Wonder Woman Super Mom Party Planner

I've been preparing for Robinson's first birthday party for months, and it's been a labor of love! I've been so inspired by other people's party blogs and sites like Catch My Party and Etsy. I started with an invitation, which guided my choices in theme and color scheme. From there I tried to thoughtfully plan a menu that adults would enjoy but that Robinson and his baby-friends can also eat.

I love to throw parties, but I rarely have the opportunity, so I jumped into planning Rob's birthday party with both feet. Somewhere between constructing a handmade "Happy Birthday Robinson" 10-foot pennant banner and testing made-from-scratch red velvet cake, I realized something. These Wonder Woman Super Moms who plan these elaborate, extravagant, inspiring Super-Sweet-Birthday-Parties typically order their refreshments from a bakery, and/or purchase printable or pre-made party decorations. Never on any of these blogs did I find a party where the mother single-handedly made all the food from scratch and designed and constructed all the decorations from nothing more than cardstock, glue stick and an x-acto knife. It's a minor observation I didn't notice until I was knee-deep in confectioners sugar, with food coloring stains from my fingernails up to my elbow.

What does Wonder Woman Super Mom know that I don't? That there is no glory in making everything from scratch, it's all about the finished product? That doing everything yourself is for suckers? That I just bought a one-way ticket to Crazytown by taking on more than I can handle? What have I gotten myself into? Martha Stewart I am not. I'm no Superman. I meant well--I was just a proud mama approaching this with a can-do attitude, wanting to make every element of Robinson's party with love. Plus, it seemed like fun. And it seemed more economical to do it myself. So far everything is going just fine and I've really enjoyed the challenge. But everything up until now has been planning and staging. As the party looms closer, I've reached the place where the rubber meets the road. I've tested all my recipes over a period of months, but now I have to make them all within 48 hours. And it needs to be delicious. Right now I'm in the middle of crumb coating the birthday cake so I can cover it in fondant and decorate it tomorrow. I tell you all this so that if I collapse in a heap in the middle of my floor, covered in confectioners sugar and red food coloring, everyone will know what happened to me.

I will post party pictures and details when everything comes together! Yeah, I think I've lost my mind, but there's no turning back now! Wish me luck!

Don't Stand So Close to Me | Shopping Etiquette Referendum

Does "shopping etiquette" exist? I think it should. I would suggest a few basic guidelines that people should abide by when shopping:

1. A shopping cart is an extension of the shopper.
2. Do not invade one's personal bubble, including their shopping cart.
3. In the checkout line, the shopper whose items are currently being rung up is King. Act accordingly.

Yeah, that's pretty much all I've got right now, but I think it's adequate and all-encompassing. Why am I suddenly so fussy and concerned with shopping etiquette? I was appalled at a recent trip to Wal-Mart.

I am purchasing groceries, along with items for Robinson's birthday party. I am paying with cash and want to be sure I have not gotten carried away or overspent. I'm trying to be responsible, y'all. The lady behind me in line is very typical of shoppers waiting in a checkout line. She would like to jump up my butt, and somehow have all her groceries scanned and paid for while I'm still in line. Pay attention: I am in front of you in line. No matter how close you stand to me, or how many of your groceries are placed on the conveyor belt behind that handy divider bar, you're not getting out of here before me. Slow your roll.

This time, I am standing in front of my cart, because I'm still unloading items and at the same time monitoring the cashier scanning the items to be sure everything is ringing up at the correct price. I would submit that this is my right and responsibility as a consumer. Woman behind me steps forward and pushes my shopping cart forward about three feet. My child is in the cart. So, by my reasoning, she touched my child. I shoot eye daggers at the woman. I feel like the chick in the Axe body spray commercial.

I know you're not touching my mannequin!

Yeah, except instead of a mannequin, it's a baby. Never touch my shopping cart (which I commonly refer to as a "buggy", much to Steve's annoyance). Never touch my baby. Never touch my shopping cart while it contains my baby. Are we clear?

I didn't say anything to the woman, because I wondered if I was alone in my shopping etiquette beliefs. Steve says, "Oh hell no, she did not touch your cart with Rob in it." Haha, I'm paraphrasing of course, but I just made it seem like Steve talks like a sassy girl. I'm amusing myself, but I digress. Anyway, Woman had two children with her. Also, she was of a different nationality. Maybe in Mumbai, people push each other's shopping carts. I don't know. I've never been there. I decided to let it slide this once. 

I'm not the only person whose personal space is invaded. Recently, my mom was on the phone with me while she was shopping, when she abruptly ended our conversation. I later learned what transpired that afternoon in the Hobby Lobby. Mom says she was being followed aisle-to-aisle by a woman who was crowding her so closely that she kept hitting my Mom with her shopping cart. Mom finally decided that enough was enough. Mom hangs up the phone, turns to the woman behind her and says:

Mom: I don't know you, and you are standing in my personal space.

Creepy Lady: [in a low, breathy voice] Yes you do.

Mom: Uhh, no. I don't.

Creepy Lady: [still in the breathy voice] Yes you do.

Mom: Who are you?

Creepy Lady: Who do you think I am?

Mom: I think you're a stranger and you're standing too close to me and you need to back off.

Ok, so I have to applaud my mom on her directness, but it was ineffective nonetheless. Creepy Woman continued to follow my mom through the store, eventually purchasing $300 worth of feathers, or "plumage" as my mom would say. 

Shopping is a universal, public, yet personal experience. When I need to buy my toilet paper or pregnancy tests or [insert name of item you're embarrassed to purchase in front of strangers], I don't want to do this while a stranger stands over me, close enough to braid my hair. At the cash register, I'm handling my cash, or presenting a debit card, or entering a PIN number. This is also a private matter. Back the hell off. Don't touch my stuff. You'll get your turn. 

Am I asking too much?

One

I thought I'd be in a puddle of tears today because my first born, my only child, is no longer a baby and now a toddler. Today is his first birthday. I'm a crier. I cry when I'm sad. I cry when I'm happy. I cry during the local news. I cry during the cheesy predictable ending of a romantic comedy. Today, I haven't cried. As a matter of fact, I've been the opposite of crying. I've been downright euphoric. Giddy. Happy. Robinson and I began our day at the pediatrician's office for Rob's one-year check-up, where I greeted the doctor with such enthusiasm that he was taken aback. "Wow. You're...bubbly." He actually took a step backwards. All I did was smile and say hello, I promise. Robinson's doctor is always reacting with surprise to see me in a good mood. What does he expect? Do all you mothers out there go to the pediatrician's office in crabby moods and I just don't know about it? I mean, I can imagine he encounters many mothers on a daily basis who are visiting him because their child is sick or injured, and I wouldn't expect them to be peppy; but I've only been to the pediatrician for the well-baby check ups. Should I be in a sour mood about that? Maybe my doctor is a glass-half-empty kind of guy, and he enters each appointment with the expectation that the mother is going to be a complete chore. I dunno. I'm not gonna speculate.

After the pediatrician, we went to an early lunch at Chick-Fil-A. I thought he might enjoy the play area. It's called "Toddler Town". It's an entire town for toddlers! What could be more fun? Well, if I was feeling wistful  earlier that my "baby" is all grown up, Toddler Town showed me that my tot isn't all that grown up. There was no way he could have held his own in Toddler Town. There were tots in there with ankles bigger than Rob's thighs. My kid's gonna have to learn how to scrap before he can play in there. Also, he needs to learn how to walk. I saw no crawling in Toddler Town. Robinson sat happily for an hour, watching all the children run around and play. His mind was blown.

Steve and I are so grateful for our healthy, beautiful, sweet, precocious baby boy, and we're excited for what the next year holds for our family of three!

Veruca Salt and Me: A Story of Interfriendtion and Redemption

Hi, guys! Do you remember the time I was furious with my best friend of over ten years and so I wrote a strongly-worded blog post and published it on the internet and hundreds of people read it?

Did you wonder if my friend Veruca Salt read the post?

She did.

Do you think it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

It didn't.

Should I have saved it for Festivus?

Maybe.

Should I have worked through my feelings in a more private and productive way, like talking to a therapist?

That's not a bad idea.

Better still, could I have perhaps taken my issues directly to Veruca instead of publicly humiliating her on the internet?

She certainly thinks so.

In the interest of forgiveness (and as a testament to the power of friendship), the title and content of the aforementioned blog post have since been edited, so this post will only make sense to those who read that post in its original form. However, enough people read "The Blog" that I feel a follow-up is in order. It's only fair that I stop referring to my friend as "Veruca Salt". She would like to henceforth be known as  "A1". It's an old nickname. Don't ask.

I believe that I best process my feelings and express myself through writing, and that in doing so I was able to lay out my detailed account of how her words and actions hurt others and that this would prompt her to re-examine herself and return to being the sweet, loyal and fun friend I have known and loved for so many years. Urban Dictionary would call this an "interfriendtion". It's catchy and concise, so let's go with that. I would like to think that my post opened up a healthy and honest dialogue that repaired our friendship. 

A1 would say that I could have accomplished this in a much less public way. One woman's catharsis is another woman's humiliation, and I take no pride in hurting someone. I recognize that my blog is available for public viewing, but to say that the response to this particular post was unprecedented for this blogger would be an understatement.

You should know that A1 and I both agreed that this post is necessary. She certainly didn't want me to leave this story open-ended, with her cast as the villain. We have been friends since we were 18-years-old. The events I described in The Blog do not accurately reflect A1's character, or our history together. Hearing her heartfelt apology and explanation (not to be confused with excuse) provided clarity and a context that made it clear to me that we can absolutely move forward from this. We value our friendship and hurt feelings on both sides have been mended.

If you've been blessed in your life with important friendships that have withstood the test of time, then you know that times can get stormy. Borrowing from one of Steve's favorite expressions, "It's not all rainbows and lollipops." If you take anything away from this mini-drama, I hope it's the understanding that we all fall down sometimes. We hurt the ones we love the most. Sometimes when we hurt our loved ones, they hurt us back in ways we never imagined. But we always forgive, because we're a family. A1, The Gypsy, Mama, Cara, Beana, Sally, plus Panda and The Dr. (both absent from this year's trip), and me--we'll be playing cards in the old folks' home when we're 90. 

If you have your own "Veruca Salt" in your life, A1 and I would encourage you to pick up the phone. Y'all talk it out. The outcome could be better than you ever hoped. 

Step Right Up, and Feast Your Eyes on A PAIR OF REDHEADS!

In case you haven't noticed, my son Robinson and I both have red hair. If I ever forget that my red hair is an anomaly, there are plenty of strangers eager to remind me. As I've gotten older, and therefore more likely to go out with a ponytail pulled through a ball cap, people make fewer comments to me about my hair. But, now that I have a redheaded baby, we attract considerable attention. As the title of this post hints, I do at times feel like a bit of a freak show. Here are the odds of what's likely to happen if Robinson and I ever go out in public together:

9 out of 10: chance that someone will approach Robinson and strike up a conversation with him about his hair. Robinson can't talk of course, because he is a baby, so I stop checking the expiration dates on the milk in the dairy case and engage a stranger in a conversation about hair.

3 out of 4: chance that the person who approaches me will have a family history of red hair and will launch into a detailed account of their family tree, which members of their family have red hair, which generations the red hair skipped, and miscellaneous redhead topics, such as the occurrence of red hair with blue eyes versus red hair with brown eyes.

1 out of 10: chance that the person who approaches me will somehow insult red hair or pay a back-handed compliment.

Example:
Wal-Mart Employee: "My baby has red hair. Of course, he's all grown up now. He got to where he really hated it--said he got tired of everywhere he went he got noticed."
Me: [laughing] Yeah, I know the feeling.

Wal-Mart Employee sheepishly scurries away and pretends to rearrange the eggs in the dairy case.

Meow! I didn't realize until typing this that my reply was kind of pointed and catty. That was not my intention. I basically said it sucks that strangers (read: her) approach me everywhere I go because I have bright red hair. Then again, I was responding to her statement, which was basically, "My son has hair the same color as you--and he hates it." I'd call that an unintended insult. If you can think of a nicer way to respond to that, I'm all ears.

Another funny aspect of the "redhead conversation" is when a person who knows a redhead approaches me, and they like to discuss what I would call "the plight of the redhead". It's basically all the stereotypes about the "redhead experience", which they seem to  believe is universally shared by all redheads. They'll say things like, "I bet people gave you hell when you were a kid, but you like your hair now!" or "Ya know, redheads don't turn gray like so many other hair colors. Your hair color will probably just slowly fade," or "Have you ever noticed that most redheads are pasty and ugly?" or "Redheads bleed a lot when you cut them". All true. Seriously, whenever I am being prepped for surgery (as you do so often) and the nurses or surgical techs get a look at me and my copper locks, they shake their heads and say to one of the associates "No one told us she was a redhead. We're gonna need more blood."

If I sound like I dislike mine and my son's shared red hair, I don't. Nor do I mind that people approach us. My mom told me this would happen. She said grocery shopping took much longer with  Baby Samantha because people wanted to talk to her about my hair. And because every time a stranger approached me I wanted them to pick me up and take me with them. She had to keep a close eye on me. There are much worse things in life than being on the receiving end of positive attention. Added bonus: if (God forbid) something terrible happened to Robinson and me, like we went missing, and police were investigating our disappearance by retracing our last known whereabouts, I feel pretty confident that people at Wal-Mart, Kroger, Starbucks, etc. would remember us. I know, I know, that's a very morose place for my mind to wander...I'm just sayin'. I find comfort in being distinctive for that reason alone.