Revenge is a dish best served covered in chocolate frosting

When Hannah was about two, she got into a little bit of trouble.

I found her one afternoon, standing at the open door of the fridge, eating fistfuls of cake.

From a seven-layer, made-from-scratch, five-hours-worth-of-my-life cake.

[Okay, maybe it was only a two-layer cake. I exaggerate.]

But it took a really long time to make, and was resting comfortably in the fridge for the Husband's birthday celebration that night.

That is, until baby girl got to it:

[Not the actual photo. I am sure I was too busy yelling and squawking to actually pull out the camera and document the crime. But you get the general idea - a happy, guilty, adorable chocolate face.]

So, last weekend, when my three children worked together to make a cake, I laughed really hard when we all discovered that someone had done this:

[No, it wasn't me. ]

It was someone who's name rhymes with Bosh. Also known as the Flusband.

I think it's one of those full-circle moments that make parenting worthwhile, don't you?

My new favorite thing: Book flowers

While browsing one of my favorite furniture stores this weekend, I stumbled upon something so lovely and adorable that I instantly tried to purchase one or twelve. Tragically, they were not for sale, and I was told they were merely decorations.

(Why? Why put something on the showroom floor that you have no intention of selling? Mental.)

Behold the lovely, adorable, and not-for-sale book flowers:



No, I didn't steal them (though I was sorely tempted). I studied one for so long that the sales woman finally took pity on me and told me how to make one of my very own.

And because I love you, I am going to show you, too -- in nine easy steps (or five if you're less indecisive and crazy than me).

[Had I been in less of a hurry, I would have gone to the thrift store and bought a really old, yellowed book. I think it would look even better antiqued. And how cool to be made from a book that I love, like something Austin perhaps? But alas, impatience is my middle name.]

[Also, make sure and roll them all in the same direction.]

Pretty cool, eh? Took me all of 15 minutes to do one book. Do not be surprised if my entire house is filled with them by, oh, tomorrow.

Happy crafting. Send me any links or snapshots of your own book flowers. It'll be like a decorating party!

Inquiring minds want to know

Totally random, but there are some questions that have been rattling around this empty head of mine all week, and I am looking to the wise internet for answers.

You know, instead of putting my soft-core p@rn dreams out there for you to interpret. (Really, internet? Hugh Jackman? Really? I just don't get it. But then again all I can picture him as is the wolf man from Xmen. Never saw Australia. Maybe that would help?)

ANYhoo, onto the pressing questions of the day.

Why is it, no matter how hard I try, can I never divide my bread dough evenly? Is there a special tool out there that would ensure my loaves are the same size? I realize the discrepancy is small, but for this OCD brain, it hurts just a little every time I look at it. I have to stop myself from slicing the bottom of the smaller loaf off when it comes out of the oven.

Yes, I am diseased. No, I do not care.

Anyone have any answers for this one? A scale? A dough measurer thingie? I need something.

And then I can work on peace in the middle east.

Second, WHY can I put shirts like this in the washer with bleach and the colored writing on them comes out fine?

And shirts like this in the washer with bleach come out with all the letters bleach-ified? Why does bleach NOT affect some things and totally destroy others?

Inquiring minds want to know.

(These letters used to be dark blue. Now they are a manly shade of pink. Which totally makes my self-conscious middle school boy happy, I'm sure. And yet the rest of the lettering remains unharmed. What the eff?)

And last, but not least, why are there not seat belts on school buses? Do not tell me it is because the 60 children on the bus are actually safer without them. I've seen those buses barrel down the streets, and those kids are standing, kneeling, jumping, twisted around, and sitting every which way but forward. I am literally sick at the what ifs should the unthinkable happen.

Something tells me it has a lot to do with the thing they call money, and that bothers me a whole lot. After all, look at the precious cargo being hauled around every day:

That angel face is at least worth the cost of a seat belt. Don't you think?

Give me your best answers so I can sleep at night and dream about Ben Affleck the Husband in peace, will you?

Tonight, the role of the leading man will be performed by...

We left the restaurant laughing, and decided to take a stroll together. He reached for my hand, and I smiled shyly. My black heels clicked on the cobblestones, mimicking my racing heart. I saw him watching me out of the corner of my eye, and I wondered yet again how I ever got this lucky.

The conversation was easy, natural. It surprised me how much we actually had in common. Though his career and lifestyle were much more demanding than mine, he seemed so interested in the little, insignificant details of my life.

We approached a narrow alley, and he quickly threw his arms around my waist, turning me around until my back was against the brick wall. He leaned in, one muscular arm on the wall, and kissed me gently. Whispering softly, he nuzzled my ear and kissed my neck.

"What about her?" the awful words came out involuntarily before I could stop them.

"She is nothing compared to you. How can I ever be the same, now that I know you? You have changed me. You have made me a better man."

He cupped my face in his hands, leaned in close, his lips brushing mine...

And then the bloody alarm clock went off.

Yes, last night I had one of those rare (for me) dreams in which I am the object of desire. Typically, even in my own subconscious, I am rejected and humiliated. It's been that way for as long as I can remember. I know! I reject myself! Who does that? Doesn't get any more crazy than that.

I am sure it is my insecurities revealing themselves as I sleep, but it stinks to not even be the star of your own dreams. What a field day Freud would have with me and my crazy head. Books could be written about the things that go on in there.

The better question though is who was the leading man last night?

I'll tell you. It was him:

YUM, right? He looked even better in my dream, I can assure you. And he wanted ME. ME! Thought I was absolutely irresistible and worth changing his life for.

Seriously.

Are you getting what I'm telling you? He was willing to give up this:

For this:

Yeeeaaaaah.

If such a man exists, I think one would seriously question his judgment and sanity.

Still, it was a lovely dream and I have no complaints.

What about you? Who is your dreamland leading man?

Do tell.

Snow day

The call comes in early this morning, the one we were waiting for. I listen to the recording with a smile on my face, and hear two sets of feet immediately climb out of their beds and pad softly down the hall to my door.

Even in the darkness, I can see their anxious looks. A nod of my head, cheers from their lips, and a stern shhhh, lest they wake up their sister. I pull the warm blankets up and feel the pull of sleep. I give into it with a grin on my face.

A couple of hours later, I stretch and yawn, relishing in my laziness. I ignore the scale, for surely today it shouldn't count, and slide my feet into the worn, fuzzy slippers. I shuffle downstairs, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and pull my hair into a ponytail.

I bypass the sugar cereal with a sigh, and reach instead for the heart-healthy fiber one. I sit and read a few blogs, relishing the unhurried feel of the day. Downstairs, the sounds of Bear Grylls float up from the tv, and I smile, thinking that they likely will reenact later whatever insanity shown them. I laugh thinking that maybe even they'll film it.

Next on the schedule is a very clumsy, short-winded run on the treadmill. I think of this newly returned pleasure in my life with a deep sense of gratitude, for the healing that has taken place in my body. I have desperately missed the one thing in my day that makes me feel like me. I am not whole unless I can sweat and strain, working this gloriously imperfect body, pushing it to the limits.

What also tells me that I am, and forever will be, me is the mental note I make WHILE on the treadmill to whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

I finish the run, and look in on my babies. They are snuggled up under a warm blanket, laughing together over a Calvin and Hobbs. The phone rings, and it is the Husband, calling to be a part of it all. I regale him with the exciting stories from our short morning. He chuckles and sighs, wishing he were in town to share it with us.

I take a deep breath, as the tears threaten to spill over, and I thank God for the blessing of this beautiful, imperfect, amazing life he saw fit to trust me with.

I have everything I ever wanted.

And I never want to take it for granted again.

This one will be family lore for generations

Last weekend, we had gloriously warm temperatures. Every day for a few days in a row, the mercury rose higher and higher, until it was resting comfortably spring-like in the middle of the 60s. I was down in my office, busy cleaning and organizing. I had packed Hannah off to a friend's house for the morning, and found my boys underfoot and full of the cabin fever.

When they approached and asked to play the bloody Xbox yet again, I told them in no uncertain terms that they were to go outside. I demanded that they get out there and enjoy the warmth while it lasted.

Their shoulders fell, as all technology-deprived children's do, and they started to head upstairs and outside. Just then, the tornado sirens went off. Having been out earlier in blue skies and sunshine, I told them it was probably just a drill and to GET. OUTSIDE. NOW. before I put them to work.

Or killed them.

Or both.

After about a minute, Chase came back in and asked if they could set their tent up in the backyard. Yes, fine, whatever. JUST GO PLAY.

About 20 minutes later, the tornado sirens went off again. I looked out the window and noticed the sky was now an eerie green color. Fearing it was NOT actually a drill, I went in search of the boys.

Their poor tent was being ravaged by the wind, and the rain pounded them from above. Were they not holding it down inside with their weight, I am confident some family in Indiana would now be the proud owners of a red two-man tent.

I immediately called them inside, and gave myself a few lashes with the belt made entirely out of guilt. You know that belt. We mothers all have one.

Come to find out, there was indeed a tornado. And it touched down only two miles from our home. And killed, oh, six people or so. Why, yes, child protective services, I made my children go play in it. Was that bad?

I'm thinking this story will be an excellent anecdote in my Mother of the Year speech. Don't you?

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