Last night, I had the brilliant idea of letting the girls make their own pizzas for dinner. I had a couple of small Boboli pizza crusts in the bread box, which I always have on hand, for those surprise pop-in visits from other kids in the neighborhood. So I pulled them out, along with a jar of tomato sauce, some shredded cheeses and turkey pepperoni slices. I set it all up on the dining table, stepped back, and bit my tongue.

Messy. So messy. And so much fun.

Pea was able to break in one of her new bamboo kid-sized cooking spoons.

I found the spoon as part of a set of 5 at an online store that I discovered recently, called Branch. It bills itself as “sustainable design for living.” It’s a great website, beautiful things. I’ve been on a search for a couple of smallish serving trays for most of the summer. And I’m not entirely sure what my problem was, why I couldn’t just commit to a tray. What’s the big deal, right? Well, I really want to stick to my new philosophy of consumerism - that I only buy what I need, what I love, what will stand the test of time. So any ordinary serving tray wasn’t going to cut it. But Branch? They had what I needed. I ordered two. In kiwi. Gorgeous. Modern, simple and sustainable. Perfect.

But back to the pizzas.

Pea’s pie:

Coco’s pie:

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Have you checked out the Smart Television Alliance website lately? I’ve written about them before, I’ve written for them before. And I like what they do. A lot. They are a “coalition of national nonprofit organizations united by a shared commitment to improving what our nation’s children see on television.” Yes, I took that right off of their website, but I couldn’t have said it better. In a nutshell: they want parents to make wise choices when it comes to what their children are watching on the TV. I’m all for that. I keep a close eye on the programming over here.

They’ve done a little redesigning of the site, and it now includes a blog feature, that I was fortunate enough to write a piece for this week. On the Olympics. The 29th Olympic Games. The Olympiad. The Competition to End All Competitions. The Contest. I could go on and on. I won’t, but I could. Because I love the Olympics. Really, really love it. I’m all about competition and the Olympic Games are it for me. And I know most of you know that my husband is over in Beijing right now, working. And we’re watching the events taking place in Beijing back here, as if it is our religion. Go on over to the Smart Television Alliance blog, you can read a little more about 1) what my husband does, 2) my childhood dream and 3) why I think that the Olympics are chock-full of valuable life lessons for our kids.

And when you’re done, poke around the site. I like to check in with the Program Recommendations for Ages 3 - 6. Pea has been known to return from a play-date with the theme song from a show in her head, and if I don’t recognize it? I’m looking it up and making one of those informed decisions that we as parents sometimes have to make…

(And you don’t need a TiVo to make good use of the website, although TiVo? Awesome. You really should have one. Or three. When it comes to kids and television, it’s been an invaluable tool…)

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Anyone who knows me will tell you that my life, the lives of my children, my dogs, my husband - they all thrive on routines. One common routine, that is tweaked throughout the day, for each member of our family. There’s wake-up, breakfast, getting ready for camp, grooming, packing lunch boxes, errands, outside time, lunchtime, nap-time, snack-time, more playtime, picking up Pea from camp, more outside playtime, dinner, quiet time with books, bath-time, more story-time and bedtime. Occasionally, there are other ‘times’ punctuated throughout the day. Lola’s training sessions come to mind, as do things like swim classes, art classes, the occasional trip to the airport. And of course, with kids, you’d have to add doctor’s appointments to that list. And while I’m not insane about our routine and sticking to it, I mean it’s not listed out in detailed bullet points in a binder for our babysitter, or anything like that, I do stick to it pretty closely, from day to day. It’s how my girls thrive, and it’s how I keep my sanity.

But occasionally, we get so far off of schedule, that disaster is bound to happen. Take last Tuesday, for instance. I had an appointment in the afternoon, that I’d completely forgotten about. I’m just glad that they called to remind me a day before, because there is nothing worse, in my opinion, than booking up another person’s time, and not showing up. I would be mortified at the rudeness of it all. So when I received the confirmation call, I said sure, no problem. I’ll see you then. Because canceling less than 24-hours before an appointment? Also a no-no, in my book. Anyway, I realized that 1) I used poor judgement in making the appointment because I made it for 1:00, which is precisely Coco’s nap-time. And while it occurs to me now that I made this appointment before we knew my husband would be off to China for six weeks, still. What was I thinking? Nap-time? You don’t mess with nap-time in our home. That one is etched in stone. But I thought to myself, I can do it. Which brings me to 2) the realization that Pea is in camp from 9:30 to 4:00, and her camp is 20-minutes from our home. And that’s without traffic, of which there is a staggering amount of in the summer. Summer is, after all, a brief season here, so the roads? Streets? Highways? Clogged up with construction trucks. Which meant the ride would be about 40-minutes to pick her up. Not a problem, my appointment should be over by 3:00, leaving me more than enough time, but that brings me to 3) Tuesdays? Are a swim day for Pea at camp. And she’s in the second group, which means she’s always late returning to the campus. And her favorite counselor? He asked me last week if I wanted her switched to the first swimming group, because I am always at camp to pick her up at precisely 4:00 on the dot, because wow, you run on Swiss time, don’t you, and so perhaps I didn’t want to wait around for her to return? And I said no, not necessary. I don’t mind. Not a big deal. And head-slap. Why didn’t I have her switched into the first swim group? Because she’s never gotten back to camp before 4:10 on a Tuesday. And if I’d switched her? She’d have been able to go swimming after all, which would’ve meant a full-day at camp. And none of this would’ve been a problem, except 4) she has a 4:00 appointment for her (albeit) late 3-year check-up. And there was no way I could reschedule that appointment, because I’d already rescheduled it twice.

Phew.

So, knowing this was going to rock everyone to the core, I made some ‘tweaks’ to the day’s schedule:

Pea would go to camp for a half-day, so I would have to pick her up at 12:30, which meant that Coco would have to take an earlier nap, which meant I’d have to wake her and feed her at about 11:30 so that we could be in the car by noon, heading over to camp to pick-up Pea, who thankfully would be eating lunch at camp, just before she left for the day. I would then take the girls to a local drop-in childcare place that is very popular, and my gosh, wasn’t I lucky to get them in without a reservation? Good news! It’s right next door to the salon where I’d be getting my hair cut and colored, which was a relief, since I didn’t have my “who to call in case of emergency” person’s number on me. At least they’d know where to find me, right?

So, I dropped the girls off. And they were delighted to be there. And I ran next door, told my stylist I had to be out of there by 3:30 to make it to an appointment. No problem, right? Right. I was out of there by 3:30.

And then, a comedy of errors ensued. You knew it would, right? Murphy’s Law, and all?

When I arrived to collect the girls, Coco was having her second poop changed. In two hours. And Pea? Was wearing a 3-month old diaper cover as panties, because she’d had a minor ‘accident.’ Even though it says explicitly on my paperwork that she sometimes gets so caught up in fun that she forgets she has to go, so please, be on high alert for the ‘pee-pee dance.’ It’s not hard to miss. And then, we leave. And Pea? She wipes out on the concrete. Scrapes up her knees, and needs some TLC. And when we finally make it to the parking structure? Where are my &%*^ing keys? Oh, here they are. In my hand. Okay, we’re on our way. Finally.

We make it to the appointment with Pea’s pediatrician by 4:00. But? Doctors? Never on time, especially at the end of the day. Cue another head slap. Why didn’t I remember this? They stick us in an exam room at 4:00. No books. No toys. My girls are hungry. Coco is tired because she napped off-time. Pea is tired because she was at camp. They are irritable. And bored. And restless.

Enter the pediatrician. Fifty minutes later. That’s right, it’s now close to 5:00. And what ensued for the next 20 minutes, or so? A positively exhausting session of my least favorite pastime: making mommy feel like she has no earthly clue what the hell she’s doing.

It was pointed out that my attempts at discipline were not working. That Love & Logic? Is great for kids who are ‘normal.’ But Pea? She’s spirited. (Might I just tell you how much I despise ‘labels?’ Especially for a 3-year old?) And perhaps I need to try something else? And please, can you ask her to stop touching the photos on the walls? And spinning on my chair? And no, you may not have a sticker until after your appointment. And yes, there will be a shot today. What? The nurse said it could wait until your next check-up? She was wrong. She needs it today. And your husband? Gone for six weeks? However are you doing this, all by yourself? Hmm…

I was blind-sided. I left the appointment in tears, completely having forgotten all of the variables that led up to such a tremendously awful visit with our (formerly) beloved pediatrician in the first place. I was knocked down, I was upset, I was shaken, I was feeling unfit as a mom, I was wondering who the heck let me have these incredible girls in the first place? Surely they deserved better?

And we returned home. We got back on schedule, although a little later than usual. I fed the girls, bathed them, read them stories and tucked them into their respective beds. Then I poured myself a cocktail, sat on the couch and bawled my heart out. And then… a moment of clarity. I am a good mother. My girls are lucky to have me, just as I am lucky to have them. And today? It was one day, borne out of poor judgment. But we got through it. And my (formerly) beloved pediatrician? Wasn’t looking at the whole picture. Just those 20 or so minutes of the day, and making a perverse judgment on me, my girls, our lives. And shame on her.

And so, I settled in to continue reading the most current title on my reading list: “Playful Parenting.” And it occurs to me that going off-schedule for a little while? It’s so good for the soul. All of those unexpected moments that occurred during the day? However harried and frazzled I was feeling? Were priceless. Pea and her sheer delight at seeing me in the doorway of her camp, a whole 3-1/2 hours before she usually sees me; the girls, confidently going forth into this new drop-in childcare center, a place they’d never been before, and never looking back at me; my elation at seeing Pea hugging her little sister, as I peaked in through a window as I left to head next door; the cuddles and kisses after Pea fell and injured herself on the sidewalk, Pea crawling into my lap, to ask me why I was crying? Did I have a boo-boo? Did I miss Daddy? All worth it. So very worth it. Just don’t expect me to do it again, on purpose, anytime soon.

So, in a nutshell: we had a bad day. I’m a good mom. 3-year olds? Much tougher than a 2-year old. Vodka tonic? Quiet time? Good book reinforcing what I am doing with my girls? Bill Withers? Bobby Caldwell? All good. My girls? The best ever. For all of the rough times I’ve faced as a parent? Those throw-my-hands-up-in-the-air and the subsequent wonder-who-I-think-I-am-for-thinking-I-can-do-this-all times?

Pfft. I can do this. I will do this. I am doing this. Right now…

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Okay, I know I’m really late on these tubtrugs. But I have good reason. They were everywhere. For the longest time. And I got so sick of seeing them. And looked the other way. All the while? Had bath toys that could’ve used one. And dog toys that needed one. And outside toys. They all needed corralling. Something lightweight, something easy for the girls to carry (or drag, in Coco’s case), that might withstand some rain, dog drool and being worn as a giant hat in the bright sunlight.

And so, with much reservation, I ordered three of those omnipresent tubtrugs. But while trying to order them, I learned a valuable lesson about the early bird getting the worm. It is true. I had a tough time finding the right sizes, the right colors. But I managed to locate the best selection of tubtrugs at Auburn Pet Supply. I ordered two large green ones for the dog’s gear and the girls’ outside toys, and then I ordered a smaller yellow one for our ever-growing collection of bathtub squirt toys.

When they arrived, they were a little smooshed, and I was worried. But after a couple of hours, I happened by and they were back in their original shape. These things are indestructible. That’s pretty important in a house filled with my own kids and dogs, the neighborhood kids and visiting canine guests. We’ve had a full house lately. Kid- and animal-friendly is a necessity.

I like them. I do. It was a good, solid purchase. Sensible but fun, too. Organizational and functional and good-looking and much needed. It completely fit with my new criteria of only buying what I need to enhance life around here. And life is much better enhanced when everything has it’s place, and everyone knows where that place is.

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I picked up a new book for Pea last week. I’d heard good things about it. And it’s about horses. So, you know. No-brainer. It’s called “The Girl Who Loved Wild Horses.” It’s an older book, a sweet story about a Native American girl who communed with horses.

As has become practice in recent weeks, I read the book myself before reading it to her. I wanted to make sure that 1) there were no religious references I’m not ready to deal with; 2) no one died; and 3) there were no monsters.

The first point, concerning religion, came about after the debacle with what I assumed was an innocent children’s book about birthdays that my mother-in-law gave Pea. And no, there is nothing wrong with religion. But again, we’re not sure what we’re doing here, so I now make it a habit to check out what my kid’s are reading, to make sure that I’m not going to have to explain something I am either not ready or unable to explain.

The second point, for obvious reasons. At least I think they’re obvious. She’s a kid. A small kid. I’m not all that sure what she does and doesn’t understand, and I don’t want to upset her unnecessarily, or scare her. Any more than she’s been scared by that mean older kid at her summer camp, which brings me to my third point…

Monsters. Some kid at camp apparently told my sweet little thing all about the big, ugly monsters lurking around, and now? She’s terrified of her bedroom. Won’t go in it, or near it. No sleeping in it. No dressing in it. Unless mama is with her. This point? I’m saving it for another day. Right now? I’m trying to get her to bed down in her own pretty little bed in her own pretty little room.

So, all of that being said, I thought this looked like a great read. Kind of a fable, if you will. And without giving too much away, I will just say that it’s a beautifully haunting story, with a happy ending. Or at least, what a 36-year old woman thinks is a happy ending. A 3-year old? Not so much.

Internal dialogue in my mind now goes something like this: Come on, Melissa. What were you thinking? Well, I guess what I was thinking was that there was no way a 3-year old would comprehend the kind of mystical and symbolic ending that this story has. She was just hearing a neat little story about a cool Native American girl who was brave and romantic and could talk to animals. Uh, okay. But let’s back up. You didn’t think she’d get the symbolism? So didn’t it occur to you that she would instead take it literally? Oops. No. That didn’t occur to me. Oh boy. Okay, so does she now have to worry that this might happen to her? Because while to me, it sounds pretty fantastic, to her? Might seem kind of scary. Okay, way to go, Melissa. Now let’s add a fourth point to the above list… no fables.

Let’s just say that at the end of the book, Pea was in tears. And I couldn’t imagine why, it was such a beautiful story. So happy and lush and imaginative. And yet, here she was, resting her head on my chest, snuggled up in her bed, sobbing. Why? As well as I could gather, and much to my shock, it wasn’t about the horses. Or the little girl. It was about missing her Daddy. Kid misses her father, and something in this book, focused on family, triggered this crying spell in her. So we continued to snuggle, I stroked her hair and just let her get it all out. A good cry is great for the soul, or so they say. And missing her Daddy? Let’s celebrate! She’s a person now! Feelings! Comprehension! She’s not a baby. She is a real person who has real emotions that she can actually express… verbally.

And so, this book? I really thought it was going to be shelved for a while. But she carried it around with her most of the next day. And asked me to again read it to her at bedtime. And you know what? Same tears. Same point in the story. Same explanation. She misses her Daddy. What is it with this book? I have no idea. But we have only two more weeks to go until my little Daddy’s Girl has her father back in her grasp, and I’m betting that this new nighttime story will become their story. And? Well, I guess I’m not the only person in our home who misses my husband… and while I am still unsure of what in this book set off this wave of real and deep emotion in Pea, I’m grateful for the lesson that I gleaned from it all: empathy. For my daughter. Which seems like a strange statement, right? I mean, sure, I’ve always been sensitive to her wants, her needs, her fears. She’s my child. But now? I understand on a much deeper level that this person who I’ve often referred to as “my little baby” is not so much that any longer. I realize that she has an understanding of life that’s much more intense than the superficial understanding I had assumed it to be. And I feel a little guilty that my parting words to my husband, as he headed into the airport to catch his flight to Beijing, were something like, “honey, don’t worry. She’ll be fine. I promise you, she has no idea how long six weeks is and will just continue through life, as always…” Wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong. She knows. Six weeks is a long time. We are so ready to wrap this up. And beginning today? We are officially counting the days…

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Okay, I am in trouble here. Serious trouble. With a capital ‘T.’

When we moved here in mid-February, we were coming from a climate that was already quite warm. Like in the 80s kind of warm. And it only gets hotter from there. Summers in Fort Worth are brutal. The only time to take your kid to the park, between the months of June and September, was very early in the morning. Because if the heat and humidity didn’t get you, the bugs surely would. So it was basically air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car to air-conditioned… wherever. Not a lot of fun.

Fast-forward to Utah, and here we are, it’s summer. August. And the days are in the low 80s. And the nights? Well, come dinner time, and there’s a distinct chill in the air. Sleep with your windows open, and wake up in the morning chilled to the bone. It’s ideal.

But we moved here with no cold weather clothing. Well, sure, we had some odds and ends, but no winter wardrobes, with the exception of ski gear, which come on, do you really expect me to run around in racing stripes? When not on skis? Unh-unh. So for the remainder of last winter, we layered. And layered. And then layered some more. And honestly, it doesn’t really get bone-chilling cold here, regardless of what I said. Even in the winter when it’s snowing. But a girl needs some sweaters, you know? And the girl’s daughters? They definitely need some sweaters.

And therein lies my predicament. I want fabulous sweaters for them. Just as fabulous as I would wear. Because they’re going to be wearing them. A lot. I mean, a lot, a lot. And yet, nothing out there was doing it for me, nothing was hitting the nail on the head of what I had in mind for them. And so it had gotten to the point where I was googling knitting tutorials in the evenings. Because if I couldn’t find what I was looking for? I would make it! So, I added “learn how to knit and crochet” to my ever-growing list of Things to Learn Before It’s Too Late. Only problem? There were a lot of other things already on that overwhelming list, and so I was pretty sure that 1) the girls would have to make do in Baby Gap sweaters (not that there’s anything wrong with Baby Gap, it’s just that I get so bored with seeing every other kid on the playground, in the pick-up line at school, at the local Mexican restaurant, in the same exact sweater; and 2) my allergies would get the best of me, because I am allergic to wool. And cashmere. And angora. And just about every other material out there that provides warmth and comfort.

And then, the clouds of frustration parted, a ray of light shone down, and I found them. The perfect sweaters. Seriously, there are just some people out there who get it. Who get that there are moms just like me who prefer muted shades of brown and green and simple adornment, that makes one say to themselves (or to the artist, in my case), upon seeing the sweater for the first time, “can you make this in my size?”

The Anecdotes. The answer to my prayers. And of course, you know where I found this shop, right? Take a wild guess. That’s right. Etsy.

I have purchased three already. One for Pea, and one for Coco to wear now. This coming winter season. And then I went ahead and bought a third sweater, for Coco, to wear next winter season. And I justify this by knowing that Pea’s sweaters? When she’s outgrown them? Will be passed on to her little sister. And then, when Coco outgrows these sweaters? They will be wrapped - preserved - in a special box, for my daughters to pass along to their own daughters, someday. These sweaters? They will never be out of style, never, ever, ever. They are classics, because really, what are classics but simple and elegant designs that can (and will) stand the test of time?

So the three sweaters arrived yesterday. I couldn’t get the package open fast enough. And honestly, I nearly cried when I unfolded them. They are so stunningly gorgeous. And soft. My God, you never knew that wool, even merino wool, could be as soft and cozy as that which is used to create these sweaters. And the sweater that started it all? It’s nearly identical to this one, the “Phillip,” although the original one that I ordered is in a pale shade of purple with green buttons. And while purple? And green? Not my usual colors? The sweater was absolutely to-die-for. So much so that I went on to request a custom sweater, the same style, but in a grey, for Pea. And, whoa. Another to-die-for sweater. She tried it on last night, wouldn’t take it off, took the dogs outside in it, and then came back into the house and announced, in no uncertain terms, that she would like another sweater, from the same place, in purple.

Done. There will be one more sweater coming her way, in what I am sure is to be a lovely and sophisticated shade of purple. It will be in the style of the “Roger,” which is basically the same style of sweater as the second one that I ordered for Coco, to be worn this winter, although Coco’s is in a shade of grey with olive buttons. A neutral, if you will.

I have ordered many things from Etsy since discovering the beauty and rarity of handmade things. But these sweaters? The best of the bunch. Now, if only the woman behind the line would make these sweaters for grown-ups. What I wouldn’t give for an “Oliver…“

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It’s that time of the year. School starts soon. Pea has less than two weeks left of summer camp, and then she begins preschool the following Monday. Just one weekend to make the transition from summer fun to school uniforms.

Just as I did last year when she started pre-preschool, I ordered Pea a new backpack for this year. And a new lunchbox, since her duck went AWOL at camp a couple of weeks ago. They match. Both with her monogram. Just too cute for words.

I love 4 Peas. So much so that I’m not going to hold it against them that when you land on their home page, Rachael Ray is staring back at you. The backpacks are actually toddler-sized, which means they won’t hold a mess of books, but they will hold notes to and from the teacher, art work, a lunchbox, an extra pair of shoes, whatever it is you’d actually need a small child to carry on his or her back. And the selection they have now is even better than last year’s. I had a really tough time deciding which one to get. I finally let Pea make the final call. She went for the pink polka-dots. Always pink. Polka dots? Icing on her little preschooler-sized cake. There are also backpacks for older kids. And the styles are all hip, they can be monogrammed, and they ship very quickly. In fact, you should still have time to order one this week and have it arrive just in time to see your little one off to school!

And don’t forget the labels! I just reordered Pea’s labels (pink & butterflies) from Stuck On You, and while I was at it, I ordered a pack for Coco, too (purple & fairy princess). She’s now out and about in the world with her sippy cups and her shoes that just won’t remain on her little feet.

I’m going to be quite busy this weekend, sewing labels in clothing, placing sticky dots on cups and vinyl dots in shoes. Good times. Really, good times. My girls are growing up so quickly.

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One of my biggest regrets in life is that I didn’t get the painting / drawing gene. I cannot draw a doodle to save my life. And it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal, except that Pea is always asking me to draw her this or that, and I try, I really do, but I can’t do it. And it so frustrates me that I often find myself fighting back the urge to hurl my crayon at the wall across the room. Very mature, I know. But what can I say? I am a frustrated artist.

Yesterday, Coco and I stopped into a local bookstore. I adore this store, well, I adore all bookstores, but this one? It’s fantastic. It’s one of the last remaining bastions of mom & pop businesses that cater to the literary. And the children’s section? It’s phenomenal. I get chills just thinking about it. This is no Barnes & Noble. Or Amazon. It’s a tiny little building, cramped with books, floor to ceiling, and it is, to me, a haven.

So Coco and I stopped in unexpectedly and headed for the back, where the children’s books are. And I found several really great books for the girls. Nighttime stories, if you will. But my favorite finds cater to the budding artists in my girls (and the frustrated artist in me). Among them were two books by Ed Emberley, someone I remember fondly from my own childhood. He taught me how to “doodle” the only thing I can doodle well. A dog. Little more than a bunch of scratches and a couple of dots on paper, you’d never believe that this mess would turn into a dog. A recognizable dog. But it did. And fast-forward thirty years later, it still does. (You can see this dog on my doodle page below, he’s at the bottom of the page, just above the whale… a brown shaggy-looking dog.)

So I couldn’t resist getting the book on animals and another on faces. I swear, it was like being transported back to my childhood. Some of the faces are a little dated, after all, the book did come out in the very early 70s, but with the clear instructions that the author gives in the book, you can easily modernize the faces. And the animals? Spot on. I spent two hours this morning practicing my faces and animals, and all Pea could say was how I was really good at drawing.

Major score.

Check out these doodles:

Not bad, right?

These books are geared towards kids. But I think Pea might be a little young for them, so I’m holding off, so as not to frustrate her own budding artistic talents. I don’t want a repeat of the paper mache incident a couple weekends ago. But if your kid can draw a square, a triangle and a circle, you’ve just hit the jackpot. Seriously, these books (and there are several more, beyond faces and animals) are a veritable gold-mine.

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Ahh… bedtime routines. They have been my saving grace with the girls. The cornerstone of their lives, if you will. I nailed a good one down, early on with Pea, since passed down to include Coco, and it’s stuck with us through three years of goodnights. There have been tweaks along the way, the largest one being when Coco entered the picture, but for the most part, the routine has remained consistent. The beginning of our nightly wind-down ritual is a really strong signal to my girls that it’s time to wrap it up, day is done, calm down, let’s move it to the bathroom and bedrooms. And that routine always begins the same way, day in and day out, “all right, little ones… five minutes until bath-time…”

First, the girls take a bath. Recently, they have been doing so together, Coco is old enough for that now. But until she was about one, she would get the first bath, with Pea sitting on the side of the tub with me, “helping” me to bathe her little baby sister. But now, they play for a while, sometimes we add a little bubbles to the mix, but we always have a good time. We wash hair, lather up washcloths with soap and blow lots of bubbles. And then, we get out of the tub. Coco is first, she needs my assistance, and I wrap her up in her towel, and as I am wrapping her up, Pea is getting out on her own, putting on her big girl bathrobe.

We then head to the sinks, of which we are lucky to have two in the girls shared bathroom. While I brush Coco’s teeth, Pea brushes her own. We then all head together into Coco’s room, where I give her a quick baby massage with lavender oil and dress her in her pajamas. And massage? It’s another part of the nightly ritual that has been a constant. In fact, right before Pea was born, I read a wonderful book dedicated to the topic of baby massage, by Vimala McClure, entitled “Infant Massage: A Handbook for Loving Parents.” And while you might think, a book? About how to rub a baby with oil? Let me just say that the information in this book, if you are really interested in massage as a manner not only of bonding with your child, but as a means to promote overall whole being wellness, you need to check this book out. The information I gleaned from it was nothing short of a necessity. Things such as the direction in which your massage your child’s stomach? Can affect his or her digestion. Dramatically. And our oil of choice? It was always grapeseed oil, straight up. Although lately, we’ve graduated to oils by Burt’s Bees (smells divine, your kids will wake up with skin as soft as silk, but beware of the glass bottle with the twist-off cap: oil + glass + manual labor = disaster. My recommendation? Decant into a plastic bottle with a pump top. Not as elegant, but much safer.) I’ve also used California Baby, but it’s not my favorite, as it doesn’t do much to soften the often eczema-like scratchiness of Pea and Coco’s skin.) But back to our routine: all the while, Pea is generally playing a ukulele that her father brought back for the girls from Hawaii, and singing songs. Lately, her playlist has included “Frere Jacques” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” It’s the sweetest part of the evening, that she wants to sing a lullaby to her “baby,” which is how she affectionately refers to her little sister. “This is my baby, Coco. You have to be nice to her. And don’t take away her toys.” I have to giggle at that last part, because what she really means to say is, “don’t take away her toys, that’s my job…”

We then settle into Coco’s big, white chair, the three of us, where we read a few short books. Lately, it’s been “Goodnight Moon,” and “Daddy Hugs,” and then we end with my all-time favorite of the goodnight book genre, “If Kisses Were Colors.” Then, Coco goes into her crib, the nightlight goes on and the lamps go off, the air purifier turns on (for noise reduction, mostly), and Pea stands next to her little baby’s crib and tells Coco to have a good night’s sleep and that she can dream of ice cream, if she wants to. It’s now 7:00, and Coco is off to sleep shortly thereafter. We never hear a peep from her, that child was blessed with the easy-to-sleep gene.

We then head into Pea’s room. She gets out of her robe, puts on her own lotion, she being a big girl, and all. And then she chooses her pajamas for the evening, which is really little more than panties and a tee-shirt. We choose five books, and climb into bed. We snuggle up and read the books, stopping along the way to count how many balloons are in this illustration, what color tutus the ballerinas are wearing in that illustration. It takes about 30 minutes to get through those five books, but it’s just about my favorite time of the day with her. She rests her head on my chest, and she smells fresh and clean and it’s nothing less than precious time between the two of us. After we finish the books, there are kisses, hugs, tucking in, a quick chat about what the next day has in store for us. I pull her shade down, but leave it up just enough so that she can use the light from the late dusk to thumb through the stack of books that I then lay next to her, on her bed. I turn on her air purifier, again mostly for noise reduction, and head out the door with a flick of the light-switch and an “I love you.”

Sometimes, she conks out immediately, particularly after a “swim day” at camp. Other days, she’s restless and lonely, and thinks of many, many excuses to come out of her room. “You forgot to give me a goodnight water.” Or “I have to go tee-tee.” Now the goodnight water, while I know it’s a no-no, is just one of those things that I’ve since decided is not a big deal. It seems to give her comfort, a little bit of water in a cup on her bedside table. It’s usually still full the next morning, when I enter her room. And the tee-tee trips? I don’t know about that one. She and her sister have a bathroom that connects their two rooms, and why she won’t use it during the night, I have no idea. She would rather climb up two flights of stairs to our room, wake me up and ask me to allow her to use my bathroom. I’m fine with it, for now, at least she’s not doing it in her bed. At this point, I’m just so pleased that she has enough bladder control to wake herself up at night, that I don’t mind, at all, the disruption to my sleep. But my absolute favorite excuse is the newest addition to her bag of tricks, and it goes something like this, “mommy, I know I’m supposed to be in my bed, but I forgot to tell you something.” I ask her what it is that she forgot to tell me, and she quickly launches into, “I forgot to tell you that I love you and that you are the best mommy in the world.” Okay, cue the “awws…” This one gets me every time, and honestly, I actually look forward to this one, this excuse to climb out of her warm and comfy bed and come search for me. In fact, when I hear that distinctive whir of the air purifier as she opens her bedroom door? I cross my fingers and say a quick prayer that tonight? Her delay tactic? Is all about my awesomeness as a mother…

We’ve always had basically the same routine, it’s worked for us very well. And though things changed a bit when Coco arrived, they didn’t change by much. Both girls have essentially had a bath every night of their lives. That sounds insane, right? And perhaps it is, but that’s what we’ve chosen to do. I could probably count on just my two hands the times that the girls have actually skipped a bath. I must’ve read somewhere to be consistent with routines, and being the control freak that I am, I’d say that I took that advisement to heart, wouldn’t you?

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Do you remember Madeline? The sweet little redheaded French girl? As a kid, I adored her. She was so small and sweet and fierce. A winning combination. We had all of the books, it was all I ever wanted to read. As I grew, I discovered other “sassy and smart” girls to look up to. “Eloise” comes to mind, and she was certainly a lot of fun. But as far as manners go? She left a little something to be desired. For me. And then, as I got a little older, there was “Nancy Drew,” also wickedly smart. And “The Boxcar Children” was an exciting read, too. The oldest sister was strong and capable. And of course, who could forget Jo from “Little Women?” But none ever really could hold a candle to my Madeline. She was, after all, a Parisian at her best, and I am Francophile numero un…

As I got older, the ‘obsession’ with Madeline became a little embarrassing. As an adult, on many occasions, a member of my family has given me a talking Madeline doll. Or Madeleine stationery. But the best Madeline-related gift, by far, was the definitive biography of Ludwig Bemelmans’ life, as told through his letters, photographs, art work. It’s called “Bemelmans: The Life and Art of Madeline’s Creator.” After looking through this book for the first time, years ago, it occurred to me that if my dear Katharine Hepburn had been a man? She’d have been Ludwig Bemelmans. He was witty, charming, tongue-in-cheek. And just a little bit dangerous.

Pea is really into Madeline now, too. And most nights when we settle into bed and I ask her how many stories she’d like me to read to her, her answer is always “five!” So, I carefully choose five stories. Inevitably, she will ask me to swap one of my choices for her Madeline book. The problem with that? It’s not just one Madeline story. It’s called “Mad About Madeline,” and it’s comprised of six Madeline stories. And I must read each and every one. In Pea’s little head, all of the stories are under one book cover, so they just must be one story, right? Ah, I love the logic of a child. So while her five stories quickly turns into 10 stories, it’s okay. I adore Madeline. And while I can recite nearly all of the stories by heart, I never get tired of sharing Madeline with Pea…

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In order to make these six weeks sans husband fly by, I just knew that I was going to have to book up the family’s social calendar. So it’s been a long string of play-dates and barbecues these past two weeks. It’s been a lot of fun, somewhat exhausting, and totally delightful to feel such a part of our new community.

Keeping the girls busy has been a blessing. It occurred to me this morning that we have just begun our third week on our own. Three weeks! We’re almost half-way through my husband’s 6-week stint in Beijing. What a relief.

I’ve been spending a lot of my free time in the evenings on the Internet, checking out blogs of other mommies. Looking for ideas on what to do with the girls: art projects, new recipes - they’re all going on my master list of Fun Activities to Make These Six Weeks Fly By. And it’s working! We’ve been having a lot of fun, and it’s been incredible for strengthening our bonds even more. I often would forget to sit, engage and just really be with my daughters. I might have been present, but I wasn’t always there. I’d be in the same room, I’d have the best intentions, but eventually, I’d get up and wander off to tidy up this or that. And then Pea would ask me to “please, sit with me, mommy.” And I’d often say, “just a minute, let me finish this one thing…” And I’m sure you know where this is going… That one thing turned into many, many things. All of which were not, ultimately, pressing. And could have waited. And should have waited. And now? Those things are waiting. Laundry is piled up in the laundry room. Dishes are waiting in the dishwashers to be put away. Toys have been left out on the floor in the family room. Because I have much more important things to do: like being with my girls.

Yesterday afternoon, I picked up an excited Pea at camp. She was eager to get home and greet her friends, who came over with their moms, for a play-date. And a good time was had by all. The moms nibbled on appetizers and sipped cocktails while the kids ate homemade pizzas. We put up a big teepee in the backyard, and then outfitted the kids with my husband’s old tee-shirts, a good stand-in for artist’s smocks, and then let them go at the teepee with their paintbrushes and paints. Afterwards, the kids sat down to big bowls of ice cream that they decorated with heaping handfuls of candy that I laid out on a platter, in little cupcake liners. (A great idea that I borrowed from Scrumdillydo. A fantastic site, check it out…)

They had a blast, and now my girls have a little teepee in the yard, decorated with paints and childish abandon, by themselves and their friends. And it’s just their size. A quiet place that’s full of comfy pillows and blankets, where they can relax at the end of the day, with a stack of books and a bowl of berries. I anticipate lots of giggles and squeals coming from inside those painted canvas walls.

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This weekend, Pea and I had several art projects going on. One of them was paper mache bowls. That didn’t go over so well. It was very sticky and messy and she became very frustrated, very quickly. I ended up finishing her bowl for her. At least one of us had a great time. There have been a handful of occasions now where I’ve chosen a project that was just a little too ‘mature’ for her. But I am trying to think outside the box. The box of crayons, that is. It’s so easy to plop her down at a table with paper and crayons and then wander off, leaving her alone, to draw. I’m looking for something more interactive, something that we can do together. I thought the bowls might be just that. Alas, we’ll put those off for a little while longer.

But we did find another project that she just adored, which was Concertina Fold Butterflies.

It was age appropriate, save for the little bit of twisting I had to do with the pipe cleaners. But she’s three, really into butterflies, and just adored the couple of hours we spent at our dining room table, creating a fleet of butterflies together, while her little sister napped.

I found the project from a great weekly email (free!) that I just started to receive. The website is called Kids Craft Weekly, and it’s written by a stay-at-home mom in Australia. The butterflies are from Issue 24, entitled “Wings.” The majority of the projects can be completed without a last-minute trip to the arts & crafts store. In fact, her projects have so inspired me, that I now have a large basket in my kitchen pantry where I’ve been tossing found “materials.” Things such as cardboard egg crates, empty toilet paper and paper towel rolls, kitchen twine, ribbons, interesting stamps. Anything that has the potential to become a project for Pea (and for Coco, soon, I hope…) goes into the basket.

And in yesterday’s mail, a little book by the same woman arrived that I’d ordered late last week. It’s called “Everyday Craft,” and it, too, is full of inspiring art projects to tackle with the little ones. Pea has been leafing through it all morning, picking out what we’re going to do this afternoon, while her little sister naps. Cardboard roll dolls, it is. I just knew there was a good reason to be hoarding all of those paper towel and toilet paper rolls…

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There’s a song that’s stuck in my head. Almost constantly. I refer to it as the “boom boom” song. My favorite lyric goes something like this: “she’s so hot, she’s like curry. She’s so hot, I have to tell her how hot she is. But if I tell her how hot she is, she’ll think I’m a sexist. She’s so hot she’s making me a sexist. Bitch.”

It’s from “The Flight of the Conchords.” It’s in reruns on HBO. All 12 episodes from the first season. It is, hand’s down, the best show on television. The only program, in my opinion, worth watching. And wicked crush on both Bret and Jemaine (isn’t he the guy from the “Outback Steakhouse” commercials?) aside, the rest of the cast is just brilliant, including Mel, who steals absolutely every scene that she is in. I’ve been watching my DVD of the first season and cannot stop. Same episodes. Over and over. And I never tire of a single moment.

I honestly wish I could remember just who’s blog I was reading when I found the video clip of the “boom boom” song. Until I saw that embedded clip, I had no interest whatsoever in the show. Had no clue what it was about, didn’t care. But now? I’m counting the days until the next - and new - season airs, supposedly in January of 2009. Why? Why so long? Why? Why do you do this to me, HBO? First “The Sopranos” and now this? It’s not right.

Anyway, to the owner of the blog that I stumbled on with the “boom boom” clip, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart…

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Before my parents divorced, when I was 8 or so, we lived in a beautiful home in the suburbs of Chicago. I went to an elementary school that can only be described as ’sweet.’ I was shuttled in by one of several mothers, including my own, who were part of a carpool. And the entrance to Woodland Hills Elementary School was up a long and tree-lined lane. It was the perfect little place to spend my early, my formative, years. Or so I thought.

I have such fond memories of that time in my life. I was young, my parents were still married, we had activities going on all of the time, and it was simply idyllic. I went to school, which I adored. I’d eagerly run-walk the halls to get to Miss Sirota’s art class, where we’d make little clay dishes, decorated with Chinese characters. Or paper mache animals (a horse for me!), plaster finger puppets (William Shakespeare: check…). And then I would head to lunch (where memories of Aziza spitting out a hunk of a tuna fish sandwich onto the cafeteria table have so deeply scarred me that I cannot eat tuna, to this day, without a flashback to that incident). After school, walking through the back grounds, I have vivid memories of searching through a pile of leaves, from recess earlier in the day, for a ring of turquoise and silver that my beloved Grandfather (”Poppy”) had given me, from a recent trip to Santa Fe. And I found it! Can you imagine? And Erik, the future pro-hockey player, helped me to locate it. Can we say “first crush?”

There were birthday parties on the weekends. And tennis lessons. Swimming at Mitchell Pool. The “tornado slide” at Jaycee Park. Ballet with Miss Marilyn. Tape-recording sessions in Jen Ariano’s bedroom of the two of us, singing the most ridiculous made-up songs ever, and then falling into fits of laughter at the absurdness of it all. Eating green onions in her backyard, right out of her mother’s garden beds, the dank taste of dirt still on the thin stalks. And always something at my home, a party, a dinner, a brunch. My parents were social butterflies. As far as childhood went, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

And then, divorce. And life as I know it took a dramatic turn. For the worst, I would have to say. And Indian Princesses? That good old father - daughter rite of passage? Let’s just say that the father who escorted me to the meetings? Well, he wasn’t my father. And he was mean. A certain fallen ice cream cone never to be replaced comes to mind… What I would have given not to be the odd girl out, the first child of divorce, in what turned out to be our snotty little suburban hamlet.

My father? He moved into the basement. He used an entrance to the house that allowed him to avoid my mother, but also allowed him to avoid my brother and myself. And then, he moved into the city. And while we saw him on weekends, it was never quite right. The hand-off was on a Saturday morning, in the parking lot of my mother’s office. And one day? There was a woman with him, sitting in the front seat of his car. And when I mentioned her presence to my mother, my mother couldn’t help but reach into the car, her hand extended, to properly introduce herself to this other woman. And this other woman? She recoiled, as if my mother had the plague. And a mere nine months after my father and my mother split? My father married her. This other woman. I was all of nine-years old. And miserable.

And my relationship with my father? It was never the same. Ever. I went from being Daddy’s Little Girl to being persona non grata. He went on to have another kid with his new wife, and then they left Chicago for NYC. There, they rebuilt a new life for themselves, for their new family. One that my brother and I didn’t seem to fit into. And so, our visits were few and far between. And over the years, they became even fewer and farther between. Until my father became more of a distant uncle, rather than a dad.

I went off to college, my father divorced #2 in a “War of the Roses” type of situation that had us all choosing sides. It was a horrible time. But not for long, at least not for him. He met #3, gave me a step-sister, and at the ripe old age of 25, he gave me yet another half-sister. This one? He left news of her impending birth on my answering machine. It was devastating.

And I’ve long since gotten over all of the details of my early life, those defining years that can make of break a little girl’s psyche. You know, will she have abandonment issues? Will she even trust anyone again? But what I’ve never really gotten over was the literal loss of my innocence, of my childhood. And sure, boo hoo, whoa is Melissa, right? But come on, think back to your own childhood. There are just certain unalienable rights that I believe we were all due as children. And while those “rights” might seem superficial or impossible to attain, I can’t help but wonder, what if? What if my parents had remained together? Worked through their differences? What if my father had decided that it was okay to have a wife - a partner - with a career of her own? And not some corporate drone of a spouse? And what if my mother had decided that it was good and lovely to be a stay-at-home mother? And that doing such did not mean she was stupid and boring? And what if we’d remained in our home in the suburbs? And I’d gone on to become Homecoming Queen? Or Valedictorian? And gone on to college, only to proudly graduate in four years? And so on, and so on…

Alas, that was not to be my destiny. Instead, my mother, my brother and I moved into a little townhouse a few miles away from my childhood home. And my mother threw all of her energy into building a successful career as a sought-after designer. And my father forged ahead in a new relationship with a woman who purposely and jealously drove a wedge between us. And I went on to grow into a young woman with abandonment issues, who trusted no one. And I bounced around the country, in and out of college. Every year, I’d move to another state: New York, Virginia, California, Iowa. I had boyfriends, friends. And I thought nothing of leaving them behind, in my wake; no reason, no excuse, no forwarding address. I felt cheated and I was angry and resentful and then…

I grew up. I met the man of my dreams. We dated, fell in love, broke up, got back together, broke up once more, got back together again, moved in together, became engaged, got married, moved a few times, worked through our issues, started a family, and landed here, in Utah. And it’s been blissful. Everything that I hoped it could be, but didn’t believe I’d ever live to see.

And as I spent this evening looking back on my childhood, my only regrets? They’re not what you’d think they’d be. Not in the least. My regrets? They are simple; innocent. I no longer regret the loss of what could have been. No. I regret not knowing how to press flowers in between the pages of a heavy book. I regret never learning how to whistle, blowing out, instead of sucking air in. I regret never being taught how to make a textbook cover out of a paper shopping bag from the grocery store. Or making an Ojos de Dios on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Or being the proprietor of my very own lemonade stand. Or being taught how to change a tire on my first car. Or the delicate and specific art of folding origami fortune tellers. Or the rules of Jacks.

But my girls? They will know all of the above. And then some. Because their mama was smart enough to order a copy of “The Daring Book for Girls.” I don’t want my girls to miss out on the same things that I did. I want their lives to remain as innocent as possible, for as long as possible. And while I know that in this culture of gossip magazines, Bratz dolls and cell phones, this might seem unlikely, I am going to do all that I can to insure it is not. Sleep-over parties with “Light as A Feather, Stiff as A Board?” We’ve got it covered…

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Pea’s little Ducky Lunch Bag was lost today, at a park. She went with her camp on a little picnic, and it simply went MIA. Not a big deal, at all. This is the first item of hers that’s ever been lost, so I’d say we’ve done pretty well. But sentimentally, it’s tugging at my heartstrings. Just a little. Because it was the first “lunchbox” that she ever had. She started taking it to summer camp last year, when she’d just turned two, and we were still living in Fort Worth. So it held a special place - a place of posterity - in my heart. Nonetheless, the counselors were very upset this afternoon, when I picked Pea up, that it’d been misplaced. In fact, I was told that they’d actually sent someone back to the park to search for it. I implored them to please, call off the search. It’s just not an issue. It’s replaceable. In fact, it’s way overdue for a replacement! Let it go…

But then, as we drove home, I thought about that bag a little more, and all of the meals I’d packed in it for my little Sweet Pea. Lunches from summer camp to preschool to summer camp, once again. And in a new state, no less. And if that bag could talk, just what would it say? “Quit loading me up with homemade dips that have garlic in them! Please! For the love of God…”

So yes, we use a lot of garlic in this house. Hummus is our go-to, and the recipe I use calls for 6 cloves. And a pinch of crushed red pepper. It’s divine, Pea helped me just this evening make a fresh batch, and then we all dig in with our whole wheat pita. But the real reason I’m so into “dips” these days is that there is no refrigeration for Pea’s lunch when I drop her off at camp. So it’s not as if I’m going to pack her a turkey sandwich. With mayonnaise. Yuck. But dips? Portable, not too messy and they keep. Nicely. And when they are chock-full of beans or legumes and served up with a side of sliced veggies? It’s perfect fare for summer camp.

But in addition to the old hummus staple, Pea is currently enjoying this very simple spin on hummus, called White Bean Dip. The only difference? It’s made with cannellini beans (my favorite!), rather than chickpeas. And it’s fantastic. We found the recipe in “Wondertime” magazine. They have an entire spread called “Dips for Dinner,” and although I’m serving them for lunch, we’re steadfastly working our way through the menu. So far, so good. And if you’re planning on serving the dip to children and adults, I’ve found this slightly more “zingy” version to be acceptable to both parties, courtesy of Giada De Laurentiis. She calls it White Bean Dip with Pita Chips.

In addition to garlic, however, Pea has really been into sun-dried tomatoes. I know, very 80’s of her, isn’t it? But you know what, I love them, too. On any and everything. And so this recipe, courtesy of my Fantasy Mother, is hard to beat. In fact, anything that Ina Garten, aka the Barefoot Contessa, concocts in her test kitchen is going to be phenomenal. And Sun-dried Tomato Dip does not disappoint. This dip, however, is not for every day consumption. Remember the old adage “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips?” Consider yourself warned…

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