Observe, the tri-tip roast. Notice the extra sparkles, glinting on the surface of the carefully prepared meat, perfect for a Sunday dinner? No, those sprinkles are not a new take on an old theme (glazing) or I guess maybe they are, but not intentionally. While this roasted at a fairly high heat, per a carefully chosen recipe from the Internet, natch, the Pyrex pan exploded. I wish I hadn't been out shopping, as it purportedly gave out quite an unexpected BOOM when it went, which had followed a few sessions of the smoke alarms going off as the olive oil burned off the roasted root vegetables also being prepared. Sigh. Yes, I am that good. I stayed away long enough to ensure my husband could get the oven cleaned up and order in pizza. Happy Anniversary, Lord Honey! We had actually celebrated with a date night the previous evening, so it wasn't too likely to cause marital devastation, even though we courted each other with me preparing food for him while he worked on my house for free, thus generating a perpetual expectation that I can provide a decent meal every night. Not so, but whatevs.
I don't have my tree. I took last year's Christmas cards off the mantel today. I have yet to complete the long threatened toy purge although I did at least begin. But the middle of that project leaves things in a muddle, rather, as the 17 pieces of 17 toy sets are sorted back into a harmonious grouping of like things alike, leaving roughly 1900 pieces of toys on the floor waiting to be grouped. I have not completed my Christmas shopping, and I have baked nary a treat for my neighbors.
Eggnog, it's time. Come to Mama. Bring Captain Morgan's spiced rum, please.
Perhaps I shouldn't try to pretend that my life is of Dickensian proportions in any aspect, but that phrase just seems to describe the place my head goes quite frequently. I think I might always look back on this as a time when my girls were so delightfully lovely, so amazingly situated between babyhood and childhood, so tasty they are very nearly edible, and yet, I will also look back on this month as a time of cleaning up urine with enough frequency that I think perhaps I was cut out to be a medical assistant, after all. And I always thought I couldn't do that job! Hannah is suddenly much more grown up now, shouting to all who will listen that she's got panties! and yet she is still so very much just a big version of a baby, being still so capable of treacherous body movements that are intended to harm the person who carries her. If she can arch her back like that she does NOT have limited trunk control. It takes skill to do that kind of twist out of a parent's arms while kicking maneuver, I think. I am behind in every single area of my life. Each and every one. It is true that I send out quite a few Christmas cards each year, and I will do so for 2011, but that doesn't mean I have taken the cards received in 2010 off the mantel. No, not kidding. My friend doesn't like that I run late all the time but how I am supposed to know that I need to build time in the schedule for someone to knock her bowl of Ramen noodles (with egg, for extra glue-ability) on the floor right when we needed to get out the door. How? And yet I am doing something right, because the current most common phrases spoken in our house between the two girls are "you my best friend!" replied to with "you my best friend too!" (let's ignore that it often devolves into a fight where each girls insists "NO! You MY best friend!!" emphasizing the my and completely ignoring the fact they are really in agreement but if they acknowledged that then they wouldn't have anything to fight about.)
Things of randomosity:
A dream I probably shouldn't tell you about, but I will . . .
Which had me galloping around a room, thinking I am riding a horse, then realizing I am only slapping my own ass as if I were slapping the ass of the horse I rode in on . . . and then eating my birthday cake without using my hands, possibly in the presence of a man with whom I was about to do the deed. Some of these events have roots in history, but that doesn't mean I can explain how it all came together.
Recently, at my house . . .
My husband spent the dinner hour hogging my laptop again, looking at videos posted to YouTube of seven year old girls operating track hoe / back hoe/ big machine-thingies. I wondered how he got there and he actually started with "truck crashes" and the internet just led him to the seven year olds driving, really.
Current trends . . .
Claire now asks that her YouTube video playlist (previously limited to Tom Petty, Nick Kershaw, Alice Cooper and the Red Hot Chili Peppers) now has expanded to more age appropriate selections such as "Mana Mana" and Claire can always get the "do do do do" just right.
I should have posted Halloween's gory, sugar-laden glory, but I haven't. I should have memorialized the changes in the household as we swing into fall and settle into the "school year" which for all obvious reasons ought to be when we celebrate the New Year - but I haven't. And three posts of "significance" are in the drafts folder, moldering in their significance.
So let's just focus on this weekend past, and the development of a toddler in diapers and her metamorphosis into Undie Girl! Who wears panties! And sometimes pees through them right into her shoes but still - panties they are and panties they shall remain, regardless of how urine soaked they may be!
I know I am lucky that my child with CP is training in a normal age range, and some of my bloggy friends will read this post with envy in their hearts and I do not blame them one tiny little bit, but I think those who don't live with CP or see Hannah tip, slip and shuffle every day and the ways in which she compensates to keep herself oriented will know how her condition makes this type of skill building more challenging than it is for typically developing kids. My sister told me that she thought potty training was easy (yeah, I know) and she just waited until her kids were developmentally capable of doing each step on their own and then she just told them they were potty trained and it was done in a day. My response was something like "oh dear, I've swallowed a bug . . . 'scuse me while I cough 'til I vomit so you can't tell whether I am laughing or crying" and then I explained that I'd hoped that Hannah would potty train before the point at which her size and balance would allow her onto a grownup potty without a very real possibility of doom and bloody head injuries. So we waited a bit to push it, until her preschool teacher said she was ready to move forward. So of course she wants to do it herself, now that she knows the joys of peeing in the toilet, and so we now have worked out that she should step onto the step stool, pivot slowly and carefully and safely to face away from the toilet, pull down the panties and pants while standing on the stool, and then sit down. I particularly enjoy the stand up wipe maneuver she has created while standing on the step with her pants around her knees, and the shrieks of "Hannah do it! Hannah do it!" should I try to help her get her pants up before she tumbles to the floor with an arm that doesn't do a lot to break a fall and her knees tied together. It is nerve wracking, rather, but I haven't got another plan. Because I want her to speak to me as an adult, I show you only the photos of the approach and the about to sit down position . . . I'd just like to say it is a good place to have your sense of calm tested. And I recommend not wearing the tutu. Just sayin'.
You may not know this but I suck at mind reading, in Hannah's eyes, anyway. Invariably I am supposed to help her, or not, and I get it wrong. She manages to get her pants back up on her own with only a 15% angle droop on her affected right side. I was complimented by our OT when I described how I've been coaching Hannah on getting her pants up and down by hooking the thumb and then sliding it around to the side. But by the end of the weekend she had scratched her right leg a fair bit with the awkwardly oriented thumb sliding up and down the leg, but she did mostly handle the pants herself and I believe ultimately this will challenge and improve her right hand strength and dexterity and particularly her thumb strength in an important way - but my heart may give out before we get there if I have to watch her pull up her pants standing on that stool too many more times with her heavy little noggin (weighing more than her tiny ass, I am quite sure) just dangling out over those unforgiving tiles. I am sure there is a mathematical equation to describe the fulcrum and whatnot of head hanging forward while butt dangle backward and tug the pants with unequal force between the sides and not apply too much force that puts the whole thing in a downgoing motion. From my recollection of higher math and physics and how they become one in the end, I have gleaned that the equation looks something like O(h) x WTF + zOMG where h is Hannah and F is floor and OMG is that unreliable thumb with a curl and the directions say solve for fuckity fuck. I think I told you I don't have a math degree, right?
I like it better when she drives.
Someone is very, very, very close to reading.
The confusion and excitement and whirlwind of the last couple of months can best be demonstrated by my Fall centerpiece - consisting of three miniature ornamental ears of corn, some autumn leaves collected by the girls on our many leaf walks, and a piece of rubber dog poo, to keep things in perspective. Wanna come over for dinner?
Often when I am avoiding something I busy myself in reading, which has become increasingly harder as my children develop more needs that must be met. In the last four weeks I have reread all but one of the Harry Potter books and now am working through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. When I needed one to help complete the set, and the girls and I went to the library, Claire saw that I'd found another very large Harry Potter volume, and looked me squarely in the eye and said "Daddy is not going to be pleased to see you got that, Mommy." Horrors! How can she (or he) have turned into the book police while I wasn't even looking? So just exactly why am I off the blog and in the books? I think there is something I want to write about, and think about, and process, and I am self censoring. But not for much longer, I think. It might just come bursting out soon. Stay tuned.
In the meantime - Hannah has turned into someone who goes up and down some stairs without always holding onto something for support - which both delights and terrifies me. She is also now someone with whom one has conversations. Her words are still second child murky, and she doesn't have Claire's startling ability to communicate at a level years above her age, but she can be well understood - and often says things that are abstract, not related to things going on in her immediate environment, and uses words I didn't know she knew. I wish her speech were more clear, but I am so enjoying talking with her these days. She showed me a craft she'd made in preschool today - a spider made from a piece of an egg carton saying "looka mah 'pider!" "Oh, I love it Hannah" I respond and she looks at me with total delight and says "(s)pooky!"
And in other news, Claire's father told her of an idea he had for something and Claire looked at him with approval and said "that's appropriate."
Folks, you've been mighty patient with me, and I thank you for that. I never finished boasting about Hannah's birthday. I haven't yet told you of the process of closing out our case with Early Intervention and the bittersweet farewell to the occupational therapist we had for more than two years, and the sixth bureaucratic caseworker in the same span of time. And of course, having the relationship change between our family and Michael Workman, the Angel of PT, without whose Bamboo Brace we would not be where we are today. And then I didn't get to tell you about our preparations for kindergarten for Claire, or the choice to keep Hannah in the group of the people on the younger end of her day care class - the ones who are "not quite ready" to be a Busy Bee and so will be Big Ladybugs, at least for the time being. And how this decision concerns me as it makes me wonder of the wisdom of keeping Hannah, with her late summer birthday, in the cohort that would be her regularly assigned class or might I, instead, hold her back a year so the physical disparities are not so great between her and her classmates and yet leaving her less intellectually challenged. In her preschool class, no one else knows all their letters (and has done so for eight months) and yet many others can speak more clearly about the letters they do in fact know. I haven't told you how I worry that the decision I make for this year will not bind us to a certain result in kindergarten - but the choice I make in our kindergarten year will indeed bind us for the rest of her school career. How will I get that one right?
I also haven't told you how delightful the two girls are to be around. Fart jokes aside, they have lovely manners and they are wonderfully loving to each other (excepting the odd and oddly lethal sounding disputes over the toy of the moment). I think they truly miss being in the same school even though they didn't play together on a daily basis there. Hannah was given a chance to select a sucker from a large jar as bribery for allowing a medical assistant to weigh and measure her, and she took two - so she could give one to her sister - and then wouldn't even open hers until she saw big sis later on and could present it herself. I haven't told you how joyful Claire really is - even in the roughest moments. Case in point - the new kindergarten schedule has us waking so, so, so early (compared to last month, that is) and when I went to wake her she threw her arm around my neck and said "Mommy! Mommy! Woo-woo-woo!!" (the traditional family way to praise someone about virtually anything). At 7:40 a.m.! I think she likes kindergarten.
I haven't told you how discombobulated I am to not have to consider the dog when I want to slip out the back door unnoticed, or I start to pour water in her bowl until I realize her bowl is no longer needed. We failed to adequately recognize the extraordinary effort she put into cleaning the floor, and have had to increase the mopping schedule considerably and we still are not up to Sophie's standard of cleanliness.
And finally, I haven't told of Hannah's extraordinary progress in gross motor skills generally and in foot function specifically that led her treating physician to decide that she didn't need to wear an AFO, and we'll re-evaluate in six months but it looks quite as if this is a child who might not spend her childhood in braces.
And so we say goodbye to footwear like this:
And hello to cheap footwear from Target - every girl's dream.
Farewell sweet Sophie. She has been known as Soph, pumpkin, the beast, pumpkinette, muffinpie (everyone in my house can be a muffin), puppykins, pupster, Sophster, a demon of shoe eating evil, Soph-a-loaf (as a puppy she often looked like a loaf of bread while sleeping), half of "Soby" when in the middle of a roiling, rolling ball of puppyness all intertwined with her dear friend Toby (you couldn't see where the Toby began and the Sophie ended) When I said my farewell I called her my baby. And mostly I called her mine.
People have asked me lately "how are things?" and mostly I discuss how the upcoming changes in our family life are intimidating: aging out of Early Intervention, having to fly solo on making therapy choices for Hannah, Claire starting Kindergarten, having two drop off points and two pick up points for day care each day, and now I have a new change for the list - we are a family without a dog. In only the first two hours without her I had twice looked to her to see if she wanted to come out when I stepped outside. Repeatedly since Monday, when I had her put down, I have looked to where she normally camped out and I've been so startled to have seen only an empty place.
Sunday night I said my real farewell to her, when I'd carried her outside to go potty. She'd been 48 hours since her sudden onset of "idiopathic neurological inflammation" - meaning the wiring is fried in the old dog's brain - and 36 hours since we'd begun a course of steroids that should show signs of working 24-48 hours after beginning treatment. I knew then that she wasn't improving enough for me to feel it was fair to force her to stay for me. I can only imagine what it is like to suddenly develop noticeable nystagmus (rapid jerking of the eyes) and to experience having one's entire visual field jerk back and forth repeatedly, causing a pronounced head title, dizziness, clumsiness and a general utter lack of well being. After I helped her to walk and to do her business, I hunched down and cradled her shaggy head between my head and shoulder and I sobbed to her all my sorrow to send her away, all my regret that I'd not had more time for her since I'd had children, all my joy in having her in my life for fourteen years, and I told her I could let her go to Dog Heaven if she was ready.
I am glad I could give her a peaceful ending. I am glad that I didn't waffle and wait a few more days to see how she did, I am glad I had the courage to see it through and send her on her path. I wish I'd laid down near her to cuddle her sooner before the vet came. I wish I'd read Dog Heaven to her more than once that day. I wish I'd petted her more in the years since she became so old and stinky. I wish they'd all live longer, to match their families.
Even on the day I had her put down, Claire shouted at her sister to stop her from walking in the grass and getting her feet covered in dog poop and then she quickly remembered that Sophie would no longer be pooping in the yard. Since then she keeps noticing the good things about not having a dog, and then quickly adds that she misses Sophie and she is about to cry. I keep realizing how I am not yet ready to be glad I don't have a dog. I like my glass to be half full but counting my blessings in this regard is not yet on my list of things to do. It took me days to get the dog food and water bowls up off the floor and have the kibble tossed out. I keep finding myself listening for toenails going clickety clack across the floor, and for her annoying heavy panting and sharp coughing/gagging throat sounds that have become the soundtrack of my life and are now strangely absent. Last night Claire decided she wanted to give her picture of the day to Sophie, so she put it in the place where her bed was in the corner of my room. It is only an empty place.
My baby left babyhood. Those of you who find me sentimental, well, overly sentimental, should perhaps skip this post. I am going to wax sentimental, and I won't likely wane. May I introduce my daughter, Hannah Rose? We've been working on saying "pleased to make your acquaintance" and formally shaking hands (mostly because it is a nice OT type maneuver to get that hand to turn thumb up) but also because it is fun. I remember when Claire had just been born and I asked Lord Honey if he had been practicing saying "and have you met my daughter, Claire?" in his mind, in anticipation of introducing her to someone. He was baffled that I might practice such a thing, but I was excited. I wanted to say "my daughter" far and wide and frequently. I liked that daughter so much I wanted a second child and hoped mightily to get another daughter. And fortune smiled on me, and I got this daughter.
Have you met my daughter, Hannah? Born on the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year, and under a lucky star. As much as we could say we were unlucky that she had this annoying metabolic disorder, and more unlucky still to have had a metabolic crisis and a stroke in her first two days of life, we were lucky that Claire's lucky and unlucky c-section birth set in motion a need to have another c-section, and that having had Hannah delivered by c-section meant she was still at the hospital when her temperature dropped and her blood sugar tested low and after feeding didn't work she was eventually given a glucose IV (coulda been faster, like oh, say, STAT, the way it was written in her chart, but still) and that administration of glucose put an end to more damage occurring then and there. So the luck and the unluck combine, the yin and the yang, the peanut butter and the jelly, and you still get a lovely girl, a lucky one, my daughter.
Some say she is lucky to have me, but I think I am luckier still to have her. Go back and look at that first picture here. Go on, I'll wait. She is airborne. She is brave and bold and funny and strong and beautiful and wicked smart. And best of all, she is mine. She says "I got you, Mommy! I got you!" I got her.
She worships her sister, and who wouldn't. Claire is so sparkly she competes with the sun. Really, she does.
Look at that muscle tone!
Admire the hand placement.
Even at a birthday party where three-year-olds get amped up on Costco cake and become increasingly irrational, who wouldn't smile with a daughter like this one? Costs of renting a bounce house facility for a private party - more than some say is appropriate for a toddler. Seeing her airborne? Priceless.
We've been watching these people do stuff like this:
To be fair, Lord Honey found Hannah on the climbing wall after she disappeared at the door of the day care, with two feet and her good hand on the wall, so he told her to use Righty too and she did and she stayed up. Stroke victim? I don't think so.
We've been going through a rough patch, a busy patch, a heat wave, and a period of extreme change and growth. I had dental surgery to pull a tooth, implant some bone sand (that has an irritating way of coming up from the depths when I am not expecting it, and place an implant. Claire had one of her crowns become uncomfortable necessitating a trip to the emergency dentist who prescribed antibiotics that have Claire living on the potty and jamming up the works with toilet paper (and now I know why parents count out squares of paper - and it is not about saving money as they always claimed, but preventing the need for plunger use). Hannah has become an actual chatterbox, and Claire is about to start kindergarten. I fired our hippotherapy provider and Hannah ages out of Early Intervention in about two weeks. I think she is ready, but am I?
Claire is eerily like me. She asked for her treat after dinner tonight. Daddy asked what she wanted and she told him to pick something. He presented something (a nice something) and she said "Good try, but take that back. Bring me the other one." She is still planning to rule the world.
Hannah is in love with the bus. Her group is not really in full summer camp but they get to do water play two days a week at school and they have 8 field trips spread throughout the summer where they get to join the older kids, and they ride the school's bus to get there. From the first step on the bus, Hannah has been over the moon. The morning after her first trip, her first words of the day, spoken with her face up close and set to max intensity and her eyes locked to mine, were "go bus." She has said it every day since then, innumerable times. If she is introduced to someone, she says "go bus." If I offer her the phone she says "go bus." I am pretty sure she is dreaming of the bus. "Hannah go bus. Car-car go bus. Mommy go bus. Daddy go bus." Sometimes she gets hit with a wave of glee and jumps in the air while her arms flap about as she squeals "B bus!"
The girls tackled Mars.
I am, despite my new haircut, which is indeed cute,
absolutely capable of making a fool of myself in public, such as tossing toilet paper at a basket at the day care summer picnic to try to win $100 off my tuition, I didn't win, but look at that Charmin fly! I am a natural when it comes to tossing toilet paper. The statute of limitations has long since run on all those spitball incidents in grade school. Really, I am a lawyer, I know these things.
Are you still here? God help me I don't know why you are here, I haven't been. Maybe you are still here because you heard that I've gotten a little cuter lately? I can tell because the Jiffy Lube man touched my bare leg today (he pretended he was removing the paper protecting my car's interior from greasy boots) and he left a grease streak across my very white knee, as he smiled his toothless smile at me and told me how much he enjoyed giving great customer service. His gums do the talking while his fingers do the walking - I was just so impressed. It is rare that I need to use Goop to clean my legs after I run errands, but some days you just know fortune favors you. Really, I got a sassy new summer haircut, bought a couple of floral summer dresses at Target and I am CUTE! I know the man without teeth thought so because he was so willing to share his stories with me, impressing me with how-to tips on getting small animal body parts off engines (milk and tomato juice) and other things too powerful to share here in such a public forum. Well OK, he did (conspiratorially) sneak two coffee packets off the free drinks cart and tell me the secret to solving corrosion on battery terminals using only black coffee. But that is all I am going to say about that. I bet he could get those teeth back if he wanted to. And his grease looked so . . . dark . . . on my knee. Ah well, perhaps I'll just stick with the husband I have. He also thinks I am cute. I know because he pinched my derriere. And he didn't leave a stain on my new dress when he did it.
And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? Letting the days go by . . .
I can't stay awake anymore to blog my every thought . . . what happened to those days last year when I posted three or four times a week? Not that there are no things to post about, oh no, not here. Big stuff happens here. Ahem. Are you sitting up and taking notice? A certain toddler made a poo-poo in the potty. And this just in: farts are funny to little girls! Claire farts and then laughs maniacally, saying "I'm just a tootin' machine!" Hannah toots and says "toot" quite softly with a big smile on her face. Both know how to say excuse me, they just don't choose to. This is how I'll get them back for the flatulence of pregnancy - by memorializing their gas for all time on the internet! But more than the simple fun of farting we are seeing exponential growth in communication and understanding with Hannah and depth of analysis in Claire. I don't quite get how Hannah learned to copy her sister pretending to be asleep while she gets taken out of a car seat, but just like her sister, only the smile gives her away. How could a child whose body works unevenly learn to falsely hold all her limbs slack until I have her tucked onto my shoulder to carry her in and then she giggles to tell me the game is over. We seem to be in one of those spells where the whole world changes moment by moment, each little girl learning something new about every 15 minutes. Frankly, I am a bit dizzy with all this activity.
In the last few days I have had to explain super heroes, plumbers, super hero plumbers, people who beg for money, homelessness, why brothers kill brothers (we watched the Lion King) and I've spent quite some time on how to pronounce S. No wonder I am so tired! We found ourselves sort of narrating the Lion King movie to explain things to Claire and to help Hannah keep any attention on it (actually it is OK if she is attending to other things, but I know she is tracking some of what she sees because she frequently mentions "bad guys" and I have to assume this comes from the movies. I hope so, anyhow.)
. . . brothers don't always kill their brothers. It's just that particular brother who is bad. No, that is not why I don't talk to your uncle much. No, I don't think either of your brothers will do anything like that to each other.
. . . it was a misunderstanding. He didn't mean to break his Mama's heart and go away.
. . . and here the rains are coming so now the plants come back, and then the animals that eat plants. See, now the prey have come back and the lions can eat their friends . . . well, the lions can eat. Pass the popcorn, honey!
. . .
I am unnerved by many rather grownup behaviors that keep turning up around here . . .
Hannah took her first turn through the house in her big sister's toy high heels without crashing to the ground. Her skinny little legs looked rather adult and Lord Honey took note that the shoes were high enough to tighten her calf muscles. I am not entirely certain this is what her physical therapist meant when he said he preferred it if Hannah used a variety of types of footwear.
Claire keeps putting scantily clad Barbies on top of the toy piano.
This post made it into the drafts folder about six weeks ago and never got further out than that. See what I mean about being a blogger who doesn't blog?
Doesn't she look all fresh and dewy? And yes, she is the same color as the bathtub, I can't really deny that. OK, there is a drool driblet on her chin. There often is. My husband is in denial. I tell him it is no longer age appropriate to drool, this means something else other than baby-ish-ness. She is two years, nine months and three weeks of age, roughly. We'll talk about this later, along with the lisp she has developed when she says "s" sounds. However, I don't think there is another child in her day care class who has complete mastery of the alphabet - upper and lower case, as she has for three months. So bite me, stroke, drool, and the horse you rode in on because we are here to kick your whoseewhatsee (this is a family blog, except when I feel like saying something more colorful). Please get some popcorn and enjoy the show.
I owe you guys, big time. I have been a bad, bad blogger. A good blogger may be many things, but most importantly - she blogs. At least she shows up and posts appealing pictures. A few of you have kindly, as requested, sent me the post that got away (it was very big, very juicy, really outstanding in every way - just like the fish that got away . . . except I didn't see it skipping off into the sunset waving the finger) and the nice thing to do would have been to say thank you by actually putting the post back up. But since the last time I posted I have attended many weddings (three), had work keep me in the office until after 10:30 one night last week, I have taken the girls out for fun and wholesome activities involving fresh air, live music, and food from many cultures of the world (we had one meal with food from the cuisine of El Salvador, Thailand, Vietnam, and Sudan) and we became so unfortunately full that we had to skip the churros (Basque churros, not Mexican churros) and the baklava of Bosnia (that really and truly was unfortunate as Bosnians really do know something very special about pastry). So I have excuses, and they are many and varied. But you didn't come here for excuses. Let's give give you a look at what you really came here for.
Blogger ate my post about Hannah's second round of constraint casting. If anyone has it in their Google reader, will you send it to me? Mo left a funny comment and that is all I have to go on . . .
These headlines were on the Yahoo home page.
How to make an autonomous, acrobatic spider robot for your kids
Spiders will be the newest astronauts aboard the ISS
Watch a hummingbird-shaped spy drone flutter around, steal your secrets
Mind you, these headline followed a story about a woman convicted of murdering her infant daughter in a kitchen appliance (the type that cooks food quickly). I can't actually let those words appear on my blog. Can. Not. She was drunk and doesn't remember.
It may have begun as a Pagan celebration. Bells might fly from Rome to give French kids chocolate. I will possibly go to hell for giving out Easter cards with a cartoon style drawn bunny handing Christ on the cross a decorated oeuf saying "have an egg, you'll feel better." I suspected the Peeps and Hallmark folks had a hand in blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I don't know why I fell for it for all those years before I had kids but now I know: Easter was created by occupational therapists.
Mother of two, step-mom to two more. Married. Work in the theatre of the absurd, behind the curtain, and pulling the strings. First daughter was a preemie, new Baby has MCADD, or Medium Chain Acyl-CoA Dehydrogenase Deficiency (Mighty Crappy Aggravating Disorder) and mild Cerebral Palsy, because the fun never stops around here. Foggy mind. If I wore a button it would say: Lose mind now, Ask me how! Things you might find here: bits and pieces of fluff about babies with wacky disorders, mommying, knitting very slowly, and stuff I don't say at work. If you want to send me free stuff just email me at gingerbblog at gmail.