Do Old Ladies Like Key Chains?

This morning I was going through the house, opening the blinds to let in some sunlight in an attempt to help warm our chilly home.  I pulled a cord, the slats turned, and this little guy was sitting there waiting for me.

I was planning on cutting this hydrangea back all fall, as it's gotten so big and top heavy, but then I got sick and then it got cold out and then I saw this fella and remembered our hydrangea bush is a favorite perch for cardinals every winter.  It's tucked into an outer niche of our house, which means it's somewhat sheltered from the wind, but also means I can look out the above window in the living room and watch the cardinals, or...

... I can go into the front room and spy on them from a different angle.  It seems to stress them out when I go back and forth too much, though, so after snapping a couple pictures I left him alone.  The only thing that would have made this better is to have had a female cardinal in there, too, as I prefer their muted coloring and besides, female solidarity and all that.

Last night Derek's mom very kindly drove down to watch our kiddos for the evening so Derek could take me out for my birthday.  I wanted to eat at a restaurant that has these amazing(ly unhealthy) waffle fry nachos topped with pulled pork and other glorious fixin's, and while yes, those nachos were incredible, our joy was somewhat muted by the fact that we were freezing the entire time we were there.  See, this local chain of restaurants builds decks onto their buildings, then for some exasperating, flummoxing reason encloses the top with a glorified tarp and continues to seat diners there all year.  There are heaters suspended from the ceiling, but as Derek put it, we were eating on a three-season porch during the fourth season.  

Why, yes, we did wear our coats, scarves, and hats throughout the meal, thank you so much for asking!  I took my gloves off because I found manipulating my silverware with them on to be a bit unwieldy.  I was so mad I hadn't worn my long underwear under my jeans, as the draft coming in under the table around my legs was brutal.

This wasn't mere overflow seating, either; we saw numerous open tables as we were led through the (deliciously warm and cozy) dining area to the winter porch.

Jethro's, your food is good, but it is December in Iowa.  Please stop with the deck seating.

I MEAN

Let's see, I have talked about one of my favorite birds, my hydrangeas, and complained about a recent visit to a restaurant.  Although I have tiptoed around it many times before, it would seem that 34 is when I begin my official foray into cranky old-ladyhood.  I am comfortable here.

My next request for our birthday date was to visit the local antique mall (hang on while I search for the expedited application to AARP).  Which we did.  And it was, as usual, glorious.

Derek and I will be celebrating 13 years of marriage next summer, and while I know ten years is Tin and 15 is Crystal, I have a feeling 13 might just be Basket of Heads.  If I'm right, I know exactly where to look!  Thanks, Brass Armadillo!

Really, though, the only thing I came close to purchasing was found in this stall.

Do you see what I see?

The good angel was saying, "Do you really need a muskrat foot key chain?  What about the starving children in China?" but the bad angel was like, "It's your birthday:  Treat Yo Self!"

In the end, I did not bring the muskrat foot key chain home, as it's hard to buy something you're afraid to touch.  But gosh, did my grinchy heart grow three sizes that day.

The Birthday Boy

Last week, Caedmon turned six.

Other things happened too, of course, but the big event was the celebration of six years of life for the youngest Crisler.

When he wasn't pretending to be a ninja (don't tell him I used the words "pretending" and "ninja" in the same sentence, he'll be deeply offended; in Caedmon's mind, when he dons this birthday suit- I mean birthday ninja suit, not, you know, the other kind- he becomes a ninja, he is a ninja, never mind the fact that he's neither Japanese nor an adult nor a resident of the 15th century.), anyway, when he wasn't doing that, he was asking to go to a certain ice cream-serving restaurant for his birthday.

This is the same restaurant we went to for Adelaide's fifth birthday, where a much younger Caedmon went from "friends" to "it's complicated" with a waitress there.  Thankfully he no longer does such things, or he wouldn't have had a very happy birthday at all.

Six doesn't seem that much older than five to me, possibly because our Caedmon still seems to believe "superhero" is a viable occupation for his future adult self, and has been a sweet curmudgeon for years, anyway.

Trying and failing to scowl.  That goes for both of us.

For now, he's content to create chalk renderings of his beloved heroes on the sidewalk.  Please note that our six year old now has more artistic ability than I do.

Happy, Happy Birthday, Caedmon!

Derek's Birthday Experience

Monday evening, my mom and Mark offered to feed our kids pizza and let them watch a movie and ensure they didn't engage in the cannibalistic behavior peculiar to siblings so that Derek and I could go on a date to celebrate his birthday.

We started by going to Star Wars, which we had heard was amazing and fantastic and must-see!  We both thought it was fine.  Honestly, I know better than to let my expectations for just about anything get inflated, because no good, no good I tell you can come of it.  For those of you who have seen it:  Is it just Common Household Mom and me, or is Rey SURELY related to Keira Knightley?  Looks, certain mannerisms, everything.  Google was no help in backing my theory (when it comes to my theories, I am absolutely anti-scientific method, in that I will form my theory that I KNOW IS RIGHT and then look for evidence to support it.  Which means it's time for me to go on Oprah, write a sensational book, and form a cult-like following of people who believe anything if you say it loudly enough.  Right, so now I'm just making myself angry.), but I certainly think it's time for Ms. Knightley to start asking her parents some tough questions.

When we left the theater and trudged through the snow, Derek and I both naturally headed for his car.  I had opened the passenger door and was halfway inside when Derek said with a certain amount of feeling, "Please don't get into that car."  Because it turns out it wasn't his car.  It did look silvery-blue in the moonlight, however, so... close enough?

Evidently Derek had seen that I was headed for the wrong car, but assumed the door would be locked, then panicked a bit when it opened right up for me and I began to climb in.  We both wonder how long it would have taken me to realize I was in a stranger's vehicle.  Probably best we didn't find out.  You know that scene in The Bourne Identity when Jason Bourne is telling Marie all the things he automatically observed upon entering the diner:  The vehicles in the parking lot, the various people inside, something about running at that altitude until his hands start shaking?  I'm like the anti-that.  I do a marvelous impression of someone wandering confused around parking lots, though, except it's not so much an impression as my actual life.

After we were ensconced in the correct car, we went out and ate matching salads at a favorite restaurant because we are just adorable that way, except it's not so sweet when Derek eats his whole meal in a quarter of the time it takes me to eat half a plateful.  He is a speedy eater, and I am a slothful eater, which means Husband has a lot of downtime when we go out to eat.  They need special Fast-Eating Husband activities at restaurants, like those coloring packets they make for squirmy kids.  I don't know what it would include, though.  Maybe Slow-Eating Wife Bingo?  With spaces to cover for things like "Wife chewed piece of lettuce twenty times before swallowing," and "Wife wouldn't touch chicken until barbecue sauce arrived."  Happy Birthday to Derek, indeed.

Birthday Stuff

Yesterday was my birthday, which basically means I got to add the word "birthday" in front of every activity, making it suddenly festive and magical.

For instance, yesterday morning I didn't go for a run, I went for a birthday run.

It was foggy and cold and windy and I did not, did not, DID NOT want to go.  Usually I get over this feeling about a mile into the run, but this one, despite its brevity, was a struggle the whole way through, even if it was a birthday run.

The slog of a run meant I could eat sour cream doughnut holes- excuse me, birthday sour cream doughnut holes- relatively guilt-free.

Caedmon made me a birthday bracelet made of baker's twine.

He even wrapped it, which meant I had to squeeze him and kiss him and smoosh his face, all of which he suffered through very manfully.  Then we took a birthday picture together, because he actually likes doing that.

I also went to birthday book club, which was delightful, and went birthday grocery shopping, which was okay, better than regular grocery shopping, anyway.  I opened a few gifts, among them this packet of cleome seeds:

They're from my aunt Kay.  She not only gathered them from her own plant, she also penned that little illustration on the seed packet, because she is both talented and generous.

Caedmon and I made a birthday visit to the closest used bookstore, because if someone were to ask me what light through yonder window breaks, my reply would be that it is the east, and used bookstores are the sun. (Man alive I am classing things up around here today.  Mangled Shakespearean quotes must be what floats to the top of your consciousness when you turn 33.  I'll take it.)

Our Cade feels a trifle differently about the bookstore, as it is generally a confusing and borderline distressing place for him to go, as our conversation proved while we were there:

Me:  "Caedmon, what are you doing with all those books you've piled here?  Are you going to sit in one of those beanbag chairs and read them while I look around?"

Son:  "No, I'm going to check them out."

Me:  "Ah.  Caedmon, this is a bookstore, not a library.  We can't check books out.  You can look at them while we're here, but if we wanted to bring them home, we would have to buy them."

Son:  "I think I'll just check them out."

The discussion devolved from there, ending with him still incredulous he couldn't bring a massive amount of whichever books he wanted home, even if he promised to bring them back.  I, however, did find one treasure, pictured above in the background.  I've been wanting to read I Capture the Castle for quite some time now, but I actually bought that copy as a gift, except I may have read the first twenty or so pages before giving it to my friend, because apparently I have some kind of illness.  I plan on picking up my own copy at the library tomorrow, because my instructions to the poor thing were, "See, now you can read this copy, and then I'll read the library's copy, and then we can discuss it together!"  Because apparently I can't even give a gift without telling someone what to do.

Anyway.

Derek's mom was also kind enough to drive down for the evening to watch the kids while he and I went out on a date, where I discovered the flags were being flown at half-mast in honor of my special day:

This happens every year, and it's always so embarrassing to have such a fuss made over me!  [See also:  What it's like to share a birthday with a national tragedy.]

It was a full and lovely and wonderful day.  I think I'll do it again some time.

Touchy Feely

This morning Atticus woke up, ate his breakfast, then crawled into my lap and asked me to tell him stories about when he was born and when he was a baby, because our children love to hear those tales any day, but on their birthdays?  I better pull out the sparkliest memories of all.

Today, though, the only memories available for extraction seemed to be the one where Atticus had blue feet and the one where I finally figured out how to make him stop crying on a night where he refused to stop.

Even while telling them, I figured these would be boring and disappointing to our favorite middle child, but as it turns out, as long as he is in the story and I infuse the tale with love and warmth, he is happy.  He was thrilled to hear that from the day he was born until he was around a month or two old, his feet would get cold and start to turn blue every time he ate, which made nursing him a two-hand job:  One to hold a gulping Atticus, one to rub his feet and remind them to get circulatin'.  Then he held on to every word about how one night, when he was just a couple months old, he would not, would not, would not stop crying.  He didn't want to eat, he didn't need a diaper change, he wasn't cold, nothing.  After trying one thing after another, in desperation I gave him a bath, which he screamed through, laid him on a towel on the floor of the living room, diapered him, and began to massage his limbs with lotion.
I told seven-year-old Atticus how two-month-old Atticus finally quieted and spent the next twenty minutes gazing at me while I slowly rubbed his skinny arms and his skinny legs.  To this day Atticus is a big-time toucher, and the recounting of the story seemed just as satisfying and mesmerizing to him as the actual event.

Tonight we are going bowling, and we are eating pizza, and he will open a present or two.  In between I will be sure to ruffle his hair, and rub his back, and pull him into me for frequent hugs, because this is the kind of love he has craved his whole life, from lanky, squally infant to lanky, goofy first grader.

The best part?  Now he hugs back.

What, This Happens Every Year?

You know you're falling down on this whole parenting thing when someone comments on the fact that your kid's birthday is in a week and you're like, "What?"  Then they have to convince you that yes, your son's birthday is in seven days, and oh, yeah, doing something to celebrate that birthday would probably be a good idea.

So, yeah.  This kid.  His birthday is on Friday.

His face when he was tiring of regular photos and Derek started shouting, "You're fierce!  You're a tiger!"  Because of course I can't just put a nice smiley photo on here.  I just happen to prefer this kind.

Luckily he has a father who is on top of these things; apparently we are going bowling and having pizza, as per Atticus's request.  I mean, I remember having a bowling-and-pizza conversation with our son at some point, but I also remember thinking that his birthday was a long way off, as in, Well, at least I don't have to worry about that until October.  But as it turns out, it is October.  Right now.  Please tell me this is shocking to someone else, as well.


Thankfully, after this birthday, I don't have to worry about missing anyone else's until my own in December.  All we have before then are a couple tiny little holidays called Halloween, which is basically a two-week long exercise in managing our children's expectations, and Thanksgiving, where I get to make and consume mass amounts of pie.

This photo is scary because all I can look at are those hats and mittens hanging up to dry in the background.  If  Pie Season is creeping up on us, then cold-winter-snow assuredly is, too.  Blargh.

And best of all, since Adelaide successfully made that pecan pie last Thanksgiving, she's already planning what kind of new and different pie she wants to make this year.  This definitely puts her in the running for Favorite Daughter, a joke she rolls her eyes at every time I say it, which means I repeat it all the time.

Caedmon's Last Year on One Hand

Here's a headline for you:  Caedmon is no longer four.

Monday was our youngest boy's birthday.

Our bold, fierce, tough, superhero of a four-year-old is now our bold, fierce, tough, superhero five-year-old.

See?

A real tough guy.

Not to be trifled with, I tell you.

Except maybe when he needs help with his zipper.

BUT THEN THE ZIPPER IS UP AND HE IS BACK!

Whew.  Even someone who cuts a figure this ferocious has soft spots, though.

Rice crispy treats- with sprinkles, of course- are one.

Another is an older sister who dotes on a certain five-year-old tough guy; at least when she's not threatening to maim him for messing with her stuff again.

She not only made him a birthday card, she sat in the hallway the morning of his birthday, waiting for him to emerge, so that she could present this card to him, complete with birthday poem and treasure map.  It was important to her that he start his day with a treasure hunt that ended when he found the present she spent days making for him.

It's a little hard to make out, but that is her gift to him in action.  While other children seemingly want only their two front teeth, the object of Caedmon's desire are lethal weapons, which Adelaide took pains to deliver:  She found some sharp, pointed wooden skewers, painted them black, then showed our preschooler how to insert them into straws- which she ever so helpfully provided- before blowing on the end and toward your intended victim.  They are legitimately dangerous, and the newest item on our family's Controlled Substance List.  Doesn't every family have one of those?

I say if you're going to have weaknesses, you can do worse than rice crispy treats and sisters.

Now, the balloon one I don't get.

It's dark magic, indeed.

Oh, and birthday crowns.  He has a soft spot for those, too.  But who doesn't, am I right?

Happy Birthday, Future Superhero that fixes cars and has his own supercar!  (His answer when I asked what he wants to be when he grows up.)

The Birthday Girl

Adelaide:

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

For Derek's Birthday I Didn't Buy a Useless Antique

Yesterday was Derek's birthday.  The Vikings were gracious enough to grant him a birthday win, I made him a giant birthday cookie, and my mom and Mark, since they were in town, offered to watch the kids while the birthday boy and I went on a date.

We enjoyed a nice dinner out and Derek tortured himself at a golf store, but in between those two we went to the Brass Armadillo, antique mall extraordinaire.  (If you click on that link back there, brace yourselves:  There are painful spelling and grammatical errors galore on their website.  Hear me now, friends:  "Isles" DOES NOT equal "Aisles."  When they write "Stroll through isles of..." I, naturally, picture hopping from island to island of antiques and quirky vintage treasures, not, as I can only assume they mean, walking through aisles of the same.)

The thing is, I love the Brass Armadillo.  It's where I adopted Hermione.  I almost always find super creepy dolls and marionettes to snap pictures of and send to my traumatized sisters.  I found a beautifully illustrated old hardcover copy of one of my favorite books there for two dollars.  (Just like this one, actually.)  When I visit that place, I like to take my time, examining any items that catch my eye (read:  half the things there, taking upwards of two hours.  I recognize that this is crazy.).

But when Derek and I went yesterday, he had a stern talk with me before entering, reminding me that we were on a mission, that we were looking for a specific item, that I needed to focus.  I did spectacularly well the first three steps in the door, until I saw a Christmas tree full of truly tacky old ornaments.  I faltered for a few seconds before muttering "Get behind me, Satan!"  (I couldn't tell if the lady manning the welcome station by the front door heard me or not; interpreting her facial expression was rather difficult due to the bold decision to paint her eyebrows on her forehead.)

Thereafter I was a model shopper, whipping up and down aisles in search of a coat tree, pausing only once in a moment of weakness caused by an antique bed warmer.  This is precisely the kind of thing that calls out to me at antique stores, begging to be taken to its forever home.  I knew Derek would ask ridiculous questions like, "What exactly are you going to do with it?  Where are you going to put it?"  Because "Smile at it," pretty much never satisfies him, I tried to frame some kind of persuasive response.  I mentally appealed to his logical side:  "Use it for its original purpose!"  Unfortunately we don't have a ready supply of coal and I had a sneaking suspicion that Derek would veto potentially burning our children alive, anyway.

Still in search of a loving home.

So it was with great sadness that I moved past the bed warmer, sending out psychological messages of "It's not you but it's also not me, it's my husband," which is probably a common refrain in there; rational spouses ruin all the fun but also save lives.

Thankfully I had this fun little trinket to console me when I got home:

My mom ferried this up to me from my grandma.  If you don't have a grandma who buys you random old stuff at auctions, I feel sorry for you.

It's a small tin grease pot that's a little dusty on the outside but immaculate inside.  It makes me wonder if it was ever used, given its purpose.

Actually, what is its purpose?

There's a removable strainer that sits just under the lid, then another at the inner entrance to the spout.  I'm assuming you pour the grease from your bacon or beef or whatever into the top, through the first sieve, then it gets strained a second time when you go to pour that same grease... where?  All over your food?  (retch)  I don't really understand the need to strain and then pour grease onto anything.  I pour our excess grease straight from the pan into an empty can and keep it in the freezer until it's full and ready to toss.  

Still, I like the look of it, and every time I walk by it I find myself singing "Grease is the word, have you heard, it's the word..."  Plus I just found the exact same thing on an ebay auction; it sold for $26 + $10 shipping, and I can promise you my grandma didn't pay that much.

I've also been throwing lots of smiles in its direction, although I've yet to find a good place for it.  I've had it in the kitchen windowsill, but that's a dangerous location as it's right in Derek's line of sight.  It'll probably end up where everything else does: on one of the piles of books scattered throughout the house.  Hey, it's smaller than a bed warmer, right?

Six Years' Worth of Atticus

We interrupt the regularly scheduled St. Paul recap for this important announcement:

Atticus is six today.

See that little scrunchy-faced thing in my arms, still covered in vernix caseosa?  That would be our very own Atticus.

It's hard to believe that on this day, six years ago, Derek was taking me in to the hospital to be induced.  I was four days overdue, and the doctor was getting anxious to get the little guy out, worrying he was getting too big in utero.

They started the pitocin drip, we were assured we'd have a bouncing baby boy within a few hours, and everything was going swimmingly.

A few hours in, however, my contractions began to slow down.  They started saying alarming things about our baby's heartrate.  The words "emergency c-section" were mentioned.  

Our (wonderful, wonderful) OB (seriously, I've had three babies in three different states with three different obstetricians, and while I liked all three, Dr. H is the clear winner) had just finished updating us on what was going on and what might be happening soon, etc, etc, patted my arm, and was getting ready to walk away when he looked down and said, "Why is there a puddle right here?"

Well.  It turns out the nurse had accidentally detached my drip, so all that pitocin had been dripping out onto the floor instead of into my system, explaining the slowed contractions, along with everything else.

I was about 1% irritated and 99% super sympathetic for that poor nurse, who was clearly mortified and red-faced and quailing under the strong, disapproving and "WE'LL TALK ABOUT THIS LATER" gaze of Dr. H.  

They hooked me back up, everything sped back up, and within the hour we had ourselves an Atticus.  He weighed 9 pounds, which to me meant the doc was right, we did need to get him out before he went all Monstro on us and I had to deliver a giant (bad enough that just when I thought I was done the doctor said, "Okay, looks like you've got one of those whose shoulders are as big as their head, keep pushing,"), but to Derek he was still teeny (my husband was 11 lbs, 11 oz when he born, and I think was secretly hoping to have babies as big as he was, never mind that such a thing would surely have split me right in half).

Now we have this guy:

Also this guy:

And this one:

That thing on his forehead is a temporary tattoo that's begun to fade.  Because I'm the kind of mother who says, "Whatever," when he asks if he can put the tattoo on his face.

He loves golfing and riding his bike and building with legos.  He's the only kindergartener I know who was seemingly born with the gene for delayed gratification:  If he's offered a piece of candy, his first question will be if he can wait and eat it later.  If I say, "You can either have dessert now, or after supper," he will always choose after supper.  I thought I knew what all his favorite clothes were until recently, when he told me, "Mom, do you know why I always pick the clothes I don't like as much?  It's so I can wear my favorite shirts later, and they'll be clean if I need them on a different day."  He has a backpack full of suckers and other small rewards they hand out at school, and nothing seems to make him happier than quietly adding to his little stash.

He's incredibly physically affectionate.  He loves to be hugged and held and never wants to sit next to you so much as half-on you, a leg and an arm draped across your body.  He's friendly and laughs easily and makes friends quickly.  He's tall and skinny and so, so dear.

Five short years ago.  Gracious sakes.

You should really click to embiggen this one, because Atticus still stares adoringly at Derek in this exact same way.

Bless my stars.  You guys are lucky I can't access his baby pictures on this computer, or today would be a total wash.  It's not my fault I have a ridiculously cute son, okay?  A six year old son who woke up this morning and joyfully exclaimed, "I'm six!" at least a dozen times before he left for school.  

Oof.  Six.  Happy Birthday, Atticus!