ starts crying...

*     *     *     *     *

This (or some variation of it) is my life every day.  Am I complaining?  No.  Well, maybe just a little.  But, really, I just want to convey what staying at home with children entails.  It isn't all play dates and crafts and Rice Krispy treats, much like all those other blogs led me to believe all those years ago.  It's down-in-the-trenches hard work most days.  It is no harder than going outside the home to work every day, but it's no easier either.  (Hello!  People who work outside the home get to pee alone.  That, in and of itself, makes up for all the other aggravation that they face in the day!)  It is physically and mentally draining sometimes.  Yes, we have some very fun, relaxed days.  Yes, I laugh at least once every day.  Yes, I love my children more than anything in this world.  And, yes, even though I could go back to work if I wanted to, I am choosing to spend these years at home with my girls.  (And thank you to my husband for making that possible.)  But I would be lying if I said there aren't days when I think that I would give my husband's right nut to be able to go to a job-job.  Just for one day.  Just to pee alone.  

And I don't mean for this to be any sort of backhand to all the happy, sunny, la vie est belle mommy blogs out there that chronicle only or mostly the pretty, put-together parts of staying home with children.  I just mean for this to show what my reality is as a stay-at-home-mom, and it sure as hell doesn't resemble the "Leave It to Beaver" and "Donna Reed" reruns I used to watch on TV when I was a kid.  Let me tell you, those women were either frauds or closet drinkers because I can count on one hand the number of times I have greeted my husband at the door fully made up, hair done, nice clothes, and smile on my face.  The other 1,091 days, I have "greeted" him with a crying child shoved in his face or with a curt, "Well, my day has been AWFUL!" or with absolutely no eye contact or words at all.  (You can imagine what that does for a marriage, but that's another post altogether.  As you can tell from my blogging history, it will be another three or four months before I get around to that.  Hell, it took me five days just to finish this post!)  Meanwhile, the kids are running around like banshees, sometimes without their pants; dinner is running late; the simple tasks that he asked me to do (marking my calendar and finding a sitter, for instance) are not done; and I have not one sweet craft made out of tiny hand prints to show him. 

But...la vie est (still) belle.  You just sometimes have to dig through a lot of crap to get to the belle.  

Anna (Frozen) Cape Tutorial

First, this is not a crafting blog. I'm not one of those Super Moms who makes her children play clothes and stuffed toys and memory quilts. I'm doing well to get both of my kids dressed in a day. With that said, when I searched Pinterest for a tutorial to make a cape for an Anna costume, I didn't find any one site that was particularly helpful. So I created my own "pattern," and blogging the instructions was the easiest way to share it with my friend. So here we are. 

Here's what I used to make my smallish 3-year-old a cape (you may need to adjust material amounts based on size): 

•1 1/2 yds of polar fleece (it won't fray and didn't need to be hemmed, but you could use whatever fabric you like)

•2 packages (5 yds) jumbo rick-rack

•1 frog closure

•threads to match the fleece and the rick-rack (or fabric glue if you don't sew)

The cape is about 30 1/2" long (which is almost to the floor on my 3yo)...

...and about 29 1/2" at its widest point. I began by cutting a square that was intended to be 30" by 30". How that didn't work out, I don't know. Anywho...I rounded off the bottom corners using a plastic lid as a template, and then I sort of eyeballed the trimming of the sides to reduce the bulk around the top. It ended up being about 20 1/2" wide at the top. 

The capelet is about 34" long...

...and about 12" wide. I originally cut it as a rectangle and just rounded off the corners with a plastic lid, but once I put it on my daughter, I realized that I needed to round off those bottom corners a little more to make it lay right. A semi-circle shape probably would have worked even better. 

I cut a neck hole that is about 8 1/2" wide...

...and 3" deep. (I sort of free-handed this because I didn't have the right sized lid in my cabinet.) I cut the same neck hole in the cape. 

Then I lined up the pieces. There's really no "right" side to polar fleece, but if you're using another material, you'll want to be conscious of what your "right" and "wrong" sides are at this point. 

I pinned the pieces together and headed to the sewing machine. However, you should also be able to join the pieces with fabric glue if you don't sew. 

I sewed my rick-rack on at the same time that I sewed my pieces together, but, again, you could probably glue this. Oh, and I did not sew the back of the capelet to the back of the cape. The cape and capelet are only stitched together around the neck and then as far as the pieces overlap across the top of the "T" (so, basically, where you see the pins in that last photo).

Finally, I stitched on the frog closure. You can do this by hand or on the machine. Et voila! Anna's cloak is complete. 

Not too shabby, if I do say so myself!

The One Where My Life Became an Episode of Friends

Remember the time Chandler tried to quit the gym?  He wasn't using his membership, so he went in to cancel his membership, and they made it so hard for him that he eventually went to the bank to try to close his account to stop the automatic debit...but then he couldn't "quit the bank" either.  Yeah, that happened to me yesterday.

About two years ago, I joined Urban Active to try to shake off the last of the baby weight.  I would meet with a trainer two or three times a week and do a little cardio on my own another two days a week.  I didn't get back to my pre-baby weight, but I got close.

Somewhere along the line, my husband joined Urban Active as well.  His schedule didn't allow him to go very often, but he did try to keep up a weekly game of racquet ball.

Then one day, it was announced that Urban Active had been bought out by LA Fitness.  "Don't worry," they said, "all the changes we're making are going to be for the better."  That was hard to imagine since I was pretty happy with things the way they were.  Just as I had feared, it wasn't long before the changes started to trickle down, and they were certainly not "better."

First, the Kids' Club took a steep dive.  I stopped going to the gym until my husband was home to watch Molly.  That greatly reduced the opportunities I had to meet with my trainer.  It didn't matter, though, because within two months of the takeover, my trainer told me that she was quitting because LA Fitness was screwing them on their salaries.   I tried to just workout on my own, but you know how that goes.  Plus, the facilities were not being kept up at all.  I stopped going to the gym altogether shortly after my trainer left.  As soon as my initial contract period was up, I canceled my own membership.  My husband hadn't been to the gym in who knows how long, but he didn't want to cancel his membership.  He liked having the option to play racquet ball...once a month.

It pained me to pay $35 a month for the possibility that my husband could get the guys together once in a blue moon to slam a ball into a wall, though, and I asked him several times if I could cancel his membership.  He hemmed and hawed and said, "I want to start working out again."  But it just never happened.  I mean, the man has been out of town 27 of the last 44 days.  He's been home just long enough to sleep, repack his bags, and eat breakfast some weeks.  So the other day, I made the command decision to cancel his membership.

Of course, just like in that episode of "Friends," you have to cancel your membership in person.  So I dragged my fidgety pre-nap toddler and my trying-to-nap infant into the gym.  "I want to cancel my husband's membership," I announced.  "Hmmmm...okaaaay.  Well, let me see what I can do for you," the perky blonde behind the counter said.  She asked for the phone number associated with the account.  Mine didn't work.  My husband's cell didn't work.  I couldn't remember his work number off the top of my head.  Then she asked for the debit card associated with the account.  Mine wasn't the right one.  "Look, can't I just give you his name?  Surely you can find it that way," I said.  "Weeeeeelllllll, I could try that," she stalled.  All the while, a large man was standing over her shoulder watching the screen intently, as if I might try to jerk it off the desk and leave with it.  "Hmmmmm...well, I think I found it, but...hmmmmm...if you cancel this, you won't have access to the Kids' Club anymore," she insisted, as if it was Disney World or something.  "We don't need the Kids' Club.  If you look at the account, you'll see that it hasn't been used in several months.  And he never used the Kids' Club to begin with, so it doesn't matter," I huffed.  Molly had spotted the smoothie bar and was trying to get my attention.  I knew we were moments away from a "Mama, THIS  way!" meltdown.  "Look, can we hurry this up?  I have two little time bombs here who could blow at any second," I insisted.  She answered, "The thing is, the Kids' Club member ship is tied to his account, and if you cancel his account, you won't have access to it anymore."  Now I was beyond annoyed.  "Uh, yeah?  I don't care!  I canceled my membership a year ago!  In fact, one of the big reasons I quit was because your Kids' Club wasn't providing quality care to my child!  So I don't care about the Kids' Club membership!  I just want you to cancel my husband's membership, and I need you to do it as quickly as possible!"  She clicked a few keys and chirped, "All set.  Anything else I can do for you?"  I just turned on my heel and left.

Aaaand cue the toddler:  "THIS way, mama!  I want a juice!  No, THIS way!"  Yep.  I knew that was coming. 

It would have been easier just to close my bank account and open up a new one. 

To Have or Have Not (a Third Child)

I don't mean to brag, but my husband and I produce pretty darn perfect babies.  Both of our girls were sleeping through the night at eight weeks.  With Molly, we only ever had to "cry it out" for about five to seven minutes on about three or four nights before she began putting herself to sleep.  With Maggie, we never had to "cry it out" at all.  We just put her in bed when she starts rubbing her little eyes (or even when we're ready for her to go to sleep), and she just goes to sleep.  And they wake up in the morning happy as little larks, Maggie cooing to her hands and Molly singing to her dolls.  Between the two of them, we have only had about eight instances of spit up, and only one was a clothes-changer.  They are non-cranky teethers.  In fact, every tooth in Molly's little head was a complete surprise to me because she never gave any indication that a sharp object was trying to erupt through her gums.  They love taking baths.  They're good little travelers.  And when it came time to get rid of Molly's binky, she didn't shed a single tear.  They are the most easy-going, most pleasant little girls you have ever met.  People actually say, "You make such wonderful babies!  You should have ten of them!"  And I reply, "Aw, shucks!  I mean, they're OK, but let's not get carried--  No, you're right!  They're the best babies EVER!"

So why don't we have another?

Were this ten years earlier--or even five--we probably would have another child.  But here's the thing:  I'm 39 (and a half), and my husband is almost 49.  Is it time for us to humbly thank God for the blessings He has given us and just be glad for the two best babies ever?

Obviously, it's 2014, and age isn't the factor that it once was or was thought to be.  Still, the older you are, the higher the chance that you will experience an unexpected turn in your pregnancy.  I'm not just talking about trisomies here.  Did you know that your chance of having multiples increases with age?  Yep.  When we discussed age and trisomy with our OB, she said, "Well, at 40, your risk for Down Syndrome and other trisomies doesn't really jump that much.  However, your risk for multiples does."  Uh, I did not know that.  So if we go for three, we could end up with four.  Whoa, horse!

Actually, for me, that wouldn't necessarily be bad.  I don't like the idea of having three kids that much anyway.  I mean, it's not that I wouldn't love to have another child, but three is a tough number.  What if you're at Disney World, and none of your kids wants to ride Space Mountain alone?  Now you're stuck riding Space Mountain, which is quite possibly the most overrated ride in Disney Kingdom-dom.  And if you have three kids, it's impossible to talk your way around the "middle child" thing.  There will most definitely and unarguably be a "middle child," and that spells disaster.  Speaking of "middles," you'll have to add a middle seat to your vehicle to accommodate a third child safety seat.  You know what that means:  Minivan.  It's not that I'm against a minivan, but having only three kids in a minivan seems like a waste of space.  You should have at least two little butts in each row of seats. 

So three is a less happy number for me than four.  But, wow...four.  Can we afford that?  With our school districts being rezoned, Catholic school has suddenly become a very real possibility.  Twelve years of Catholic school tuition times four kids...you do the math.  Then they will go to college.  I'm sorry, but my husband and I have five degrees between us, and both of us have terminal degrees.  College is non-negotiable.  And then the weddings.  Hoo, boy!  We already have two daughters.  What if we have two more?  I mean, at this rate, my husband would have to work until he's 80 if we had four kids.  Plus, if we don't have twins but have a fourth pregnancy instead, then we're talking about having a new baby at 42 and 52 (eep!).     

But part of our indecision is that, mentally, we don't feel our years.  If you've ever met my husband, you know he's 48 going on 18.  And while I'm staring down the barrel of 40, I don't feel a day over 30.  It's easy to forget that when Molly and Maggie are going off to high school, we'll be 50 and 60, not to mention this hypothetical third (or fourth) child.  Of course, older parents aren't the creepy weirdness that they were when I was the kid with the parents who were only slightly younger than my friends' grandparents; but I don't want my children's lives to have to slow down because we are slowing down.  So maybe today we feel ready to take on the world with a few kids in tow, but how will we feel in ten years?

And then I think, Well shit!  We're already older parents.  Is there really a difference between having a child at 36/46 and 38/48 and having a child at 40/50?  Except, we'd be parents of a newborn at 40 and 50 and have two increasingly active toddlers to boot.  Will we have enough stamina for that?  

Still, I know that I'm going to be 40 and have two have beautiful, (if not always) sweet toddlers and think, I want another baby.  We've already established that my husband and I make the most wonderful babies, and maybe this one would be a boy!  My husband is an only son.  He wouldn't trade his two girls for anything in this world, but he did finally admit not too long ago that it might be nice to have a boy, too.  (For reasons that seem silly and archaic, it's important to me for him to have a son as well.) 

Beyond age and financial concerns, my husband also worries about our marriage if we add another child.  He felt an added strain when Maggie was a tiny baby.  I'm not going to lie.  He's right.  Our children have put a strain on our marriage.  I feel like our relationship has changed immensely since Molly was born, mostly on my end.  I have poured so much energy and emotion and love into those two little girls that I sometimes feel like I have nothing left to offer him.  So, yeah, I worry, too, that adding another little person to this equation may leave him even further down on my list of emotional priorities.

So those are our concerns about deciding to have another child (or two because I'm a nut ball who doesn't like the idea of three children).  But then I also have concerns about deciding against having another child.  The biggest can be chalked up to good ol' fashioned Catholic guilt.  I feel like God wants me to have more children.   I mean, He has not given me one single reason not to have more children.  Aside from the fact that we have the sweetest little angel babies, I have the smoothest, most uneventful, most enjoyable pregnancies.  On top of that, I have had the quickest, most pain-free recoveries from both of my c-sections.  (I actually begged my doctor to let me go home a day early when Maggie was born.)  So I think, Why would I not have any more babies?  I'm clearly built for this.  Maybe this is God's purpose for my life.

And just for shits and giggles, let's add in a little Grandma guilt.  Grandma once told my cousin, "You will never regret having a third child, but you may regret not having a third child."  Now, granted, she has never said that to me directly, but she told me that she said it to my cousin, so I feel this sort of subliminal messaging in her relaying the discussion to me.  Oh, and let's not forget that Grandma was 40 when her youngest of six children was born; and her mother was 43 when her youngest of eight children (twins--just like my doctor said!) were born.  (My husband's mother was also 40 when he was born.)

But, really, who needs the external guilt, when I can churn up plenty of internal guilt?  I honestly feel like the reasons my husband and I have for not adding more children to our family are incredibly selfish reasons.  Financially, we'd be more comfortable with fewer mouths to feed and butts to diaper.  Physically, we'd be less exhausted if all of our children were sleeping through the night.  Mentally, we'd be happier if we could still slip away for twice monthly date nights and weekends away without the kids.  (The difficulty in securing a babysitter goes up exponentially when you hit three kids.)  Isn't that ugly and disgraceful, that we would rather have an annual weekend getaway to New Orleans than a third child???  At the same time, though, if we're honest with ourselves, these are real concerns.

It's just such a difficult decision to make, especially when we have friends who would give anything to have a baby right now. 

*     *     *     *     *

So in the middle of writing this (it takes me a few days of stealing away to my office to cough up a blog post these days), my 89-year-old father-in-law became ill and ended up in the hospital.  An overnight stay has turned into a 5-night stay and will probably become a week-long stay.  Needless to say, my husband has had to be with his parents a lot over these last several days.  There's no question that he should be with them.  But I've been left here alone with the girls and my thoughts, and it occurred to me that all four of our parents are elderly.  Pop's hospital stay is just the beginning in all likelihood.  My God, what would we do if we had three or four children and a parent in the hospital?  His parents are only two hours away, but mine are six hours away.  And what if the kids were in school and involved in extracurriculars, and I was back at work?  Then what would we do?

I don't know.  No matter what our situation--two kids or twelve--God always seems to provide.  I was anxious about adding Maggie to our family, and it was, all things considered, an almost seamless transition.  I was worried about how I would juggle a toddler and a newborn, and there really wasn't much juggling involved.  I lost sleep over how I would find the hours in the days to be everything to everyone who needed me, and 24 hours seems to be enough.  God just makes it all so.

Even still, I think I'm finding myself on the verge of saying, "No more.  Our family is complete."  But check back with me in another week.

A Mother's Day Gift to Myself

A few months ago, a blog post was spreading around Facebook riling up mommies like an angry toddler.  I won't dignify the post by linking to it, but the gist of it was this:  If you are a stay-at-home-mom/homemaker, you are a worthless embarrassment to womankind who offers nothing to society.  I remember thinking nothing more of it than that this woman was a bitter, mouthy idiot; and I quickly moved on with my worthless, stay-at-home routine.

Then today, I was tuning in the Barefoot Contessa as I prepared to fold two loads of laundry in the waning minutes of nap time, and I thought, Wow.  What has become of my life that my "job" has led to the memorization of the Food Network schedule and dressing in yoga pants to "go to work" on the couch?  And then I had an even more stark, stomach-knotting realization--that I somehow felt like I had to apologize or feel like some sort of failure for making my job in the home.  What the hell is wrong with me?  What the hell is wrong with women in general that we have forced ourselves to judge our usefulness to society based on what we "do"? 

As offended by and indignant about that blog post as I had been all those months before, there is still some part of me that feels like I am letting down womankind and society in general by not pursuing a career at this time in my life.  At least once a week, I feel this pang of guilt for not using either one of my two degrees to contribute to the household income or to society.  And every time someone asks me what I "do," I feel this warm tingle of embarrassment when I say, "Oh, I'm just a stay-at-home-mom," followed by, "but I used to be an attorney, and I do plan to work again some day."  Again, I ask, what the hell is wrong with me?  I shouldn't feel embarrassed or that I have to make excuses for what I "do."  I am raising two human beings to (hopefully, I pray to God every day) be good, kind, loving, socially responsible, and successful women! That seems like a pretty damn important endeavor, don't you think?

For ten years, I was an attorney working in the courts of West Virginia.  Not to sound self-important, but the work that I did impacted lives throughout the state every day.  You can find my work published in legal case reporters that are found in law libraries all across this country, and legal opinions that I drafted are cited as authority in other cases.  And guess what...none of that work will ever have the impact that the work I'm doing right now will have.  That pre-child, feminism-affirming, "valid" work that I did will some day be forgotten in favor of newer, more contemporary legal authority.  The words that I put to paper will at some point sound arcane and irrelevant.  The mark that I left on the world through my legal career will be relegated to a dusty, musty corner of the stacks that only librarians see as they rearrange the older volumes to make room for the next generation of irrelevant legal authority.

My daughters, though, they will be leaving their own mark on the world by then.  Maybe they'll write new legal authority.  Maybe they'll cure cancer.  Maybe they'll vanquish poverty.  Maybe they'll "just" raise another generation of members of society.  I don't know what they'll do, but they'll do something; and if I hadn't taken the leap from career woman to mother, their mark on the world (whatever it turns out to be) would never have been known. 

Is that to say that I'm better or more valuable to society than those women who choose not to or who cannot have children?  No.  They're leaving their own marks on the world in their own ways.  And God knows that I'm not saying that I'm better or more valuable than the working mothers.  My hat is off to any woman who works one part-time or full-time job outside the home (or from home) and then has to work another full-time job at home!  (I honestly and sincerely do not know how working mothers do it.)  My point is simply that my job is no less important or valuable to society just because it is done in yoga pants and largely in the confines of my home. 

I know that, but sometimes I forget that I know that.  So as a Mother's Day gift to myself, I'm going to tell myself once and for all that being a stay-at-home mom is neither worthless nor embarrassing and that, in fact, it is one of the most important jobs in the world.  And I don't need to apologize for it.  I need to be proud of it.  No, I will not leave the sort of mark on the world that Jane Austen or Harper Lee or Mother Theresa or Sally Ride left on this world, but none of them would have had the chance to leave their marks if their mothers hadn't chosen to be just that--a mother.  Am I right, or am I right?