The Diva Turns Twelve

I started a tradition of writing a letter to each of the kids on their birthday, starting with their first.  And then life happened and I got off track.  This is the first I’ve put on the blog. She’ll either love it or it’ll give her something to talk about in therapy.

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I knew it was coming; it was just a matter of when.  

At Hey Sugar in downtown Waco

Years of planning those friggin’ themed birthday parties.  Gag.  Little hats, matchy-matchy napkins and plates, glitter, pink, princesses and one year, that damn purple dinosaur.  How I loathed Barney.  And don’t even talk to me about Dora and her annoying backpack.  Trust me, if all life’s answers could be found in a backpack, I’d be toting one of those puppies.

The Diva and my mother, the kicker of cancer’s ass

And now those days are past me because ‘parties are for babies’.  I’m torn between a fist pump accompanied by an unladylike whoop and a bit of misty eyed nostalgia.  *sniff*

That first taste of a Health Camp shake

She’s been working on the whole tween thing, perfecting the eyeball roll, the derisive sneer for anything harboring a whiff of uncool and ‘Mom’ delivered in that tone that all girls eventually master that effectively conveys all your idiocy and unhipness in a flowing rhythm of syllables.  How the hell do they do that?  It’s a gift I suppose.


She decided on a birthday meal at a local burger joint that’s been around since 1948.  For this child, anything from the 80s is retro.  I, a product of 1974, thankyouverymuch, am practically an antique to her.  She once asked me when we got color television.  The snark is strong with this one.


But as I sat across the table from her and watched her take that first bite of a Health Camp shake, it occurred to me I haven’t said goodbye to my baby, I’m just saying hello to the awesome young woman she’s becoming.

And so I sit here in the middle of Barnes and Noble, tears streaming down my face as I write this post.  For the longest I’ve viewed motherhood as a series of goodbyes.  What an idiot.  

The Diva and His Awesomeness

There are so many more hellos to be had.  You’ll rock some of them.  Some of them will rock you.  But I watch you and I see you.  All you are, all you’ll be.  

I love you, P.

Love, Mama

Fifteen

I’d protest that His Awesomeness cannot possibly be fifteen since I’m still in my twenties, but frankly I’m tired and my crows feet would sell me out in a heartbeat.  Right after The Diva did, that is.

Kids’ birthday parties are funny things.  Everything must be color coordinated and themed down to last minute detail.  We’ve been through Jay Jay the Jet Plane, Thomas the Tank Engine and countless others I’d just as soon forget.  I think the folks who think up all this birthday crap hoopla must be rolling in the dough because it costs a bloody fortune.  Not that my kid’s not worth it, mind you.  I’m just, well…cheap.

This year was way different.  At fifteen, who wants a theme?  Just show ’em some cash and call it a day.  I had strict instructions: plain plates, plain napkins and do not, for the love of all that is patriotic and holy, deviate from the color scheme.  Fine, I can follow instructions.  Plain red, yellow and green plates.  Are you sensing a theme?

Then he whips out the gift I’ve regretted gifting every since I gifted it: the iPod.  ‘I have a picture of the cake I want’, he proudly announced.  As long as it wasn’t too complicated or featured someone buxom and topless, I was game.

He wanted a Hemi engine cake.  I told him coming up with silver icing was out of my realm of expertise, but I’d see what I could do.  This is what I came up with.  Judge not.

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It was only after I’d finished it that I was informed the numbers were supposed to be on top.  And in orange.  But it was edible and there was no mutiny over my obvious faux pas, so life sallies forth and all is well.  As a side note, I must say that growing up, I always thought ‘hemi’ was short for ‘hemorrhoid’.  It wasn’t until I married a car freak that I was properly educated.

And even though he said ‘no decorations’, I just had to jazz up the table with something.  And yes, I threatened everyone about not getting goop on my Alexander Henry fabric.  A girl’s gotta have priorities, after all.

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He seemed happy and that’s what mamas want, isn’t it?

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Happy birthday, dude.  Mama loves ya!

 

 

 

 

The Diva: Double Digits

It’s official: The Diva is now into the double digits having turned the big 1-0 last month.

Getting info out of this kid is akin to talking to a politician.  There are no straight answers.  So, naturally, it took months to pin her down on a theme all the while in my head I’m begging to skip the cheesy and give Mama something she can work with.

VOILA!  It was Hawaiian luau time!  Alas, there was no roast pig but there was grilling and luau music, tiki kitsch and a grass skirt.

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Yes, it’s a coconut bra.  The look on Himself’s face was worth it and this was after the two-piece bathing suit dustup.  The man’s convinced I’m trying to shock him to death.  I assure him, no, I’ll nag him to death.

She really wanted me to get a coconut bra of my own but apparently they don’t come in a ‘melon’ size and while the resulting heart palpitations in the snarky relatives may have been fun for moi, Himself would’ve had a cow.  Cowabunga, dude!

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Lulu the boxer, this is your life!
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Thanks for sparing me the coconut bra routine.

Does this look say ‘I’m plotting my revenge’ or what.

And just when I begin to think they don’t love one another, they do this.

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Outsiders may think she’s trying to break his neck, but this is sisterly love, you jerk!

 

 

 

Forty Licks

No, this isn’t a reference to how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Google it, as my children are convinced I am now too old to remember much of anything other than paying them their allowance, but this old lady remembers Mr. Owl.

New Year’s Day is my birthday…whohoo…and this year was number 40. Again, whohoo, and forty licks would be how many licks I’d get in my birthday spanking if my mother were still so inclined to dispense them…which, thankfully, she isn’t. Right around Christmastime I decided I needed my very own quilt made by my very own hands for my birthday. Please don’t ask why I picked the busiest time of year to add yet another time-consuming something or other to my list, but there it is.

At the NYE sew-in with my mama and aunt, I managed to finish the top and part of the backing. The top finished at roughly 60×90. Yes, I do want to be swaddled like a baby, or a dead body, depending on your perspective and macabre sense of humor. Or maybe I could double as a human enchilada.

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I thought of naming it after a cocktail but Pink Panty Dropper sounded too fraternity and Pink Lady, lady being the word in question, does not generally apply to me.  So, Forty Licks it is.

Here’s the backing I’ll be working on from now until next year.

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I’d say I’m off to a good start in terms of quilting.  Here’s hoping the momentum lasts!

Hot On The Trail to Forty

Like most quilters, any quilt I make generally heads out the door faster than a kid who wants to be anywhere but home with Mom the Dud.  With a milestone birthday quickly approaching, I decided to remedy that little situation.

Is it tacky that I’m doing a DIY gift?  Who cares!  I’m doing it anyway!

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I intend to snip off the ends so everything’s even (unlike my last haircut) and the whole shebang will get a really wide white border.  I foresee straight-line quilting in its future.  We’ll see how that turns out as I’ll be quilting it New Year’s Eve while partying with my Mama.  Can you say ‘margarita machine’?

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I suppose now would be a good time to mention that I’ve never been a fan of pink and yet, here I am, making a pink one.  Crazy lady!  But it’s batiks (my favorite) and it has lots of orange (also a favorite) so it’ll all work out in the end.

I haven’t landed on a name for it yet but hope to have one by the time it’s finished.

I’m linking to Richard Quilts!

Happy Friday, y’all!

His Awesomeness Turns 14

Happy 14th Birthday to the child who made me a mom for the first time…and gave me stretch marks and gray hair….His Awesomeness. 

I don’t often make embarrassing comments in public, but when I do, I prefer to embarrass my children.

Happy Birthday to my 4 pound 1 ounce wonder…who is now officially taller than me.

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I called him from work this morning to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ so that he could intersperse the verses by saying ‘Mom’, ‘Mother’, ‘Ma’, ‘Mooooom’.  I absolutely live to exasperate the offspring.  I will repeat it…it’s the little things, y’all!

 

The Diva at 9

You know the almost guilty pleasure you experience when you’ve got a few days of sleeping in a king-sized bed all by your lonesome?

Ever experienced the actual sleeping alone part?

Me neither.

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Happy Birthday, P!

 

Birthday Goodies

My mommy loves me, she really loves me. Not in that creepy, whiny-assed Susan Lucci way when she accepted her daytime Emmy.  She got that because everyone else was tired of her grousing about never winning and they wanted her to shut the hell up.  I never could stand that crazy bee-otch, plus she couldn’t act. Nope, my mama looooooooves me ’cause I’m her baby and it was my birthday. Look what she (I say she, but I’m sure it came from my dad too although he probably doesn’t care considering it’s not firearm or train related…yes, it’s an odd combo) got me for #39…

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The Diva commented that I’ll never have to go to a quilt shop again.  Yeah, keep thinking that sweet pea.  Puh-leeze!  Gotta love that childlike humor.  Himself and The Co-Defendants gifted me a Panda Express card for as much Chinese food as I can stomach.  I am one happy girl!

 

Deja Sewing

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I made this flannel rag quilt for a friend’s upcoming birthday, congratulating myself (insert back pat here) that it was finished before her birthday. After popping it into the washing machine and dryer to achieve the ‘raggedy magic’ I so love, I pulled it out to discover that some of the stitches had popped.

All. Over. The. Damn. Thing.

Y’all know how much I hate to curse and I can honestly say I didn’t do much upon making this unfortunate discovery. Mainly because I was shoving Julianne’s wonderful toffee into my gaping maw as a form of catharsis. !@#$%&* rag quilt! So, I did the only thing I could…instead of ripping it apart and starting from scratch (no time!!), I sewed over the previous stitches. All of ’em. Again. Do you know how freakin’ hard it is to sew a rag quilt AFTER you’ve ragged it?! O.M.G.

Have I ever told y’all I have a lead foot?   Two days worth of piecing condensed into two hours.  The Diva kept helpfully suggesting that maybe I needed a break.  Perhaps the demonic glint in my eye was a clue to my impending implosion.  Or maybe it was the whackadoodle way I was talking to myself.

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It was seventy some-odd degrees outside the day I finished it hence the flip-flops (gee-mah-nee, but I need a pedi!), with mosquitos the size of 747s buzzing about (you think I’m joking) and I was sewing flannel.  Perhaps that accounted for my odd behavior.  Or maybe it’s just that I’m weird.