family photo smackdown

Our favorite photographer, Jodi at A Yummy Life, has been on maternity leave this year. Tragic for us. Great for her and her lovely new baby girl. We were lucky enough to snag a coveted out-of-hibernation photo shoot for today and I spent too many hours and hundreds of dollars tracking down the perfect set of outfits, perfectly color matched but not toooo matchy, hand-picked to contrast with the scenery, and designed to flatter all of us. I have visions of brilliance in my head.

Our day started at 6-ish AM, a little earlier than our usual Saturday (or any day) schedule. We had soccer at 8. It was cold. Tagg was basically the only player on their team so he ran ALL day. Then the kids went to Nana and Papa's while I did a long, SLOW, training run for next week's half marathon. Then we went home to change clothes for a trip to the pumpkin patch with Sloane's birth family which was wonderful, and then we ran home for our third costume change of the day to do pictures at 5:30.

Needless to say, the kids were, after this crazy jam-packed day and no naps...uncontrollable. Even though we bribed them with french fries and M&M's, they wanted to run, jump in the mud (remember the part where I said HUNDREDS?! the pants were dirty in 10 minutes!), hit each other with sticks (aka, light sabers)...anything but stand in front of a camera and smile. It was off the hook, and not in a good way.

So we're trying to do one more family photo. Just one. The leaves behind us are brilliant with fall colors - bright yellow, some rich evergreens, the actual sunset. This is a photographer's DREAM setting, with some professional models. My kids are running hither and yon, like they've become instantly deaf, ADD, ADHD and are just insane. We finally gather them in for a cute, cute, cute family photo with this great light and backdrop, but Tagg is still fidgeting. Scott bends down, Tagg jumps up and - BAM! A bloody, broken nose dramedy is in the house! Yep. Scott yells the f-word and folds over like he's been punched in the nuts. Tagg starts crying like he's been punched in the head. I hear what sounds like water dripping and immediately know that Scott's nose is broken and bleeding. Sloane dashes off toward the nearest mud puddle because she knows no-one is paying attention to her when there's blood and swearing involved. And the poor photographer is mortified watching this train wreck unfold in front of her.

Fast forward a few minutes. Scott has diaper wipes shoved up his broken nostril and is using the rest to clean his hands and face. Tagg says, " Daddy can you kiss my head better? You hurted it with your face." Scott kisses his head and says "I'm sorry I hurt your head with my face, buddy" while he has a diaper wipe hanging out of his nose (which Tagg thinks is hilarious).  Tagg says, "Daddy, you squirted your nose on my head, but I winned you." Yes, Tagg, we all think you "winned" Daddy - poor, swollen, broken-nosed, in-pain Daddy - on this one. I can only hope that Jodi got some awesome pictures of this reality family moment. Seriously?! How does this happen!?

But later this evening, Tagg caressed Scott's nose and gave it a get-well kiss and said, "Daddy, I see your nose is fixed back together again." And he's right. It is. I hope the family pictures turn out but even if they don't, this moment is a keeper.

the swear jar

The Swear Jar

Is it bad to have a swear jar when you’re four? I’m guessing that’s a "yes." And yet another reason why I will not be winning the Mother of the Year trophy. I picked the kids up from Nana and Papa’s house on Saturday. They were starving. I was trying to cram too many errands in a 24 hour period than are humanly possible. So I figured fast food would be in order. They could eat in the car (against one of my cardinal rules) while I drove to the grocery store, and hopefully we could avoid a major meltdown in the produce section. I was visualizing this detailed gameplan when I realized I needed to decide which burger joint was getting our business.

Me: “Tagg, what do you want for lunch?”

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie.”

Me: Long Pause of Disbelief. WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?!?!

“Um, what?”  

Please, please let him say PUMPKIN smoothie. PUMPKIN smoothie…

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie, please.”

Me: At least he said please. No wait...this is really bad. Speedy Internal Debate… Do I ignore it? Do I tell him not to say it? Last time I did that he said “dammit” about a hundred times in a row. Do I pretend like he actually said “pumpkin?” I have to say something, right? What do you say to your 4-year-old dropping the f-bomb like it’s any other adjective? And what have my parents been teaching him?! 

So I pulled over and told Tagg that was a very adult word, and not a nice one at that and he shouldn’t use it ever. And if he ever heard an adult use that word he should tell them it’s not a nice word. And then we went and got a fuckin’ smoothie. After I texted Scott to let him know that his son is now fluent with his patented swear word. I mean, I may be “Dammit Girl” but this f-bomb stuff is ALL Scott. I do like to gloat a little bit about that.

And I now have a swear jar for the kids. I put in a quarter every time they drop one of the good ones. The not-so-awful ones get nickles and dimes. Pennies for any time Scott and I drop one of any caliber. At this rate, we might be able to pay for college.

the crack

Kouing Amann. Ever heard of it? Tried it? If not, you should. It's seriously the best pastry EVER. People (some who read this blog) actually have sex dreams about it. Hence the surrogate title "crack" because (a) that's what it's like and (b) who can pronounce Kuoing Amann (queen ah-mahn, fyi, depending on what blog, wiki you look at). 

It's apparently the hot new thing in San Francisco, but here in Utah we've been addicted to the Crack for over five years. Since before Les Madeleines, our local "dealer," was on the Food Network. I was lucky enough to discover "crack" at Les Madeleines in Salt Lake City when their store was across the street from my little ad agency and my partner Barry and I would visit a few times a week for a sugar and caffeine fix. I'm still addicted, super proud Romina the chef is making a name for herself, and happy she's not across the street or I'd be a huge, huge individual.

Had one today. I make this noise when I eat "crack"...mmm, mmm, mmmmmm. It's kind of guttural and has a little passion to it, some decadence and indulgence, just like this dessert. It is ooey-gooey delicious-ness that is worth every single calorie (all 500 of them). And you will be addicted. Trust me.

first kiss

Do you remember the name of the first person you ever kissed? 

A friend of mine raised that question with a bunch of co-workers the other day and she was mortified that virtually none of the men remembered the name of the girl who ushered them into manhood, who shared this incredibly romantic, life-changing milestone moment with them. For some it was just a girl with a sports bra on the wrestling mats in the gym. For others, it could have been one of a multitude of girls. All nameless, faceless bodies with boobs and lips and, did I mention? BOOBS. Or maybe it was just boob potential, or boobs attached to lips that would actually kiss them. At any rate, she was scandalized that these men had diminished these young girls to objects without feelings, faces or even names.

I must have been a teenage boy when I was a teenage girl because I seriously don't remember the name of the boy I first kissed, like really kissed.

I remember a lot about the moment. I was 13, the new girl in school. Frizzy hair, thick glasses, bad skin, off-brand jeans, in the band. We were playing "2 Minutes in the Closet" at a birthday party (thanks Judy Blume! I would link you to the "rules" but apparently this game is now called 7 Minutes in Heaven or 10 Minutes of Paradise and a few other things that have tarnished my memory of this oh-so innocent, toe-dip into tween romance and sex moment so I'll just let you Google those on your own. In short, it's a game where a boy and a girl are pushed into a closet or otherwise small and dark room at a party and you are expected to do "whatever" for two minutes, while everyone outside the door giggles and speculates.

My memory...The closet was crowded with junk. There was a mobile with lots of little silver birds that kept getting tangled in my unruly hair. I think his name was Eric. Maybe. He was a little taller than me with brownish curly-ish hair, pretty cute, considering it was the early 80s and we were 13 years old. He might have had braces. You'd think that's something I'd remember, right? I was nervous. I had no idea what to expect. Anyway, he kissed me. With tongue. Yep, my first kiss was french. Hey, go big or go home. I remember liking it well enough, but also being a little bewildered that this swapping of spit and groping of tongues was such a big deal.

I am kind of sad that I don't remember his name. Or have a better memory of that moment. I wish I'd kept a journal back then so that all these years later, I could remember all the details and the roller-coaster of emotions that I'm sure came along with my "first kiss." But I'm glad I got to revisit it. Maybe I'll dig up an old yearbook and see if that jogs any memories. Or maybe I don't need to. I'll just keep my romanticized "first kiss" memory as it is.

Question of the Day...Do you remember your first kiss? Name? Face? Details? Do tell!

Update...for the record, the first kiss WAS named Eric. Found my old junior high yearbook (scary). He was blond-ish (black and white photos give you some leeway here); definitely cute given that it was the early 80s and we all had awful hair, clothes, and were in the depths of puberty; and, judging by the closed lip yearbook picture smile, I'm guessing I was also right on the braces. Good memory!

our knitting project

I’m always pleasantly surprised by the ways our family is knitted together. It reminds me of knitting actually. Not that I’ve ever really knitted anything so I guess it’s more like it reminds of what I think knitting would be like. I imagine that we started out thinking we were going to make a sock, and then we kept adding to it and pretty soon it became a scarf and then we added some more in different colors and it started to look like a sweater and the we add more in more colors and it might end up being some kind of poncho thing with a hood right now.

I say that because our old nanny was just in town visiting from her new home and life in California. She loves these kids like a favorite aunt: phone calls and gifts on birthdays and holidays, pictures from her new life as a college graduate. We chat over dinner about Sloane’s potty training, Tagg’s new addiction to Star Wars, her boyfriend’s crazier-than-ever mother, her search for a new house. She always feels like family to me and I hope that no matter what happens in the future, she feels that way too. 

We were blessed to find her at a time when I was really struggling with the fiscal requirements that drove me back to work when I wanted nothing more than to be home with my children. Leaving them in a stranger’s hands was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But she was perfect from the first meeting – she was the only candidate who insisted on meeting at a Starbucks because she was concerned about safety, not paranoid just cautious. I was sold! - and she just got better from there.

I was often jealous that she was leading the life I had dreamed of and planned on – play dates and swimming lessons and craft projects - while I was living meetings and deadlines and office politics. But you do what you have to do to get by, and now I realize that maybe she was brought to us because she was meant to be part of our random, ever-expanding, knitted-together-by-love little family. 

I also think she helped me figure out something that I think most working moms know, or learn: you get as much joy out of the time you have together as you can. You might even appreciate that precious time more because you actually know what you're missing. 

I do have to say that since Nessa left, I have a newfound appreciation for her ability to have EVERYTHING in perfect order when I got home at night. When Scott gets home on Saturdays, it's like Toys R Us exploded in our house and our dishwasher and washing machine are broken. Hey, we all have our strengths. Cleaning may not be one of mine, but I can craft and soccer-mom my ass off!

So who knows where it will end up, this knitted-together family of ours. What shape, size and combination of colors it will end up. The one thing we do know is that no matter what, it keeps us all warm and snuggly.

there's the thread

I went to a baby shower for one of my dear friends recently. She and I were roommates when she got divorced a little over 10 years ago. We were both in advertising, addicted to shopping, liked to hob-nob at clubs and Sundance movie premieres, we were both Pisces, and had a million more things in common. She had a pug who would wake me up before I was ready. I had a cat that liked to pee on her bed. 

We don’t talk a ton since she moved to New York City about 5 years ago, but every time we do it’s like no time has passed. That's the best kind of friend to have, in my opinion. Low maintenance, high value. She’s kind of living the dream – she packed up and moved to Manhattan to pursue a photography career and ended up in design, hopping from fabulous party to famous restaurant to high-profile accounts, always looking gorgeous and free and happy. I quietly coveted her footloose, glamorous, Sex In The City life on those days when Utah felt too pedestrian and stifling, or when marriage and a house payment seemed too grown-up and stressful, or when my job seemed boring and unsatisfying.

And then one day last summer she called me and asked about adoption. She was turning 40 soon and had decided that what she really wanted was a baby. And since the dating scene had been less than productive (even in New York…who would have thought that!) she was going to become a parent on her own. And, in typical Jen fashion, she wasn’t exactly doing it the “conventional” way.

Nope. One of her very dear gay friends had offered to serve as a sperm donor, and they were literally using a turkey baster – yes, an actual Thanksgiving-like-your-mom-uses turkey baster – to do the deed. As it turns out, that did not work for them and they had to go pro (ka-ching) but still, success! She’s pregnant and is officially staring single motherhood square in the face. We had a chance to chat when I visited her in New York and it was interesting to see that she struggles with a lot of the same issues we do with our adopted children: What is the baby daddy's role going to be? How much will he be involved? What if he wants to be more involved than she’s prepared for? Do his parents get to act like real grandparents? What does she tell this baby about how he or she was born and who all of these people are?

After a long discussion about the pros and cons of this option or that strategy, expressing our fears and uncertainties, and admitting that we really have no freaking clue what we’re doing, we settled on the one thing we both do know 100% and without question. We love these children and they can’t ever have enough people to love them, so as long as we make decisions with love and trust in our hearts, we’ll be doing the right thing. Well, actually there were two things we figured that we do know. The other? We’re probably going to screw a lot of things up along the way and that’s okay too. And just like that we’re back to having something in common. I’m excited for her and I look forward to a lot of those sporadic future phone calls and emails, and hopefully some visits, where we can prop each other up and share our unique stories just like the good old days. Maybe we'll get to do some shopping and have a martini while we're at it.

When Tagg was born, someone gave us this lovely book called The Red Thread, An Adoption Fairy Tale. It's about people following this thread that tugs at their hearts till they embark on a journey to find their family and their joy. I kind of think that's how a lot of families are made these days. And a lot of friendships. I know that Jen and I have a "thread" connection, just like Scott and I have a thread that unites us with our birth families. And Jen will have that same bond with her baby-family, I think; sometimes it may wear thin or get a little twisted but you're still joined together by love. And that's what makes it all work.