To my sweetest, goofiest, bounciest baby Bee on her birthday.

Dear Bee,

Usually, I would start your birthday letter with some sort of admonition about getting older and demand who, exactly, let that happen. Not this year. You, you were born to be four, sweetie pie. I can see you finally coming into your own: finding your voice, bubbling with confidence, staking your claim. Your sister doesn’t quite always know what to do with this new outloud version of you, but I am delighting in your maturation. I have been waiting for you to step out of your sister’s shadow and I think the new you is glorious.

Indeed, my love, you have changed a bunch this past year. I can hear the changes in your speech pattern now that you deign to speak up for yourself. Most of your baby talk is gone, but there are still those phrases and letter combinations that give you trouble. You say “busy” for “dizzy” and “claws” for “pause” and generally give your poor momma fits over whether to have your speech tested. But really, I’ve seen such improvement since last year. Forgive me if it’s a bit selfish, but I want to enjoy the last vestiges of babyisms before both of my girls are acting too grown up for their own good!

And my have you grown! I’m just waiting for your mouth to catch up with the rest of you. Your legs have grown so long and your arms are so skinny. Your Buddha belly is a thing of the past. All I have left to remind me that you were a well-fed baby is the roundness of your face and that booty of yours that refuses to shrink, no matter how much you stretch out. You’ve been wearing 4T clothes since last fall and you can comfortably fit into 5T dresses and shirts. It won’t be long before you and your sister are wearing the same size clothes and I just see how those arguments are going to go!

I think my favorite change I’ve seen is that you finally, finally understand this concept of birthdays. Last year you kept insisting, “My birt-day is coming up!” even on your day of days. You loved counting down and building up the anticipation. The actual event? You were decidedly meh about it. This year? You are all. about. the birthday attention. If I ask “Who has a birthday coming up?” You’ll scream, “Meeeeeee!” And then insist that your frosting be blue with red sprinkles and lots of Bs for “Bee.” And ask, ever so sweetly, if you could be line-leader every morning instead of taking turns because your birthday was coming up. Sheesh, when you get this birthday-thang, you really get it.

For all of your growing up, you still act your age at times. Yes, you’re my walking contradiction: you plunge your face into the water to show off your breath-holding skills and general fearlessness and then you turn around and collapse to the floor in a fit because you don’t get your way. You cry and whine any time you are remotely tired, and sometimes when you just want to get your way. But I can tell it won’t be long before you leave even that trick behind: I can tell when it’s your temper governing your actions (good lord – look out for that temper!) and when you are honestly an over-tired four-year-old. I like that you’re so transparent, Bee-baby, because you make it so easy for me to react gently when you can’t help it, and firmly when you need to remember your manners.

And yet, for all these changes, so many things have stayed the same. You still love to cuddle with mommy when you first wake up; bizarrely, usually whenever we’re in the middle of a meal; or whenever you get in trouble (yes, I still love you even then). You’re still the queen of the Up-and-Down Bedtime Brigade, getting up three or four times before you finally fall asleep. (1: “I need to go potty, Mommy.” 2: “Can you cover me up?” 3: “I can’t find Bear!” and finally, always the last call: “I had a bad dweam!”) Yes, there are a few things that make you you, no matter what age you insist on turning. I love that you have your constants: it makes this “My baby is growing up! Wah!” thing a whole lot easier on your mommy.

Here’s another constant, one you already know but never get tired of hearing: I love you, Bee-baby. You will always grow older, grow bigger and healthier and smarter and more lovely. But you will always, always be mine.

Happy Birthday, baby girl.

Love,
Mom

She tagged me!

The very lovely and incredibly delightful Mrs. E over at Easy Street tagged me with this fun little meme yesterday. Who doesn’t love memes? (And who doesn’t play along in their heads while they’re reading them?) I decided to play along because one day I am going to show up for a vacation at Mrs. E’s and it will all go over much better if she thinks I’m wonderful. Ahem. So….

1. What’s your staple meal (ie. what meal do you cook most often when you can’t be bothered to be adventurous)?
If I need a quick meal because I don’t have any leftovers and I don’t have time to bake some chicken or pork chops, I usually just make pasta and “cheater” sauce (which means out of a can instead of homemade – please don’t tell my mom!).

2. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Happy! I don’t want to have too many regrets in my life (at least not big, important ones) and I think I’m doing a fair job. At the very least, when I find myself all tangled up, I put on a brave face and march back into the foray to try to untie the knot I’ve made. (Not unlike the knot of cliches I just created. Oof.) I also want to always be able to find the funny – or make the funny, if need be. I’ve worked hard for these laugh lines, you guys, and I mean to keep them.

3. What book are you reading at the moment (if any)?
I’ve been reading Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver during my lunch hour. I’m nearly done and I hated to put it down yesterday! Two more lunches should kill it. It’s truly one of the most fascinating stories I’ve had the pleasure to analyze in a long time. At night, I’ve been reading the first Percy Jackson and The Olympians book, The Lightning Thief by Rick Riorden. The series isn’t Harry Potter, but it’s still a pretty decent and addictive read.

4. How do you relax?
Oh, let me count the ways (but it usually involves a glass of wine). It usually involves watching TV or reading my latest book. Then there’s writing or playing mindless Yahoo games. And if I’m really desperate to let loose and completely disengage myself from the politics of the workplace, there’s drunken Wii.

5. What color are the interior walls of your home?
Most of them are still white. The kitchen is some shade of green that I’m sure has a name – somewhere between an olive green and a mint green. It’s meant to match the beige-ish tan and the dark brown I have going on in the living room (it’s an open floor plan) and the burnt-orangeish accent pieces in the kitchen. Think antiquey farm and you’ll have the color green that I mean. The girls’ room is painted Lion’s Mane, which is a sort of creamish yellowy tan to go with the dusty rose and green accents in there. And some time soonish I’m going to paint the master bedroom some shade of sea blue and bright white to make it a Cape Cod beach get-away.

6. What is your guiltiest pleasure?
Scrapbooking. You should see the amount of stuff I have. An entire room. Really – somewhere in there is a guest bed, I swear.

7. What time is bedtime and getting up time?
I usually get into bed at 9 p.m. and read for an hour (or 90 minutes, depending on how good the book is). On weekends, it could be anywhere from 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. depending on whether or not I have the girls (and therefore whether or not I can sleep in!). I wake up for work at 5:30 a.m. and work out. On the weekends the girls wake me up between 6 a.m. and 7 a.m., or if it’s a girls-free weekend, I get out of bed at 8 a.m. at the latest.

8. How long do you spend reading blogs (per day or week)?
Usually an hour, here and there, throughout the day. Hey, it’s healthier than taking smoke breaks! (Although possibly quite as addictive.)

This is where I’m supposed to tag a couple people, but I don’t like to do that. So if you want it – steal it! Heck, it’s yours! For free! And who doesn’t like free? And don’t forget to stop by and say hi to Mrs. E and tell her she’s pretty!

She’s my cherry pie.

No, I did not bake an itty bitty person into my cherry pie. But, great scot, that would be creative. I did, however, bake cherry pies today. Why? Because it’s 99°F outside (without the heat index), I’m keeping my central air at 84°, and I’ve gone mad! Mad, I tell you! Ahem. There might have been a bit of sugar in the pie.

About a month ago, my dear friend John had a birthday. And what do I do when it’s someone’s birthday? I bake! And since we all know that baked goods=power, I discovered a few years ago via super-stealth methods that John’s favorite pie happens to be cherry, and so now I bake cherry pie for him for his birthdays. (Some day I am going to cash in on all of those favors. Knowing me it will be because I’m on the side of the road with a flat when the IO is out of town.) Anyway…this weekend the grocery store had cherries on sale for $1.99/lb and so I bought myself 4lbs of cherries because I am crazy can never remember how many pounds of fresh cherries it takes to make a pie. (For everyone else’s benefit, it takes 2lbs. You’re welcome.)

While I was putting away the groceries and de-pitifying my fresh cherries, I called my mom to see how she was doing. That went well for about ten minutes and then I talked to my baby sister and she got mad at me and then my mom got back on the phone and was upset at me because Rhi was upset and then my mom started to cry. So that made me feel like I was accomplishing some good in the world. I tell ya, it was a good thing I was already baking because it IS the only coping mechanism in this house. (Well, that and drinking, but it was only 11 a.m. and a girl’s gotta have some standards, yo.) See what a good friend John is? He has birthdays so I can bake and de-stress before I’m even aware I needed to de-stress.

Besides de-pitifying (oh, it is too a word) the fresh cherries, cherry pies are just about the easiest pies in the whole world to make. You slice (and de-pitify) 5 1/4 cups of cherries and dump them into a bowl. Add 1 1/4 cups of sugar and 3 tablespoons of cornstarch. Mix that all together so the cherries will get sort of syrupy. You’ll need a top and bottom crust (I use a deep 9″ pie pan). After about 15 minutes, dump the cherry mixture into the pie crust, add the cover, crimp the edges and add three slits to the top crust. Wrap the edges of the crust with tin foil so it doesn’t burn and put the pie on a lipped cookie sheet to bake. Trust me – no matter what you do, the pie is gonna esplode into a cherry volcano. The cookie sheet will catch the run-off and prevent a giant mess in your oven. Bake the pie for 45 minutes at 375°. Remove the tin foil and continue baking for 15 more minutes.

Voila! Cherry pie! (Results for ridding yourself of stress may vary.)

Muppets make everything better.

Who couldn’t use a smile today? After the week I had, I’m hoping these favorite muppets o’ mine have some martinis hidden up their sleeves. No? Okay, they make me happy anyways. I’ll take what I can get and maybe, just for once, quit while I’m ahead.

1. Beeker’s Ode to Joy.

2. Furry Happy Monsters (and is that REM? Why, yes! It is!).

3. The only way to improve The Lonely Goatherd: Add Muppets.

4. This is exactly what Elton was thinking of when he wrote Crocodile Rock.

5. Animal makes my heart sing. Is it wrong to like his version of Wild Thing more than the original?

There you go – a little happiness to brighten your day. My day just might include some of those butterfly nets meant for Animal. Will I make a break for it? Will I just give up and go quietly? Only the rest of my day will tell.

People you’d love to be with right now.

I miss my mom. It’s been a very long, trying week on the “News from home” front and so that’s what I’ve got this Love Thursday: I miss my mom. Mom as she is, and Mom as she was, and Mom as she ever will be, world without end, Amen.

She should hurry up so I can stop feeling guilty.

I was an awesome big sister. (Technically, I still am an awesome big sister, but this particular story has to do with the sibs and I when we were younger.) As I was saying, I totally rocked the Big Sister thing. I didn’t tease them (much), I taught my brother how to fight, and I graciously served as their second parent (until my mom yelled at me to quit bossing them around). The problem with all of my awesomeness is that in my family, you showed your affection by teasing. It was gentle teasing and it was always delivered in such a manner that was almost over the top so you knew not to take it seriously. But still – teasing. So we have: affection, awesomeness, me, the sibs, and teasing. Right.

Now, one particular thing that I liked to tease my sister Kim about was her general lack of coordination. There’s an infamous home movie of five-year-old Kim throwing a baseball to my dad who was videoing us in the back yard…only the ball went far left. I’m talking seriously sideways here. And then there was the time that she stepped on a bee walking back to the house, so she screamed and started hopping towards the deck…and hopped onto another bee with her other foot. See what I’m saying?

Certainly my sister has always had more inner (or outer) grace than I’ll ever possess, but I’m trying to lay the groundwork for why we started teasing her about her future ability to ever drive a car. It wasn’t gonna happen. My sister couldn’t tell the difference between the gas pedal or the brake. She didn’t know where the gear shift was (and we always had automatics) and was otherwise clueless when it came to cars. We were relentless with our good-natured ribbing.

Kim still doesn’t have her license. And wow, do I feel guilty for traumatizing the poor kid.

In her defense, she never needed one. Our alma mater wouldn’t allow underclassmen to have cars on campus, and later she had friends with cars. When she graduated and moved to Philly, the transit system worked so well for her, she never missed having a license (or a car payment or car insurance, etc). But now she is possibly moving to the suburbs and has started taking driving lessons to, if nothing else, check one more item off her life list.

Which is why when I saw her away message: “And I still have my hands on the wheel,” I kind of freaked. I mean, whoohoo! Progress! Way to go Sheldon! Kim! So I texted her:

Me: Hey! Driving! How’d it go?
Do I get pics?
Can I interview you for the blog?
Kim: Hunh? Oh, that’s a quote from a song.
Me: Oh, damnit.
Kim: “Downeaster Alexa” by Billy Joel.
Me: Fine. But I’m using this convo for “Quotable Katie.”

I know she’s working on it, but I will still feel a lot better when she just gets one newfangled driver’s licenses thingies everyone’s talking about so I can feel better about teasing her about her mad driving skillz way back when were kids. I mean, sheesh, she is so self-centered, not considering how I feel about the whole thing. And then, just to make up for everything, we can go on the mother of all road trips.

Apparently, I’m still upset.

I don’t get it. Maybe it’s me. Is it me? I’m starting to think so. Because every time I start believing that things could get better, that they are getting better, the Ex turns around and hurts me again. Shouldn’t that be over? Shouldn’t I be beyond that now? And the fact that he can – and does – still have the power to hurt me frustrates the hell out of me and then I end up angry and lil bit bitter. And then, the next thing you know, I’m pouring myself a glass of wine and throwing myself a regular pity party.

It all started Saturday night. The girls called to say goodnight to their dad while Mike and I were cleaning up from Bee’s party. When Bee handed me the phone, the Ex said that Gracie had told him they had a Father’s Day present and that we were going to drop it off the next day. Which, really, was his passive aggressive way of getting me to tell him what the plans were for the next day. So I told him that the girls did have a present for them (a rather sweet one, if I do say so myself), but that I hadn’t made any plans. I told him he could see the girls if he wanted. He stammered and said he was out at the store and he couldn’t decide right then. Ten minutes later, though, he did text me to say he would take them to lunch, and then a few minutes after I asked if that was all the time he wanted, he said he would keep them for the day. So that was settled, although – truthfully – I was a little upset that I had to pressure him into seeing his children on Father’s Day. But that’s not what hurt and upset me.

Hours later, after I had fallen asleep ridiculously early from being out in the sun all day, the Ex texted me to see if I wanted to go with them to see Toy Story 3 on Sunday afternoon. When I saw the text, I was honestly pretty happy. I felt like we were making progress. There was also the fact that The Ex and I had agreed after we split that we would take the girls to their first movie at the theaters together so that neither of us would miss out on an important experience. We took Gracie last summer and it was wonderful. So his asking wasn’t entirely whimsical. Unfortunately, I had some OT I needed to put in on a work project if the girls were going to be gone, and besides, I didn’t think Bee could sit through a movie at the theater; I told him as much in just those words. I never heard back from him and I assumed he would either make other plans with the girls or that Fiance would watch Bee while he took Gracie.

Until the girls got home and mentioned they had all gone to see Toy Story 3.

I was upset. I felt beaten down. It’s not like he told me that he disagreed with me and wanted to take Bee anyways. He didn’t say he was going and I could come or not – which still would have been wrong considering he agreed that we would go together. Last summer it took us a month of rescheduling before we found a time that we could both go with Gracie; he was okay with the concept then. And what kills me is that he doesn’t even understand that it was wrong when I texted him to tell him I was upset. I have gone out of my way time and time again to try to make things better between us and I keep reaching out and then he goes and does something like this. How am I supposed to reach out and believe he will honor his side of the agreement if this keeps happening?

I know there aren’t any answers and I know Ex-husbands and -wives and -girlfriends and -boyfriends are all exes for a reason and, to some extent, that reason will play into every decision made on both sides of the equation for a long time. But I am exhausted and still irritated with myself (and obviously blogging this on Monday night), so I am going to go pour myself another glass of wine, grab some Raspberry Sorbet and watch Pride and Prejudice where the men are honorable (and the ones who are not get stuck with Lydia). And then I will sleep for about 10,000 hours and feel better about the whole thing in the morning. One of my plans this week is bound to work. Right? Right???

It was such a good plan, too.

I am very pointedly not talking about flippin’ Father’s Day. I think that if you have to stop and ask yourself if you should blog something, the answer is probably no. So, instead I will listen to Lindsey Buckingham play his way gorgeously through “Never Going Back Again” on constant repeat while I tell you about a brilliant plan I had.

Really, it was a brilliant plan.

Was.

See, my darling angels are very, very hellbent on destroying my sanity. Monday through Wednesday, when I wake the poor little dears up at 6:15 a.m. (on the dot) to get ready for school, I am met with crying, shrieking, whining, and general mayhem. On Thursday, they are carefully neutral. Friday, as if to warn me, they girls bounce out of bed with lines of doom choruses of, “Look, I’m not even tired! Or whiney!” This is to prepare me for the weekend when they will charge into my room at 6:10 a.m. (give or take ten minutes) to ask if it’s time for them to get up yet. I then spend the next hour convincing them to go back to sleep, that the sun is supposed to get up before us during the summer time.

This is where the plan comes in. One of my favorite lessons Gracie learned this past year was how to tell time. (Not really, but she did learn how to read a digital clock. That’s almost the same thing. Okay, off the soap box.) So, this past weekend I took the alarm clock out of the guest room and put it in the girls’ room. I reminded Gracie that they couldn’t wake up get out of bed leave their room until 7:00 a.m. This wasn’t breaking news or anything. Each weekend when Gracie and Bee storm into my room and ask when they can get up, I tell them they have to stay asleep until 7:00. So they were familiar with the words, at least. I went over with Gracie exactly what numbers constitute 7:00 a.m., just in case there was any confusion. She assured me she had it. And I, silly being that I am, believed her. I didn’t for a minute think they’d sleep in, but I thought they’d contain the chaos to their room until that clock read 7:00, so excited were they.

I was wrong.

6:10 a.m. Bee woke me up. “Is it time to get up yet?” I gave her a pass – she can’t tell time. Yet. (But if I start withholding food… kidding, kidding.)

6:45 a.m. Gracie came twirling into my room with Bee trailing her at a safe distance. “What time were we supposed to wait until?” Oh good lord. “7:00 a.m. Gracie. Back to bed.” I marshalled them back in case they were waylaid by the toy box.

6:50 a.m. Gracie again. “Is it 7:00 a.m. yet, Mom?” Oh, you have got to… “NO, Gracie! Don’t you have a clock?” “Oh. Yeah.” “Go. Back. To. Bed.”

It was such a good plan.

It can’t be a curse if she still had a blast, right?

Bee. Bee, Bee, Bee. I think you might be birthday cursed. (But don’t worry: Auntie Rhi, who suffers from the birthday curse to end all curses, just read that sentence and started a care package.) See, last year you were sent home from school with some kind of tummy bug and your dad didn’t call and you didn’t even want to eat your cake or open presents. And we won’t even get into the family drama someone started at your actual party. The year before that we didn’t have a party for you. You were sick on your birthday that year, too, and then the family was out of town and your dad and I had just split up and so we settled on a little family party instead. Your dad came over, we did cake and presents and you were Quite Happy. But still – I felt guilty.

If I had remembered all of that this past week, I would have been more afraid. The ramp-up to your birthday was easy-peasy. Captain Mike (as you and your sister call my IO) shlepped his “spare” truck (without a/c) thirty minutes across the city to pick up some new kiddie pools for your splash party. And I accidentally scheduled your party for Father’s Day and had to re-issue corrected invitations. And I called Pinky’s to order helium balloons and stuffed goodie bags on Thursday night. That was it. Compared to the three-ring circus that constituted prep for your sister’s party, yours was a piece of cake! I should have been scared that it was going way too swimmingly.

The truth is, I did start worrying come the middle of the week. Three of your six friends from daycare called to cancel. The other two didn’t RSVP.  Even E. couldn’t attend because it was her grandpa’s birthday. Thankfully, J. and N. from down the street were able to make it. That was it. Jo and Crisanna made it, of course, and CA Mike and J. and N.’s parents stayed and we had a ball making fun of you guys, but really I was dying inside for you. Only two friends at your party?

But you? Oh, Bee, you had a blast! You didn’t notice that anyone was missing. After I raced down the Slip’n'Slide (fully clothed, even) to show you and the girls how to use it, you got the party started. True, you made me pick you up and “bowl” you down the Slip’n'Slide for awhile, but once you figured out you could just drop to your shins and still slide into the pool and waterfall at the end, you had at it all on your own. Yep, you declared it the Best. Birthday. EVER.

…until we came in and Mommy found out that the “waterproof” SPF 50 sunscreen – that I applied every two hours – didn’t quite work. I am really, really, really sorry for the god-awful sunburn, Bee. We’ll try for Birthday 2.0 on your actual birthday, okay? Just please don’t fire Mommy.

Because once wasn’t enough.

I knew what was going on as soon as I heard the back door open and close.

Ten minutes later, this is what I found. Bee was just right of the shot, running a bucket brigade between the leaky faucet and the kiddie pool. I think they will look back and remember this summer as the one they spent getting soaking wet when (they thought) Mom wasn’t looking. And oh how that makes me smile.