Saturday, August 22, 2009
I made these cupcakes today to bring with us down to my in-laws. We're heading down for three days to visit with my sister-in-law and her brood from Illinois. My children are especially excited to get to play with their cousins (of which there are The cakes were fun and easy to make, but probably not the wisest decision on my part, considering that baking was required, and summer has finally decided to make an appearance here in NH. It was 90 degrees today and the house is still trying to cool itself from this afternoon's activities.


Worth it though, I think. I made a little tutorial of the process, the final image being:
Changes are happening here, nothing as life-changing as a pregnancy or death, but still, change. Normally, I find change invigorating, but coupled with turning thirty, I feel as though it is all just pressure, mounting.

I should have spent more time today writing and less time baking. Writing always clears my head while baking tends to just fill my fridge and leave the creases of my fingernails dyed the colors of whatever frosting I was using.

However, my children are at an age though that baking or other such fun activities tends to trump all. And since I can't write while they're anything but absorbed in an activity (sleep is best) and I am growing rather bored of Chutes and Ladders & Disney Bingo - baking it is.

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Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wake up.

Turn 30.

Make the best of the day.

Photos and stories to follow...

Saturday, August 15, 2009
Lest you think after reading the post I just put up a few moments ago (scroll down to read) that we are all discipline and withholding...

Also - if anyone is on Facebook, I seem to be posting there more than here as of late. It's so convenient to post mini-stories of the kids as status updates and in pictures. I'd love to friend you, so come find me.

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For the Love of Ice Cream
Here's a little secret to all children out there - your parents always want to give you treats. If there's a reason to celebrate, we want to shower you. We want you to be bathed in all things glowing and sweet and wonderful.

If we're out on an adventure, say, at a planetarium or a museum and you have been well behaved, we want to reward you. And if there's an ice cream stand on the way home - we want to stop and share the simplest of summer joys together as a family, jimmies and all.

Unfortunately, we do not want you to grow up rotten or demanding. We do not want you to feel entitled to every good thing that there is on this earth, simply because you were so kind as to bless it with your presence.

As parents we must be measured in our rewarding, in our discipline. And so, when you decide to deliberately disobey, and to throw your little body down on the ground and whimper when we simply tell you that you need to try to use the bathroom before we leave - you force us to do what we must.

Not without warning of course. We give you chances. We count to three - waiting patiently, hoping, crossing our fingers - that you might stand up, apologize and wrap your little arms around us. Or at the very least, pull it together and use the toilet without any more scenes.

But when we've let the number T H R E E stall long enough on the tips of our tongues and you are still prostrate on the floor, consequences happen.

No ice cream for you.

Even though we still want to give it to you. Even though it hurts us to watch you pout and watch your brother and cousin slurp chocolate soft serve from their plastic spoons and gleefully wipe rainbow jimmies from their chins.

Even though as we sit, you are well behaved and you are listening and though your lip quivers, you do not scream or shout or whine. You simply sit and watch with your round saucer eyes glistening, reflecting sunlight and hope - hope that we might cave perhaps and let slide one of our spoons to your lips.

But no. Alas, there are consequences for your actions. And though there is nothing we'd rather be doing than sharing our frozen treats with you, we can not. We must not. In the hopes that you might learn, might not sob when we tell you to try and pee before we take a long car ride, so that you might not wet yourself and your seat and the only pair of pants that we brought with us for the trip.

Please. Let this lesson of ice cream stick. May you remember the feeling of not eating the cool, creamy confection as much as your father and I are going to remember the sadness and longing in your eyes. Because really, truly, and you probably won't actually understand this until you have children yourself - I know I didn't - we always want to give you treats.

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