Friday, May 28, 2010


That last picture is my favorite because it's so unlike her. It's a worried, oh my goodness gracious face, but it actually comes from her impersonation of Boober from Fraggle Rock. In the Fraggle Rock theme song, Boober sort of mutters the last line to himself, then says hmph! That's her favorite part!


Also, it's worth mentioning to you other failed cooks out there: DON'T BUY CHEF-BOYARDEE PIZZA KITS! It will only make you feel worse about your seemingly innate failure to blossom in your kitchen. You'll get a sad pizza no matter how much you roll and pinch at the dough, strain to evenly layer the sauce, and don't even get me started on the "cheese" which is usually a priority when it comes to pizza, but with Chef Boyardee it's even worse than sprinkling parmesan cheese because it burnt so easily.

Here's what you'll get! Halle and I took a couple of bites and dumped it. The whole thing. Into the garbage. The crust wasn't crunchy-gummy, it broke a pizza slicer. Don't buy the Chef Boyardee Pizza Kit!

Tried To Upload Some Photos But...

my laptop is rejecting my memory card.

Halle had me cracking UP today! She's got a great sense of humor and sometimes I don't get the joke as quickly as I should...

For lunch, Halle was eating a hot dog with some olives on the side. At one point, Halle said, "too much hot dog, Mommy."

So I asked her, "do you want another olive now?"

To which she replied, "Yeah. Doggies."

I was confused for a minute... "Doggies?" I said. Then it hit me. Our dog named Olive. She wants an olive.

I said, "Ohhh, you want a doggy named Olive!"

And then guess what she did? She slapped her knee. With a mouth full of olive.

You've got to keep on your toes with this girl!

Thursday, May 20, 2010

She Does Take After Me After All!

She wouldn't be a child of mine if she didn't have an irrational phobia here or there. Who knew Carousels would reduce her to morbid wonder? Last weekend, my parents and I went to Burlington's City Park, which is a sudden, small town, mini-amusement park bursting with laughing screams and rolling wurlitzer tunes. All of her favorite things were there: airplanes, trains, boats, and carousel figurines such as horses, cats, rabbits, even pigs... none of these things can carry her interest whenever it's too loud. She wanted to make the Carousel stop and yet she wanted to understand why other kids loved it, much less tolerated it. We wandered from the train (also too scary) for some strawberry ice cream.

This is pre-ice cream Halle:

....somebody pick me UUUUPPPP!

But post-ice cream Halle was much more lackadaisical!

Monday, May 17, 2010

Silly Boys.

Halle got to play with my adorable cousins, Max and Luke, on Saturday. They get such a kick out of entertaining her, and they're always so careful.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Hamming it up between tricks.

What can I say, the child is brilliant. She also knows... and this may come as a shock... how to be downright SILLY. Toddlers. They're eager little sponges when they're not eager to make you laugh. And she's eager alright.

As a side-note, I'd like to mention that sillyness IS something I encourage. She knows a lot more letters than that. Just sayin'.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Happy Mother's Day!

(Bottom, from Left: Me, Robin, and Richie. Top, from left: Robbie, Mom, and Dad)
I wasn't exactly cherubic.

During my childhood, my Mother was a neverending well of encouragement, grace, and patience. Every poem, painting, or puff-paint t-shirt I made was received as a four-star masterpiece. She always knew the right thing to say, whether to put me at ease or put me in my place. I struggle to manage myself with her aplomb and be as calm and composed as consistently as she was.

During my teenage years, I gave her a run for her money. I wouldn't be surprised if there were days she didn't recognize me. I would lie, complain, skip homework, break curfew and defiantly light candles in my room. I even left them burning one day! I was a heart attack. She loved me anyway; she engaged me in conversation, listened when I spoke, wasn't afraid to roll her eyes and say "Oh, Goll..." but never discouraged me from being myself.

As a 25 year old mother now myself, she is still emotionally educating me. My mother is still the person I call in the middle of a kitchen catastrophe or when I suspect my daughter has contracted the Mad-Avian-Swine Flu. She's a Mommypedia but even when she doesn't have all the answers, she offers invaluable reassurance. Sometimes she laughs at me. Sometimes all three at once. The point is, I would be uninspired, wild, and skittish without my Mom. I would be a feral cat.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day!

Friday, May 7, 2010

Happy Almost Mothers' Day!

     It's a little early, but in the spirit of Mothers' Day, I decided to post a few links to get everyone into the Mothers' Day spirit! And to remind those of you ingrates who may have forgotten to buy or make a card that your time is running OUT. Your Mama raised you better than that.

 This first link is to an outright Shel Silverstein rip-off, and even though that should bother me, it's just so cute and quirky! 

I found this poem on one of my favorite poetry sites, The Writer's Almanac. It has less to do with mothers and more to do with the elderly, but it's still a sweet story.

Instead of posting this last link, I'll go ahead and post it here. It's so true. 

For All Moms
(Past, Present and Possibly Future)

We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually
mentions that she and her husband are thinking of
"starting a family."

"We're taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do
you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping
my tone neutral. "I know," she says, "no more
sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my
daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want
her to know what she will never learn in childbirth
classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds
of child bearing will heal, but that becoming a
mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw
that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again
read a newspaper without asking "What if that had
been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house
fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of
starving children, she will wonder if anything could
be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish
suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she
is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the
primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.

That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop
a souffle or her best crystal without a moment's

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many
years she has invested in her career, she will be
professionally derailed by motherhood.

She might arrange for childcare, but one day she
will be going into an important business meeting and
she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will
have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep
from running home, just to make sure her baby is all

I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions
will no longer be routine. That a five year old
boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the
women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma.
That right there, in the midst of clattering trays
and screaming children, issues of independence and
gender identity will be weighed against the prospect
that a child molester may be lurking in that

However decisive she may be at the office, she will
second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure
her that eventually she will shed the pounds of
pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about
herself. That her life, now so important, will be of
less value to her once she has a child. That she
would give it up in a moment to save her offspring,
but will also begin to hope for more years -- not to
accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child
accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny
stretch marks will become badges of honor. My
daughter's relationship with her husband will
change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she
could understand how much more you can love a man
who is careful to powder the baby or who never
hesitates to play with his child. I think she should
know that she will fall in love with him again for
reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will
feel with women throughout history who have tried to
stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration
of seeing your child learn to ride a bike. I want to
capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is
touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the
first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so
real, it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that
tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret
it," I finally say. Then I reach across the table,
squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer
for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal
women who stumble their way into this most wonderful
of callings. This blessed gift . . . that
of being a Mother.