Entries in the 'Out of the Mouths of Babes' Category

Name FAIL or Marketing-to-Boys WIN?

For Easter this year, my mother-in-law got each of the kids a book. Up until that moment, I thought I’d be happy with any age-appropriate book given to my children because: Reading! Always awesome! I will ALWAYS encourage reading! Of course, that was until I saw the name of the main character in this series.

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Oh, man. This poor kid is going to spend his life trying to run away from the ass-beatings that his name has guaranteed him… I mean, really. Look at his face. He looks embarrassed, like he’s all, “Yeah, you read it right. Please don’t punish me for the cruelty of my parents.”

So, anyway. You know what this means, right? It means that as long as Logan has this book in his hot little hands, he has an automatic pass to use the word dink any time he pleases. In fact, upon receiving this book, he laughed hysterically for several minutes and then proceeded to say “dink” about fifteen times in thirty seconds.

(Of course, the fact that a room full of adults were busy laughing right along with him probably helped to encourage his Tourettes-esque usage of the word…)

Once he’d gotten it out of his system, Logan exclaimed, “Mom! This is such a NAME FAIL! You need to put this on Fail Blog!”

(That’s my boy.)

(Plus, he has a point. That’s an ultimate name fail. Seriously.)

(Well, unless the writer was smart enough to realize that ALL little boys EVERYWHERE would find the name Dink funny and thus used it to get them reading the book, even if just to get them to giggle every time they came across it in a sentence.)

(Because only little boys would do such a childish thing.)

After seeing the back cover of the book and giggling just like the above-mentioned school boy gasping with my shock and outrage, a memory began to make its way into the front of my mind.

Last summer, armed with a Margaritaville blender and an obscene amount of Bellini mix, a group of my girlfriends and I noticed another book from this series on our hostess’ coffee table. Naturally, the first thing we thought of to do was to search through the book for innocent words and phrases that we could twist into something dirty…

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Bahahaha….

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BAHAHAHA!!!

(It’s a super fun and cheap party game! Thanks, author of this children’s book series with the inappropriately-named main character.)

After digging through my archives to find the above photographic proof of my childishness, I decided to have a quick peek through the book Logan received. You know. Just to see if he’d have any trouble, ah, reading it. Or something.

Unfortunately, the only could-be-pervy sentence I could find in the whole thing was this one:

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Mmmm. Creamy.

Hmm. I must be losing my touch. I think I’ll go through it again with a tipsy group of my peers and see if we can come up with anything more.

Guilt Trip

So, yeah. It’s just about the weekend again and I’m finally getting around to writing about what happened during the last one. I’m awesome.

I spent the weekend with five gorgeous, wonderful and creative women. We had pillow fights in our panties and spent the weekend tickling each other and squirting whipped cream into each other’s mouths.

Wait. That’s what my husband thinks happened. (Keep dreaming, honey.)

Here’s what really happened:

We drove out to a cute little bed and breakfast and, having rented both the top and bottom floors, proceeded to move all the furniture around to create a five table scrapbooking extravaganza of a work space. We talked, laughed, ate homemade pizzas, hummus, fruit and veggies, and drank coolers in the hot tub. Oh, and we scrapbooked, too.

Things in the daylight hours were fantastic. Actually, things in the dark were pretty cool, too. Everyone set up their fabulous little work lights when it got dark outside and continued scrapbooking to the wee hours.

It wasn’t until I got ready for bed each night that I remembered that I have issues.

Knowing that I am someone who really appreciates her sleep, my friends put me in the quietest bedroom in the cabin. Otherwise known as the boiler room. (Dun dun DUN!) The picture on the website shows a sweet, cheery room off a charming kitchenette:

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You know what? Pictures lie. That room was a house of horrors in my twisted little mind. The floor? Concrete. Windows? What windows? The bunk bed? Homemade (try staring up at particle board and rusted metal hinges all night), lumpy and uncomfortable. What the filthy, lying whore of a picture doesn’t show is the washer and dryer on one side, the giant accordian wall on another (I was too scared to open it and see what was behind it. Torture chamber? A bunch of scurrying rats? Serial killer?) and the mysterious door on the final wall. I felt germy in there. Icky. The feelings were completely and totally irrational, but I’m quirky like that. It’s why I take medication for anxiety. I laid down on my left side, facing the ladder, and didn’t move all night. I tried to keep the blanket over my ear in case something icky fell on me from the bunk above. (I’m thinking rust, bugs, sawdust. You know, the usual things that people think about at night. *cough*) I didn’t lay on my back and didn’t turn to my right side. (I didn’t want to face the wall and certainly wasn’t about to turn my back on the accordian-wall-of-doom because if you’re about to be murdered in your bed, of course you’re going to want to see it happen.).

Luckily, I didn’t spend much time down there. The bulk of my time was spent upstairs in the airy, clean and bright makeshift scrapbook room. I stayed up late each night and fell into bed only when I knew I was too exhausted to stay awake. (During the day, all of my weird little idiosyncrasies seem to melt away.)

On the way home on Sunday evening, we stopped for dinner at a cute little cafe with a crappy waitress. We took a few photos to remember our time there.

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When I got home, I was greeted with a package at the door:

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It was from Lily and when I opened it up, I found a card that she had written all by herself:

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(Aw, you make me happy too, sweetie!)

Then, on the counter in the kitchen, I found this:

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Hmm. I’m beginning to sense a theme here.

Lily knows how to work the guilt trips. At least this time it was only cards and gifts. A couple of years ago when I returned from a weeklong trip, I had to change into my pajamas before putting her to bed each night so she could be absolutely positive that I wasn’t going to leave her again. ‘Cause her life is rough without me.

Making living room forts with Daddy, eating seafood, playing at the indoor playground and hanging out with Grandma all weekend. Yep, it’s a tough life all right.

Despite my weird little “don’t feed the gremlin after midnight” germ issues, I had a great time and I am SO going to the next scrapbooking retreat. It’ll be worth it, even if the serial killer behind the accordian door comes out to get me while I’m sleeping.

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

Two weeks ago, I bought a vinyl wall decal off Etsy.

(When Lucky noticed the receipt in our inbox, he exclaimed, “Quit buying crap off Etsy!” Apparently, he’s not as into crafting as I am. Wonder what he’ll say when he finds out that I have big plans to hock sell crap beautifully handcrafted items of my own on Etsy one of these days? But I digress…)

Until it arrived yesterday, I’d been not-so-patiently waiting for my new purchase. (I love new stuff! I love mail! WOooO!!) I had it out of the box and up on the wall less than ten minutes after I noticed it on my front porch.

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Cute, right? An “enjoy your meal” sign, complete with cutlery, right above the pantry. Hey? Right?

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When my husband saw it, he wasn’t exactly on the same page as me.

Bon Appetit? Really?

Yeah, isn’t it cute? I really love the cutlery.

Well, yeah. I guess. Without the cutlery, it would look really stupid.

According to Lucky, my wall art only looks a little stupid. For him, that’s almost a compliment. And after he determined that yes, it does come off if we ever tire of it, he dismissed the whole thing from his mind and will probably never notice it again.

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We’ve been in this house for about 3.5 years now and slowly but surely, I’m starting to fill the walls with art. I’ve noticed a bit of an unintentional trend with the things I’ve been choosing:

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French…

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French…

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French…

Two of the pieces are for bathrooms and one is for the pantry. Apparently, all of these locations need a bit of classing up and what better way to do it than being all so-fist-ee-kated with my fancy French artwork? (By sophisticated, I mean that one was purchased off Etsy for $14, one was purchased at Zellers for $9.95 and one was purchased at Walmart for $4.95. I’m a big spender, folks.)

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Yesterday, using a combination of stickers, a pen and her own imagination, Lily came up with this:

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That would be her, marrying her brother. At age five, she thinks it’s the most normal thing ever. When she hits about twelve, I think I’ll show it to her again, just to watch her dissolve into fits of, “EwwwwwwUH. Gross!“, because that’s just the kind of loving mother I am.

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Speaking of Lily, the little princess had her ears pierced last month. She was bound and determined that she wanted beautiful earrings and promised that she would sit still and be brave, even if it hurt. She pinky swore that she would take good care of her earrings. Pinky swearing is a big deal. How could I refuse?

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This ear is so teeny tiny! It’s a sweet little squishy ball of cuteness. I can’t believe I’m about to pay someone to disfigure it…

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The ear piercer is marking off the spot with a pen and Lily is getting mighty nervous. Luckily for her (and me!) they had two ear piercers on staff that day and she had them both done at once.

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Victory! There were a few tears, but they were nothing a glance in the mirror, a sucker and a chance to sit on a tiny too-small-for-her carousel couldn’t fix.

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Aww. Tiny little pink flowers!

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Even with holes poked in them, Lily’s ears are still teeny, tiny, squishy, adorable little balls of cuteness…
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Just after Christmas, we purchased two budgies to replace the ones that suddenly, and mysteriously passed away a few weeks earlier. (It sucks, we don’t know what happened. I’m not going to dwell on it here, though.) The new budgies are jittery and somewhat bitey sweet, but, if I may say so, dumb as a box of rocks.

The budgies have a habit of sitting in their food and water dishes. They back their little bums right up in there. And, as budgies are wont to do, they poop. A lot. In their food and water dishes. Now, I know that budgie enthusiasts claim that they are roughly as intelligent as a three year old child, but to that, I say this: My children knew (long before the age of three, might I add) that food is for eating, not pooping on. Even further, I’d wager that most three year olds know that food is for eating, not pooping on. In my opinion, any creature that thinks pooping on its food is an acceptable thing to do is less intelligent than the average human toddler. Seriously. Gross little creatures…

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And last, but not least, allow me to draw your attention over to my review blog. I have three fantastic giveaways up there right now. If you’re a parent of boys or a parent of girls, or a parent of both, you’ll want to go there and comment for a chance to win. No strings attached. Just good old-fashioned giveaway goodness! (Just do it. You know you want to.) Clicky clicky!

In honour of New Year’s Day

A special New Year’s joke, courtesy of my delicate little flower, Lily:

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Butt.
Butt who?
Butt poo pee fart!

Hope 2010 is the best year ever! :)

The Secret to Getting a Man to go Shopping: Threaten his tender bits.

This weekend has been one of those revelatory weekends wherein I realize that pathetic isn’t even close to describing just how far I’ve let all things relating to myself go. I’m in a deep pit and it’s going to take a long time to claw myself up out of it.

I was watching a Tim Gunn makeover show recently and the recipient of the makeover was a 5’10″ woman. Ordinarily I don’t pay close attention to these shows but because the woman was exactly my height (and thus had the same problems as me in finding clothing to fit her elongated limbs), I settled in to see what types of things she purchased.

My conclusion? Don’t be tall unless you have boatloads of cash and can shop in uber-expensive and exclusive American stores carrying such high-end brand names that most people have never even heard of them before. Because, apparently, stores with non-exorbitant price points have never heard of the term “tall” before. In other words? I be screwed.

Anyway, back to the show. The first thing that Tim Gunn did was to ask the woman being made-over to go to her closet and pick out her top ten “can’t live without” items. And it hit me like a ton of bricks that I don’t have a top ten list of  ”can’t live without”  items. Because I don’t own ten items.

Well, unless you count the clothes that don’t currently fit me due to a combination of my hormones and my tendency toward slothfulness. (And even with those items you can still see the odd tumbleweed roll through my echoey closet)

Here is a list of the clothes that fit me right now:

  1. One pair of Gap Long and Lean jeans (the “lean” part is a subjective term)
  2. One bra
  3. A set of five long-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, black, grey, dark grey and green)
  4. A set of four short-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, grey, navy and brown.)
  5. Several Old Navy layering tank tops
  6. A grey, cable knit sweater
  7. A brown, short-sleeved sweater
  8. A pair of black dress pants that I haven’t worn since last Christmas and probably don’t even fit me anymore.
  9. A bunch of not-pretty underwear
  10. Several pairs of socks

So, yeah. I guess if Tim Gunn asked me what my top ten wardrobe essentials are, I’d have to say my whole closet.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. That something being, “Damn, woman, you need to buy some damn clothes!”

I have decided to make some small changes in my life in order to slowly drag myself out of the hole I’ve created. I started by purchasing another pair of Gap jeans (same style and fit, different wash) off of eBay for a cheap price. (Firstly, because the Gap here doesn’t sell the jeans I’m looking for, and secondly because I can get them online for less than half price and I don’t plan on being big enough to fill out these jeans for long.) They’re marked as “shipped” so hopefully they get here soon. I’m excited, because the wash them, wear them, wash them, wear them cycle I’ve been on with my current jeans is exhausting.

The second thing I did was approach my husband about the prospect of bra shopping on a weekend. I planned ahead and came up with an argument that he just couldn’t refuse. Firstly, I suggested a trip to see Santa at the mall I wanted to go to, which Lucky agreed was a great idea. *

Secondly, I came up with an analogy of sorts to explain my dire need for another bra before he could launch into a tirade about hating shopping on the weekends/shopping before Christmas/shopping for clothes/shopping in general:

Me: Lucky, I need a new bra and before you say anything, let me tell you why.

Lucky: *eye roll* Okay, shoot.

Me:  Right now, at this very moment, my one well-fitting bra is in the wash and I have been forced to wear one that’s too small. Let me tell you how that feels.

Lucky: O-kay…

Me: Imagine for a moment that you are wearing a jock strap. And it’s too small. And, instead of the elastic serving to hold the jock strap in place, it’s instead pinning your tender bits to the inside of your thigh. And, every time you take a step, that elastic shifts around and squishes…

Lucky: *cringe*  *white face*  *full body “protect the junk” pose*  AAAHHH! Okay! Enough! Get a bra. Get a hundred bras! Let’s go right now!

Apparently, judging by the reaction my analogy received, I seriously underestimated the sensitivity of certain parts of the male anatomy. But it served its purpose and I have my new bra so, IGNORANCE WIN!

I still have a long way to go. The clothes I own are baggy and shapeless. I have an immensely hard time finding long enough pants. Not to mention long enough sleeves.  I may, in the future, need to look at what the lone “tall” store in town has to offer. For now, though, I am going to take baby steps.

I am slowly learning that even though I have plans to lose this extra weight, I have to dress the body I have right now in clothes that fit properly. I can’t continue to fall deeper into the pit as I let my life pass me by. I want to get to the point where, if I’m asked for my top ten wardrobe “must-haves”, my first thought isn’t, “I’ll get back to you after I’ve gone shopping.”

Don’t get me wrong: my smaller clothes are looking forward to their chance at a triumphant return. In the meantime, though, they’ll have to share their waiting room with some clothes that fit the body I’m in right now. I think I owe myself that much.

* After seeing Santa, Lily informed us that Santa said, “roight” instead of “right”, which prompted a conversation about how apparently, Santa lived in Jolly Old England before emmigrating to the North Pole.

* Logan seemed pleased that “This Santa was the same one as last year!” which leads me to believe that he’s trying to pull one over on us in terms of his Santa beliefs. Either that, or we were smart enough to have the “Santa can’t be in all the malls at the same time so he sends his helpers along” conversation with him at some point. Fingers crossed!

Patchwork

So, you know how I get when I’m not “in the flow” of writing stuff down? How nothing is good enough to post? Yeah. I’m there now. So, even though I’m fairly certain that the following information is the most useless drivel ever (uh, enjoy!), I’m posting it anyway. If for no other reason than to get my poor, underused brain working again…
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In the car on the way to parent-teacher interviews:

Lily: My teacher doesn’t drive this fast!

Lucky: How do you know?

Lily: She has a goat.

(Duh.)

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Today, when I was walking barefoot across the carpet, each step I took sounded like someone was adjusting and re-adjusting a piece of velcro. Time for another self-pedicure…

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What they do when I’m cooking dinner. Lately, they do this whenever someone comes in the room. They want OUT.

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Next week, I am totally going to a sex toy party with the members of my Bible study group. The hostess? Our book leader. I can’t stop laughing.

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Last night, Lily was drinking water from the bathtub. I thought I heard my husband exclaim, “Don’t do that! You’re drinking dirty bong water!” and I was disturbed that he would speak that way in front of our young children. Then I realized that what he actually said was, “You’re drinking dirty bum water!” It turns out that I was more disturbed by what he actually said. Damn you, mental imagery!

It’s Official

… I have now lost both of my children to the institution of learning.

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Today was Lily’s first day of Kindergarten. She was a little nervous before we got there and made me promise that I would stay with her, but thankfully she has an older brother who went out of his way to explain what Kindergarten would be like. He made her feel much better about the whole thing.

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When we got to her classroom, Lily got immediately into the swing of things. The first thing the class did was sit down for circle time. Having gone to preschool last year, Lily knew all about it and was quite comfortable sitting with her legs crossed and paying attention to the teacher.

And I saw first hand that the girl is a Class A, certified chatterbox. Each of the teacher’s sentences was followed by a, “You know what?” from my daughter. In the approximately 30 minutes that I sat in the classroom, my daughter managed to tell her teacher that she is four years old, knows how to sit straight and tall, is allergic to peanuts, sometimes her brother poops a lot, she has a pink room (and her brother’s is blue), she already knows the ending to the story but will keep it a surprise for the other kids, she loves to colour with markers and, well, you get the idea. She’s going to have to work on the whole mouths-closed-and-listening thing, methinks.

After awhile, the parents were escorted to the office to fill out a myriad of papers. When I filled out the same papers for my son two years ago, I remember being a nervous wreck. Was my baby okay in the classroom without me? How on earth would I be able to leave him? Would he be safe at the school, both inside and (more importantly) outside on the playground? Should I have made the choice to homeschool instead? With my daughter, it was old hat. I personally knew several of the other moms. I was comfortable with the office staff and the school principal. I knew the layout of the school well. I even knew what was happening in the classroom, right down to the hunt through the school for their runaway gingerbread men. I knew that, with no younger children left at home, I was free to volunteer for more duties in the classrooms of both children. I felt secure and comfortable. I was just fine.

The relaxed feeling continued as I finished up the paperwork, as I went through the instructions for my daughter’s EpiPen with the staff at the front desk, as I listened to my daughter and her classmates play happily in their classroom from my spot hidden beside the door, and as I headed out the front door toward my car.

I felt fine as I got in the car and drove to Second Cup for a “I survived back-to-school” mocha (skim milk, no whip.) It wasn’t until I realized that I was now driving aimlessly, purposelessly, that I started to lose it.

With nowhere else to go, I decided to head home for an hour and try to shake off my sadness. After a few sips of my mocha, I began to feel decidedly ill and I realized that I wasn’t quite as ready to let my baby girl venture off into the world of school as I had thought.

After a weepy, self-indulgent 45 minutes at home, I pulled myself together and headed back to the school to pick up my girl. She was, naturally, a happy little ball of enthusiasm, full of tales to tell about her first day at Kindergarten.

My girl is going to do just fine at school, even if her mother has been spontaneously ovulating all day. Must. Have. More. Babies. Once I get into the swing of my new morning routine, I’m sure I’ll be just fine as well. Right?

Is there anything a mother won’t do for her child?

A couple of weeks before Logan’s birthday, I ventured into the party store to see about finding a “theme” for him. He had mentioned Superman, so I kept that in mind as I searched through the available cake pans. The Superman pan? Looked like this:

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I looked at Superman’s realistic facial features and had a flashback to the Cinderella cake incident of 2007. Superman-themed party? Out.

After searching through the remaining pans, I narrowed it down to two options: a baseball pan or a guitar pan. I reserved the guitar one and later confirmed with Logan that Guitar Hero was the way he wanted to go for his birthday this year.

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(Logan is remarkably easy-going about this type of thing. I honestly don’t think he cared if he even had a theme. Clearly, I am the one with issues…)

The day before the party, I picked up the pan and (because I apparently work best under pressure) perused the internet for ideas on how to decorate it. At 3:00 that afternoon, after viewing several scarily awful Guitar Hero cakes made with “regular” icing, I made the snap decision to try using fondant for the first time ever.

(Because I’m all about trying new, unfamiliar things when under a strict time deadline.)

I dragged the extremely unwilling birthday boy (“but I don’t caaaare what the cake looks like, Mama!“) and his shopaholic sister with me to Michaels after school so I could pick up some ready-made fondant.

Once the kids were in bed for the night, I iced the guitar cake in good, old-fashioned Betty Crocker icing (because anyone who has ever actually tasted fondant definitely does not want to have to do so ever, ever again) before getting the fondant ready to lay over top.

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Tip: When attempting to take a picture of a white cake late into the evening, turn the flash off.

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My crumb coat was extra crummy crumby.

Next, I read the instructions on the fondant expertly got to work on my masterpiece. By some miracle of God, I realized that fondant is amazingly easy to work with. I rolled it to a thin, smooth layer and placed it on top of the cake.

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Then, I realized I had no black food colouring sent my husband on a mission to get black food colouring added black food colouring to some of the fondant and worked it together to create, ta da!, black fondant, which I then placed on the cake.

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A strip of black fondant around the perimeter of the cake, to match the Wii Guitar I was copying, and I was ready to start on the details.

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I fashioned all the little knobs and buttons out of fondant and got them to stick to the top of the guitar with just a little dab of water on each.

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I know, it looks tedious. Well, I’m not going to lie – it was. But, it was a fun kind of tedious. (Hello, oxymoron!) This cake is living proof that even 32 year olds can have fun with playdoughesque materials…

I then wrote out a birthday greeting to Logan (on an extra piece of fondant, in case I screwed up the lettering…) and stuck that to the cake.

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Not including the time it took to bake the cake (or the time it took Lucky to locate some black food colouring for me), the decorating process took about 90 minutes or so. (And, if you think that’s long, I won’t even tell you how long it took me to decorate the Satan Cinderella cake…)

When the time of the party rolled around, I had several very impressed little boys crowding around the cake. Logan proudly exclaimed that he loved his cake and that I was the best cake baker in the world.

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Looking back on the whole Guitar Hero cake making business, I have to say that my cake is to the actual Guitar Hero guitar what the Spider-Man and Friends Spidey is to the actual Spidey. Check it:

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Logan’s guitar…

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Actual guitar…

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Spider-Man and Friends Spidey…

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Real Spidey…

If I had it to do over again, I would have shaped the guitar myself to make it look more realistic. Because some of the cakes I found on the internet were really something. Wow.

Upon seeing the pictures of my cake, a friend said to me, “All that work for what… a picture?” to which I immediately responded, “pretty much, yeah!“. Seeing the excitement on Logan’s face when he saw the cake make it all worthwhile.

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It definitely beat the look I got when he saw his present:

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Somebody tell me he’ll learn to ride (and enjoy) this thing by the time he turns 40. Please?

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An ounce of prevention!

Lily had her first real, unparented swimming lesson on Sunday morning. If you’ve never had a four year old in swimming lessons, I’ll just say that the term “swimming” is used very loosely. I’d call them “let’s play games to try and get you to stick your face in the water” lessons or “let’s see if we can learn how not to sink like stones in the water” lessons, but I have a bad memory and let’s face it. That’s just too many words to remember. So, “swimming” lessons it is!

Lily was all smiles throughout the half hour lesson, actively participating in each activity, chatting to her classmates and generally bobbing around in the water like a happy little apple. Her instructor, a university-aged boy who squinted and looked as though his face wouldn’t be complete without a pair of glasses, was friendly and engaging. The kids took to him like flies to honey and Lily gave him a big hug around the neck when the class was over.

When she came out of the water, I wrapped her in a towel and asked her about her class.

Me: So, how was swimming?
Lily: Great! I’m going to come back again.
Me: You are?
Lily: Yes. Definitely.
Me: Lily, do you like your swimming teacher?
Lily: *sigh* Yes. I like him. Even though he’s a BOY.

Of the five kids in the class, Lily was the only kid with pool shoes on. Maybe it’s my germ issues, but going barefoot in and around a swimming pool just skeeves me right out. I mean, honestly. It’s a giant fungal infection just waiting to happen.

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Needless to say, Lily and Logan both will wear pool shoes to class until I’m told otherwise. If and when the time comes that pool shoes just slow them down, I may have to resort to taping saran wrap around their feet…

For those of you who are of the opinion that I should just get over it and let my kids go swimming in their bare feet, I have taken the liberty of putting together some motivational posters to help prove my point. (The words are tougher to read than I’d hoped, so I’ll transcribe them below as well).

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Pool Shoes: Because plantar warts are a bitch to get rid of

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Pool Shoes: Because she’s too big to fit in a hamster ball

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Pool Shoes: Because hazmat suits aren’t waterproof

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Pool Shoes: Because I love my kid more than other parents love theirs

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Pool Shoes: Because nothing says “I love you” like warding off foot fungus

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Pool Shoes: Have you SEEN the floors in those changerooms?

Do you have any good ideas for motivational poster slogans on pool shoes? Fire your best shots into the comments section. I’ll pick my favourites and make up some posters, along with a link to your website (or other site of your choosing, if you don’t blog) and include them a future post.

A Book Recommendation

Scaredy Squirrel is super cute and funny. The way Logan reads it is extra super cute and funny. Here he is, reading one of his favourite parts. Enjoy!


A Reading by Logan from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.