My Writing Process. Let Me Show You It.

I spent approximately two hours today trying to turn a half-formed zygote of a blog post idea into something publishable. Or at least something longer than 140 characters, because otherwise I could just tweet it but then I still wouldn't have anything to publish on my blog but I can't publish a goddamn tweet on my blog because then what? I go on Twitter and link to my blog and people click over and are like, GODDAMN YOU AMY, YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT ON TWITTER, WHERE I JUST WAS. AND YOU WERE. WHAT THE FUCK. UNSUBSCRIBE AND DISLIKE.

Basically: Blogging a tweet and then tweeting about a blog that's basically a tweet would be a dick move, or worst case, rip a hole in the fabric of the social media universe and the whole Internet would collapse in on itself, and then Yahoo! would come buy the smoking, hollowed-out ruins for fifty bucks, we'd be all "KHAAAAANNNNN!" except it'd be like "YAHOOOOOO!!!!" and POINT IS, I saw the new Star Trek movie on Friday and it was okay.

(Wait.)

No. I mean, POINT IS, I scrapped the blog post I was writing because it was only 12 words long. I wrote a hell of a lot more words than 12, mind you, but there were only 12 words that were really any good. The rest were terrible and try-hard and I kept deleting them. But it's not like the first 12 words were good enough to justify me leaving them alone and being like, "Fuck this, close enough, enjoy these 12 words, Internet!" Does that make sense?

(Don't answer that.)

No. I remember now what my point actually is, and what I decided to tell you about instead: After realizing that my sad, tortured and overworked 12-word post was never, ever going to be sponge-worthy (HEY-YO), I was like, "If I was a GIF, I would so be that GIF of Snape flipping over a table right now."

Then I was like, "Waaaaait. Snape never flipped over a table."

And yet, if you start typing "Snape flipping" into Google, the top suggestion is, in fact, "Snape flipping tables" and you will see a million and one versions of the very GIF I was thinking of.

POINT IS, poor Alan Rickman. 

For some reason, I found this to be INCREDIBLY amusing on MANY levels, from the whole idea that I now apparently think in GIF form, and off the top of my head can picture the perfect GIF for any situation, including "deleting 12 words of a shitty blog post," but ALSO I can't come up with Alan Rickman's actual name on the first try, but ALSO ALSO I am clearly not alone in basically thinking Alan Rickman = Snape, anytime, all the time, even when flipping a table over in some slow-motion YouTube art...thing that...okay, it's really kind of weird; I just watched it and lost my train of thought.

WAIT. NO. I REMEMBER NOW.

So I tried to compose a tweet about the whole thing: About needing find the perfect GIF to summarize my bloggerly failings today and how that's kind of weird, right? And probably all I would ever do with one those Google Glass things, basically, just walk around being all "WAIT WAIT I HAVE THE PERFECT REACTION GIF FOR WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW," but then I would ask Google to find me that "GIF with Spock" when I actually meant Zachary Quinto and the results would be all Leonard Nimoy and EVERYTHING WOULD BE RUINED. Also, if you search for "Snape Flipping Tables" you get the GIF I was thinking about even though it's not really Snape, lolololol.

Anyway. POINT IS, that turned out to be way too many words to fit in a tweet, so I wrote it on my blog instead.

You're welcome. 

The Helpful Games

IN WHICH I POWER-RANK MY CHILDREN IN ORDER OF THEIR GENERAL USEFULNESS AROUND THE HOUSE

ROUND ONE: CLEANING UP TOYS

Okay guys, we need to clean up the Legos. Every single Lego needs to get picked up and put in the blue Lego bag over there. Got it? Go.

EZRA

Sits down, then puts forehead on floor. Sl-o-o-w-ly picks up a single, solitary Lego brick. Scoots belly-down like a slug over to Lego bag. Sits up, stares at ceiling. Holds hand over bag and lets Lego fall through fingers. Lego hits the bag and immediately bounces back out onto floor. Collapses in exhaustion. 

Score: 1/5

NOAH

This is going to take forever. FOREVER. How long is this going to take? FOREVER. I never get to do anything because I have to clean up all the time and also FOREVER. I'm not cleaning those Legos up because I'm still playing with them. And I'm not cleaning those Legos up because even though they are right in front of me I have gone selectively blind. I will clean those Legos up, at least, but only after I've spent 10 minutes complaining about them, which equals approximately three-and-a-half FOREVERS.

Score: 3/5

IKE

Hurls Legos to floor, runs. Has Legos in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND TWO: HAND ME THAT THING

Okay guys, hand me that thing. That thing right in front of you. Right, that thing. 

EZRA

Hands me that thing, immediately and enthusiastically, but knocks over an entire cup of juice in the process.

Score: 3/5

NOAH

What thing? This thing?

Me: NO, WRONG THING. 

What is a thing?

Me: *EXPLAINS THING* 

What does a thing look like?

Me: *DESCRIBES THING; COLOR, PURPOSE, MATERIAL, ETC.*

Where is the thing?

Me: RIGHT THERE, IN FRONT OF YOU.

Oh! Okay. One minute.

*leaves, heads to bathroom, brings back the sink drain stopper*

This thing?

Score: 1/5, for effort

IKE

Hurls thing to floor, runs. Has other thing that I need in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND THREE: OH LAWDY IT'S A JUICE SPILL

Okay guys, someone's spilled some juice. What do you do?

EZRA 

Is totally the one who spilled the juice. Will totally sit there and do nothing (while sitting in bonus puddle of maple syrup that will also go unnoticed and undealt-with). When asked what they teach him at that fancy-pants Montessori school that he and a good deal of our money go to everyday, will respond by getting a towel and throwing it sort-of in the direction of the spill. Will then tap towel with foot before recoiling in sticky disgust and return to his syrup-covered seat.

Score: 1/5

NOAH

Ezra spilled his juice Ezra spilled his juice Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice Mom it's going everywhere oh no Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice it's on the floor now too Mom Mom Mom Mom.

Score: 1/5, mostly for the Amy Poehler impression

IKE

Hurls spill-proof sippy cup to the floor, because THAT'S how you don't spill juice, bitches. Not sure what your damage is.

Score: 1/5

ROUND FOUR: THROW THIS OUT

Okay guys, we've cleaned up the juice spill with some paper towels. Please throw them out.

EZRA

Gets immediately and irrationally attached to Mister Paper Towel Wad. Mister Paper Towel Wad is later found in his backback/lunchbox/"house"/bed, covered in ants.

Score: 0/5

NOAH

After a five-minute lecture about the environment and whether or not we can reuse Mister Paper Towel Wad, followed by another five minutes of anxiety over whether or not Mister Paper Towel Wad would be recyled as another paper towel specifically and not something different, I give up and throw Mister Fucking Paper Towel Wad into the trash myself, then lie about sending him upstate to live on a nice big paper towel farm. 

Score: 0/5

IKE

Happily and joyfully throws it out. Because throwing things out is his FAVORITE. Things that he also threw out today include a perfectly serviceable sippy cup, my good nail file, Legos, four unopened cans of tuna fish and our voter registration forms.

Score: 4/5

ROUND FIVE: PUT YO SHOES ON

Okay guys, it's time to go. Put yo shoes on.

EZRA

Okay! 

*gets sneakers, puts them on*

No, these are for Friday, when I am a grown-up.

*takes sneakers off, puts Crocs on*

No, it is raining today. 

*takes Crocs off, puts rainboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS NOT RAINING.

*takes rainboots off, puts snowboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS 70 DEGR- AW FUCK IT. GOOD JOB, EZ!

Score: 5/5

NOAH

Where are my shoes where are my shoes I can't find my shoes where did I leave my shoes oh no my shoes are gone FOREVER and I will never find them FOREVER AGAIN I'm just not going anywhere ever and

*trips over shoes sitting in plain sight, in middle of living room floor*

Oh hey I found them Mom!

Me: GOOD JOB, NOAH!

Score: 5/5

IKE

Shhz? Shhz! Shhz shhz go bye car shhz! 

*actually goes and gets his shhz, tries valiantly to put them on himself before bringing them to me*

Hawp? Shhz? Mama? Mama hawp shhz?

Score: 5/5, because ADORABLE 

RESULTS:

10 points each out of a possible 25. Three-way tie. Overall usefulness around the house still woefully subpar, but hey, at least they are all super-cute. 

Our House, In the Middle of the Living Room

Because I am mean and horrible (and/or about to shit a primary-colored plastic brick if I step on one more goddamned bloody Lego), I recently banished all toys from our living room. All. All the toys. Hereby, I declare: None toys in the living room. 

Originally, in an aspirational what-family-do-I-think-lives-here frenzy, I gave board games a pass. I stacked them up neatly in a relocated buffet behind the couch, all pieces sorted and intact, a organzational masterpiece that lasted exactly 15 minutes before Ike pulled every single game out and upended them all over the floor. 

So if we WERE the kind of family that held regular Game Nights*, the only option at this point would be some bastardized unholy version of Sorry, I Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus to Your Operation While Wearing a HedBanz and Then Some Underfed Hippos Ated The Hospital and A Bunch of Hotels. But you'd have to pretend to roll the dice; we no longer have any.

*Note: We are not. We are all entirely too competitive and it always ends badly. Also, Noah cheats. I SAW YOU MOVE AN EXTRA SPACE. IT'S NOT FAIR. I WAS WINNING. JA-A-SON, STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT. 

Ahem. ANYWAY. Point is, I moved all their toys to the basement playroom and meticulously organized everything into baskets and stations by toy type and category. Trains, wooden. Transportation, other, assorted metal. Food, plastic, wood, felt. Cups, picnic-related. Cups, stacking. You get the general OCD idea. 

Which of course means my children want nothing to do with any of those downstairs toys anymore (so classist!), and this has now taken up permanent residence in the middle of my living room:

This = a house. OBVIOUSLY. Did you not notice the chimney? With the fire and everything?

(Yes, that is The Napkin. Though Noah is less entranced with it now that it's come undone a couple times and my napkin rosette-rolling skills are apparently not restaurant quality.)

I'm sure it's a surprise to absolutely no one that this is all Ezra's doing. 

It's gone through a few architectural changes (depending on pre/post-trash day cardboard box availability), and is surprisingly roomy.

I am currently under very strict orders not to "break the house." Even Noah barely got his pillow back last night. 

Which means the first order of business this morning was install a replacement door.

While Ezra was distracted with breakfast, I admit I did some snooping to see the furnishings.

Hmm.

Because every house needs 1) a dog, 2) half-a-dozen plastic milks, 3) yellow money, 4) ice tongs, 5) picnic food, 6) a wooden cucumber and 7) a Thomas train and Dinoco helicopter.

When questioned, Ezra insisted that all those toys weren't, in fact, in the living room. That's the house's KITCHEN ROOM. The other basket is the house's living room, and it's empty. No toys there, Mom.

LOGIC = FLAWLESS. Outsmarted once again, alas. 

Oh Right, My Left Foot

Lookit! I have a matching set again!

Like so many of my life stories, the One About My Foot eventually resolved itself in a boring, drama-less manner. I know many (MANY) of you were convinced that it was, in fact, broken and I'd gotten a shit diagnosis, because there's no way a human foot should look...well, like a bloated zombie appendage from an Eli Roth film.

It was not broken. It turns out I tore two ligaments, one on either side of my foot. The outer ligament tore completely, which would account for the horrid popping sound and sensation I heard as I toppled over. That was a Level 3 sprain; the valedictorian of sprains; the kind that can fuck with you for life. Huzzah! The inner ligament (which I was informed is much harder to tear, and my doctor was basically like, "HOW DAFUQ?") only tore partially. A Level 2 sprain. Which: Pfft. The other side of my foot is not impressed. Sack up, ho. 

The initial swelling and bruising that I subjected y'all to was likely made worse by the fact that 1) I continued to hobble around on my foot in Vegas, because VEGAS and it's not like you can just order up a buffet via room service, and 2) I had to fly cross-country three days later and remain mostly trapped in my seat, unable to keep my foot fully elevated OR walk the aisle to get the blood circulating, as by then I was seriously unstable and regretting my decision to skip the Good Drugs. Hence: BAM. CORPSE FOOT. 

ProTip: Try to injure yourself at home next time, jackass. 

But! The good news is that everything is healing very, very nicely. I won't need surgery, and most of my range of motion has returned. 

(The day I flexed my feet outward and then realized that both feet could finally bend the same distance was the day I Burst Into Tears About My Foot, Look Honey, LOOK, Isn't It Beautiful, Oh God, I Need A Pedicure.) 

My foot doesn't really hurt anymore; it just feels...weak. Like it's kind of a punk-ass wuss that I can't fully count on yet to be there for me when I need it. Like on a flight of a stairs, or stepping out of a car. I wore the hospital-issued ankle brace to Williamsburg to keep it safe from accidental jams and twists on old-timey sidewalks and streets, and I've been taking daily walks around the neighborhood with the stroller and wear a lighter support...thing for that. (An ankle girdle? Footie spanxx? Maybe.)

Uneven surfaces and curbs still make me vaguely panicky, and I seriously FREAK OUT at the sight of anyone on TV wearing super-high platform heels now, since I can't stop waiting for them — like me — to take just one slightly wrong step and go down like a flailing sack o' fail. It's like footwear-related PTSD. I can't even look at red carpet fashion photos without fretting over everybody's ability to make it safely to and from the restroom later, once they've had some wine and get laid out by some uneven carpet padding. 

But it is getting stronger, and jokes aside, I really AM taking it seriously and doing my therapy exercises and wearing supportive flats and all that. My Mother's Day gift was a little home foot whirlpool spa so I can continue to soak and ice it IN STYLE. And COMFORT. Like a BOSS. Like a boss who is never, ever going to live this bout of klutziness down. 

Judging. Harshly.

Napkins As Roses & Turd Rocks On Tables...

Happy Day-After-Mother's Day! What? Totally a thing. Do you have any idea how much extra it costs to have a blog entry delivered on a Sunday rather than a weekday? Such a racket, and I will not be a part of it. Same warmed-over content, different day, is what I always say. 

I slept in until 10 a.m. yesterday. Ten ay effing em. I slept in so long I had at least three dreams that involved me waking up and getting out of bed, only to actually wake up about 10 minutes later, fuzzy and coccoon-y. And then I would roll over and go back to sleep. I'd foreseen what getting up and out of bed was like, and frankly it seemed pretty overrated. 

Later (much later, almost embarassingly later) we took the boys out to lunch. Ezra brought along a rock that he claimed was a dinosaur fossil; it looked exactly like a fist-sized turd. Noah became entranced with the restaurant's fancy folded napkins and spent the entire meal asking me if he could take one home; I said no; our waitress said yes; we are now the proud owners of a syrup-covered napkin still tightly rolled into a rosette shape that I am not allowed to wash.

At the end of the meal I emerged from the restroom to see a half-dozen waitstaff hovering around Ike's highchair and I ran over, all OMG WHAT DID HE DO NOW, and a waiter adorably thought I was concerned that he was hurt, when in fact that hadn't even crossed my mind. I just assumed he'd made a spectacular mess of some kind. 

(He'd dumped an entire cup of milk on himself and the floor. The mess was indeed, spectacular.) 

As we left, an older couple looked at me with a mixture of bemused pity. "Happy Mother's Day," the guy practically guffawed as I corraled my turd-rock-hauling preschooler, my napkin-obsessed first grader and my milk-soggened toddler out the door. I laughed and thanked him anyway, because the meal really had been about 78% more successful than anticipated; also I'd had two mimosas and seriously did not give a shit about any of the shit. 

Besides, like I can stay even mildly annoyed at this face.

The (Belt) Loop

Last week, Noah decided that he wanted to quit karate.

I've always told him it's okay if he wanted to quit karate (usually mid-argument over getting his uniform on and out the door in time for class), but he's always insisted that no, he doesn't want to quit. He wants a black belt. 

Well, that's not technically true, I guess. There was one point in kindergarten when he said he wanted to quit, but didn't like our stipulation that sure, you can quit, but you need to go tell your teachers in person. He waffled for a bit, then finally made it into the office, where he quickly changed his mind after 30 seconds of pep talk from a specific instructor. (Who he worships, but kind of in the same way one worships a terrifying, vengeful god.) He kept at it and seemed to be even more dedicated to the black belt goal than ever, after that.

This time, that particular instructor is out on maternity leave, and he had no such qualms about sauntering right in and quitting. 

And my bluff was called.

I don't WANT him to quit. Sure, I can think of a million other things I could do with the monthly tuition and all the schlepping back and forth two times a week, every week. (Four times, actually, now that Ezra's involved and on a completely different class schedule.) But he's worked so hard at this and come so far, plus exercise and focus and discipline and (yes) self-defense skills and etc. And he's good at it. He really is.

But if karate wasn't fun and he hated it, what can you do? I hated piano lessons and ballet with the heat of a thousand suns as a kid and finally my parents had enough of my whining and let me quit. I regret quitting both; not that I was particularly skilled at either, but it'd be nice to have something to show for the time I spent doing each, like being able to play something besides Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or walk across a floor without falling on my ungraceful ass. But I don't blame my parents for "letting" me quit — I was completely adamant about the decision. 

HOWEVER. In my preemptive defense for the rest of this entry, Noah didn't want to quit because it wasn't fun and he hated it.

He graduated to the "big kid" program a couple months ago and yes, it's much harder and more demanding and it's technically for 8 to 12 years olds, and he's in there at 7.5 because he simply tore through the little kid program at a breakneck pace and never missed a belt test. But that wasn't why he wanted to quit either.

He wanted to quit because he'd gotten the names of two katas (forms) mixed up and was convinced the teachers were teaching him "wrong." He argued with them and stressed about it and wouldn't listen to any explanation. And then he worked himself up into a classic rigid-thinking lather about it, refusing to admit that he'd made a mistake and refusing to see any other course of action other than quitting. It wasn't that he didn't know the forms or couldn't perform them properly — he was just...well, he was stuck in the loop and couldn't get himself out. 

We talked. We bargained. Private lessons. A couple weeks off. His instructor demonstrated the forms and explained the differences. We assured him that the name mix-up was understandable and no big deal and not worth quitting over. We called the instructor out on maternity leave on the phone and had her talk to him and promise to come see him do the forms once he felt better about them.

Noah immediately agreed...until we hung up the phone, at which point her god-like influence evaporated and he went right back to being a rigid little ball of anxiety over it. 

We eventually left without resolving anything. I told them not to start the cancellation process even as Noah burst out of the office and shouted "I JUST QUIT KARATE!" to no one in particular. 

Ezra had just finished his class, so I took all three boys to a coffeeshop for our traditional post-karate snack. And then immediately made the mistake of trying to resume negotiations with Noah. Why? I DON'T KNOW WHY. I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS. STILL.

A very loud, very public tantrum followed, the kind that makes EVERY PERSON AROUND YOU stop and notice and judge you accordingly for not controlling that child, that child who is too old to be acting like that. Or, among the more sympathetic, judge you for making that poor child sob like that, you stage-mothering monster. 

(The situation was made even more surreal by the fact that this guy, in all his neon question-marked glory, was sitting two tables away.)

We immediately left, of course. I got a very nice long look at the tile floor on the way out, lest I make eye contact with anyone. Not my finest hour, by a longshot.

I tried to drop the subject at home, though I did send Noah to his room to calm down. When I went to check on him he seemed more open to discussing things again and I got him to agree to help me count his belts. I bet him he had completed more belts than were left in his path to a black belt. He disagreed, claiming that black was too far away and he'd never get there anyway.

I won. Ten belts down, seven to go. He seemed genuinely surprised. I left him to contemplate the math.

Jason came home, was briefed on the day's events, went upstairs...and everything promptly fell to pieces again. 

"You weren't kidding," he said sadly. "What do we do?"

We discussed the options. We could let him quit, obviously. We could let him take a break and continue to reason with him in the meantime. We could simply toss him in the car and drag him there. 

Or we could bribe him.

Over dinner, we talked about other things. A couple things nicely dovetailed with the issue at hand and I tried some social story Jedi tricks on him. "Hmm, so it sounds like you made a mistake but admitted you were wrong instead of getting upset about it! And everything was still okay! That's great!"

(Noah immediately glowered at me. I know what you're doing, woman, and it's not going to work.)

Finally, we bribed him. We incentivized him, tempted him, made him an offer he could not refuse.

If he makes it to black belt, we will take him to Legoland. 

You could practically HEAR the record scratch in Noah's brain as the needle jumped off the track. Redirection? Achieved. Rigidity? Left in the goddamn dust.

He ran upstairs to put his belt back on. "I'M GOING BACK TO KARATE!" he shouted. "QUITTING IS NOT FOR ME AFTER ALL."

Ike followed him, and came back downstairs with one of Noah's older belts. "Hawp?" he asked me.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, staring at the ceiling and rehashing yesterday's (COPIOUS) parental failings and worrying that we'd done the wrong thing. The bribe — ahem, I mean the INCENTIVE — felt like cheating, and maybe we should have let Noah make the decision, even if we thought (or knew) his reasons were coming from a questionable source. 

Noah woke up at 7:00, and sailed through the morning like a weight had been lifted. He was his bubbly, happy self for the first time in...oh.

Since he told me he wanted to quit karate last week. Huh.

"I'm so happy I'm back in karate, " he said with a big sigh, over breakfast. "I'm going to learn the forms and it's okay that I had the names wrong. Mr. W will show them to me and then! I'm back in karate! For good this time!"

I still don't know if we did the right thing or not. But this morning I just lifted my arms over my head.

"WHEEEEE!" I said, and I gave him a high-five. 

Too Soon, Man

Okay, everybody, time for some math.

Ike was JUST born. Right? Maybe five, six months ago, tops. Maybe not even that long. Point is, I brought him home from the hospital YESTERDAY and now my calendar is telling that his second birthday is less than four weeks away. Whuuuut.

THINGS BABY IKE WON'T DO ANYMORE:

1. Sit in a high chair

2. Take a nap, ever

3. Stay inside with me while the big kids are outside playing

4. Eat ice cream (brain freeze related reasons, long story)

5. Tolerate my attempts to thwart potty training

(Humblebrag, ahoy! Right? Am worst.)

He started asking to use the potty about a month ago. I have been KIND OF going along with it, albeit super inconsistently and grudgingly, because GUUHHHHH.

That horrid in-between stage — where they aren't really ready to leave the house sans diaper but you don't want to backtrack, so either you never leave the house for a week or two, or you spend the entire outing terrified, while saying "DO YOU HAVE TO GO POTTY DO YOU HAVE TO GO POTTY" every 30 seconds like a deranged parrot and then the kid STILL pees all over the floor at Target because he is a lying liar, he SO TOTALLY HAD TO GO POTTY — yeah, that stage. I am not ready to deal with that stage again. 

I've potty trained two children already and I know the secret that nobody wants to tell you: It's completely overrated.

A potty-trained toddler is not a genius nor proof that you are amazeballs at parenting. A potty-trained toddler is a liability and a goddamned menace. A ticking pee bomb just waiting to have an accident or to demand access a potty at the precise moment where you have absolutely no access to a potty. (This moment usually happens about five minutes after you DID have access to a potty and offered it repeatedly, only to be turned down because no, I no hafta to go potty.)

(LIAR! Stop with all of your lies!)

So right now the potty remains an occasional nighttime novelty act. I almost feel guilty about my lack of follow-through, since I'm sure we could seal the deal pretty quickly so if I just...cared more? Stuck with it? Did much of anything about it? 

Because of the older boys (and I dunno, OUR LIVES), I simply can't keep Ike and I holed up at home for very long. Even the 24-hour "Toilet Training in Less Than a Day" approach feels like a massive scheduling commitment (and commitment is not something I excel at right now; see: Overrated, Completely). Every day, there's somewhere to be or go. So every day, I put him in a diaper because we haven't practiced enough to take it to the next level. Maybe tomorrow we can practice some more. Or the next day. But by then Ike's been wearing diapers for a few straight days and although he still WANTS to use the potty he's backtracked on what is actually supposed to HAPPEN on the potty. So we start all over again, half-assing it all the way. 

And then, of course, there's the part where he's my baby. My last little baby who is not even two years old yet — four weeks! I still have four weeks! — but who is hellbent on growing up as fast as he possibly can and leaving everything baby-related behind. For the first time in almost eight years, my house won't have a high chair or a crib or baby gates. No changing table or diapers. That's a Matrix-style "Whoa" moment, right there. 

(Yes, it will completely serve me right if this window of opportunity slams closed in my face and we're stuck with diapers for another three years, or something.)

(But at least nobody will pee on my couch in the meantime.) 

Girls Who Wear Glasses & Boys That Break Glasses

This post is sponsored by Rivet & Sway.

So...this happened.

Which was awesome. 

I have worn those glasses since...let's see*...before Noah was born. That means they have survived years of not only my own idiocracy, but also the infancies and toddlerhoods of two grabby, destructive children. 

*IT'S A VISION PUN DO U GEDDIT

OHS HAI.

Child number three, alas. It was just too much to ask for a simple pair of reading glasses. Especially if said reading glasses were stupidly left out on the coffee table, in plain sight and easy reach of said child. 

Honestly, I'm such a rookie sometimes. WHATZ THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?

To be fair, though, I've been whining fairly regularly about my aging eyesight over the past year, getting headaches, squinting a lot more at screens and pages, and ever-so-casually bumping up the font size because technology, whippersnappers, my lawn and reasons. I knew it was time to get another eye exam and a new prescription, but I just didn't, thanks to my trusty ol' pair of specs being handy and pretty much close to good enough. 

So in a way, I did you a favor. Ur welcomes.

But even after Ike snapped my glasses in two, I still wishy-washied around about it. I don't like shopping for glasses. It stresses me out, trying on frame after frame, since I don't ever really know what looks good on me but always feel like it's never the stylish frames, but rather the old-lady styles that I am not cool enough to pull off ironically. Also, I was a blonde the last time I shopped for frames. Also also, my right ear is ever so slightly higher than my left. Which means an ill-fitting frame can give the impression that my entire face is kind of...slanting down to the left.

(Maybe because it is? Oh, God.)

ANYWAY. About two days after the great Glasses Snappening, I was approached about possibly doing a sponsored post for Rivet & Sway. Which is a website that sells really awesome high-end frames, and offers the services of a personal stylist (Ritzy. HI RITZY.) to help you pick out a selection of frames to try on at home. THAT'S WHAT WE CALL TIMING. I answered a couple questions, uploaded a head shot and within a few hours I got an email with a few different recommendations to choose from.

One of which looked EXACTLY like the frames I would immediately gravitate to in any store in the world. They're a more up-to-date and flattering version of my old specs. Classic tortoise with flecks of blue. 

THOTS????

The second pair is the kind of frames I always WANT to pull off. Bolder, darker and more prominent. In the end, though, I'd usually shy away from glasses like this because I thought they were "too much" for a super-pale blonde. Ritzy recommended these mostly to pair with my current hair color. 

THOTS????

For the third pair, I picked...well, not really something wildly oddball, but different from any glasses I've worn in the past. Metal instead of plastic, a bit wider, and in a copper color that manages to match my hair perfectly in some lights, while looking completely different in others. (Thus making them the hardest to photograph. I don't think I'm doing them justice here!)

THOTS????

Okay, so I do seekritly (or maybe not-so-seekritly) have a favorite pair, but where is the fun in that? Let's crowd-source this sucker. Which specs get your vote? 

This post is sponsored by Rivet & Sway. Get $25 dollars off a single pair of frames between now and June 30, 2013 using code SUPER-MOM.

Want to share the love with someone else? Nominate a Super Mom in your life here, with a short story about her superpower. (250-500 characters.) Grand prize winner will receive two pairs of Rivet & Sway frames, and a monthly delivery of Vosges Haut-Chocolat for a year. Two runners up will receive each receive a pair of frames and the exotic truffle collection from Vosges. Enter by May 12, 2013; winners announced via Facebook and notified by email on May 15, 2013. 

The Most Weirdly-Specific Mother's Day Gift Guide on Earth

For the Mom Who Likes Zombies

The Walking Dead Compendium One and Compendium Two

Zombie Brains friendship necklace

Zombie Love Portrait Plate

Zombies, Run! running training app

For the Mom Who Is a Drunk

Corkcicle Wine Chiller

Wine-dyed napkins

Mustache Drink Markers

Danger Zone!

Wine

Different wine

Another variety of wine

For the Mom Who Maybe Needs to Chill With the Instagram

Casetagram

Stitchtagram

Printstagram

For the Mom Who Trips & Injures Herself a Lot

Foldable ballet flats

LUSH Volcano Foot Mask

LUSH Fair Trade Foot Lotion

Advil

Ice packs

For the Mom Who Is Obsessed With Food

SodaStream Home Soda Maker

Mastering the Art of French Cooking (2 Volume Set)

All the Good Eats volumes by Alton Brown

Silicone prep bowls

At least one good-sized Le Creuset dutch oven, unless you love her a lot, in which case you should buy her more than one size

Vintage Pyrex

Self-watering EarthBox kit

Groove Resin iPad Stand 

Magnetic spice rack

A super-cute apron

For the Mom-to-Be Who Is Nesting Like a Motherfucker

Closet organizers

Custom butterfly mobile

Nerdy baby nursery decor

Maternity/delivery/nursing kaftans

Stupid-snob-fancy boxed chocolates and a package of like, Slim-Jims

For the Mom Who Has Not Given Up Entirely But Who Is Maybe Pretty Close

LUSH No Drought Dry Shampoo

LUSH Fresh Farmacy facial soap

Peter Thomas Roth SPF 45 Mineral Powder

Dr. Brandt Pores No More Pore Refiner

Cover Girl NatureLuxe Gloss/Balm

For the Mom Who Just So Happens To Have My Exact Taste In Decorating & Jewelry HI JASON CLICK HERE

Vintage Kyes moire glaze trays

Prints by Farouche

Custom family tree print

Tiny stars initial necklace

This ring

These earrings

YES

These

This

ALL OF THIS

(Amazon links are affiliate links; nothing else is sponsored and I make no money from any of it but hey don't let that stop you from sending me a box of dollars if you feel like you want to.)

The Search for George Washington

This post is sponsored by Colonial Williamsburg. Book your stay at colonialwilliamsburg.com

Whenever I take my children someplace new, I learn something new about them. You'd think I'd remember this and take them to new places more regularly, but instead I tend to overthink trips and destinations and convince myself that no, they're not old enough for that place or well-behaved enough for that one. I get bogged down in logistics (car? train? hotel? packing? gaaaaah?) and completely underestimate my kids' capacity to find something fun about...well, pretty much any place on earth. 

This past weekend I learned that Noah is quite the fan of George Washington. I had no idea. He ran up to every single costumed person and asked them if they knew George Washington. He chased after several older men on the off chance they were George Washington, only to be more than a little deflated to learn that they were not. 

I can't lie: At one point there were tears. TEARS. He wanted to meet George Washington that badly. 

Ezra, on the other hand...

...was much easier to please.

(Though that still didn't stop Jason from spoiling him rotten at the gift shop, with a COMPLETELY UNAUTHORIZED BY ME purchase of some wooden cork guns, that go pop-pop-pop-pop all the livelong blessed day. I was shopping for Mother's Day gifts and came back only to be informed that both of my children had run off to fight the British.)

Luckily, our map informed us that there would a "Public Audience with George Washington" the next morning at the Governor's Palace. 

We showed up early. 

Just in case we had to clear the gardens of any traitors.

And then, the moment — and the man himself — arrived. 

And Noah was captivated. Thoroughly, completely captivated.

(ALSO: HAT. I booked a hotel package that included a free hat for the kids; Noah was all, NO FREE VAGUELY COSTUME-LIKE HAT. He changed his mind after about an hour in the Revolutionary City because tri-corner hats are dope, yo.)

The "public audience" was actually really impressive — 45 solid minutes of Q&A with the audience, so the actor is basically doing improv and needs to know his history like nobody's business. I assumed Noah would be bored, that this talky history lesson was probably not what he was expecting. (George Washington riding in on a unicorn, maybe, and taking out an army of orcs right before our eyes.)

And yet once again, I underestimated him. He sat there quietly the entire time, watching and listening intently. Finally he whispered that he really, REALLY wanted to ask George Washington a question but didn't know what to ask. He and Jason quietly debated and eventually settled on one.

He raised his hand.

George Washington pointed at him. 

"Sir," he asked, his voice nervous but clear. "How long have you served in Congress?"

And George Washington answered his question. (Not very long, as the Congress had been formed very recently and had only met once at that particular point in time.)

And Noah beamed and settled back in his seat.

After the talk was over, this happened:

While Jason and Noah waited for their turn to take a photo, I sat further away with Ezra and Ike. (Double stroller, y'all. Do not attempt Colonial Williamsburg without one.) Another grandmother approached me.

"It's not every little boy who gets to talk with George Washington!" she said.

I laughed and explained that Noah had been waiting for that moment allllll weekend. 

And I realized she was crying. 

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She grabbed my hand. "My husband's in line to meet George Washington too. But I wanted to meet you. Your little boy is so special."

And with that, she was gone. For the second time in two days, Noah's sweetness and enthusiasm had made a stranger cry. 

(I swear I am not making a single word of this up. Colonial Williamsburg is full of nice people who want to randomly compliment your children. It happened CONSTANTLY, at every activity and restaurant and store we visited. And I believe it's more of a reflection on the general loveliness of the crowd than the all-around amazingness of my children, who, you know, CAN be amazing but can also be...not.)

We extended our stay by a few hours so Noah could see George Washington again in another street performance. He hopped up and down and waved and hung on his every word, completely in the grips of some historical version of Beatlemania.

"HEY EVERYBODY," he would randomly shout to people on the street, "GEORGE WASHINGTON IS HERE! HE'S ALIVE AGAIN! HE CAME DOWN FROM HEAVEN FOR TODAY TO ANSWER MY QUESTION!"

Later, he talked us into buying not one, but TWO different biographies about George Washington for him to read during the car trip back. When we got home we printed out the photo of him and his new pal so he could take it to school and show his class. Now it's hanging in his room, above his bed. 

So will we be going back to Colonial Williamsburg? Uh. Yeah. We will. Where else can my kid hang with his idol? 

P.S. Ike was there too. He also seemed to have a very good time, particularly at breakfast, lunch and dinner. He and I were equally enthusiastic about the food, which was delicious.

(Not a fan of the hat, however.)

This post is sponsored by Colonial Williamsburg. Book your stay at colonialwilliamsburg.com