Rachel Callahan

On Lying to the Children.

November 30, 2012November 30, 2012 Rachel Callahan Deception: A Parent's Best Friend, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Storytime

There are many things about parenthood that look much more romantic on the front side than they actually turn out to be.

Rocking your newborn back to sleep in the middle of the night, for one.

Go ahead…take a minute to reminisce on what your pre-childbearing image was: long white silk nightgown, perfectly rolled hair, cheek-to-cheek with a snuggling, warm, delicious infant – just like on the diaper commercials.

Now picture what it was really like: half asleep, manic from lack of sleep, puke covered, possibly poo splattered but too dark to tell and you didn’t DARE turn on a light to check, desperately moaning lullabies and frantically rocking in hopes that the arch-backed angry baby would JUST SHUT UP FOR ONE BLASTED SECOND.

I propose that Santa is another one of those items of dashed romance.

Santa is just weird.

Maybe we’re terrible parents, but it seems completely and wholly unnatural to propagate a farcical story about a magical old man who has an entire colony of enslaved LPs building toys that could just as easily be bought at Amazon.

And don’t get me wrong – we went into this with the fanciest of ideas. We debated heartily on the pro-Santa side of things when our friends cast their doubts.

But when our first kid actually got old enough to understand and actually…BELIEVE, things got weird. It felt awkward.

But we stuck to our moral position. We played the game. We told the lies.

And quite honestly, were shocked when Ali bought it.

She’s the practical type – you won’t be convincing her that you pulled a quarter out of her ear or that you can remove your thumb. Even at the very first mention of the Tooth Fairy, she scoffed and said, “Mommy – you KNOW fairies aren’t real.”

But she believed the Santa crap.

And last year, we finally figured out why.

She’s seen Santa. He’s at the mall.

And plus, she gets other deliveries. The UPS man makes regular stops at our house, and she’s well acquainted with terms like “Zulily” and “Tea Collection.”

So why shouldn’t Santa Claus make a stop once a year?

That’s right. To her, Santa Claus is nothing more than a Glorified UPS Man.

What can Red do for you?

No. Big. Deal.

In fact, just this week she told me, “Mommy. My friend told me that Santa Claus isn’t real. Isn’t that silly?? I guess she hasn’t seen him – he’s right there at the mall!”

However, she’s never wanted to actually visit him. And, being that she was extremely shy since birth, we never once chose to put ourselves through the pain of forcing her. The closest she ever wanted to get was to peer down at him from the upper floor of the mall and watch the chaos below.

And Chris and I scoffed at those parents – the ones with screaming kids in the endless lines who paid $49.99 to have a 5×7 of their red-faced, snot-covered, terror-stricken kid being pinned down by some strange man with neglected facial growths.

But this year was different.

This year, Ali has been writing voraciously. This proclivity spilled over into the creation of a Christmas Wish List.

“Mommy. I made a list of what I want Santa to bring me. So I need to go to the mall and give it to him.”

“You need to…what??”

“I need to take my list to Santa.”

“YOU. Are actually going to go sit in Santa’s lap and talk to him??”

“No. I will sit NEXT to him. He has a big chair.”

“Okay…”

That night, I told Chris of her plans.

“She’s going to WHAT???”

“I know. She’ll never do it. We’ll wait in line for an hour and she’ll back out at the last minute.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

But Ali was insistent and often with her reminders of her impending errand.

Then the list got lost.

“Eh, it’s okay. I don’t have to see Santa.”

(Shocker.)

But then another list was made. And the plans were on again.

This time I ensured that the list didn’t get lost by
a) confiscating it immediately,
b) photographing it just in case, and
c) making plans that very evening to make The Big Visit.

So Wednesday night, I dressed my children in the expected hues of green and red, and as soon as Chris got home we set out for the mall.

We still had no faith in our daughter’s follow-through, but she was excited and insistent.

We had wondered whether the long line would give her time to work up her courage or talk herself out of it, but either way, it was not to be. There was all of one family in front of us – one of those inexplicable couples that removed the swaddling blankets from their two day old infant for the opportunity to give her to an old man who’s touched at least 1,563 kids since he started his shift, 1,560 of them with green snot spewing from their facial orifices.

But whatever.

Ali peeked around as the too-young-to-focus infant stared at the ceiling while getting her photo taken with the Germy Claus and, I suppose, telling him her hopes and dreams via telepathy.

And then it was our turn.

We had already decided that we’d throw Noah in with her – after all, he yells “HEY!!” at every passerby – it wouldn’t kill him to sit with a felt-covered stranger for a second.

But before we could unhook Noah from his stroller, Ali had already run up to Santa.

“Hi there! Come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas!”

“No thanks – I’ll sit here next to you. I have a list.”

Ali unfolded her list and she and Santa hunched over and perused it together, as I maddenly watched the camera people who were too occupied with selling Newborn Parents the biggest photo package possible to come back snap the completely perfect, un-posed, genuine photo of my kid, her list, and The Man.

I got so frantic that I very nearly pulled out my iPhone and broke the 1000-point-font rule screaming “ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOGRAPHY,” but I was too afraid that Santa would come unglued and go North-Polal on me.

By the time the photographer turned around, Ali had put away her list and I had plopped an oddly unwilling Noah onto Santa’s lap.

And they took the cheesy, posed, totally stereotypical photo with Santa.

And yes, I bought it anyway.

Because I’m one of those parents.

Outlet Shops of Grand River Giveaway!

November 29, 2012July 13, 2013 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests, I Love Birmingham

I love to bargain shop. But I don’t do well in places like TJ Maxx, Thrift Stores, or Consignment sales – I can never find anything. Where I have always done my best work is at Outlet Malls.

For years, every time we went to the beach, I would greatly anticipate my trip to the Outlet Mall. I would find amazing deals on and exactly what I was looking for, and be able to walk away a satisfied woman (with many shopping bags.)

So in 2010 when The Outlet Shops of Grand River opened less than ten minutes away, my quality of life skyrocketed. I’m pretty sure I was one of their first guests, and was very quick to blog all about it, and unofficially crowned myself as their Goodwill Ambassador.

But I noticed a trend. Everyone else thought that Grand River was too far away – practically a day trip or something. I would beg my friends to meet me there, telling them how much my kids loved running around and how good the deals were, and they would balk every time.

“It’s just too much of a drive.”

“No it’s not! It takes 8 minutes for me to get there, and maybe 15 for you.”

“Are you sure? It seems so far.”

And then my head would explode.

But as soon as they arrived, their first words were always, “That didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would!”

I KNOW, people. That’s what I’ve been telling you!!

Grand River is within 20 minutes of most neighborhoods in Birmingham, and no more than 30 from almost all of the metro areas.

And the stores – the stores are fantastic. I buy nearly 100% of Noah’s clothes from Carter’s, which always has amazing deals. And every time I shop there, I run home and immediately figure out how much I saved. Then, with a squeal of geeky glee, I announce to Chris that “I bought it all for 80% off!!! Beat THAT at a consignment sale!!”

There are several other kid’s stores, as well: Learning Express and Toys R Us for gifts, and Osh Kosh, Children’s Place, Gymboree, and Gap for clothes.

(Although I personally usually choose to walk a wide berth around all Gap stores. I have nightmares about them having my photo hanging up in the breakroom with a skull and crossbones superimposed over my face.)

My favorite stores for my clothes are Guess (who also supplies most of Chris’ jeans – I’m sure they’ll be featured soon in a Dad Jeans Post near you), Maurices, Rue 21, and Banana Republic. Oh – and Charming Charlie for all of my accessories.

They also have some great shoe stores out there, including Naturalizer, where I finally found the boot I’d been looking for at nearly half-off (!!):

But I’m not the only ones who love Grand River – if you ask Ali what her favorite mall is (and she knows them all,) she always shouts, “The OUTLET mall!!”

Not because she’s already a shopaholic, but because they have fabulous outdoor areas for running and playing.

She’s been busy teaching Noah the ways –

How to use the benches for balance beams…

Where the gigantic patio is that’s great for longer races…

(races which he always loses, poor guy)

And how to properly climb a turtle in the kid’s play area.

Although we usually go in the daytime, I took the kids out to experience the early part of the tree lighting event a couple of weeks ago, and there was something more magical about being there as the sun went down.

The cheery corridors in the night air actually put me in the mood to do some Christmas shopping – which is quite supernatural.

(Not that the kids let me shop that night, but you’ve got to start somewhere.)

But now I know: sneaking out after the kid’s bedtime might just be my ideal shopping experience.

So. The Giveaway you’ve all been waiting for.

If you’re local and would like the chance to get some of your Christmas shopping done at Grand River (or if you’re not local and would like to come to Birmingham to shop,) I have a $50 Gift Card to give away to one of you!

For extra entries, you may do one or all of the following:

Follow The Outlet Shops of Grand River on Twitter.
Like The Outlet Shops of Grand River on Facebook.
Like me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.
Tweet, Facebook, or Blog about this giveaway.

Be sure to leave separate comments for each of your entries! This giveaway will be open until Wednesday, December 5. I will announce the winner Thursday, December 6 on my Giveaway Winners Page.

Best of luck, and happy shopping!

Disclosure: I was recently thrilled to have the opportunity to partner with Grand River to create a Blogger Event at the Outlet Mall – something I’ve wanted to do for two years. I was also given a $50 gift card at that event. However, considering the fact that I begged them to let me bring a bunch of bloggers out there to show off what an awesome place it is, I assure you that all of my opinions are quite genuine.

The Night the Cake Pops Won.

November 27, 2012November 26, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Actually Possibly Informational, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck

I’d like to start out by blaming my friend Jamie.

Because she’s the kind of friend that grabs the popcorn and watches her friends dive off of deadly cliffs, such as the time she noted that our friend Katherine didn’t know how to use Instagram properly, but instead of educating her, she just unfollowed her, leaving poor Katherine to her doomed destiny of Instagramming her hemorrhoids for all to see.

(I’ll wait here until you get back from reading that story – no worries – no photos were included.)

So yes. My failure, too, is Jamie’s fault, although the silver lining is that it was just my dessert that was ruined and not my dignity.

It’s Jamie’s fault because she makes all of these adorable, delicious, beautiful cake pops, and she makes it look all easy and stuff. And when I told her that I, too, was going to make Cake Pops for Thanksgiving, she said, “Oh, great!”, and that’s it.

That’s it.

Instead of what she clearly should have said, which was, “STOP, RACHEL! Making cake pops is more difficult than creating a nuclear bomb from pencil shavings!! You will destroy your kitchen, ruin your relationship with your family, and hate yourself in the morning!!”

But she didn’t.

She casually watched me drive my Dessert Train right off the Cliffs of Insanity, eating her own popcorn-shaped Cake Pops as I plummeted to my death.

(No – seriously – she really does make cake pops in the shape of popcorn.)

via Jamie

So you see how this is all her fault.

Chris and I host Thanksgiving at our house for both of our families combined. Everyone makes something, and my responsibility this year was the turkey (which I admittedly didn’t actually make), the mashed potatoes, and a dessert.

I decided on Cake Pops because Noah’s cake balls came out so delicious (albeit ugly), and right after making them I found the Gingerbread Cake Mix I was looking for.

How hard could it be to just add sticks, right?

Here’s how it went down:

1. I used the opportunity to spread the propaganda of my Fabulous Mother Status (FMS): I told Ali that she could have a special treat and stay up late on Thanksgiving Eve and help me bake.

2. We had made the cake earlier in the day, but needed to crumble it. Jamie had recommended using a food processor. Halfway through Cake Emulsification, my food processor’s blade broke off (how can cake break a metal blade?!?), and took out several chunks of surrounding plastic.

3. The blade was in one piece, but the plastic was not. Panicked, I sifted through every bit of crumbled cake in search of more plastic. I found a couple pieces. So I sifted again. And again. And again – until I didn’t find any foreign substances.

4. I asked Chris if I should throw the whole thing out. But husbands can sense impending breakdowns like dogs can sense fear, so he quickly went into reassurance mode.

“What? No. Plastic is harmless. And I bet you found it all. And this is totally not like that time that you exploded an entire Pyrex dish into the giant pot of soup.”

(I did throw that out, for the record.)

4. Ali and I mixed the icing into the cake crumbs, again looking for plastic. We began scooping and shaping cake balls with the nifty Wilton Cake Ball Scooper I had bought just for the occasion.

5. After 32 balls, the not-so-nifty Cake Ball Scooper broke.

6. I fixed said Cake Ball Scooper.

7. After 1 ball, the loathsome Cake Ball Scooper broke again, this time permanently.

8. I made the remaining balls by hand, cursing Wilton and it’s cheap manufacturing (but somewhat looking forward to returning it to Michael’s Lady.)

9. As the balls chilled, I began heating our Wilton candies for the outside coating.

(Because Jamie had recommended Wilton over my previous use of White Chocolate Bark.)

Due to my already frantic disposition, I managed to overheat (and therefore completely ruin) a bag and a half of candies, leaving me dangerously short of coating.

10. Ali and I began coating with the color that melted best – orange. Chris came in and started taking pictures, sensing somehow that I’d want to savor this beautiful moment of mother/daughter bonding.

I did not.

11. The cake pops would not stay on their stick. They were crumbling in the melted coating, making a disgusting mess. They were behaving worse than a gold digger at Trump’s mansion. I was quickly losing my ability to act suitably in front of my daughter, and my FMS was nearly depleted.

12. The behavior of the Cake Pops became even more sordid. My frustration grew, and Ali disappeared every few minutes with the explanation of,

“I’m going to go talk to Daddy for a minute.”

Then she’d return with the report of,

“Daddy says you’re going to be okay.”

13. With the popping difficulties and the ruined candies, I quickly ran out of coating. But it was late Thanksgiving Eve, I was tired, and my options were limited to whatever I could find in the house. So I frantically demanded that Chris pull apart the pantry and look for anything that I could melt and coat over stupid horrid spiteful balls of cake. This request resulted in a vast amount of my pantry being emptied and placed on the kitchen table.

“Icing? How about icing? I’d eat them with icing.”

“Oooh…marshmallows. Can you use those?”

14. I took over the search and found my bag of Wilton melts from a former baking project and began melting them, knowing that it was potentially (okay probably) well past their expiration date.

15. I completely gave up on pop-making and resigned myself to making gruesomely ugly cake balls again. But they were even uglier than mine and Noah’s had been, because I quickly learned that Wilton’s candy doesn’t coat as easily as the White Chocolate Bark. So I ended up with Ugly Cake Balls coated too thickly with expired candy.

(Happy Thanksgiving, family.)

16. And an obscenely messy kitchen.

17. And dining room table.

18. And all of TWO actual Cake Pops.

(Both of which I’m saving for a very special occasion.)

(Like the Queen of England AND Ryan Seacrest coming to visit on the same day.)

19. After spending the rest of the evening cleaning the traumatic mess, I decided that I better try a cake ball to make sure that they weren’t too offensive. So I bit into one of the ugliest ones.

20. I chewed. I felt something funny. I worked at it with my tongue. And I found a piece of plastic stuck in my tooth.

From the very first bite.

21. Chris grabbed my hands right before I started pommeling the wall with cake balls and quickly soothed me, assuring me that I had most definitely found the last piece of plastic – way to go!! – and that the rest were totally safe now.

I moaned, saying that I could never serve them for Thanksgiving.

He reassured me, telling me it was just family – they’d never know.

I texted Jamie with contempt over her allowing me to fail so blatantly.

She called me.

“Oh yes – there are a million things that can go wrong with cake pops.”

Really. Really? REALLY?!?!?!

Thanks for the timely information.

But ultimately, I absolutely served* those vile cake balls – they didn’t suck away two years from the end of my life and every bit of thankfulness out of my soul for nothing.

And nobody – not a single person – asphyxiated during dessert.

* I did offer a Surgeon General’s Warning to my family, strongly recommending that they not partake. But they ate them anyway – perhaps only to have the opportunity to sue me later.

Filled to the Brim.

November 26, 2012November 25, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Kids: The Experience.

Why yes, I had a four day weekend.

Why no, I had no time to blog.

Four day weekends always look long and vast on the front side, but then find themselves packed, end to end.

Ours was filled with preparing for the next holiday (before even celebrating the current one, Holiday Liberalists that we are,)

Practicing new skills,

putting those skills to use,

(very proudly might I add,)

Having The Worst Dessert-Making Experience of my life, to be expounded upon at a later date (assuming the nightmares subside and the memories become bearable,)

Getting grandparents to show off their reading skills,

(And Great-Grandparents too,)

Capturing poignant, keepsake-worthy photographs of the kid’s table at Thanksgiving Dinner,

I titled this one “Thankfulness Abounds”:

Making a Bingo game for the adults – to make our Thanksgiving meal “traditions” a little more amusing, humiliating, and palatable,

Dumping the kids on the grandparents and fleeing town for an overnight date in Tuscaloosa,

Enduring a shocking temperature shift (note that kids were in shorts in prior photos) while tailgating with good friends,

(Who incidentally make me look taller than I am and Chris look shorter than he is,)

Observing the various strategies of 100,000+ people finding ways to keep the frostbite at bay,

(It got down into the FORTIES, y’all!! Alabama people aren’t made to be outdoors in such conditions!)

Eating traditional tailgating chicken wings, then leaving the traditional bones in the traditional tree to allow them to add calcium all winter long…and then documenting someone else documenting said tradition,

Then resuming our role as parents, only to find out that our children didn’t even remember to think about us while we were gone – because Grandparents are way more fun.

So yeah. It was a busy weekend.

How did you fill your Long Weekend?

Zulily For The Holidays.

November 23, 2012November 22, 2012 Rachel Callahan Weird Strange and True, Zulily

Whether you’re skipping out on Black Friday shopping (like me) or are already back and chilling from Black Friday shopping (like the other crazy folks), I’m here to show you what you’ve already missed on Zulily.

Because the last three months of the year are precious times to watch Zulily offerings – there are priceless pieces that can’t be missed!!

It starts with Halloween and goes through the New Year.

Halloween is important, because if every baby girl doesn’t have her own Black Skull Personalized Bejeweled Pettiskirt set, there is just nothing right in the world.

Nothing, I say.

(And hey – that was originally SIXTY DOLLARS!! You are getting twenty-six dollars worth of bejeweled skull for FREE, people!!)

There is very little that makes the song “Santa Baby” more creepy, but you better believe that if anything can accomplish that difficult task, it will be available on Zulily.

Such as…putting it on a feathery, tulle-covered, ostrich-feathered, bejeweled kid’s outfit.

That, my friends, is how to make it creeptastic.

Pants are always a thing of curiosity on Zulily, both in and out of the holiday season.

They are the premier provider of toddler saloon wear,

Baby Las Vegas wear,

(What was that? You want to see what the back of that looks like? It could cover a LOT of junk in the trunk. Or lumps in the trunk, if they’re not potty-trained.)

1992 Blossom Mom Shorts,

And thighless pants.

They’re not chaps…they’re…thaps?

But nothing can really outdo transparent dog pants. Especially when they’re paired with a matching genie bra…and headpiece.

That almost makes me want a dog. Almost.

But this dog look – apparently created with Glad Outdoor Trash Bags and a doily swiped off of a Great-Grandmother’s commode – brings us right back around to creepy.

Nobody needs a dog dressed like a French Maid, people. The neighbors will talk.

I was excited when I saw that Zulily was having a “Christmas For Dad” sale a couple of weeks ago. Dads are the hardest to buy for!! Surely I’d be able to find some great finds for Chris.

Like, for instance, the fake dog from Friends.

Or perhaps the fake dog from Scrubs.

(Who knew that Zulily was the chief supplier of 90’s Sitcom Fake Dogs?)

And, just in case you want to housetrain your fake dog, there are accessories available for such.

But it wasn’t until I ran across this one that I lost all hope of finding an actual Gift For Dad.

Call me stylistically challenged, but I am simply not feeling the “timeless appeal.”

But lest you think I browse Zulily only to take ridiculous screenshots for you, I do actually buy quite a bit, too.

Like one of my latest purchases for Noah – a set of 8 pairs* of socks, all in adorable prints, and extraordinarily cheap:

* Other 6 pairs already dirty.

They even came with a sock wash bag, something I’ve needed for at least three decades.

(Now if I can remember to use it.)

I thought it was odd that Zulily didn’t tout the name brand of these socks when they were selling them. At least I did until they arrived.

So who exactly was sitting around the boardroom table and excitedly brainstormed up a suggestive name for CHILDREN’S SOCKS?

Did they consult with Jerry Sandusky or something???

And oh yes – it’s on the laundry bag, too.

And yet again, we’re right back around to creepy.

(But the socks are cute.)

On The Pursuit of Illness.

November 21, 2012November 20, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Kids: The Experience., Storytime

With the onslaught of illnesses in our home over the past month, I have found myself reminiscing of the Golden Days of Malady.

As a child, I highly enjoyed the benefits of being sick or injured.

As such, the crowning achievement of my childhood was breaking my arm in the seventh grade.

Ailments are fun when you’re a kid. You get attention…you get to go to the doctor (yes I loved it, but no I wouldn’t admit it)…you get Sprite to ail a sore throat…you get to skip doing schoolwork and chores.

In short, I was a fan.

But I never wanted to let on to my appreciation of this facet of life – after all, I had a hunch that my special treatment would vanish completely if my Mom knew how much I loved it – right?

So I would start out by exaggerating my illness. Then upon my Mother’s announcement that she supposed we should go to the doctor, I would cover my tracks by panicking and begging her not to take me, when in fact I was pleased as punch.

(Dear Mom: I’m so sorry if this is the first time you’re hearing about my double life. But you’re a smart lady. I have a feeling you were very much aware of my attempts at defrauding the system.)

With the advent of my own role of motherhood, the pleasures of undergoing illness became slightly…well, let’s just say it: they vanished quicker than a bottle of snowcone syrup in an Eskimo village.

Because toddlers don’t quit rooting simultaneously through the garbage and fridge just because you’re too sick to get off the couch and stop them.

And young children don’t ask less than their quota of 437 questions a day just because you have no voice with which to answer – they just put each question on repeat until you choke out a response.

But yet, the old subconscious feelings of anticipation over prospective illness still remain, which is, I suspect, why I hold the World Record in the category of “Talking Oneself Into a Fever.”

It goes like this:

Thermometer beeps.

Hmm.

98.5 degrees.

But I just drank something cold.

And my baseline temperature is always low.

And this thermometer always shows a full degree lower than the other one. Where is that other one?? Oh yeah it’s lost.

And I might not have squeezed it tight enough under my tongue.

I’m going to have brain damage if I don’t do something quick to get this raging fever down!!!

Yup – 2.6 seconds.

So it should come as no surprise that my daughter also has a great desire for illness.

A desire which is only intensified when her mother and brother are sick, but she’s been passed over by the Ailment Fairy.

(Because it looks like we’re having so much fun and all.)

Noah stayed home from Church with a cough the Sunday before last. Being the doting caretaking mother that I am, I inherited his cough the next day. Which also happened to be the day that Ali began hurting all over (right after having jumped hysterically on my bed…suspicious.)

So I suggested she take a nap instead of quiet time – after all, it’s the only thing that helps one feel better – more sleep.

At first she balked, but due to the fear of losing her credibility, she agreed.

(This must have been a crucial fake illness.)

On Tuesday, she just didn’t think she could do ANY more school because her tummy hurt so much and she just knew she had a fever even though I couldn’t feel it.

And this time, she went ahead and preempted.

“I think I need to nap today. Because I just feel THAT BAD.”

(Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.)

But she could tell that I was on to her, so she had to up her game.

On Wednesday during quiet time, she managed to dye her hands with some unknown red substance, and then in a frenzy, called down on her monitor,

“Mommy!! I felt so hot that I put my hands on my forehead to see if I had a fever, and it was so so so hot that it turned my hands bright red!!”

Those hands maintained their glowing shade of red for at least 12 hours, despite many washing attempts.

(And I have yet to discover her stash of red #5)

Thursday. Cabin Fever from the sick family members set in, so she spent the entire morning repeatedly asking, “Are we going to go anywhere fun today??”

…until she remembered.

“I don’t feel good enough to go ANYWHERE today.”

“But you asked me all morning if we could go somewhere fun!”

“No I didn’t, I asked you if we WERE going anywhere fun, because I wanted to make sure we WEREN’T going anywhere fun because I just didn’t feel like it.”

After days of straining and hoping, God finally shone down on her and rewarded her with a cough on Friday morning.

And never a happier child you did see…coughing up her lungs.

…Too bad for her it only lasted twelve hours.

…And that her mother was so much sicker that she couldn’t give her the attention her poor cough deserved.

But I wouldn’t be surprised if her next effort will involve a thermometer and a microwave.

How a Turd in the Tub Saved my Saturday Night.

November 19, 2012July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Pop Post, Popular Posts, Toddlers: The Experience

Despite my philosophies on bathing, Noah has now pooped in the tub three times in his nearly two {extraordinarily long} years on this earth. After the first two occurrences, I soothed the trauma of having to endure such Crimes Against Momanity by blogging about them.

But I am blogging about the third occasion due to the pure richness of the experience.

———————–

It all happened on Saturday: It had been a bad afternoon.

I felt impatient and emotional, completely unrelated to the fact that I was still coughing and hoarse from the illness that Noah had so kindly passed on to me.

Chris had taken the kids to the football game by himself that morning and had left me home alone to heal and get things accomplished, so I felt worse that I had no reason to be in such bad sorts.

Noah had napped for 25 minutes on the way home from Tuscaloosa, so Chris texted me and suggested that I meet them at the park at 2 pm – because that’s totally what two worn-out, cranky, undernapped kids need.

Everybody was whiny.

Nobody was happy.

And I experienced continuously increasing levels of icky.

Then Chris suggested that we ride up the road to the mall, eat dinner in the food court, and perhaps visit the toy store, two more really great things to do with attitudinally-challenged children.

We abandoned the mall at 5 pm, with the full intention of putting both children to bed record-breakingly early.

But it was Saturday night – so they had to be bathed first.

And of course their bathroom is still in shambles, so it had to be done in our tub, which is not kid-friendly due to it’s double depth and lack of removable shower head.

Ali was dramatically bemoaning me detangling her hair.

Noah was splashing her in the face and repeatedly walking over her legs, pacing the full length of the tub over and over.

(In retrospect, he must have been sniffing out the perfect spot to take a dump.)

Ali was howling about Noah splashing her in the face.

Chris was watching over my shoulder, giving me “suggestions” and offering to “help.”

The stress in the air was thicker than a snowsuit wedgie.

Ali looked to the left, gasped, and shrieked, “Noah pooped in the tub!!!!”

I looked over, and there it was. Just one. But wow.

It was one of those that is so massive you’re more impressed that it made it’s way out of a creature half it’s size than horrified that it’s SHARING A BATH with your two kids.

But the horror caught up with me quickly and I yanked Ali out of the tub and stood her on the mat. Chris shrieked and pulled Noah, yelling in my direction (over the kid-cacophony) that there was more poop hanging off of Noah’s butt.

Ali stood shivering on the mat, Noah stood shivering on the floor, and I stood staring at the GIGANTIC INTRUDER in my bathtub.

I thought about the wash cloth. I thought about my bare hands. I decided on toilet paper.

I rolled off way more than six squares and reached into the water, barely able to get my fist around the giant squid.

I pulled it out of the water and turned to lob it across the room and into the toilet.

But the lid was down.

So there I was, holding a quite impressively heavy (yet sturdy) turd in dripping, quickly disintegrating toilet paper.

And there he was, all tending to our naked, cold, poopy toddler.

…Instead of what he SHOULD have been doing, which was noticing that the toilet lid right next to him was closed.

That might have been the moment I cracked.

“Toilet! Toilet!! TOILET!!!!!!”

Chris checked up, reached around, and lifted the lid.

But I didn’t wait on him. I launched the log prematurely.

And as it sailed in a beautiful arcing spiral five feet across the bathroom, it hit Chris square in the back of his retreating hand.

After it donged off the upright, The Rocket dropped right into the bowl.

kerploosh.

I looked up and made eye contact with my husband. This was a moment – a climax even – of unendurable foulness. What was he going to say?

But he started laughing hysterically.

And then I started laughing, physically feeling the burden of stress dissipating instantaneously.

Noah continued complaining about his cold, poopy butt.

Ali didn’t take a break from whimpering about her share in the tragedy.

But we ignored our naked children as we convulsed with laughter, fully enjoying the experience of having happy hearts for the first time that night.

———————–

The moral of the story is: He who can withstand rockets of crap and return volleys of laughter is well worth keeping around.

And the takeaway from this story is: As you get everyone’s perfectly posed and coordinating Christmas photo cards over the next few weeks, don’t lose sight of what parenting really looks like.

Epilogue: The next morning, it became apparent that the pre-church bath had been completely unnecessary, as Noah and I were coughing worse than ever and Chris had developed some sort of horrible stomach plague. It is undecided as to whether Chris’ illness was caused by his poor choices at the mall food court or from the five pound brick of e. coli that I threw at him. But either way, our Saturday night was better because of it.

Observations of the Sleeping.

November 17, 2012November 17, 2012 Rachel Callahan Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, Toddlers: The Experience, Weird Strange and True

I don’t often get to see my children sleeping.

Some of our friends go into their kid’s rooms every night to check on them and kiss them on the head, but we are not one of those families. We do nothing that might possibly disturb their sleep – especially if it is just for our own viewing pleasure.

Some people sleep with their children so that they can glance over at any given moment in the night and bask in the preciousness of their sleeping offspring. We are not one of those families. We do nothing to disturb our own sleep – because we’re selfish like that.

So it is a thrill to catch a glimpse of their sleep – and it makes it all the more endearing due to the fact that it is such a rare sight.

So this morning when I woke up gloriously late in an empty house and saw Chris’ tweet about waking the children to take them to the football game, I absolutely swooned over this photo of Noah.

There is just nothing more loveable than that pose, is there?

So cute. So cuddleable. So kissable. So…

Until Chris’ Aunt Kitty pointed out The Great Similarity.

To my post yesterday.

<<CUE CHEESY HORROR FILM MUSIC>>

My son IS the Sleeping Baby Mould*.

So much for enjoying my sleeping baby photo. Now all I can think about is whether he’s butter pecan or vanilla on the inside.

Abrupt iPhone Subject Changes.

November 16, 2012November 15, 2012 Rachel Callahan I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Photographical Oddities, Weird Strange and True

(There’s no segue between photos in my iPhone. So why should I provide them?)

I was searching my Amazon app for Converse Sneakers for Ali. Inexplicably nestled within the dozens of various colored shoes was this beauty:

The first thing that struck me was the price. $30+ for a silicone mould* of a baby?

Secondly. Who wants to eat a baby cake?

I delved deeper into the world of moulds*, hoping to see more baby cake making moulds*.

I mean, that’s just an painful position. Who wants to eat an awkwardly sleeping baby who is probably going to wake up with a sore neck except that he’s not going to wake up because YOU ATE HIM???

My mould* journey continued.

WHAT KIND OF CREEPER WANTS TO EAT A NAKED SLEEPING BABY CAKE???

Then I found myself in the uploaded user pictures of finished products.

My probability of nightmare was only intensified when I found myself staring at a flesh-tinted edible baby.

And then in entire naked baby nursery atop cupcakes.

And, I had to admit, that I found the most gorgeous use of an edible baby ever.

But who can manage to eat a symbolic representation of their child, let alone on the day of their Christening?

It’s all just so confusing.

* I’m assuming the spelling of mould indicates that this is a British or Australian product. Perhaps edible babies are more popular overseas where they carelessly add extra vowels into words? Help me understand, people across the pond.

I don’t remember what I was searching for, but it doesn’t seem to me that “what if you ha” is specific enough to ONLY pull up bodily function results.

Clearly, we as a world have not had enough physiology classes.

Because Katherine asked for more texts between Chris and I.

I had to use the public restroom at the library. A one-holer opening up onto a main library corridor. And saw this sign on the inside of the door.

When I send jeans back to Vault as damaged, I have to fill out a note explaining exactly what is the matter with them.

I’m sure a Razorbacks fan somewhere would have appreciated those jeans.

I’ve been on a hunt for boots this fall. I wanted something specific, and I finally found them last week.

However, these were NOT the boots I was looking for.

And in case they are the boots you’re looking for, you might want to know the price:

Unfortunately, the signs of the season are everywhere.

Even Siri knows what’s up.

…or at least she does for SOME teams.

Clearly, she’s not an objective observer of college football. But then again, who is?

Underthings.

Let’s talk underthings.

For instance, underthings should probably never say “woof.”

(Yes – that’s a terrible picture. But no – I didn’t want to be the person spotted taking photos in the underwear section at Belk.)

Back to not saying woof.

…Unless they’re these underthings, in which case, they’re probably saying worse things than woof.

Siri isn’t much of a foodie.

This lost it’s owner at an Alabama Football Game. It was then passed through our section for everyone to see.

And finally, I worked up the courage to ask Siri THE important question – one that she needs to answer correctly if indeed she wants to be my Siri.

She’s hiding something. I just know it.

On Baking Toddlers.

November 14, 2012November 13, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Toddlers: The Experience

(And I do mean “baking” in an adjective sort of way – you know, toddlers who bake.)

Last Sunday, Noah was Nursery-Inappropriate, thanks to a bad cough.

Although I suspected that his cough was due to the home “renovations” during which were (are) in the midst, I make special care not to cast any doubt over his well-being when under the care of The Church – especially since The Great Hand, Foot and Mouth Outbreak of 2012.

(None of us Mommies desire to suspect each other for any future possible outbreaks, so I would feel compelled to tell every other Mommy in attendance that “It’s the massive dehumidifiers!! I swear!!”)

So Chris and Ali went to Church, and Noah and I stayed home.

We played Legos for a bit…ate breakfast…and hung out. It was oddly quiet.

Then Noah found a Cake Mix, brought it to me, and begged for a bite.

Normally, I don’t just have Cake Mixes lying around for babies to desire, but I’d bought all of the ingredients to make Gingerbread Cake Balls after drooling all over them on Pinterest, and had left said ingredients on the counter hoping that they would spontaneously combust into the desired outcome.

They had not, but Noah knew that the picture outside of the box implied that the ingredients inside were to be sought after, and he wanted to experience that result.

So I decided to take a chance and pulled out the mixer. Noah quickly pulled a chair around, anxious to help.

He seemed to understand what needed to be done. After all, he’s cooked with Ali and I a few times, and he had apparently taken notes.

So he began by snatching a couple of eggs and very purposefully cracking them on the counter. With Mommy-Fast reflexes, I managed to grab them before too much chicken batter leaked out and dump them in the bowl before too many shell particles leaked in.

He helped me dump the cake mix in, so I decided to let him pour the water. I filled a measuring cup and handed it to him.

But apparently his needs were more important.

I did NOT hand him the vegetable oil.

We mixed the cake and put it in the oven, at which point he was crushed by the unexpected time lapse in the process.

So he did what any reasonable person would do: he rooted around in the fridge for a Plan B.

And I did what any horrible mother would do: I gave him raw cookie dough.

The cake came out of the oven, and his anticipation resumed.

We smashed the cake and mixed it with icing, and as I prepared for the making of cake balls, Noah took advantage of the open aluminum foil drawer to explore new territories.

I managed to scoop a few cake balls while he was distracted,

but Toddler-Peace never lasts long. And he’s a really quick grab.

We chilled what remained, we taste-tested them, and we coated them, officially making the ugliest Cake Balls ever created.

(And running out of White Chocolate right before concluding our dips.)

We put them away for Chris, who is the resident Cake Pop Connoisseur.

(Granted, these are Cake BALLS, but I don’t do sticks.)

After the children were in bed that night, I presented our creation to The Judge of all things Cakey and Round.

(Or slightly resembling round.)

He seemed quite happy with our creation, so I took a chance and asked him for a comparison against The Standard.

“On a scale of Zero to Jamie, how are our Cake Balls??”

“Oh – they can’t be compared at all to Jamie’s Cake Pops. They’re two totally different things!!”

“What? How so?”

“Well…Jamie’s have sticks. Yours don’t. And Jamie’s are two bites. Yours are three.”

I’m going to call that tact.

p.s. – they really are pretty good. If you want the whole recipe, it can be found at this blog over here (where you can see what they’re actually supposed to look like). I substituted a Spice Cake Mix for the Gingerbread Cake Mix because I couldn’t find a Gingerbread Cake Mix in any store until the DAY AFTER I made these. I also added one extra egg into the cake mix and coated the cake balls with White Chocolate Bark instead of Wilton’s Candies – but only because I couldn’t locate my stash of Wilton’s. May yours be prettier than mine. And contain less egg shells.