Easter Pies

Have you ever found yourself doing something simply because it is a family tradition and thinking, why am I doing this? Or, whoever thought of doing this? I read an anecdote about a family who always asked the butcher to cut off the small end of the ham, which they placed beside the larger portion to cook. When one of the daughters married, her new husband asked her why she cooked ham this way. She replied because it is the best way...my mom always cooked it this way. At the next family gathering, he queried the mother as to why she cooked ham in that manner. She affirmed that it was the best way because her mother had always done it that way. The next time the man saw the grandmother, he remembered to ask her why she cooked hams that way. She laughed and responded that her roasting pan was small and that was the only way the ham would fit!

I love pie, but hate to make piecrust. When I was first married, I was enthralled with the picture of the piecrust in the Betty Crocker cookbook. I have wasted hours of my life trying to make the perfect piecrust. And so I would only make pies for very special occasions or holiday. Since most of the other holidays had their own sweet dishes, pies became THE thing for Easter. A wonderful friend gave me an easy recipe for fresh strawberry pie and together with lemon meringue, they were necessities for our family celebration. We probably have more pictures of the girls stirring and then slicking the bowls of the Easter pie fillings than we have of them dyeing their Easter eggs. We didn't have pie at the end of the meal, because we couldn't properly appreciate it while we were so full. We would wait until just about sunset and then mark the end of another memorable Easter by consuming a huge piece of pie.

One Easter, we were not in the mood for the usual sit-down formality of a meal and so we put the ham and potato salad and rolls in a picnic basket and drove a few miles to the backside of nowhere and picnicked and then flew kites all that windy afternoon. We weren't quite prepared, however, to completely break with tradition and so we got home in time for sunset and the Easter pies.

As the years piled up and our family changed, we opted to make Easter dinner into Easter brunch. The Editor would make an unbelievable number of waffles that we would sometimes eat as we walked from the kitchen to the dining room so they would not be less than piping hot as we consumed them. Busybody taught us to eat fresh strawberries dipped first in sour cream and then in brown sugar, and so we no longer needed the strawberry pie. For several years, there were only adults at these get-togethers and they changed quite a bit to accommodate the composition of the family. Usually, one or more daughters would need to leave to visit the other family that now had share rights and the sunset pie was no longer a whole family observance.

This year it was only me and the Norwegian at home for Easter but I still felt compelled to make an Easter pie. The crust didn't seem so difficult--maybe because there was only need for one. And then, because the Norwegian was gone for the day and I had more time than usual, I happened to take note of the microwave instructions on the box of the lemon pudding and pie filling. I would never have departed from the tried and true stirring-in-a-pan method if we had been having guests for dinner. But, I can give up some points on taste in order to gain convenience and, really, is a husband going to notice? Surprisingly, it was easier! I licked the bowl--myself--trying to determine what made those scraped up bits so delectable to little girls. And now I know!

The celebration is over, the pie is gone, but memories have a way of hanging around. Maybe that's why we start traditions, steadfastly maintain them and pass them on.


Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

My Dirty Little Secret

I think Gigi was raised under the premise that ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’. Our house was always immaculate when we were growing up. Not a single couch cushion out of place, not a piece of hair in the hairbrushes, all hand-washed dishes put away immediately after every meal. I don’t know how she did it, but everything was always perfect.

Sometimes I wonder how it is that I never sent her to the looney bin, and here’s why…

When the Editor and I were little little, we lived in an apartment. The “backyard” was the size of a postage stamp with a little patch of dirt. One of our favorite things to do was dig a hole, insert a hose into the hole, and wait for the dirt to turn into mud. We would then wade into the mud and make mud pies to throw at the back side of the apartment. We were so filthy at the end of this that we had to be stripped down and immediately thrown into the bathtub. The bathtub had to be drained and refilled several times before the swamp creature effect started to wash away. (I was too little at the time to notice, but I am sure the tub had to be scrubbed with quite a bit of elbow grease to get rid of the grime we left behind.)

One time Paty and I decided that we were going to play restaurant. (I do not know why the Editor was not with us on this one—she was usually my best partner in grime.) In my little mind, it seemed that the best thing to use to play restaurant was the discarded food containers and boxes from our houses. The best place to find these items, without anyone getting upset that we were using them, was in the trash can. I didn’t think about the grossness of the situation or the filth or any of the other disgustingness that went along with this, but I’m here to tell you that playing restaurant with those things—empty ice cream cartons, empty coke bottles, empty mac n’ cheese boxes—now that was great fun! This kept us busy for hours, days, weeks even—until Gigi caught onto what we were doing. And that cleanliness gene she inherited kicked in and put the kibosh on our good times. I guess she was so busy being next to godliness that she didn’t know that one parent’s trash is another kid’s treasure.

Our aunt was a sewer (as in seamstress, not as in sewage). She could whip up anything on her sewing machine. (Gigi could too, but Gigi had little girls constantly underfoot which wasn’t always the best thing for sewing.) I don’t know why but one time our aunt made a bunch of little stuffed animals. I don’t recall all the specific kinds she made, but I do remember little wedge-shaped chicks. They were very cute, and as it turned out, a lot of fun. Our aunt made us the lucky recipients of a ton of these little animals. Instead of letting these toys go to waste by letting them sit prettily on a shelf or our beds, we made a game with them, appropriately named ‘Chickie Mess’. The Ed would sit on a twin bed on one side of the room, I would sit on the twin bed on the other side of the room. The goal of the game was to get ALL of the chickies (and other various animals) onto the bed of the other sister. As you can imagine, this was a LOT of fun—chickies flying through the air, little girls laughing and screaming and jumping on the beds. Now, for some strange reason, Gigi did not like this game. We could hear her coming (how, with all the racket going on in the thick of the game, I do not know) by the sound of her slippers, and her usually soft voice booming, “Girls!” And, just as she’d open the door, we’d stuff the chickies into the crack between the bed and the wall, and look up at her in the door way, saying (all wide eyed and innocent), “What, Mom?” (As if she didn’t know what we were doing.) I guess Chickie Mess was just too much of a mess for Gigi. One day we went to go play it and mysteriously, the chickies (and friends) were missing. Hmmmm….

Our house was next door to Paty’s house. The front corner of our garage was directly across from the front corner of her front porch. We spent many hours, standing there, in between the houses, hatching plans, chatting, scheming, and for some reason, pulling the berries off of a holly-like bush at that corner of our garage, and writing on the side wall of the garage. It wasn’t easy to do—the wall was stucco. It wasn’t particularly fun, either. I have no idea why we did it—I guess it was just something to do with our hands while we stood there scheduling our free time. This must have gone on for months. Finally one day either the Norwegian or Gigi saw the graffiti and that was the end of that. They sent me and the Ed out to clean it up. They didn’t say how or with what, but nevertheless, it was our responsibility to clean up our mess. So, obediently we went out to do it, but didn’t exactly know how to accomplish it. Luckily for us, Paty came over to offer her wisdom. She told us that mud is very cleansing. And so, being the resourceful girls that we were, we got a bucket and a shovel and the hose…and we gave the side of the house a very thorough facial (not unlike what we did to the apartment wall). Now, I don’t know if Gigi saw what we were doing and sent the Norwegian out, or if the Norwegian just came out himself to check on our progress, but the bottom line was that they were not happy with our choice of cleaning methods. To make matters worse, the “authority” on the cleansing mud idea vanished when the Norwegian rounded the corner. (Paty often did that. She was very good with selling her views and ideas to us, but not so much with the parental units.) So, the Norwegian decided that we had to stand there and watch him do the job right. He got a bucket and some kind of soap and a scrub brush. (Well, sure, anyone could clean it THAT way!) Needless to say, after that experience, our tagging days were over.

I guess sometime during my second year of college the cleanliness gene woke up in me. I realized that Gigi might have been onto something all those years. I began to appreciate the benefits of a clean living area. I became a clean freak. So much so that when the Editor and I lived together my senior year of college, we would clean our townhouse into the wee hours of the morning, probably to the major irritation of our shared-wall neighbor. He probably didn’t care that we were cleaning, but that we would sing “Cleanliness is next to godliness that’s why we’re cleaning at 2 in the morning” to the tune of “Memories” in a super high voice at the top of our lungs. I would clean and clean and clean until not a speck of dirt dared to show its ugly little face in my house.

And that lasted…until I became a mother. It’s not that I don’t still want to have a clean house, but the hours in my day get swallowed up by other things (mostly by wanting to spend time playing with the girls, rather than cleaning) and I guess that deep down, I have to stay true to my roots—roots that go deep down into the (not so clean) dirt!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

The Valedictorian

Before they could fully appreciate cousinship, the Editor moved away, and now Joy and Bubba and Stump only get to see each other twice a year. They totally enjoy their time together even though Joy is a girl and Bubba and Stump are boys. (Joy is very big about overlooking her guiding principle of life: “Girls are delicate, boys are wild’—but only for them.) Joy and Bubba are three years apart in age, but get along like equals. Both are freakishly smart as the first-born tends to be—at least in our family. The two of them together are truly a force to be reckoned with. It’s cute to watch—sometimes. Sometimes they are just aggravating.

Sometimes they get something in their minds and it takes an act of God to deter them. Like playing with the neighbor’s dog when the cousins are in town visiting for the summer. Both of them have their own ideas about how they should “exercise” the dog by making him chase a ball over and over and over and over again. When we explain that the dog is older and might not want that much exercise, the two of them start in, tag-team fashion, like future lawyers. Yikes! The negotiating is awesome, especially considering that it’s coming from two little pipsqueaks—unless you are on the losing end. And with the two of them uniting, anyone against them is on the losing end. Even if they concede and lose the battle, they still win the war, because before you even realize the negotiations are over, they have moved on to their next endeavor. Heaven help us all.

They also like to team up against Stump. It’s not very nice. They act like he’s too little to play with them—even though he’s almost a full year older than Joy. We’ve tried to explain to them that one of these days he’s going to be bigger than both of them put together and when that day comes, they will have some explaining to do. For now he takes it all in good naturedly, but some day it will be brawn versus brain. I think all the years of abuse will give brawn the advantage. When that day comes I’m going to be selling popcorn and front row seats, if anyone is interested. (I won’t be eating any of the popcorn due to my aversion, but selling it nevertheless.)

There are two little cousins that I have not included in this story—Samantha Jean Pocket, age 2 ½ and Marlo, age almost 18 months. They have not really tuned in to the whole cousin thing yet, I think they are too little, or perhaps they just don’t care. Each one is still intent on getting what she wants when she wants it and so they don’t particularly care if cousins are around. They don’t really care if aunts, uncles, grandparents, sisters, brothers, cats, dogs, elephants, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, other children, librarians, store clerks, waitresses, flight attendants, astronauts, teachers, preachers, most times Daddies, or anyone else for that matter, is around, just as long as Mommy is there. No substitutions. So, yes, they are part of the Cousin Cartel, but they are not fully participating members—yet. We are bracing ourselves for that day!

Sometimes Bubba and Joy get a little bossy. By a little I mean astronomically. Each one thinks that they are the smartest and know the best/fastest/most efficient/most fun way to do whatever it is they are conspiring to do. Each one has their strengths—Bubba is very wise in the ways of robots, dinosaurs, lizards, and all things mechanical. Joy is the expert on vocabulary, princesses, Barbies, wolves, and has an imagination that can whip the pants off most. Both fall short in sharing certain toys, sharing Gigi, letting someone else take control of the situation, and in lowering their stubbornness level. I fear for their teachers over the years. And I am sure the Editor will agree, we are going to operate on the premise of “I promise not to believe half of what he/she says happens in class if you promise not to believe half of what he/she says happens at home.” I, for one, am going to try not to place too much emphasis on schooling by placing more emphasis on Joy’s education, which to me includes the stuff she needs to know to get through life and be a well-rounded, contributing member of society. And here’s why:

Growing up I was always in the shadow of the Editor. She’s only two years older than me, but she was 3 grades ahead because she started school at 4. I started school at 5 and turned 6 shortly thereafter. She was always the smart one. The Norwegian dubbed me “the blonde bomb”, I guess because I was spirited and had a short fuse. I liked school and I liked to do well in school—somehow I just felt like I never measured up to the Ed. I tried, yes I did, but there were always other fun things to do that seemed to derail my efforts. She was the Valedictorian of her class in high school—something to do with that 4.0 she maintained. (It was probably above a 4.0, but who cares? Not who cares as in I don’t care, but as in anything above 4.0 is all gravy.) With my AP classes I was at a 4.0, too, but it wasn’t a straight 4.0 because somewhere along the way I got a B and there were about 23 other students in my class who had higher GPAs. (I had 4.0 years of cheerleading—the ONLY one in my class--but colleges aren’t really interested in that sort of thing, now are they?) By the way, we did not go to the same high school. We also did not go to the same college. We went to rival colleges. People ask why all the time. I tell them that I learned from her mistake. Anyway…

She went off to college and a few years later I followed. And I am not sure, but somewhere along the way something went wrong, drastically wrong. I enrolled in all of my classes, attended them religiously—always took a full load. I didn’t even take time off to go to the Fair. (Ha! Ha!) For two years I was involved in a community service organization that required us to do a minimum amount of volunteer hours at the University and in the surrounding community. The second year I was the secretary of said organization and was responsible for keeping track of everyone’s hours. (Not an easy job for a group of over-achieving women.) I was also the school mascot for two years. One of those years was an overlap, but somehow I managed to hold it all together and do it. My last year of college there was some confusion and I found myself needing a roommate. The Ed was already out of college, but she said she would move in with me and so we found ourselves to be reunited as roommates once again.

So, the second quarter of my senior year, in the middle of midterms, the Ed was going out with some of her friends and wanted me to come along. I couldn’t because I was studying for a really hard test. We went around and around, the Ed trying to convince me to go, me trying to convince her that I couldn’t because I didn’t want to do poorly in the class. And that’s when it happened. The Ed said, “You need to have some fun and not study so hard all the time. Is that all you want to remember about college?” and I replied, “OH, SURE! That’s easy for you to say, Miss Valedictorian!” You see, I had erroneously believed, for my first 3 ½ years of college, that the Ed got perfect grades in college. She then pulled out some of her transcripts and showed me—not that they were all that bad (and in her defense, she had a really hard major) but they weren’t as perfect as I had thought all that time. We got a good laugh out of it. It relieved some of the pressure for that midterm the next morning AND it had motivated me all those quarters to get really good grades. (I didn’t end up going out with the Ed that night, but I think she had an entertaining story to tell. It probably started, “My sister is so dumb…”)

I really did enjoy college. I was really involved and I made a lot of great friends. One of my best friends to this day is my roommate from the dorms from my freshman year.

I guess if I had to do it all over again I would remember that letter grades don’t show up on your diploma and good grades don’t necessarily make a well-rounded person. Luckily I do get to kinda do it all over again, with my girls—and you can bet I will share this little bit of history with them.

In the meantime, I am just going to enjoy the plans and schemes that Bubba, Stump, Joy, Samantha Jean Pocket, and Marlo come up with when they get together twice a year. And I will thank my lucky stars that, due to the smartness of these children, that it IS only twice a year that we have to try to deal with their antics…but most of all I will be thankful that I am no longer trying to live up to the Editor’s academic prowess.

(Thanks, Ed—you could have told me about that a little sooner!)
Note from The Editor: I think I did tell you, you just had to see the transcripts for proof!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Life is not fair

Unfortunately we have always lived within driving distance from the Fair and my ENTIRE family (growing up) always loved to go…me—not so much. One year I had perfect attendance at school and a mother who shall remain an unnamed Gigi went to school and arranged with the principal and teacher for me to miss school one day to go to the Fair (of all places). I only had to do 3x the work to make up for my absence. After she did all this orchestrating I negotiated with unnamed Gigi and convinced her it was in her best interest to let me stay home. Of course I couldn’t actually go to school because that would have been too complicated. No, I had to stay with someone, worrying about the load of homework I was facing and bemoaning the perfect attendance record that was no more.

I guess I just don’t understand the Fair…from start to finish. Why is it called the Fair? I think it should be called the UN-Fair and here’s why: There is nothing “fair” about it. I guess technically the weather is fair, but when it’s in the blazing dog days of summer, rainy would actually be a welcome relief. There is nothing fair about the attendees at the Fair. The Fair seems to draw every walk of life—even some I didn’t know existed. And then you mix these various walks with the hotter than heck weather and you get some not so fair smells, although I have come to categorize these smells as distinctly “Fair” smells. (Not so good.) The other Fair smells, like all that fried food, mingled with the attendees’ aromas is enough to make anyone want to gag. OK, well, I guess not anyone, but ME. It makes me want to gag. (If you would like to recall, I am the un-American girl who cannot eat French Fries, popcorn, hot dogs, or red meat. That’s another story for another day, but fried, processed food—especially the smell of it—is not my forte.) Don’t even get me started on the animal section of the joint! And then you’ve got the carnival rides. The rides seem to be held together with duct tape and safety pins. Yikes! And no matter where you step, the ground is sticky. Nothing makes me want to just come out of my skin like stepping in something sticky, which leads me to the restrooms. The restrooms should be sealed with crime scene tape OR they should pass out biohazard suits at the door. Seriously.

And then there are the buildings. There seem to be endless rows of never-ending buildings filled with displays, exhibits and all kinds of gadgets that work at the Fair, but never seem to have their intended effect at home. There is always too much stuff crammed into these buildings, with too many people shuffling through, all the while the product demonstrators barking at you. Inevitably someone steps on your foot a few or 27 times, elbows you in the back, knocks you over with their brand-new Sham Wow mop handle, or shoves you into the stacks of veggie choppers because they are trying to be one of the first fifty shoppers to get half price on the no-stick omelet/doughnut/stir-fry microwave genie attachment. A couple of hours minutes into this ordeal and I am ready to go home. Unfortunately, we always come in the same car, so there is no escape. I feel trapped in a crowded, noisy stench of all things UN-fair.

Now, add all these things together, along with a family who unreasonably and inexplicably loves to embrace these elements, and you have the recipe for an unhappy BusyBody. I have been fighting this yearly pilgrimage my whole life. Thank the good Lord the Fair only comes once a year.

In an effort to not seem so terrible and mean, I will admit there are a few (and I mean a VERY few) things that keep me from going over the edge on these outings. Number one: I do like to people watch. There is no shortage of material at the fair. Number two: there is one little shop that sells some very tasty fudge. If I can block the idea of vermin running rampant after everyone goes home at night*, I can eat a bite or two. Number three: if you go on a week day, it’s not as crowded and it closes at 10 pm. Thank heaven for small favors. And number four: unnamed Gigi loves the Fair. There is nothing better than watching her be delighted and excited at all of the fried food and the useless gadgets the Fair Folk try to fill you and your bags with. Most of the time I am truly my mother’s daughter…but the “I love the Fair” gene skipped over me. I guess seeing her enjoy it so much makes it tolerable for me.

And I suppose you are wondering why I am talking about it like it still happens—these forced outings to a place I cannot stand? After all, I am a grown adult, no longer required to travel to family activities with the family because I am too young to stay at school/home and fend for myself while the family ventures into the black hole otherwise known as “The Fair.” Well, as luck would have it, I was only granted a very short reprieve from my Fair sentence. I got married, and in one of those not-so-funny twists of fate, Hubs, as it turns out, shares that ridiculous love for the Fair with Gigi. Somehow or another they always manage to conspire to con/trick/bribe me into going. They play dirty and get Joy to beg…and that opens up a whole host of new germ/crowd/fear of carnival rides breaking down issues. Again, thank the good Lord that the Fair only comes once a year!

Oh, the crowds! Oh, the noise! Oh, the sickening smells! Life is definitely NOT fair!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

*note from The Editor: This is an idea totally established by the original (1973) Charlotte's Web movie, do you remember Templeton's gluttonous night at the fair?

Fair Warning

I love the Fair. Fortunately, we have always lived within a convenient driving distance and so we go to the Fair every year.

Unfortunately, one member of the family who shall only be known as an unnamed Busybody does not love the Fair. She always told me she was sick on the day we were going, as a family, to the Fair. This would be after I had negotiated terms with the schoolteacher and principal to excuse her from that day and promised to do extra homework for the next month to make up for the day she would be gone. She didn’t care about the amount of effort I had expended, she was adamant that she couldn’t go and I would have to then arrange for her to stay with someone because if I sent her to school, their efforts would be in vain, also, and it just became too much of an explaining task So one year, I decided that she had to go no matter what she said. We got to the Fair and got on the shuttle and she started sneezing; while we were purchasing tickets, her eyes started watering; as we walked through the carnival midway, her eyes became red-rimmed and swollen; by the time we got to the real part of the Fair, she took off for the restrooms holding her mouth. Fair restrooms, beach restrooms, park restrooms, restaurant restrooms and, sometimes, school restrooms made her gag even when she wasn’t actively being sick in other ways, and I knew that that day at the Fair was over.

In spite of the fact that we cannot enjoy the outing as a complete family, I still love the Fair. One of the things that is high on my list is that every food there is fried. Yum. (Remember, I’m from the South; the Norwegian is not.) My very favorite things at the Fair, though, are the commercial buildings. I am fascinated by the wide variety of new innovations that have hit the market since the preceding year; I am amazed that these products are exactly what I have been thinking I need in my life. And I am totally in awe of the expertise of the people doing the demos. I stand and make eye contact in encouragement and watch and smile at their sales pitch and, oh too often, I buy the razzle-dazzle product. In the long months between the Fairs, I am a fan of infomercials. Although I don’t impulse buy them as I do at the Fair, I head straight to the As Seen On TV section of the store, and take a little longer to consider the product before I buy it. I just never take into account that I will have to store this item somewhere in my home and I will have to learn to use it with the same expertise as those showing it in order for it to be a timesaving convenience for me. Whereas, those people have received intense training before being put on the job, and then practice their training for many hours each day, I only need that convenience occasionally.

One of the things that I purchased is a Sav-Time-Every-Laundry Day clothes folder. This is a really good item. I have seen it used in department stores, a lot. So that, when careless people mess up the stack of clothes, they can refold them on the folder contraption and that item will exactly match the rest of the stack. That is exactly what I want here at home. It doesn’t work on towels, however, because then they don’t fit in the linen closet shelves. I think in the department stores, they make the shelves to fit the folded clothes. Really, now that I think about it, the only things I can use the folder on are the Norwegian’s undershirts. I do have to decide how many shirts needing folding justify getting the folder out, using it and putting it away. Four? Ten? Maybe I should wait until all of his undershirts are dirty and do one huge load, get out the folder and complete the job all at once. When the folder was newly home from the Fair, I think I tried that method, but sometimes forgot and then he would have to wait for laundry. He doesn’t notice whether or not or how things are folded, but he does notice clean. I don’t mean recycled clean—as when you put an item in the dryer with a fabric sheet, pull it out triumphantly fifteen minutes later, and say,” there you go”—I mean clean, clean.

I don’t pay a lot of attention to the things that sit around in the house because I know why I bought them and I know that at some time or other, they will be very useful: Useful to the ultimate level that those demo people promised. Sometimes the grandkids get a little confused. “What is this, Gigi?” “That’s a bread slicer.” “Can I use it?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I buy bread that is already sliced.” “Are you going to make bread, Gigi?” “I don’t think so. Not today. Maybe another day.” “So, can I use the bread slicer?” “No.” “Why?” “Because you might cut yourself.” “No, I won’t.” “Look, Gigi’s going to put the bread slicer up here on the top shelf where we don’t have to think about it—with the sushi maker, the ostrich feather fan duster, the star shaped ice cube maker, and other assorted things, and we’ll talk about this when I visit you in college. I will even lend you my roll-up suitcase that you lay all the clothes out flat and then roll it up so they don’t have to be folded and get wrinkled.” “Can I see it now, Gigi?” “ No.” “ Why? “ “Because I don’t really know where it is—probably on a shelf that’s too high for us to reach…. But if you stop asking questions, maybe I’ll take you to the Fair with me this year.”

Posted by The Editor for Gigi.

Keep love in your heart

I am a huge, huge advocate for reading to your children. OK, so I was a 1st/2nd grade teacher and that makes me a little biased, I guess. I taught in a not-so-nice area of Los Angeles and English was the second language of most of my students. They started out at a disadvantage and it made teaching more of a challenge. Experts say that you should spend something like 2000 hours of “on the lap” reading for your children to develop the pre-reading skills they need to start school. Advertisements promote 20 minutes a day. I say, the more time your kids will sit and listen, the more you should read to them.

I have read to both of my girls, from before they were even born. Every night includes a bedtime story. Every day we try to read something else together, and because I have gotten them used to this, it’s usually a lot more. Joy has her own library card, and Marlo is due to get her own pretty soon. We enjoy our weekly trips to the library. Joy knows the librarians and loves to see “Miss Amy” and “Miss Susie” when we go. They know the girls by name and seem to be as excited to see the girls as they are them. They participate in the summer reading program and go to many of the extra activities, like story hour, arts and crafts, and family night. Getting the books is quite an experience…

I have a big bag from Michael’s Craft Store. I like to do crafts when I have more than one spare moment to myself. This bag is no longer a craft bag, though. It has been commissioned for our library books. We are allowed to check out 25 at one time. This means 24 for the girls and one for me. We walk into the children’s room and they head straight for the shelves. Marlo isn’t very particular. A few board books and a few with pretty pictures and she’s good to go. Joy is just starting to read some sight words, but even so, she is still a little more selective. Anything with wolves, princesses, or frogs really appeals to her. Anything with writing that is too little is out. Anything with a recipe to try out is in. She is amazingly good at finding exactly what she wants. My job is to keep Marlo from pulling every book off the shelves while running behind Joy and catching her selections in the Michael’s bag. Every once in a while we get a dud and we vow never to waste our time on that book again. But almost every trip we find a new favorite.

Here is a list of Joy’s favorite books, in case you are looking for a good read with your kids. Keep in mind she’s 4 so your older kids might not appreciate them so much, but they will probably be a hit with the younger crowd. (This is a small sample because I don’t want to take up all the space on the internet!)

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown
Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney
Oh, My Baby Little One by Kathi Appelt
Hillside Lullaby by Hope Vestergaard
Frannie B. Krannie There’s a Bird in your Hair by Harriet Lerner
Gunnywolf by A. Delaney
Betsy who Cried Wolf by Gail Carson Levine
Miss Nelson is Missing by Harry Allard
Tumble Me Tumbily by Karen Baicker
Hello Lulu/Happy Birthday, Lulu by Caroline Uff Walker

And now, there is a new one. Last night we reached into our bag and pulled out “Keep Love in Your Heart, Little One” by Giles Andreae. I didn’t even know it was in there—I’ve never even heard of it before. If there ever was a book that tugs at your heartstrings, it’s this one. We all loved it so much that I think we are going to have to buy it—it’s a keeper.

Whatever your kids are into, find them books about that. Be enthusiastic. Use different voices for different characters. Talk about the different parts of the book. Show them the copyright symbol and tell them that’s the book’s birthday—they love to know if the book is older or younger than they are! Make time to read to them everyday—it’s that important. Not only does it help them in school (up until 4th grade they learn to read, after that they read to learn),but it also helps to develop their imaginations, gives them something to do rather than watch TV or play video games (which actually inhibits their imagination), and it helps to build their vocabulary. It’s never too late to start reading with your kids. And it’s good for you, too—you get to spend some quality time with some of the most important people in your life.

Happy reading and remember…keep love in your heart!


Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.

Little Miss Manners

We all worry whether or not we are teaching our children the right things—how to act, how to treat other people, how to handle certain situations.

When the Editor and the Italian were visiting for the Holidays, they had a birthday party for Bubba, Stump, and Samantha Jean Pocket. The house was crowded with family and friends. Everyone had a great time, but little Marlo, the littlest guest of all, got tired. Too much partying, too many people, too late in the evening and she was done. She wanted to get home to her own pjs, her own room, her own bed, her own blankies. And so we began the good-bye ritual. Hugs and kisses to everyone, say something nice and then say good-bye. I told Joy and Hubs that we were leaving, but since Marlo was already in Done Mode, I was just trying to get our good-byes done as quickly as possible.

Then I realized that we probably wouldn’t see the Editor et al until summertime, so then it was way more important to remind Joy to say good-bye to everyone. When I turned around and told her to say good-bye and give hugs and kisses she said, “I did.” Really? To everyone? I hadn’t seen her, but then again, I had been busy with Marlo, so, just to be sure, I began checking…did Joy say good-bye? Yes, Yes, and Yes.

When I told Joy we were leaving, she went around to everyone in the room, gave them hugs and kisses and said good-bye, without being prompted or told to…hurray! One point in my favor to get me off the worst mother of the year list! What a Joy!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Bubba's Birthday Story

Have you wondered about my children's names? Bubba, Stump, and Samantha Jeanpocket? Obviously, they are nicknames but maybe you are curious about why those names, and maybe you aren't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Long before there were any kids, we (I) used to talk about baby names. I brought up all those I used to list on the MASH game (remember Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House)? See these links for a refresher: http://www.espin.com/mash-game.php http://mashgame.com/ http://www.bored.com/playmash/

The Italian didn't like any of them, even though we weren't even pregnant yet, we would fuss over the names, like "that's horrible" or "no! you have to admit, that's a good one!" The discussions would then degenerate into the Italian telling me he had his heart set on Bubba and Stump in counterpoint to my Esme and Gibraltar. Finally we agreed that he could name the boys and I would name the girls (first names only and the other spouse would choose the middle names). But, I warned him, if he settled on Bubba and Stump, his daughter would go through life carrying the Samantha Jeanpocket moniker. The children actually have great names that we both like, but in virtual reality, it's amusing to me to use Bubba, Stump, and SJP. But, I digress, this post is about the day Bubba was born, seven (short) years ago.

The story I tell him every year goes like this:

On the day you were born, I woke up early, very early. Daddy was already getting ready for work and I was afraid he had left.

I called downstairs, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming."

But, he didn't hear me. So I called again, louder this time, "Daddy, daddy! Today is the day the baby is coming!"

But, he still didn't hear me so I yelled really, really loud: "DADDY! DADDY! TODAY IS THE DAY THE BABY IS COMING!"

And, that time he heard me and came running upstairs. "Are you sure?" he asked. I said, "Yes, I am positive." He said, "OK, let me call work and tell them." So he did and then I ate a bowl of Cheerios, called Gigi to tell here that today was the day and we got our stuff and got in the truck and drove to the hospital.

At the hospital, we waited and waited and waited some more. Gigi and The Norwegian came to wait with us and we waited all day. Finally, you arrived. They wrapped you up and put a little hat on your head and placed you near my heart and you looked up at me and we looked at each other and I smiled and said, "Oh my baby, you are finally here!"

Then you went with daddy to get your first bath and later they brought you to me and we snuggled and cuddled all night. You were so sweet and you kept stretching your arms and legs, a little further each time to see how far they could go. You picked your head up to look around and all the relatives and friends came to meet you.

We left the hospital together with Daddy and Gigi on a cold and gray January day. When we got home, we walked you through the house and said, "This is your home and we are so glad you are with us." We still are.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Posted by The Editor

Stumps's Birthday Story

One of our family traditions is that I tell each child the story of their birth on their birthday. Obviously, it does not have all the details, but they love to hear it over and over and over. This is the stuff their legends are made of. And this is the story for Stump, who turned five on Christmas Day this year:


The night before you were born, the house was full of family for Christmas Eve celebrations. About 8 o’clock, I got really sleepy and my sister said, “You’d better take a nap because that baby might be coming soon.” I really couldn’t keep my eyes open so I went to lie down and when I woke up, everyone was leaving to go home, except Gigi and The Norwegian.

We all went to sleep and about 2 o’clock in the morning, I got up and woke Daddy up to tell him it was time to go to the hospital because our baby was coming. I also woke up Gigi to tell her that we were leaving. I peeked into Bubba’s room to whisper “Merry Christmas” and then we got in the big truck and drove to the hospital. We waited and waited. Your aunts came to wait with us and we waited some more. Finally, at dinnertime, you arrived and they put you in my arms and I said “Oh, my sweet baby, here you are.”

Then you went with Daddy to get your little hat and shirt and I went to my room where they brought me a little boxed Christmas dinner -- I was starving--and then they brought you to me. All the relatives and Daddy went home to finish Christmas and get some rest too. We were alone in the room and it was very quiet that Christmas night. I made a little nest for you in the pillows beside me and we snuggled and slept but you wouldn’t open your eyes and look at me. I got up and turned out all the lights and opened the curtains a crack for a little bit of light. THEN, you opened one eye and then the other to peek at me and I said, “Oh, my sweet baby, there you are.”

The next day, lots of relatives came to visit and Gigi and The Norwegian brought Bubba to meet you. He wasn’t yet two and was more interested in the buttons on the bed than the tiny baby in my arms. The day after that, Daddy took us home in the big truck and it was a cold and gray day but in the driveway was a bundle of bags with balloons welcoming you home. Our neighbor had brought presents for you and Bubba: books, blankets, and clothes. Inside our warm house, the Christmas decorations were still sparkling and Gigi and The Norwegian and Bubba were there to welcome you home.


Posted by The Editor.

Joy is Fired!

Joy is fired. Not as my child, but as my first child. As a baby she was perfect and easy. She was good and flexible. Oh, yes, she was opinionated. I can go back and look at baby pictures now and recognize the expression on her face—it matches some sassy or funny or profound or intelligent idea/comment/sentiment that comes out of her little mouth now that she’s (overly) verbal. It’s amazing. She’s amazing. She’s funny. She’s cute. She’s smart. She’s something else. I just thought that the first kid was supposed to break you in as a parent. I am a slow learner, otherwise known as the front runner for WMOTY (worst mother of the year).

Joy was born with a full head of hair-- so full that the internal monitor the doctor kept trying to put on her head during labor kept falling out. It didn’t have anything to stick to. Her little squished face was red for a few hours, then her beautiful complexion was clear, blemish free. She looks like a little porcelain doll. She took to nursing like she had been doing it forever and nursed, problem free, for 19 months. She mostly rolled, crawled for a couple of days, then started to walk. At 15 months she fell and chipped a tooth. It only made her more adorable. At 18 months she fell and had to get stitches above her eye—but she was very polite with the doctors and nurses. She thanked them for taking care of her. Besides these two little mishaps she has been an extremely easy child. She didn’t touch things she wasn’t supposed to, she didn’t put things in her mouth. She’s loving and affectionate and sweet and kind and generous. She’s fired.

Fast forward almost 3 years to when Marlo was born. Maybe I wasn’t listening when Joy was born, but I was listening when I was pregnant with Marlo and the doctor told me that you can be paralyzed by an epidural. Holy cow! Paralyzed? I guess that’s where the challenging aspect of Marlo began. I had her without an epidural. That part was OK. Seriously. It really wasn’t that bad. (Definitely not as bad as being paralyzed by an epidural.) And she, too, was born with a full head of hair. Not as much as Joy, but still a head covered by hair. (I was bald until I was 2 so I can really appreciate a baby born with hair!) But then she got cradle cap. She got these big scabs that yes, washed out with gentle brushing and apricot oil, but great big chunks of hair also washed out. Within 4 months her full head of hair was almost bald. I had no training or experience because Joy did not prepare me for the challenges of cradle cap. And did you know that putting a hat on cradle cap makes it worse? So much for my motherly instincts on how to solve the problem! And so much for full-head-of-hair-model Joy for helping me out on this one.

Marlo also took to nursing right away. But when I took her in for her 4 month appointment, my chubby little cherub had developed some eating habits that I guess the doctor didn’t approve of—she would nurse, projectile vomit 90% of what she ate, then have an explosive pooping “episode” which would necessitate a full bath and a complete wardrobe change. An hour later she would be hungry again. I just thought she was going through a phase…the doctor thought that perhaps she had an underdeveloped digestive system that might require surgery. Surgery? Yes, surgery. So, after my routine 20 minute, four month check up was over, I went to have not one, but two ultrasounds done on her chubby little tummy. They wanted her to drink some water, but she wouldn’t take a bottle. (Neither of my children EVER took a bottle—why would they? They were nursing fanatics.) So then they had me nurse her. The ultrasound was inconclusive. I went back to the pediatrician who decided that maybe they needed to do an upper GI—the whole tube through the nose thing. And that’s where I said no, because after 6 hours at the doctor’s office, I was not prepared to have something so invasive done to my 75th percentile for weight baby to check to make sure that her digestive system was functioning properly. I took Marlo home. The next day the doctor called to have me take Marlo to the lactation consultant. I made my appointment and took her the day after that. The LC called me in from the lobby. I walked into her office and took Marlo out of her stroller. The LC asked me if the little tuft of hair (the only hair left on her cradle-cap-robbed-of-hair head) always stood up to which I answered yes. Then she proceeded to tell me that Marlo probably eats very quickly then projectile vomits, has explosive poops that require bathing to clean her up, she belches like an adult, etc, etc…I felt like she had been watching us! As it turns out, our nursing dynamic was called ‘overproduction and milk ejection reflex.’ I produced a lot of milk. Marlo ate really fast, but was only getting the sugary part of the milk, not the filling part. That was why she was so gassy and poopy and barfy and possibly why she was so chubby. The not-so-easy remedy? Have her nurse up to 4 times on the same side for up to 4 hours before switching. OK, remember what side, how many times and how long we have nursed while being fully engorged (and lopsided) on the other side. Easy. Thanks, Joy, for the heads up on that one!

Marlo’s poor little face was red and splotchy when she was born. Then she got a few bumps. Then she got a few more. Then some of the bumps joined together. Then some of the joined together bumps joined some of the other together bumps. Then her face was just one big, red bump. This is kindly referred to as ‘Baby acne’. It wasn’t all that bad. It stopped at her hair line—right at the point where the cradle cap started. OK, Doll Face Joywith the perfect skin—how ‘bout some preparation in that department?

I can honestly say that these minor problems—the scabby bald head, the breastfeeding dilemma, and the baby acne—have faded to distant memories. The one thing that Joy could have controlled, (because let’s face it, no baby can control cradle cap, overproduction and milk ejection reflex, or baby acne) was the putting stuff in her mouth phase. She could have given me a few trial runs on calling the poison control center. (I have the number strategically placed on the side of the frig.) She could have given me some practice for the little oral-fixation I now have on my hands. You name it, Marlo has put it in her mouth. Oh, sure, Joy put a penny in her mouth once, but spit it out before I could even react. That’s nothing compared to Marlo…

Marlo has tried all of the following (and a lot more that I can’t remember, don’t want to admit, don’t have the time to write about, or can’t spell): dirt, sand, hair, hair clips, hair clips with hair in them—because she won’t wear the hair clip in her hair, flowers, leaves, bugs, plastic bags, paper bags, napkins, paper towels, Vaseline, lotion, soap, shampoo, bubbles, every single toy in our house, wallets, credit cards, clothing, her hands, her toes, Joy’s toes, Joy’s hands, Joy’s hair, Joy’s hair clips—because she doesn’t think that Joy likes to wear the hair clips in her hair, either—and the list goes on and on. The other day we were playing in the loft and Marlo was playing with a miniature china tea cup. (It is impossible to child proof your home when you have a four year old, so it’s also impossible to keep toys in the ‘not intended for children under 3’ range out of reach.) Everyone was having a good time. Then it was time for baths. Marlo was rather quiet, but I was getting PJs ready, diapers laid out, the bath water was running, I was putting toothpaste on toothbrushes, removing clothes, piling hair on top of heads, etc.—I was doing the whole mom-at-bath-time routine. So then the girls got into the bath. And I started singing and talking and playing all of the bath time games that we play. When I finally got around to asking Marlo a direct question and she didn’t answer, I took a second look. That’s when I noticed the look, the ‘I have something I’m not supposed to in my mouth’ look. When I finally got her to open up her mouth, a challenge in and of itself, I discovered that playtime wasn’t really over—she had smuggled the tea cup into the bath with her. My poor second child has a rookie for a mom.

And that is why Joy is fired. She did not prepare me for all of the trials and tribulations and challenges that Marlo has put me through. Nevertheless, I am going to keep her. I have to—I lost the receipt. I would keep her anyway. She’s too wonderful to live without. She brings me such joy. And I am going to keep Marlo, too. Because, even though I have had all of these new, different experiences with my second child, she is every bit as amazing and incredible as Joy is. She is peaceful and easy-going and impish and funny and silly in her own unique little way. I guess I just need to learn that she is going to surprise me at every turn and that I need to stop expecting the expected. Maybe I’ll write a new version of “What to expect when you’re expecting”, but it won’t be about pregnancy. And I won’t be using Joy as a model for what to expect—I did fire her, after all!

Posted by The Editor for Busy Body

Sister of My Heart

She has always been there. My first playmate. My roommate. My best friend. My rival. My supporter. My cheerleader. My tutor. My teacher. My wingman. My partner in crime. You name it, she has probably played that role in my life. She has always been there…she is 2 years older than me.

We went to school together. We double dated. We got into trouble together. We know each other like twins know each other. I know what she’s thinking, she knows what I am thinking. We laugh at the same things. The same things make us cry. We have shared clothes, food, cars, pets, friends, and memories. She has always been there…she is my oldest friend.

We went to the same elementary school, different jr. highs, different high schools, and rival colleges. We have been on vacation together, in car accidents together, and lived together during college and even after college. We’ve been bike riding together, boogie boarding, dancing, swimming, roller skating, to aerobics, shopping...she has always been there…she is my big sister.

We know each others’ secrets. We were in each others’ weddings. We have swapped recipes, maternity clothes, baby clothes, horror stories, advice. We’ve spent holidays, birthdays, and plain, ordinary days together. She has always been there. She is my soul sister.

Two years ago she moved over a thousand miles away. We still had the phone, email, cards, postal packages, vacation visits. Now she is moving another 100 miles away. We will still have phone calls, emails, etc…this just wasn’t how I envisioned our lives going. I thought our kids would grow up together, we’d always live a few miles away from each other. She has always been there. She is my best friend.

Time, space, distance…busyness, marriage, housekeeping, child-rearing, cooking, cleaning, working, shopping, laundry, driving...all of these things may try to come between us. But she will always be there. And I will miss her, but she will always be there. She is the sister of my heart.

Posted by The (verklempt) Editor for Busy Body.