Rachel Callahan

The Slippery Slope into Chocoholism.

June 7, 2013June 10, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, The Blissfulness of Life

I discovered chocolate last weekend.

Real chocolate. Chocolate like I’ve never even come close to tasting before.

And I want to pull you down with me.

if you follow me on Twitter, you probably hated me all weekend.

(I know this because several of you told me so.)

And that’s okay. I would have hated me, too.

I attended the Third Annual Atlanta Food & Wine Festival, hence all of the pretty tweets. Last year I attended as well, and had major breakthroughs in my appreciation of fine cheese and local sourcing of food.

But this year. This year was all about the chocolate.

Can you tell the seriousness of my issue yet? It’s bad. Real bad. Like, get a job to support my habit bad.

I road-tripped with my blogger friend Jamie, and the first session we chose was on fine chocolate.

It was taught by Kristen Hard of Cacao Atlanta Chocolate Company and Edward Russell of Parish Foods and Goods.

This is where I found out that we’ve all been eating a sham for our entire lives.

You see, chocolate fell victim to the same curse as tomatoes: America was impatient, America wanted it whenever they wanted it, and America genetically modified the seeds to make them grow quicker, more plentiful, and with less work.

And, just like tomatoes, chocolate lost its taste and quality.

But despair not! For there is now a band of chocolate superheroes who are scouring the countries of Venezuela, Peru, the Dominican Republic, and more for the fabled original strains of the Cacao Tree.

(Seriously – Kristen Hand Is basically a chocolate geneticist. She told us the numbers and letters of the exact genetic strain of heirloom cocoa bean that we should all desire, but I didn’t write it down.)

(Which is probably good, since it might bring the Chocolate Mafia down on my head.)

So here’s the deal: Cocoa beans are found inside of (relatively) giant pods on cacao trees.

Long ago, these beans were pure white, providing fantastic flavor and purity. But as we modified the genetics, the beans purple, adding a dry bitterness that chocolate was never intended to have, and masking its true essence.

So Kristen, along with other chocolate preservers, are doing amazing things to reinvent the industry. To rediscover lost strains, and to work with South and Central American farmers to understand the value of non-modified beans.

But here’s the deal: the beans are picky. They won’t grow out of their native soil. So once a plant is found, that’s where they have to be cultivated and grown. Kristen shared the story of one chocolatier that spent months doing nothing but scouring the Dominican Republic jungles to find just one Cacao tree with White Cocoa Beans. And he found it – just one. He brought the beans back to the states for genetic testing, then began the process of creating a cacao farm in the DR – but it will take six years for it to produce it’s first harvest.

That, my friends, is a proper chocolate adoration.

So after hearing all of this, they gave us our first taste of True Chocolate – paired, oddly enough, with radishes.

And it changed my universe.

I thought that I was a chocolate snob before, but my whole world exploded when I took my first bite.

And I knew that I was going to need a new budget item for True Chocolate.

The flavor, the richness, the experience – it’s indescribable. If you have a chocolatier in your city, you need to quit reading right now and go visit them.

As soon as the festival tasting tents opened, I was ready to find more.

There were two artisan chocolatiers that I immediately fell in love with – Chocolate South from Atlanta, and French Broad Chocolates from Asheville.

Chocolate South had beautiful chocolates with delicate flavors and lovely patterns, including the Georgia Peach and Mississippi Mud:

And French Broad Chocolates had…the most amazing (and beautiful) truffles that I’ve ever put into my mouth.

Dan and Jael of French Broad were so fantastic that they sent us back to our room with the best gift ever:

But those didn’t last long. And I couldn’t stop my chocolate neediness. So after the festival activities were over for the day, Jamie and I tracked down one of Cacao Atlanta’s cafes for more.

I cannot tell you how much it hurts me to know that Atlanta has artisan chocolate shops that stay open until TEN AT NIGHT. And French Broad’s Chocolate Lounge in Asheville stays open until midnight!

If we had this luxury in Birmingham, every date that Chris and I ever had would end at a chocolate shop.

At Cacao, Jamie and I drooled over (but not in) the Choco 77.

Photo by Jamie and her Rabbits

We stared lovingly at the truffles.

Even the bathroom was educational.

And I bought a bunch of artisan chocolate bars – “To take home to Chris.”

(In the interest of full disclosure, we have eaten one bar per night since I returned home, each split between the two of us.)

(I have a good husband.)

And so now I find myself. In a deep neediness for true chocolate, but with no local way (that I have found) to satiate my needs.

I begged Dan of French Broad Chocolates to open a Birmingham Branch.

I repeatedly tweeted Cacao Atlanta, telling them that Birmingham could not live without them.

But alas, good chocolate takes time – years, in fact.

As does, I suppose, getting such a thing in every deserving city.

In the meantime, I may be getting a lot of refrigerated boxes delivered to my house, because it only takes one hit to become hopelessly addicted.

What’s That Sound? The Inaugural Issue.

June 6, 2013June 5, 2013 Rachel Callahan Toddlers: The Experience, What's That Sound

So the consensus after concluding Ali’s toddler quotes seemed to be to keep Noah’s quotes here (sorry B-Sides – it’s not you, it’s me.) Even though it seems a bit too over the top cutesy for my usual fare, I’m trusting you guys here – if you let me turn into a gooey sticky blog and don’t tell me, I’ll never speak to you again.

I’ve decided that Noah’s quote series should be called “What’s that Sound?” because he asks that question at least twenty times a day. Sometimes he answers it for himself, and sometimes he doesn’t.

For instance, one day when it was raining and thundering loudly, he asked (then answered,)

“Whoa! What’s that sound, Mommy? Was it a truck?? Was it a MONSTER TRUCK?!?!?!”

Therefore, What’s That Sound seems like an appropriate name for the things he says.

As we were rocking before bed the other night, he demanded, “See your tummy, Mommy.”

I pulled up my shirt…after all – he’s only two. This can’t traumatize him…yet.

He laughed, then grabbed a handful of the softest part of my belly and twisted.

“I eat cake. I eat cake from Mommy’s tummy.”

Ali was in the back seat playing a subtraction game on her iPad. For some reason, the problem 8 minus 3 was really stumping her.

I talked through it with her slowly, and she just wasn’t in the mood to figure it out.

Finally, I said, “Pretend you have eight of something. If you take away three, how many do you have left?”

Exasperatedly, Noah broke in and said, “IT WAS FIVE!!!”

…So either he’s the world’s best guesser, or he’s a math prodigy yet to be discovered.

We were shopping a while back, and Noah grew tired of the outing.

Noah: “Go to Noah’s house and go night-night!!”

Me: “What? You’re sleepy?”

Noah: “No!! I just woke up!”

We were all playing in the living room, but I wasn’t paying much attention to Noah. All of a sudden, he said, “Oh man!! ……I call Pop.”

I handed him Ali’s iPad, and he called my Dad on Skype.

Then it hit me that he had said “Oh Man,” which is what he usually says when he makes a mess. So I looked around and realized: he had spilled his drink all over the floor, and somehow, calling Pop to talk about other things made it all…better?

Given Noah’s love for all things with wheels, I asked him at bedtime last night, “Do you want to be a race car driver when you grow up?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be a tractor driver?”

“No.”

“Well what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A dump truck.”

Noah woke up screaming in the night, so the next morning I asked him about it.

“Do you remember crying last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yes.”

“What was it about?”

“Froggy. Go ribbit ribbit outside…scary.”

Another morning, Chris came into Noah’s room right as he was waking up, so his dreams were fresh on his mind.

“I fixed it, Daddy!”

“What did you fix?”

“Mommy’s car! You broke it, but I fixed it!!”

We sometimes get into random conversations. I don’t remember how this one started…

I asked… “Did you eat Mommy’s shoes?”

“Yes.”

“What did they taste like?”

“Noah’s mouth.”

“Did you eat Mommy’s shirt?”

“Yes.”

“What did it taste like?”

“Tastes like Mommy.”

I was enjoying a quiet moment of solitude in the bathroom one day, amazed that Noah hadn’t followed me in.

But he wasn’t far behind.

He came running in, dug through the trash, found an empty toilet paper roll, held it up to his eye, pressed the other end onto my eye, and said, “I SEEEEEEE YOU!!! I SEE YOU MOMMMY!!!!”

Me: “You stink!!”

Noah, nonchalantly: “I’m poopy.”

Me: “Do you want me to change your diaper?”

Noah: “I’m good.”

Earlier this week while I was doing dishes, Noah ran into the room and said very sadly,

“I’m SO SORRY, Mommy.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“I’m sorry about you!!”

…Whatever that means.

I’m more than a little scared to find out.

Support Your Local Crafter.

June 4, 2013June 3, 2013 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

Ali gets a $5 allowance every week.

She has a nifty little bank in which she divides it carefully between “Bank”, “Store”, and “Church”.

She supposedly gets this allowance every Monday, but I’ve been known to forget for months in a row (and she’s been known to let me), so that when I do pay up, I have to pay up big. Fortunately, her kindergarten math curriculum didn’t touch on penalties, late charges, and interest.

Besides the fact that I get behind in giving the allowance, I get even further behind in helping her count the allowance and then spend it.

So it had piled up. Substantially. To the point that one more quarter wasn’t going to fit through any roofs in that village.

It took us two mornings to count the money in “Store” and “Church”, and she ended up with $61 to spend and $104 to give.

(I guess she’d raided the spending at some point without getting out her Church money.)

She was thrilled to take her money to Church, and absolutely couldn’t wait to spend her $61.

We talked about going to the Toy Store, but I had a better idea.

“You know how you’re always looking for new craft supplies? What if we went to Michael’s…and you could buy your own?! You could get a lot for $61!”

“That would be awesome!!! I need some new things to do during quiet time!”

“Okay. We’ll go really soon.”

That was on Friday. The weekend was busy, so we didn’t make it. She reminded me a few times, but nothing too annoying. But before one of her quiet times, she asked,

“What can I do for quiet time today? I don’t have any new craft supplies yet, so I’m going to be bored.”

“Why don’t you write letters? You love doing that.”

“Okay! Can you make me a list of people I can write?”

So I made her a list of grandparents and a few friends.

After quiet time, she presented me with envelopes, labeled and sealed.

“Um…you already sealed these?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you write in them?”

“Oh you know…stuff.”

I’ve pre-read many of her letters, and they’re pretty much all the same, so I obediently addressed her envelopes and mailed them Monday morning.

We finally made it to Michael’s on Tuesday. It was pretty much fantastic. She picked out a ton of stuff she wanted, made over-analytical decisions with regards to the quantity and quality of use she could get out of each option, and left with a bag full of craft supplies and five dollars to spare.

As we walked out to the parking lot, she skipped and exclaimed with glee,

“That was SO fun!! I can’t believe how much craft supplies I have now!”

“I know! You’re going to have so much to do!!”

“And I’ll have even MORE craft supplies when everyone gets my letters!!”

“What do you mean?”

“When they get my letters, they’re going to send me craft supplies.”

I stopped walking.

“Wait a minute. You mean that you asked for craft supplies in your letters?”

She stopped skipping, looked up at me, and blinked innocently.

“Yes…why?”

We had a small talk about what begging was and why we don’t do it.

“But you TOLD me to write letters when I didn’t have any craft supplies…”

Oh. Oops.

I made a mental note to apologize to all of her friend’s parents.

…But then I convinced myself that her note was probably too illegible for my friends to perceive her begging anyway, and forgot about it.

Until the next day, when I got this text from Ali’s best friend’s Mom:

And here’s the note:

So basically, “I am on a crafting mission, and I need your help. Just send supplies – you don’t even have to pray about it.”

I groaned as I looked at her letter, then desperately tried to remember all of the friends to which she had sent notes and sent an apology text to everyone.

And, one by one, they all confirmed back that yes, their child had indeed received overt crafting solicitation from my child.

We now have a strict No-Sealing Policy in our house, but at least I left this incident with a confidence in my heart that when it comes time for Ali to take that first high school summer missions trip, she is going to be the master of support letter writing.

In fact, if you want to hire her now, I’m sure she’d love to help you out – in exchange for quality craft supplies.

An App for Everything. {And a $100 Giveaway!}

June 3, 2013June 4, 2013 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests

The AppLife.

It’s addictive, it’s easy, and it’s how I live.

When Noah was a baby, I used an app to track breastfeeding, sleep, and diaper changes (which was a great improvement over my strategy with the first baby, The Creeptastic Notebook.) I have an app to track my womanly cycles (my husband has been known to ask me to check it to see if it had an explanation for my current mood.) I have an app that gives me a laundry list of every inappropriate word or scene in any movie so that I can decide if my kids (or myself) should watch it (the word list is also pretty entertaining, such as “6 scatalogical terms, 1 with the use of ‘bag’ and 1 with the use of ‘storm’.”) I even have an app to turn off my bathroom electrical outlet, in case I get fifteen minutes away from home and freak out because I might have left my curling iron on (which I never actually do. But just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you won’t one day burn the house down with a hair implement.)

But now, oh, now. My life is complete.

That’s right. I have an app to ensure that I never have excess popcorn waste again. Minimized unpopped kernels, Maximized popped perfection.

Perfect Pop, by Pop Secret, is a free app that listens with an expertly trained ear to tell you exactly when to turn off your microwave. (If I were as smart as Sheldon and Leonard, I would find a way to hook that app with my outlet-switching-off app and get the popcorn app to tell the outlet app to shut off at the exact right second so that my microwave would die in obedience. But then I’d have to reset my microwave clock every time I popped a bag of popcorn, and that seems like it might overwrite the convenience of not having to turn the microwave off myself.)

So. You turn the app on when you start the microwave, and the cute little kernel goes through a bunch of cartoony changes as it listens carefully for pop-progress.

(You need to have the phone’s bottom speakers as close to the microwave as possible, so I took advantage of my superior Game Show Vixen hand flourish.) At the exact right second of perfect poppage, the app congratulates you and instructs you to turn off the microwave.

And the results are delicious. No burnt pieces, and hardly any waste.

I poured out my entire bag and sifted through to quantify that the app did, in fact, reduce the number of unpopped kernels. Here’s what I found:

Only eighteen kernels.

That just has to be below the national unpopped average. I hereby challenge you to pop a bag of popcorn with less than eighteen unpopped kernels. Download “Perfect Pop” on the App Store* by searching for “Perfect Pop.”

In celebration of their groundbreaking new app, the kind people at Pop Secret (you can follow them on Twitter here) have offered to give one of you a $100 Visa Gift Card!

For a chance to win, leave a comment and tell us: Before Pop Secret made it easy, what was your popcorn strategy?

Rules:
No duplicate comments.
You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:
a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post
b) Tweet (public message) about this promotion; including exactly the
following unique term in your tweet message: “”#SweepstakesEntry””; and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post”
c) Blog about this promotion, including a disclosure that you are receiving a sweepstakes entry in exchange for writing the blog post, and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post
d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.
This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.
The Official Rules are available here.
This sweepstakes runs from 6/3 – 6/30.
Be sure to visit the Pop Secret brand page on BlogHer.com where you can read other bloggers’ reviews and find more chances to win!

*Apple, the Apple logo, and iPhone are trademarks of Apple Inc., registered in the U.S. and other countries. App Store is a service mark of Apple Inc. Apple is not affiliated and does not endorse, sponsor or support this third party app and sweepstakes.

The Reality Test.

May 30, 2013May 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Let's Play, Survey Says. . .

Two years ago, I tested Ali’s grasp of reality. It was on a whim while driving down the road after she asked me, “Are fireflies real?” The question made me realize how unrealistic some real things are, and how believable some imaginary things can be.

I mean really. A bug whose butt rhythmically lights up?

A lot changes in two years, though, and I was curious as to the shift in her perceptions. So I printed out my original reality test of twenty-five items, then added fifteen more. She was giddy about the game, and totally didn’t remember doing it two years ago. This time, out of forty questions, she got five wrong, giving her an official reality grade of 88% (after rounding.) So, progressing from four to six years old increased her reality grasp from a C- to a B+.

(Hopefully two years of studying will make a more drastic impact when she’s in college.)

So – let’s compare kids, compare notes, and see what seems to be the least believable reality and the most believable farce.

I inquired about each item in this form: “Are princesses real or pretend?”

Here’s the list:

Princesses
Hippopotamus’
Robots
Fireflies
Dinosaurs
Dragons
Dragonflies
Magic
God
Hearts
Unicorns
Presidents
Monsters
Police Men
Alligators
Kings and Queens
Castles
China
Rapunzel
George Washington
Moses
Goldilocks and the Three Bears
Buffaloes
California
Fairies
Submarines
Stepmothers
Mermaids
Lightning McQueen
Reindeer
Genies
Flying Carpets
Dora and Diego
Clifford the Big Red Dog
Turkish Delight
Roller Coasters
Pyramids
Wimpy Kid
Daddy’s Work

An interesting difference in her six-year-old answers and four-year-old answers were that on the ones she knew, she was much more confident and amused that I would even ask (“Silly Mommy! Of course China is real!”) But on the ones that she wasn’t sure about, she was much more hesitant to answer completely.

Such as on Magic, her answer was “Well, maybe, because I kind of believe Fairies are real, so if Fairies are real, then magic would have to be real.”

And on Fairies, she said, “Well, I got a note from the Tooth Fairy, and Giann [The Babysitter] told me that she saw a fairy once and I don’t think she was kidding.”

On Wimpy Kid, she got mad at me. “But you TOLD me that it was a diary that a little boy wrote!! You didn’t SAY that he wasn’t a REAL boy!!”

Other than that, she got Robots wrong for the second time (clearly I need to take this kid on a factory field trip), wasn’t sure about Stepmothers, and didn’t know what Genies were (I forgot we haven’t watched Aladdin.)

But I struck the genie off her record for explaining that “dinosaurs used to be real.”

So. Go quiz your kids. Report back how old they are, what they got wrong, and what surprised you the most about their grasp of reality.

I’ll be waiting here for your official reports.

Rambling Round-Up.

May 29, 2013May 29, 2013 Rachel Callahan Photographical Oddities, Utter Silliness, Weird Strange and True, Zulily

Chris and I were having a discussion the other night. The kind where I thought we should do one thing, and he thought we should do another.

(I take full responsibility for this sort of discussion as I was quite difficult to live with last week, thanks to Pink Eye, a painful reaction to the steroids, multiple mouth ulcers, and general malaise.)

But we weren’t making much progress in our discussion, so Ali ran in, handed Chris a note, then ran out.

Clearly we need to discuss the hierarchy of authority up in these parts.

I’ve been seeing some fascinating things on Pinterest lately.

Like these rings, for instance.

Any girl old enough to understand them should be too old to want them, and any girl who’s young enough to want them is also young enough to be Jonathan’s daughter.

(Seriously. I checked – he’s 44.)

(Which means that Adele is young enough to be his daughter.)

(Chew on that for a minute while you twist your rings.)

I’ve also seen some evidence as to why men should not be on Pinterest:

But then again, I drink Dr Pepper TEN and it’s for men, so who am I to judge.

Also. You might have picked up on the fact that I find back pockets to be very crucial to denim success.

However. If you find your back pockets to not quite be what they should be, this is not the way to fix them.

If you’re getting ready for summer celebrations, Zulily has some fantastic Independence Day looks.

Because you can never go too literal with the Fourth of July.

But if you’re feeling more morose about freedom, you can always go with this outfit.

Or if you’d rather just blend into the crowd, then camo is your friend.

Ali and I borrowed a children’s poetry book from the library.

It was a cheery collection.

I quite randomly stumbled onto a post on Babble where Ali-as-a-toddler had been named in a list of “25 Adorable Hairstyles for Toddler Girls.” Who knew?

I scrolled down, excited to see how everyone fawned over my precious daughter in the comments section…

Speaking of comments gone wrong, this priceless thread has popped up somewhere deep in the middle of my Inconvenient Gap of Truth post comments. I love that they are all a month apart, from four different women, and they will surely never come back to see the conversation they sparked.

Who knew? Only strippers need good jeans.

And yet, they don’t.

Sometimes I get questionable PR Pitches, especially in the form of Twitter and Facebook Parties.

This one just…doesn’t seem like too jubilant of a party.

And this one could have used a bit more hashtag analysis.

(Note to PR people everywhere: a focus group of over-observant bloggers can go a long way to help prevent embarrassing hashtag oopsies.)

I cannot pass a Tom Thumb gas station without picturing a partially sunburned man in tighty-whities. Can you?

And with much thanks to my friend Debbie for this last one, who saw this beautiful sign at the mall and took a picture just for me. And you.

So there you go. Don’t be afraid of hand-holding during movements, ladies. If it’s important enough for a ceramic placard, it’s important enough for me.

An Analysis of the Not the Namesake of my Children.

May 28, 2013May 27, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Mystery Solved

For the past two and a half years, I’ve been intending to watch The Notebook.

It all started around the time that we chose Noah’s name. It didn’t take long for the first girl (it was always a girl) to add two and two together to make eight.

“OH! How cute! Ali and Noah. Are you naming your children after The Notebook?”

“Um, no. I’ve never seen The Notebook. Are those the character’s names?”

“Yes!!”

“Dang it.”

Sure enough, every few months, I would see The Notebook Light Bulb go off over some female’s head.

“Noah and Ali!! AWWWWW!!!! I LOVE The Notebook!”

Even though I wasn’t too thrilled with the situation of having people assume I’d named my kids after Nicholas Sparks characters (I’d watched A Walk to Remember and had decided that Nick had too much of a tragic mindset for my taste), I figured that I should probably know “The Noah and Allie experience” so that at least I knew what females were thinking about me when they made their assumptions.

So it sat in our Netflix queue for a while…then I found it for $5 at Target (which was less trouble than actually getting around to our Netflix queue)…and so it sat on our entertainment system for even longer.

Every now and then, I’d suggest watching it, but Chris would veto me. And not because he’s opposed to mooshy movies (he’s an equal opportunist when it comes to genre – Saving Private Ryan, Pride and Prejudice, and Star Trek/Wars are all cool with him) – it would be because he wasn’t in the mood to cry, and we both assumed it was quite tragic.

Finally, last Friday night, Chris and I must have been in the exact perfect emotional state. There was a three-day weekend ahead of us…the kids were in bed on time…we were prepared in case of tragedy.

So I popped it in, we snuggled up, and we watched the movie.

I’m assuming that we are the last people on Earth to watch The Notebook. And as such, here are my thoughts, spoilers though they may be.

– I seriously doubt that 1700’s piano could have still been in even a remotely recognizable state of tune. But yet she was able to play it. And not a single key stuck. Four of our keys stick and our piano isn’t even from the mid-1900’s. Let’s have a bit of realism, Sparky.

– What ever happened to Noah’s luggage? He rode the bus to Charleston…ran off of the bus to catch up with Allie, and then…did he go to the bus station and find his luggage? In his morose sadness at seeing her kiss another man, did he abandon his luggage? IS HIS LUGGAGE SITTING AT UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE IN SCOTTSBORO ALABAMA RIGHT THIS SECOND?? I must have closure on this issue.

– If Allie really was crying herself to sleep every single night over the fact that Noah hadn’t written, don’t you think she could have taken a wee bit of initiative and, say, walked to the mailbox herself just one time in 365 days? I mean seriously, Allie. I thought you had spunk.

(And the fresh air would have probably helped your chronic depression, too.)

– Allie’s mother’s exposing dance move was disturbing on a very deep level and is still emblazoned in my mind. Thank goodness that Chris and I never went dancing with our parents.

– What happened to Lon, the nice, extremely rich young man? I have some single friends that I would love to set him up with…

– When Allie was driving while crying and almost hit a big truck, all I could think about was Downton Abbey. STUPID DOWNTON ABBEY. They could take some lessons in NOT crashing cars and killing key characters.

For the record, I did not cry during the movie, although it did make me feel all kinds of romantic feelings toward my husband. I did, however, cry the next day while creating Noah a car playlist of the various and quite random songs that we sing him at bedtime,

when “You are my Sunshine” by Johnny Cash started playing. And he sounded old, decrepit, and just like Old Noah would sound if singing to Old Allie.

Then I cried.

But I’m blaming that on having just left the eye doctor due to an adverse reaction to conjunctivitis steroids which created huge amounts of pressure in my eyeballs.

The tears had to get out somehow, right?

So there you go. We did not name our kids after a movie. And we never would have, because I would have first needed to know what happened to the luggage.

As I Enter The Asylum,

May 24, 2013May 24, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Blogging: the therapy., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Toddlers: The Experience, Weird Strange and True

this will be the last story that I ever tell.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. I had promised to meet two friends at The Wish Collection to do some shopping. I was excited, because I hadn’t been back since my original score (and had been hearing about the beautiful finds that many of you had bought.)

I pondered getting a babysitter, but I decided against it. After all, we were only going one place, I only have two kids, and I’d take entertaining electronic devices – how bad could it be?

I arrived a few minutes early, but the warehouse seemed closed.

I walked around the corner and pounded on the door.

The office looked dark.

With a bit more research while sitting in the parking lot in the most abandoned part of downtown, I finally had to call it: the warehouse was no longer there.

{So ignore my advice and don’t go there.}

It had indeed been the sale of a lifetime – and I wouldn’t be getting any more of that goodness.

(Unless by some miracle they return. That’s what I’m hoping.)

My friends arrived just as I was discovering the sudden departure of our shopping destination, so I had to tell them the sad, sad news.

They sat and pondered for a minute, then suggested we drive out to The Shops of Grand River.

Perfect!

My kids love the outlet mall, I love the outlet mall.

However, after the hour detour downtown, Noah was in no mood to shop.

He was in the mood to fuss, complain, to hysterically run in circles around the stores, and to lick. Everything.

He licked the mirror. The wall. The floor. His sister. Me. My friends. The other mirror. The other wall. Thank goodness the sales clerk never walked by too closely.

As I pondered how I could create a makeshift tongue tourniquet, I apologized to my friends.

“I have NO idea what is wrong with him! He has been completely orally fixated lately. Everything goes in his mouth or gets licked. You should have seen The Black Spot he licked a few weeks ago – on the tile floor of the Downtown Library.”

My friend who doesn’t have kids yet said, “Maybe he’s teething?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

I checked, (getting thoroughly bitten in the process,) and sure enough, a new molar was poking through his germ-infested gums like a needle in a hazardous waste bucket.

And that’s why you need friends who haven’t had kids yet. They come up with the simple answers.

So as an apology to Noah for dragging him on a detoured girl’s trip while he was in pain (and Ali for having to put up with it,) I took them next door to the toy store and offered to buy them each something small.

They took my direction quite literally – they chose Squinkies.

Squinkies are tiny, pleasingly tactile rubber toys. And when I say tiny, I mean size-of-Craisin tiny.

In fact, Sally and Ramone had to be saved from the back of Noah’s newly-toothed jaws when he unknowingly picked them up with a handful of said Craisins.

(I got bitten for that one too.)

So Ali got random girly Squinkies, and Noah got Cars Squinkies.

I didn’t really care about Ali’s, because they were tiny creepy unicorns.

But the Cars ones – I was obsessed. They were adorable, detailed, and full of personality.

Within two minutes of depackaging all twenty-four Squinkies, one was missing.

And he knew which one.

“Where’s Sarge?? WHERE’S SARGE??”

I searched and searched to no avail. I promised him that it hurt me more than it hurt him. After all, not having a full set of something (including, and sometimes especially, my kid’s toys) is nearly more painful to my psyche than a lack of continuity.

I tried to enforce supervised-Squinkie-play-only to prevent any further loss of life, but that only lasted for 72 hours.

And on the third day, Noah found the bag of Squinkies for private play.

And at the end of the third day, there were only six Squinkies remaining.

It was as if someone ripped 18 rubber-car-shaped holes out of my heart. I languished in their loss, missing their tiny presence in our home with great sorrow.

I tried to let it go.

I tried to remind myself that they were just toys that were destined to get lost.

But I needed 24 Squinkies.

For three days and three nights I tried to forget.

On the sixth evening, I was talking with Chris. I looked past his shoulder and spotted a mirage on the end table.

No. It couldn’t be.

I interrupted his deep and lengthy thought with a squeal.

“Is that…is that SARGE?!?!?”

“Yeah. I found him between the couch cushions.”

“He’s been missing for a week!!! He was the first casualty!!”

The next morning, with hope and passion overflowing from my heart, I declared it to be Squinkie Search Day.

We started under the coffee table.

1 rescued.

Under the couch.

3 more.

On the train table.

2 more.

With each tiny rubber discovery, my soul burst with joy and victory.

We made it up to sixteen with scouring searches, but I needed those last eight.

And those last eight needed me.

I spotted a tiny shape slipping down to the bottom of Noah’s car basket.

I yelled to Ali with the urgency of a war mission.

“The Squinkies!! They’re in here!! I just saw Finn McMissile! AND THERE’S SALLY!!!!”

I began throwing Hot Wheels into my lap like I was digging a hole to escape a Chinese Prison.

Ali stared at me for a moment, then disappeared – and returned with my phone to take a picture.

Every time I found one, I squealed with excitement and threw it in a bucket, not daring to let Noah near it.

Ali changed her angle to show the burgeoning state of my lap. And a tiny glimpse of the deranged state of my face.

I put her to work counting and recounting tirelessly, giving me the new quantity every two minutes.

And after every surface was cleared, every basket was declared Squinkie-free, and every inch of floor was investigated, we took a final count.

Although it was beautiful to see so many happy Squinkies in one place, It felt like failure.

Where was the last Squinkie? And who was missing??

I thought of one place it could be – and considered giving Noah some Miralax to get it back.

But as I was distracted, Noah decided that it was time for his inspection.

Within seconds, the count had mysteriously decreased.

Did I mention that they bounce? With a very wide arc? And a very unpredictable trajectory?

I began grieving to the bottom of my toes.

I couldn’t handle another battle.

I couldn’t stomach another mission.

So I did what any logical person would do:

I logged onto Amazon and ordered 24 more.

These babies are mint in package. And no one knows about them but me.

And no one need know about them but me. Got it?

The fact that I know I have them, all twenty-four of them, safely in my care, means that I can now leave Noah and his set alone.

Live and let lose, that’s my motto.

Oh – someone’s knocking on the door. I think it’s the nice men with the straightjacket.

Suggestions Required.

May 23, 2013May 23, 2013 Rachel Callahan Do You Know? Because I Don't., Survey Says. . .

My mind has been busy with two things lately, and I need some input. So pick your specialty, or chime in on both.

1. Orlando
2. The Bedroom.

(Sounds fascinating, no?)

First. Orlando:

So we are planning a short trip to Orlando in July. It’s kinda last minute, and it’s kinda during the worst time of year to visit Disney (as far as crowds are concerned.)

And, although we’ve spent years of our life overanalyzing to try and figure out the best scenario for a first Disney trip (Chris can’t usually be gone from work for seven days, and we all know that Disney is incrementally cheaper the longer you stay, and we didn’t want to feel rushed to cram it all in, and we didn’t want to go when we had nappers…and on and on and on), we’re considering (and we may be crazy) spending ONE DAY at Disney.

Just one day.

Because Ali’s never been, and she’s at the perfect age of Princess Love, and she has no expectations of the vastness of Disney. So we’re thinking we’ll soak up a little magic, walk down Main Street, and scope the place out for a return visit at some point. Do a little, but with no pressure to DO Disney.

We also want to visit LegoLand (for obvious reasons) while we’re there, so we’re thinking that we will spend a day at LegoLand, a day at Disney, and perhaps a day at the resort or in and around Orlando.

So, Disney Veterans.

1. Are we crazy?
2. Will we hate ourselves for this plan?
3. Is there a way to get cheaper tickets to just GO to Disney for one day? No hotel, no food plan, no frills, just the ability to walk into the park and maybe see a few fun characters and junk.
4. What do we need to know? For reference, the last time I went to Disney was in 1985. And I was 3.
5. What’s the easiest way to meet some princesses? Or even better, Tinkerbell and her friends?

And, Orlando Residents.

1. Where should we eat while we’re in your city?
2. What else should we do?
3. Again, are we crazy?

And, All of you:

Have you seen anything offering discounted LegoLand or Disney passes? I remember someone saying that their kids got a free pass in a Lego kit, but I don’t remember who it was or what kit contained such goodness. Help a last-minute-trip-planner out!

Second. I need your help in the Bedroom.

(I know. You’ve all been waiting on that one.)

Since we moved into our house five years ago, our bedroom has bothered me terribly, especially subconsciously. Every night, when I’m right in between awake and asleep, I find myself eaten up with uncomfortableness and wrath toward the room.

That could be due to my very poor decorating skills. And the 1984 wood trim. And the mismatching of said wood trim with our furniture.

Or it could be due to the evidence of my former mod podge/scrapbook paper addiction:

So I’ve decided to finally take on a project this summer. After all, I lived through 184 days of involuntary home repairs – certainly I can slap a little paint on the walls and buy and new comforter, right?

So I plan to get my lazy butt out from in front of the computer and repair my broken psyche.

We have great furniture, but ugly walls. I’m ready for a new bedspread and curtains, and we desperately need wall fixtures.

And in general, I want a calmer room.

In my head, I have in mind a blue-gray or steel blue color scheme – very cool, very light, very vacationy. White curtains, our current black furniture, a simple but luxurious looking bedspread, perhaps recovering my chair and ottoman, and yes – painting my trim white.

I’ve got a Pinterest Board going with a bunch of ideas, but here is the combination that best describes my vision:

So here’s where you come in.

I am horrible, awful, no good, repugnant at wall hangings, knick knacks, and other pointless decorations.

However, as my current bedroom (and my angst surrounding it) suggests, pointless decorations are what makes a room feel like a room.

Also, I’d love any input on what needs to get kicked off the island of ideas on my Pinterest Board.

But just for some direction, I like geometric designs (very little floral), I like modern, and I don’t like trees next to my bed.

Also, I don’t want it to look like Ariel skinned Ursula and turned her into my comforter.

So that’s it. Tell me what I need. What you’ve seen that is cool. How I could better this room palette. Anything and everything.

And don’t forget about Orlando.

I need your help!

Now Hiring: Mom Caddie.

May 22, 2013May 21, 2013 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Kids: The Experience., Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas, Utter Silliness

Hey! So I have pink eye. Actually, a more accurate diagnosis would be that I have pink eyes. Which means that it hurts too much to look at this computer screen. However, I’m in luck – last week, I ran across this post that I wrote in 2010 and set it aside to re-share. I can’t believe that it is now halfway through 2013 and I have yet to figure out how to fill this position. Because I NEED it. Especially when my eyes don’t work.

Men play golf.

(Some men, anyway – not my husband. And some women, I know. Forgive the generalization for a moment.)

And, men get caddies.

(Some men, anyway – surely not every man that plays golf can afford to have another man follow him around all day while he leisurely plays a game.)

But at any rate, from what I understand, these caddies carry around their golf luggage and offer intelligent suggestions as to what instrument they should use for various needs.

“I suggest a nine iron for this shot.”

And that sort of thing.

Well, if men get caddies for their play time, I’m thinking that Moms TOTALLY deserve caddies for their every day life.

ESPECIALLY considering the massive amounts of junk we have to carry around.

We have our purses. Our diaper bags. Our camera bags. Our portable high chairs. The stroller. The pack n’ play. The infant seat. The kid’s lunch boxes. Heck – we even have the kids themselves to carry around. There’s no way that one woman can manage to tote her entire expected load – simply impossible.

So – as I see it, a Mom Caddie’s job description would look something like this…

a. Offer the service of packhorse. They would follow us around, toting all of our Mommy Luggage, and finding that paci that managed to crawl to the very bottom of the diaper bag when we need it to quiet our screaming baby.

b. Offer their professional advice on what we need when. For instance…

Scenario A: Baby poops. Mom opens diaper, assesses the damage. Turns to caddie… “What would you suggest?” Possible answers might include…
- “I think that one wipe will suffice for that situation. Hold on – I’ll get you a wipe and a fresh diaper – oh, and a bit of Desitin for that rash.”
- “You’re going to need three wipes, a diaper, and probably a gas mask for that one. And I’ll go ahead and be ready with the Purell for after you close.”
- “Oh – look there. There’s a bit of brown on the edge of that onesie. I’ll pull you out 10 wipes, a diaper, and would you prefer the blue or the green replacement onesie?”
- “It looks like he’s in a screaming kind of mood. After I retrieve your necessary wipes and diapers, I’ll get out a toy and shake it around in his face so that you can do what you need to do without having to listen to that awful racket.”
Scenario B: Kid spills a bit of Chick-Fil-A Polynesian Sauce on their shirt. Family photos are in an hour. “Mom Caddie!! What is the best thing to take out this stain AND make sure it doesn’t leave a water mark for photos?”
Scenario C: Baby wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. Diaper rash. Always-at-the-ready Mom Caddie is ready and waiting at the bedroom door, holding the tube of Desitin, lest you, in your mostly-asleep state, accidentally pick up tube of toothpaste to slather on their butt.
Scenario D: Kid and baby are playing adorably together. Pictures must be taken. “Mom Caddie, would you suggest the point-and-shoot, the DSLR, or the Flip Video Camera for this particular event?”
Scenario E: Mom is by herself with the kids (and Mom Caddie, of course), and has an amazing moment of Mommish Victory of some sort. Normally, Mom would have to resort to texting Dad, tweeting or Facebooking about her amazing moment to get the accolades she deserves for her accomplishments. However, Mom Caddie is there. Mom Caddie is able to immediately affirm Mom with golf claps and congratulations on her amazing Mommy feats.
Scenario F: New baby is screaming it’s head off. “Mom Caddie, what do you think is the issue here?”
- “That is definitely a gas scream. Hold on – I’ll grab the Mylicon for you.”
- “Hold on – let me consult the tracking notebook. It’s been three hours and twenty eight minutes since you last nursed – I’m thinking baby is hungry. Oh – and the records show here that you only nursed on the left side last time, so I recommend starting with the right side.”

c. And, speaking of the tracking notebook, Mom Caddie would be responsible for keeping tedious baby records (with a little golf pencil, of course) of feedings, poos, naps, and bedtimes for reference. Because what Mom has time to do THAT?!?!

d. Checking and Replenishing stock of all Caddieable Items – never again will Mom find herself in a blowout situation with half a wipe and one diaper left that just so happens to be two sizes too small.

Come to think of it, I’m really not sure how I survived ~~four~~ (make that six and a half) years of motherhood without a Mom Caddie.

I am now accepting applications.