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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Yesterday, after dropping Pea off at camp, Coco and I headed to the other side of SLC, to IKEA. I’ve only been in an IKEA once before, years ago, in New Jersey. My husband and I stopped on our way to visit my half-sister at school. And it was so crowded I nearly died. So, we left. That was years ago. And I’ve never been in another IKEA. Until yesterday.

My mantra the entire time we were in there? “Simple life. Simple life. Simple life.” Because I am working hard at being a more thoughtful consumer. I’m not just buying for the sake of buying.

Years ago, I saw a gorgeous layout of a private residence in Sweden in one of the many interior design magazines that I read voraciously. It was all whitewashed wood floors, white slip-covered sofas, chairs and ottomans, white linen window treatments that puddled on the floor. It was stunning. And completely impractical. Except for the accent blanket throw that was haphazardly slung over the back of one of the sofas. It was multi-colored stripes, knit or crocheted (I’m not sure which) and just added a jolt of life into an otherwise serene room. And I had to have one.

So periodically, over the last few years, I’ve googled this blanket one thousand different ways: Scandinavian striped blanket, crocheted multi-colored blanket, knit blanket with lots of colors. And I would find lots of interesting options, but not my blanket.

IKEA, thank you. Thank you so very, very much. Because as I was wandering around in your giant box store, the likes of which I swore I would never enter again, there she was. My blanket.

The perfect foil for a pale and beige family room on the lower level of my home. Throw in some giant floor pillows that are slip-covered in a hardy cream corduroy, and you have heaven. My girls were lounging on this set-up all last night, rolling around, playing peek-a-boo, reading books. And this morning? We found Atticus, our dog, also had made himself at home on the comfy pile.

I love it when I stumble onto something that I’ve been searching for. I love it even more when it’s machine washable and only $29.99.

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Love & Logic? Jim Fay? Foster Cline? I love you. So much. So very, very much.

The past couple of weeks, taking Pea to camp, have been brutal. A place that she loves and by her own admission has so much fun at has become, apparently, some kind of torture for her. Starting first thing in the morning, “mommy, I don’t want to go to camp.” And I never had the right response to that. But it turns out that’s okay, there really isn’t a “right” response.

I’d promise her she’d have so much fun, remind her of how much she loves swimming and her little friend M who has the cubby next to hers. Her favorite counselors. The duck pond. Snack-time. Still didn’t want to go. So I would bargain with her. If you go to camp without a fuss, we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home. Okay, wait. Who am I kidding? That’s not a bargain. It’s a bribe. And it doesn’t work. Because she still puts up a fuss, and we still stop for ice cream. Because there is nothing worse, in my book, than listening to my kid whine and moan and then scream and rant and rave, for the entire 20-minute drive home from camp about that ice cream. So, I cave…

Love & Logic? We needed to step it up, didn’t we?

Someone whom I really respect and admire as both a mother and a woman suggested that I order the CDs and listen to them in the car. Made sense. I do spend quite a bit of my time driving around. So I ordered what I lovingly refer to as my Life Saver Emergency Kit. The Love & Logic Institute refers to it as the “Early Childhood” package.

Hallelujah!

One of Jim & Foster’s first speaking points was about dropping your kid off somewhere that they don’t want to be. For us, that place would be Pea’s summer camp. Early morning drop-off has not been going so well. In fact, it’s been getting progressively worse. The drive to camp? Pea would sing her new favorite song: “I Don’t Want to Go To Camp.” The whole way. Remember, that’s a 20-minute song with little more than one verse that goes something like this, “I don’t want to go to camp… I don’t want to go to camp…” Get the picture? Well, when we pull up to the lodge, she really ramps it up. And then, while walking into the building, I’m holding Coco in one arm and holding Pea by the hand and she’s pulling away from me, dragging me, extricating herself from my grip and running back to the car. Screaming. And I’m sweating. And feeling like an ass. And thinking to myself, should I just take her back home? Pack it in, cancel the remainder of the summer and call it a day? That was my instinct. Why make a child go through this? But wait, if I do pull her out, what message am I sending to her? That ultimately she is in charge? She calls the shots? She says jump and her mommy says, “how high?” And then when the fall rolls around and she’s in nursery school? What if we end up with the same situation? What happens then, when I can’t pull her out? And oh my gosh, this is all so hard and I want to do the right thing!

This morning? A miracle happened. We woke up, got ourselves dressed, ate our breakfast, took out the trash and the recycling, loaded ourselves into the car and off we went. And I was prepared. In my mind, I knew this kid was going to camp. One way or another. Pulling her out? Not an option. After several talks with several employees of the camp, I learned that my daughter is very well-adjusted. She’s bright and articulate and fun to play with. Kids love her. Counselors really love her. She’s involved and excited and oh yeah, she’s three. They all do this at her age, put up these “don’t leave me here!” temper tantrums. You know, par for the course, and all that.

So we got out of the car, she grabbed my hand, I perched Coco on my opposite hip, balanced Pea’s giant camp tote on my shoulder and off we went. “I don’t want to go to camp, mommy.” And what did I say? Nothing. Because I had already told her once that we were going to camp. I’m not going to have the same conversation with her, over and over. I don’t have that kind of time, because that conversation? It can, quite literally, go on all day long. And as we headed down the stairs, her hand clutched mine. The counselor let us through the door, we signed her in, loaded her things into her cubby, got her name-tag and she said, once again, “I don’t want to stay.” And I said to her, “Well, you’ll be okay. If you feel like you need to cry, just ask one of your counselors for a room to cry in. They’ll show you the way. And I’ll see you later on this afternoon. Bye, babe.”

And I left. And as I peaked around the corner, she was headed into the “dress-up” room. No crying. No fussing. I did it!

It occurred to me over the weekend that I had a three-year old who had stepped her game up a notch. She wanted to be the boss of this house. And the way in which we were headed? She would indeed take over the reins. And I wasn’t going to have that. Because I know how those kids grow up. I grew up with one of those kids. In fact, she was just here, visiting for the weekend. And at the mature age of 24, she still thinks she’s the boss, of everyone and everything. In fact, for her entire stay, she barked orders at me. Parenting orders. Do this. Do that. Sometimes? It was in front of other parents. But the final straw that broke this camel’s back was when she stepped in front of me while I was working through a moment with Pea, and told my daughter, “listen to your mother, she’s had enough of this behavior. Stop carrying on and listen to your mother.” And she then turned to me and said, in all seriousness, “you’re just going to have to start spanking her, Mel.” Thanks, sis. First of all, we don’t hit in our home. Second of all, all Pea needs to really seal the deal as The Ultimate Tyrant is to be told by an outsider that her own mother has no control. Helpful. And I mean that in all earnestness. It was helpful, albeit infuriating. Because it was the slap upside my head that I needed. It was that moment of clarity. The lightbulb going off over my head. “Oh, yeah. This is what happens when you let your kid call the shots…” “Sure, I’ll go to school in the fall, but you have to buy me a car.” Yes, that innocent little ice cream bribe? It was sure to turn into a car, further down the road. But today? I am celebrating a small victory for The Mama Who Took Back the Reins. If there’s a car in little Pea’s future, it will be because I want to give her a car.

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Early this morning, about 6:15, we were woken up by the sound of our dogs barking incessantly. And that can only mean one thing…

The return of Juicebox! And this time? She brought us a big surprise…

Her babies! Whom Pea has named Juicebox, Jr. (aka JJ) and Sammy…

They ate some shrubbery, chewed up that tree in the middle of the three of them, rested and then wandered past our dining room window, across the patio and down the hill in front of our house. Last we saw them, they were crossing the street and entering the woods across from us.

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I have over 22,000 photos stored on my computer. And those are just the shots from my digital camera. In a closet, I have 10 more storage containers, each larger than a shoe box, that I have pictures in that were developed from film. Remember the good old days? I much prefer the digital storage on my computer. It doesn’t take up any space in a closet that I desperately need in order to store all of those rolled-up oriental rugs that I am over. I’m thinking of listing those on Craig’s List. But my evolving design aesthetic? That’s another story. Back to the photos…

The problem then becomes what do I do with all of the pictures on my computer? Aside from the random lonely night when I find myself watching a slideshow of one of the girl’s births and weeping quietly for the end of my baby-making days, they just sit there in one enormous file that I am certain is slowing down my Mac to a pace that it unbearable for someone like myself, with the patience of the world’s Most Impatient Human Being. Periodically, we (and when I say “we,” I really mean “my dutiful husband”) upload them to Snapfish and then send out hard copies to grandparents, order sets for ourselves to update frames around the house. Once in a while, I even make one of their little flip-books so that the Grandmothers have portable bragging rights. (Although I’m mad at Snapfish because they won’t let me make a flip-book on my Mac. I have to use my husband’s PC. Why?)

But the piece de resistance? Has to be these “photo albums.” We design them at My Publisher. (First book: free! ) I don’t know what else to call them, other than a photo album, but they are anything but. Yes, technically these are books filled with pictures. But you don’t just pick one up at Walgreen’s, only to take it home, throw it in a closet, completely forget that it’s there and oops! That’s one more project that won’t get done. These books are special. Linen covers. Custom layouts. You can add copy, so that your photo album turns into a story. Your story. We have had many of these books made over the years. The first one was a gift from my husband to myself, detailing our time in Athens, Greece, during the last summer Olympics. It’s where Pea was conceived and while Greece was not my favorite international travel destination while I was actually there, coming home and finding out shortly thereafter that I was pregnant? Well, naturally that made it the best trip ever. And I can’t wait to get back there. With our girls. As a family. It’s where we became a family. Ah, yes. Best. Trip. EVER.

The next in the series of books chronicled Pea’s first 40 days with us. From the hospital, through her birth and then home. As a family. It’s a gorgeous book, and we ended up ordering a couple of extra copies to give to the grandparents. And then after that, we did one that celebrated Pea’s first year of life. And then, along came Coco. And we did one of the new sisters.

They may seem a little pricy, but I think they are so worth it. First of all, it’s so much easier than printing out dozens of photos and placing them all in photo albums. And these are coffee table books. We leave ours out, all of the time, for people to peruse. Pea adores looking through each one, especially the one from Greece (it’s full of all of the stray dogs I was threatening to bring home with us) and the one that shows her debut as Big Sister. And they make fantastic gifts. In fact, if we let too long of a time elapse in between new “editions,” the grandmothers start circling like sharks.

And since my girls are still so little, I seem to be having a really difficult time parting with anything. Pea, who outgrew her clothes at the speed of light, left mounds and mounds of beautiful baby items in her wake. And I couldn’t bear to part with them. Until my husband asked, “what’s in these huge black contractor bags stacked all over the place?” So, I weeded through it. And held things to my face, smelled the baby smell, wiped away some tears, and then neatly folded them to be sent to Goodwill. Although the special pieces, the monogrammed pieces, the hand-knit pieces, those were placed into a large plastic tub. To keep. And so began the collection of items chronicling the early years of our girls. And now, each girl has her own box. The name tag that was in their hospital bassinets? Into the box. Baby blankets knit by hand and sent to us from a distant cousin on the coast of Maine? Into the box. A funny tee-shirt my husband designed for me that sums up in one little image the voraciousness of Pea’s nursing habits early on? Into the box. Coco’s first hair brush? It’s in there. If it’s precious, if it is filled to the brim with memories, if it’s something I think that either girl would like to have someday, to pass on to her own child, it’s in there. And while I know that plastic isn’t the most luxurious storage option, I needed to know that these things were safe. From water, mold, cold air, humidity. Because the box of journals that I’d written in religiously since I was 8? They were in a cardboard box in our garage in Westchester County, New York for just one year. And in that short year? They were completely destroyed and had to go. And while I made comments at the time about how it was so freeing to release those diaries and journals, it was not. It was devastating. Freeing would have been if it had been by choice. No, this was letting a part of myself go that I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to. So, plastic it is. And they remained out in the garage in Fort Worth. And we had floods. And insane humidity. And yet everything in those boxes, all of the contents, are clean and still smell like baby powder and Dreft.

As for the birthday cards? Well, they’re in there, too. I haven’t figured out what to do with them yet. But I have a feeling that as each girl turns 16, those cards will make their way into a collage that will be hung at the girls’ respective birthday celebrations. And it will probably be titled something like, “The Best 16 (and then 18) Years of My Life…”

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During my first pregnancy with Pea, I was reading every book under the sun about pregnancy, childbirth, parenting, etc., I was always reading about this intense urge to nest that was going to come over me, presumably in my third trimester. But it never happened. I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t. There was no time in there wherein I settled in and worked on the nursery, or organizing, or anything remotely related to the household. The nursery was pretty much ready, of course. We had a crib. And a changing table. And a gorgeous chair and ottoman, both on gliders from Stephanie Anne in Dallas, back when Stephanie Anne was still specializing in incredible baby furniture. But there was no instinct to knit baby blankets, organize the kitchen cabinets, clean the laundry room.

But now, I find myself three years after the birth of my oldest, 16-months after the birth of my youngest, with this undeniable need to… nest. I want to be here, in my home. Purging and organizing closets. Sewing pillows with this gorgeous fabric for Coco’s room. Painting furniture that I was never that crazy about so that it suits our tastes. Making homemade popsicles. Going on nature hikes in our backyard with my girls. Placing fresh flowers in little bud vases throughout the house. Vacuuming every night, before I turn in, so that I can wake up to a clean home. Creating art daily with the girls.

Who am I? When did this happen? And is it going to stop? Because I don’t want it to. I’m loving this side of myself, this creative, inspired and naturally comfortable side.

And so, I’ve been doing the unthinkable. Trolling arts & crafts blogs. Uh huh, I said it. I am a lurker on many, many sites, including Soule Mama, which is my new obsession. I have traded in Perez Hilton for the world of handmade tote bags and clothespin dolls. I even ordered Amanda’s book, “The Creative Family.” And I’ve practically committed it to memory. And then, hungry for more, I found her Amazon book list and ordered more of her recommended titles. Books, such as “I Love Dirt!,” about experiencing nature with the girls. Playing in mud puddles, pressing flowers. Things that it never occurred to me to do with them because I didn’t do these things myself, as a kid. Basically? I wish this woman, Amanda, would be my mother. But since that’s an impossibility, I am going to take my inspiration from her and turn things around in this house. Not that we were so far off course, but the added bonus of specific projects geared towards the girls, well, that’s a lot more exciting than just sitting at the table with paints and paper. Sure, that still has it’s place. More often than not, I find Pea in our art closet, searching for her crayons and a fresh sketch pad. But you know what’s going to be even more fun? Clay! Formed into little pinch pots! Something that, in all honesty, I’d never even heard of. Sure, maybe you’ve heard me over the last few days throwing “pinch pot” into every possible sentence, I just love the way it sounds. But last night? We settled into our chairs, under the stars, in our backyard at dusk and Pea, her Aunt Lulu and I turned massive blocks of clay into actual pinch pots. Pea had a blast. Covered from head to toe in clay, leaving her sticky white handprints all over the place, the screen door, the tables, my dress, herself. And it was awesome.

Tonight’s project? Painting those primitive-looking little pinch pots…

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Not that long ago, I wrote a little bit about my quest for a spiritual life for my family. It’s been a long road, we’ve dabbled here and there in “organized” religion, and while we just haven’t found our place, my husband and I do have ideas and beliefs that transcend what what we have right here and now.

I love the idea of having a place to go to on a Sunday morning to commune with others who have similar beliefs. I am quite the traditionalist and I adore patterns and routines. I find comfort in that. So a couple of weeks ago, my husband and I went to a very small and progressive “church” here in town to check it all out. It’s a church that we went to often when we lived in Dallas. It was phenomenal, the minister was a brilliant orator, had really interesting ideas about humanity and she was hysterical, to boot. Oftentimes, you would find me in my seat, wiping tears from my eyes and clutching my sides from laughing so hard. But we left Dallas, as did she. She’s writing a book now, she and my husband communicate, but thus far, she has no interest in coming here to Utah to turn this little church on it’s side. You know, shake it up, give it a breath of life. Because without that breath of life, I am not going back. Why? Well, let’s just say I didn’t feel all that welcomed there. Actually, all was going fine until the end of the service, when a woman approached my husband and myself. It was an awkward chat, particularly after my children were brought up. What are their ages? Where are they now? I explained that they were at home with the babysitter and that my oldest was 3 and my youngest was just 16-months old. And her response? This supposedly gracious and lovely churchgoing woman? “Oh. 16-months old? That’s kind of young. We already have an 18-month old in the Sunday School. I’m not sure that we could handle another little one. But I guess they’ll try to figure it out. Somehow.”

All righty, then. Listen, lady. You do not work for the church. You do not run the Sunday school. In fact, you’ve been in town barely longer than my own family has. And yet you tell two interested and prospective members of this tiny church that could use some fresh blood that my youngest will be a burden? It was so nice to meet you, I hope to never see you again. And thank you, for that warm embrace.

Ah, organized religion. What is it with you and me? Why do I, more often than not, leave a place of worship feeling slightly less like myself?

Moving on…

I came home and did a search for religion books for the girls. I was looking for a broad span of religions, too. I figured, I’ll do this on my own. At least for now. I will continue to teach them what we’ve been teaching them, only this time with better clarity. Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Mormonism (oh, and this one is now a must. It’s Pioneer Day here in my neck of the woods. Ever heard of it? I had not. And everything is closed today. And I had no idea. Wow, talk about feeling like a newbie.), the Muslim religion, Hinduism. I found some titles that were grouped into a category of children’s ages that was more than appropriate for my girls. Wrong. The books were just all wrong. Far too advanced, and while the illustrations were lush, these were not books for toddlers and preschoolers. So I sent them back.

And, back to the drawing board…

And then yesterday, a book arrived at our door called “The Skin You Live In.” Bingo. Jackpot. Hit the nail on the head. This is where I’m going to start.

Pea and I settled in to read it before bed last night, and I’m pleased to say that it prompted all sorts of questions from her. Good questions, smart questions, interested and empathetic questions. What more can a mother ask for? Sure, it’s not a Sunday morning gathering in a church basement, but it’s a lesson in acceptance and tolerance and differences and culture, all taught via clever rhyming banter and cute illustrations. I think we’re on to something, and we’re going to stick with it, at least for now, because it works for us.

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So this is going to sound cliche, I’m sure, But cliche? Not so bad if it’s actually doing something good, right? Here goes… I’m trying so simplify life over here. Yes, you read that correctly. The ultimate consumer is on a down-scaling binge. It’s too much. There’s just too much stuff in my home. In our closets. In our kitchen. I want a simpler life. I want only things of extraordinary quality and beauty surrounding us. And that doesn’t equate to stuff, necessarily. Although I have had an awakening of sorts, courtesy of Etsy. During an email exchange with a lovely woman who sells her beautifully handcrafted jewelry on Etsy, it occurred to me why I’m so obsessed with the site. The exquisite crafts found on Etsy? In people’s little “shops?” Are made with love. By hand. By someone who has a passion for what they do. And it shows. Like this beautiful little “vessel.” It is exquisite, to say the least. It’s delicate and yet rough at the same time. It’s been made by an artist. With devotion. It’s just perfect, to rest on my bedside table, where it will catch my earrings at night, as I get settled in my bed. And this little bowl? It now symbolizes what I want in my home, in my children’s closets, in our life: beautiful crafts made by true artisans. Not mass-produced throw-away stuff.

And so, I am cleaning house. Making detailed lists of what we need. The necessities. And everything else? Not so important. No more buying just for the sake of buying. Really, how much stuff can one home acquire? We don’t need things to entertain ourselves. Entertainment can be found in our beautiful backyard. In the hand-crafted sandbox that my husband lovingly built for his girls with his own two hands. Or on the hiking trails just across the street from our home. Or at the duck pond down the road. Or on the tiny little swing-set hidden just above our home in a park that has breathtaking views of the mountains that we now call home.

And food? Well, as huge a role as it plays in our home, I’m finding the need to retool that, as well. Why should I buy popsicles at the store, filled with preservatives, when I can make my own watermelon slice pops? With my girls. In our kitchen. Using molds that Pea picked out herself. Charming, simple, delicious and family bonding at it’s best. Especially with Pea, as she’s getting older. She sincerely wants to be in the kitchen with me, helping out. Wearing her little apron that her Daddy brought back from Hamburg. Perched on her stool. Stirring, measuring, pouring into bowls. And making a mess. And while that mess would have stressed me to no end last week? This week? I’m letting it go. Really, what’s a little flour on the floor or melted mini chocolate chips stuck to the counter, when your daughter looks up at you as you put the popsicle molds into the freezer and says, “mommy, what are we making now?“

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My husband loves pizza. Almost as much as I do. And although his preference is for deep-dish, and my preference is for a simple New York slice, we do see eye to eye on one thing… It has to be good. Really good. No Tombstone frozen pies over here. And so as it happens, right before he left for China, he found a great recipe for pizza dough, and now he’s off on a homemade deep-dish pizza kick. So when I received an email from onegoodie.com yesterday, I was pleasantly surprised that the item up for the day was a snazzy new pizza cutter. I immediately placed my order. And I say immediately because with OneGoodie, you snooze, you lose. Quite literally.

The premise behind the site is that each day, in two different categories (OneMommieGoodie and OneFoodieGoodie), the proprietors put up one product that they’ve carefully selected based on style and functionality, always with a hip bent to it. It’s boutique-type stuff, not what you’d find on your weekly trip to Target. Not that there’s anything wrong with that weekly trip to Target. It’s just that in my house, I’ve all been given up shopping trips that revolve around me having to get the girls into their car seats, messes of goldfish to be cleaned up in the backseat and stolen naps from the low hum of the car that will mess up bedtime. Not for me. No more. I’m into shopping at my computer, after the girls are down for the night. Any and everything I could possibly need is right there.

But back to OneGoodie, in addition to finding chic and clever products, the site also offers a discount. You know you’re getting a good deal. But the twist? The products for both categories are only up there and available for one day. 24 hours. Or less, depending on how quickly the item sells out. Which is why even though I was running out the door and was slightly nuts, I had to stop and order that pizza cutter. It’s similar to the motto behind antiquing: if you see it and you love it, you must buy it. Don’t think about it. Don’t sleep on it. Buy it. Because if you don’t? It will not be there tomorrow.

And today? I checked it out and in the “mommie” category? The answer to my prayers. Chalkboard decals that you can adhere to the wall and will presumably entertain your little ones for hours. And they don’t do any damage to the existing wall! I had personally been toying with the idea of painting one of the walls in the downstairs family room with chalkboard paint, but was having a hard time committing. Paint? A lot of work. And so… permanent. Unless you want to sprain your arm painting and repainting. And then I saw these decals, one set in the shape of animals and another in large circles, and I thought to myself, self? These decals are it. These little sticky things are what you’ve been dreaming of. And you didn’t even know it! And if you don’t have little kids? How about hanging one in your kitchen? For grocery items you need. Or in your mud-room, to scribble a quick reminder to your husband that it’s his turn to pick up the dry-cleaning. I’m placing my order as soon as I post this. I don’t want to miss out.

One note: while they do have a return policy, because items ship to you directly from the manufacturer, it’s kind of a strict one. Basically, if you don’t like what you ordered, pay it forward to a friend. Not a bad idea, I think. Share the wealth. Save the planet with less return shipping materials clogging up our landfills, right?

For a fresh twist on the old Martha Stewart standby, it’s a goodie thing…

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