A Little Pink Magic

In general, I am a bit wishy-washy in my parenting. I do whatever seems like it will work best in the moment without giving in to tantrums and whining. But there are a few things for which I am so impassioned that have enough weight to carry through all the trial and error:

1) If you're in bed, I can't hear you.
2) Keep 'em young for as long as you can.
and
3) Let it be magical.

And aside from Christmas mornings and our recent trip to Disneyland, I can think of nothing more magical than a birthday.

Now that you've seen how it ends...

We had a birthday party for a certain three-year old girlie. A "real boythday party," complete with friends and favors and balloons. And though I justified it to my lovably curmudgeon of a husband who does not think three-year-olds need much more than a toy and a cupcake (and he's right, for the record) with talk of the second child syndrome, (little miss Nora knows enough to keep tabs on what her older brother gets and does with each passing moment, irrespective of age), I really just wanted to give our girlie a day that was all hers — a day with her favorite people doing her favorite things.

Any guesses on what this little girl wanted?

I love the way she signs three and may never have the heart the correct her.

1. All pink.
2. No boys allowed.

And with that, the stage was set for one very pink, very girlie party, complete with pedicures and jewels, fancy dresses and lots and lots of lipstick.

We kicked things off with mommy-daughter pedicures, one of Nora's very favorite things to do on "boys with boys and goyls with goyls" days.

Since Grandma was nice enough to drive 250 miles
to join us (not to mention all the last-minute
run-around she helped wrangle), I let her do the honors.

After the polish dried and the moms all exhaled (they were much more concerned about my carpet than I was), the little girls raided the dress-up clothes while the moms chatted. And as always, I was feeling so grateful that Nora's favorite little people come attached to some really great grown-ups. It really was a great day all around.

Lunch was up next — a feast fit for Pinkalicious herself.
For the little girls:
Peanut butter & pink sandwiches (strawberry jelly)
Strawberries & raspberries
Strawberry yogurt
Pink milk

For the big girls:
Pink tomato soup
Turkey sandwiches with pink cranberry cream cheese
Strawberries & raspberries
Raspberry lemonade

And were I better at party prep timelines, I would now offer up some cute pics of the food, but set-up usually runs right up to when our first guest rings the doorbell, and then I always feel weird scurrying around to take pictures of food and decorations. But it did turn out pretty darn cute, especially once you add in giggling little girls in princess dresses.

To round things out before presents and cake, we opened up the beauty shoppe. I think it was even more entertaining for the moms than it was for the girls. If you want to see just how much your little ones notice from the day-to-day routines of life, give them access to your grown-up stuff and step aside.

And the end result...

Turns out, aside from the bold pink lipstick, the birthday girl prefers a more natural look. she spent at least 20 minutes with the eyeshadow, but only very carefully tapped it on her lashes instead of her eyelids. But she does adore her lipstick and has several times since whined "Mommy, my lips just aren't beautiful" in an attempt to revive the birthday freedom.

 There you have it. A "No Boys Allowed" birthday party for our all-pink three-year-old. Andy has been quick to remind me that she wont even remember this years from now. But I don't mind. Because she smiled and she laughed with her equally wide-eyed friends, and she knew it was a special day just for her. Pretty darn magical if you ask me.

Something Unsaid

I ran into an acquaintance yesterday who found out she had breast cancer just a month or so before Andrew and Benjamin were born. It was my first encounter with her since hearing about her diagnosis second-hand and my first encounter with someone else's bad news since we found out our boys had died, and I was surprised at my response as we chatted and I tried not to pay mind to her very short hair.

I asked about her day. I asked about her Christmas. And I asked about her family who had come into town for Christmas. But I failed to ask about the obvious: How are you feeling? I sincerely hope you kick cancer's a**.

I have been kicking myself ever since, but I don't feel like I know her well enough to run back for a re-do with apologies for not asking about the one thing that has likely consumed her life for the past few months.

And I am feeling bad because I know what I would have wanted want. And it's pretty simple: to be acknowledged. I think that's what we all want – no matter how obvious or personal our loss.

Whether we're sick or struggling in our marriages, facing unemployment or a life without our babies, we just want to know that even though noone else can fill our shoes in the path we walk, we are not alone. We want to know that even though most of the people we care about will never be able to relate to our particular trouble, they care enough to try to understand the burden that is ours.

I just keep thinking about all the times in the past few months when I have been aching to talk about my boys only to face smalltalk and fake smiles, and I feel so darn bad that even though I have felt so changed by this, I reacted exactly as I would have when I was happy and oblivious.

I don't know her well.
Likely, she would not have wanted to talk about it with me, an almost-stranger.
And maybe she would have answered with a quick "fine" or "better" and then rushed off to avoid more questions.
Perhaps she would have felt uncomfortable or felt that I was prying.

But I do know this: she wouldn't have minded. Because, had I sincerely said something at the risk of saying the wrong thing, she would have at least known that I cared enough to acknowledge her reality. And standing on grief's same bank, I can say that no matter how cold, it is comfort nonetheless.

Holly & Jolly (belated)

 Everything I think to say about Christmas feels like only part of the story. It was great. Really, really great. It was hard. Really, really hard. But it was great.

Let's dwell on the great bits for now (it is Christmas, after all)...

We decked the halls.

My favorite (new this year) Christmas decor of all time – made it myself!

Yes, that is the Abominable Snowman.
Nora has since dreamed up the "Pink Abobidable," who is funny instead
of vicious and leaves rabbit tracks in our backyard.

We

We made gingerbread houses in the happy company of great friends who I am hoping got better pictures of our kids together in action(?).

 

We drank hot chocolate. LOTS of hot chocolate. From my Grandma's old Santa mugs, which makes said hot chocolate one hundred times tastier.

This little girl LOVES hot chocolate. So much so, that even though she does not like the cold weather at all, she will endure frigid wind and wet toes if it means she gets hot chocolate at the end. She confirms such plans BEFORE even agreeing to put her coat on to head outside. Not "hot chocolate milk," no Nora.

We played in the snow.

Blurry, yes, but possibly one of my favorite pictures of my boy.

Though the hot chocolate will get Nora outside, it will not get her in the snow. It usually takes more time to get her dressed in snowsuit, boots and mittens than it does for her to hightail it back inside for her sweet reward.We read a story a day from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve (possibly my very favorite tradition of all). 

We played with our family (who should move closer ASAP). A happy last-minute addition to our Christmas-at-home plans.

Though I don't often speak for the mister in ye ol' blog, I will say this: Burt boy #3 LOVED having his family around. So did his wife and kids.

We met the newest Burt: not-so-little miss Lucy (AKA the world's best baby...pretty sure I never heard her cry).

I think they told him to "Eat these cookies" at least three times. Also, note the hand-drawn elf by my sweet boy who is adamant he will grow up to be an artist.

We wrote letters to Santa.

And those must have been the best cookies and carrots ever, because with two extra kiddos in the house, our Christmas morning was epic.

I fear 2012 will be a let-down.We got new PJs (and a Rudolph nose).

Dressed up.

He was over the moon about the candy cane tie and got mad at me when I wouldn't let him wear  it to church once Christmas was over.

Catching Andy smiling in a picture is like finding Sasquatch. Though it may look otherwise, he was just as holly and jolly as the rest of us.

Got the long-coveted (and oft avoided) pillow pets.

And, as predicted, have only played with them once since then. If sitting on them to watch a movie can be called "playing".

Speaking of Made for TV items under our tree, Porter also got the Fushigi Ball, courtesy of Uncle Chris. More on that to come in its own post. Suffice it say, at the top of the package when we opened it was a large "This product is  not intended for use by children under the age of 12". Fortunately, rules were made to be broken.

And we played with our new toys, of course.

And there you have it: the Burt's Christmas unwrapped.