I am a stay at home mother. I do not have a traditional career. My kids are my career. Well, not the kids themselves, but taking care of the kids.

I do not get sick days. I do not get paid vacation days. Hell, I do not get paid period.

I will never get a raise. I am not contributing to a 401K. I have no hope of ever making partner and getting my name on the company letterhead. All of that is ok with me. I love my job. I give my job “110%”, and “do my best to be a team player”, and “try to take it to the next level” – and any other obnoxious office cliche you can think of.

Professional football players have The Super Bowl. Actors and film industry folks have The Academy Awards. Stay at home mom’s have Birthday Parties.

I’m not that mom that has a triple digit guest list and a professional catering company on speed dial. You wont see any pony rides going on in my front yard, no costumed college kids trying to make a buck by playing Disney characters. No, I’m not a big party kind of mom. What I am is a tradition forming kind of mom. A mom that wants to express her love for her munchkins in little ways. I have made custom little party hats for each of my kids. Karis has a pink hat, complete with Mirabeau feathering around the rim and on top. Every year I add a silk flower to her hat – one flower for every year in age.  Brecken’s hat is blue. Each year he will get another polka-dot. I thought that would be a fun tradition for them. I also thought it would be neat to see yearly pictures of them in their hats.

Another birthday tradition I started with Karis’s first birthday is that I make their cake. I am not an experienced baker. Every thing I know about cake decorating I have taught myself in the last three years. I can now use fondant with somewhat predictable results, and can pipe pretty decent lettering. I love Ace of Cakes and have always been fascinated with the idea of making fun, edible art for birthday celebrations.

For Brecken’s first birthday I decided to do a 3-d rubber ducky cake. I bought a 3-d cake pan, but didn’t like the look of the finished product featured on the box. The box showed ducks with piped on frosting and coconut shavings. I wanted a rubber ducky. A smooth, plastic looking rubber ducky. Traditional rolled fondant is too stiff to seamlessly cover a 3-d duck cake, so I experimented with a few different recipes until I found a fondant with a marshmallow base, allowing for stretching and seamless blending. I made two, yes TWO, practice cakes before working out all of the kinks.

The night before the party I finished the official rubber ducky cake. It was very cute; Very rubber duck like. I was satisfied with the finished product and excited to see Brecken’s reaction when he saw it. The morning of the party I decorated the dining room with streamers and bright, festive table clothes. I brought home yellow, blue and white balloons with a giant, Mylar rubber ducky accent balloon. When everything was just so I snapped off a bunch of pictures for Brecken’s birthday book. (I have big 3 ring binders that I’ve turned into make shift birthday scrap books.)

As the guests arrived and the party got under way, I continued to take pictures. I got some great shots of the kids playing out in the backyard. The lighting was pretty good and I was very pleased with many of the shots I was getting. There were some particularly cute shots of my cousin’s daughter demonstrating how to do a somersault.

Eventually we all made our way inside for cake and presents! We sang the song. We cut the cake. We ate the cake. A grand time was had by all. That is, until tonight. Tonight when I went to upload those fun birthday pictures. Tonight when I went to post duck cake pictures on my blog. Tonight when I searched through ALL 4 of my memory cards, only to find that every picture I took of the kids and the decorations and the F#@%&*G duck cake had been erased before I had uploaded them to my computer.

This is me losing the big account. This is me fumbling the ball just before reaching the end zone. This is me tripping on the train of my sequined gown as I reach to accept my Oscar.

F#@k a duck from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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Tonight as we were putting Karis to bed, Vanessa’s beau Andrew noticed a big black fly drunkenly navigating through the room. Being a devout follower of The Man Code in which all insects and other creepy crawlies are to be immediately dispatched of, Andrew alerted Jesse to it’s presence. The two of them jumped in to action.

Jesse tested three board books before finding one with just the right amount of give.

Meanwhile, Andrew kept close tabs on the location of the interloper. When Jesse was ready to strike, Andrew gave him the fly’s coordinates and stood aside to watch Jesse make quick work of the beast.

Both men greatly underestimated the mettle of their opponent.

Jesse whacked the fly a solid blow that sent it slamming to the floor. Down, but not out, the fly shook it off and attempted to crawl away.

Jesse whacked it again.

Again, the fly rested a beat, and then made a break for it.

Long about this time Mugga started sadly lamenting the demise of the fly. She said a fly with such a will to live must be the reincarnated spirit of her father. We all gave a collective eye roll and continued to pursue the fly with great determination.

After the fourth assault on the fly was unsuccessful I started singing Eye Of The Tiger. Jesse smacked him one last good one and – NOTHING. The fly was gone.

“Check the back of the book.” I suggested.

“Nah, it’s not there.” He said.

Jesse then set about dismantling the bathroom. Victory could not be declared without a body.

I cracked a joke about the fly hiding in fear, his little germy body pressed up against a dark corner somewhere, little fly pulse raising. As we all chuckled at this mental image, Jesse found the fly behind Karis’s potty seat. “He was hiding!”

By this time the poor fly was so beaten and abused, we felt a smidgen of compassion for him. Jesse trapped it in a soap container and we agreed to let it go outside… but not before capturing his likeness in pixel form for posterity.

Behold, The Fly:

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While my parents were visiting last week my dad arranged for us to take a tour of the White House. It was on a Thursday, so that meant I would have both Karis and Brecken with me. Below is a list of things prohibited in the White House:

Prohibited items include, but are not limited to, the following: handbags, book bags, backpacks, purses, food and beverages of any kind, strollers, cameras, video recorders or any type of recording device, tobacco products, personal grooming items (make-up, hair brush or comb, lip or hand lotions, etc.), any pointed objects (pens, knitting needles, etc.), aerosol containers, guns, ammunition, fireworks, electric stun guns, mace, martial arts weapons/devices, or knives of any size. The U.S. Secret Service reserves the right to prohibit any other personal items. Umbrellas, wallets, cell phones and car keys are permitted.

I love this list. I especially love the part about personal grooming items and electric stun guns. What kind of an idiot tries to take a damn stun gun into the White House for God’s sake?

Brecken is quickly approaching the twenty pound mark and I was not looking forward to toting him through the streets of our nation’s capital. He is still under the weight limit on our Baby Bjorn, so I strapped  him in and we were ready to immerse ourselves in the excitement of The House.

I was envisioning the ultimate House Hunters experience. I LOVE looking through houses, be they occupied or vacant. I have been known to spend full Sundays open house hopping in fancy neighborhoods just to see how the other half lives. Nice. Now, I knew we wouldn’t be touring the private living quarters of the first family, but I thought we would get to see a glimpse of the inner workings of The House. I imagined traipsing through the kitchens, passing by steaming pots and pans and butcher blocks loaded with freshly chopped roots awaiting addition to a presidential stew. Next we would check out the secret service hang out area. Maybe the guys that were off duty would be playing Wii, or trading sophisticated insults over a game of cards. (I am not an idiot. I KNOW the whole kitchen scenario would be unsafe if not unsanitary, and I KNOW the secret service hang out room is SECRET. Duh. It’s IN the NAME for crying out loud.)

This is what we actually ended up touring:

Yes, for those of you that did not know, our White House is indeed color coded.

The tour is self guided. You start in the lower hall, go up a flight of stairs, and slog through the five rooms on the main level. Each room had a young, fresh faced intern ready to answer any pressing questions you may have about the room you are standing in.

A few sample questions I heard :

“Who dusts the chandeliers?”

“How old is that chair?”

“Where’s the piano?”

“How do they keep the chandeliers so clean?”

“Is that chair, like, really old?”

Brecken made it all the way through the lower hallway and up the flight of stairs before becoming completely inconsolable as we entered the East Room. The minute he caught sight of the gold painted chairs lined up in neat little rows, he started kicking wildly, demanding to be released from der Bjorn. I unhooked the Bjorn straps and cradled him. When Karis saw Brecken nuzzling into my neck she immediately demanded to be carried. There was a traffic jam as you entered the Green Room – no doubt someone learning in great detail just how old the green sofa is – so I kneeled down and proped Brecks on my left leg and Karis on my right.

Once the masses started shuffling forward again I nudged Karis up and stood. She shreiked and pouted and clung to my leg. I turned to my mother in exasperation and said, “I swear, children should not be allowed on this tour.” The super sweet southern gentleman in front of me, and his super sweet southern wife turned around and eye-balled me. The super sweet wife clutching her matching gingham clad, white blond, daughters against her side.

“Not yours!” I explained. “My own children. Your children are beautifully behaved.”

The super sweet southern gentleman smiled and turned back around, but his wife and daughters continued to stare me down. As I tried to look friendly and welcoming, I couldn’t help but notice that this super sweet southern family was harboring a secret. One of two scenarios had played out in the past, to bring about these daughters of the present. Scenario one: Either super sweet southern dad or super sweet southern mom had had massive amounts of reconstructive surgery in their brow area. OR scenario two: Super sweet southern mom had engaged in a torrid affair with the Geico caveman guy, resulting in two blond, cro-magnon babies. Two very well behaved, matching gingham wearing, platinum blond babies.

The remainder of the tour was relatively uneventful. The gardens are beautifully landscaped, as one would expect of our First House. The chandeliers truly are impecably clean. And by God, I’m just gonna come right out and say it, our former first ladies know how to dress a mean window.

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Happy birthday, my darling boy. As of 5:36 today you are one year old.

Love, Mama

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Karis has finally reached the age where it is damn near impossible to get a good shot of her if she knows you are trying to take a picture. Once the camera comes out she will do one of two things. One, she will stand awkwardly and chirp “cheese” every few seconds (annoying, but sooo cute). Two, she will monkey around striking elaborate goofy poses.

I look forward to the obligatory school pictures. I will be sure to order a small package every year. They are forced, uncomfortable, wonderful little time capsules of our awkward grade school years. Extra points if you had unfortunate hair.

P.S. Yes, her dress is on backwards. It is her personal preference. Who am I to argue – I know nothing about fashion.

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My parents are in town visiting from California. They brought my niece – whom they adopted, so technically she is my sister. (I guess this makes us in-bred hillbillies without the incest component.) She is six years old and in the prime of her tooth loosing years.

All morning, as they readied themselves for their flight, she wriggled a very loose front tooth.

During the flight she fell asleep and her loose tooth got stuck to her upper lip. This prooved too great a temptation for my dad, so he reached over and flicked it.

The tooth popped right out and fell down between the aircraft seat. Searching frantically he located the tooth perched atop the pennyloafer of the sleeping gentlemen behind him.

“Umm, excuse me sir? I’m afraid we dropped our tooth on your shoe.”

eew.

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While Jesse was trying to offensively drive to the office today we got stopped behind a car at a stoplight. When the light turned green the car in front of us didn’t budge. I could see the driver’s head slumped to the side and jokingly said, “He’s asleep.”

Jesse honked. The driver’s head snapped up and he sped forward like a bat out of hell.

“Damn, maybe he was asleep.” I said.

The driver merged into the next lane and I told Jesse to pull up beside him so I could see if he looked cracked out of his mind. When we pulled up even with his window he was….asleep. Sound asleep.

The light turned green and his car stayed idling. Again he was honked at and again he jerked awake and sped to the next light. When we pulled up beside him again he was…ASLEEP. WTF dude?!

I have come across many colorful drivers in Maryland. Drivers that consider yellow lights to mean, “Stop or you will burn in hell for all eternity.” Drivers that would rather wait 30 minutes for their turn at a left arrow light, rather than go straight and make a U turn. Drivers that like to drive 10 miles under the speed limit, because – hey, why tempt fate? All in all, Maryland is home to some of the most confounding drivers I have ever come across. Young people driving like confused seniors that use words like “confounding”.

The self-rightous, indignant, bitch in me wanted to force this sleeping menace to pull over immediately and apologize to me, and every other sober, awake person in the vecinity. I should have taken down his plates or called the highway patrol. Instead I tried in vain to get a shot of him asleep at the wheel with my Flip.

P.S.A. time folks:

Should you find yourself FALLING ASLEEP at EVERY DAMN STOPLIGHT, do your fellow driver’s and their families a favor and PULL  OVER.

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I am going on record as being decidedly ANTI-fuse bead. Who in their right mind finds these damn things even remotely enjoyable?

For those of you in the dark about what exactly a fuse bead is, allow me to enlighten you.

Fuse beads are little plastic tube beads that come in large tubs perfect for spilling. Being tubular allows them to scatter and roll off any horizontal surface. Being little allows them to hide in even the shortest of napped carpet. They are perhaps  perfectly designed legal instruments of torture.

To make use of these tiny pieces of angst, you must painstakingly set them atop teeny, tiny little pegs on a plastic pegboard.

I may not have the most delicate fingers, but they certainly wouldn’t qualify as large or unwieldy. I can operate those tiny little screw drivers that come in repair kits for glasses. I can extract splinters from sore fingers. I have threaded many a needle.  I have even sewn flesh together so beautifully it left nary a scar. But damn me if I can properly fill a peg board with fuse beads.

Once your creation is completed to your satisfaction (in my case a 2″ by 2.5″ heart that took approximately 14 man hours to assemble) you put a piece of wax like paper over the pegboard. Next you apply heat from an iron until the little beads melt and fuse together – hence the name.

After your creation has cooled you may then give it to your eagerly waiting three year old, at which time said three year old will play with it for no more than 4 minutes before bringing it back to you in multiple pieces.

SO. MUCH. FUN.

Admittedly there is a small diabolical part of me that snickers at the thought of assigning fuse bead art to rage-a-holics. It could be the official final exam for graduating a rage program. Anyone able to complete a  plastic coaster without commiting homicide is free to go.

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One of Karis’s favorite things to do is put together a giant floor puzzle. One of Brecken’s favorite things to do is attack said floor puzzle and rip apart the pieces with gusto. He then takes each disassembled piece and politely hands it to you.

Today Karis was working on a giant map of the United States. She is getting pretty good at recognizing the different states and referring to them by their actual names rather than the picture featured on the puzzle piece. Texas is now “Tex-us” instead of “boots” and Maine is now “May” instead of “light house”. California has always been “California” and Karis has recognized my affection for the piece from day one. When the box is opened she’ll fish out the piece and say, “Here mommy, it’s your California.”

When America was roughly half way put together Brecken decided to come help. Every time Karis would snap a piece in place Brecken would grab it and yank it out. I tried to laugh and convince Karis that it was cute. “He thinks He’s helping! Isn’t that cute?” Karis would look at me in exasperation.

Finally she had had enough. She grabbed a sharp narrow puzzle piece and tried to shiv Brecken while saying in a threatening voice, “No Brecken. That is not helping.”

Brecken went for another piece and Karis made another jab at him. I caught her arm before she could make contact and said firmly, “Karis! Tennessee is NOT a weapon!”

I wonder if they know about Tennessee in prisons. I can just see prison guards performing a shakedown on a cell with the intention of confiscating dangerous articles.

“Yeah, we got a toothbrush ground into a sharp point, a bent fork, and this here nasty puzzle piece of Tennessee.”

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