ALERT: Jackspeak

We're a vegetarian family. But once in awhile we get a hunkering for a drive-thru burger and fries, just like every other red-blooded American family we know. And when we do, there's only one place for us. Quite literally. One place. It's Burger King. Because they're the only place around here that sells veggie burgers.

Jack: "Mom, I can't wait to get our burgers. When it gets in the car, I can't stand the smell."

Me: "Huh?"

"I can't stand the smell. Of those yummy burgers."

"Do you mean you like the smell?"

"Oooh, yeah! I can't wait! I can't STAND it!"

ALERT: Jackdo

Jack found my basket of winter scarves. (Yes, a basket. Just for scarves. Pretty big one, too.) Decided to wear them all at once. Along with a knitted baby cap, fingerless gloves, and a Spidey hat.

It's August, I know. But bring it on, winter--this one's ready.

Well, except for pants, he's ready.

Mornings with Mama: Cotton Balls

When you have little boys, you learn to keep certain things up high and out of reach--chemicals, toilet-bowl brushes, medicines--to keep the little boys safe. Over the years, I've learned that you can also keep certain things up high to avoid catastrophic messes that little boys can make. Like lotion. Liquid soap. Folded towels and sheets and pillowcases. (Unless you like folding things twice.)

This particular morning, my little boys found a bag of cotton balls in the bathroom. Certainly no danger in that. But I was shocked to find that on the catastrophic mess 'o meter, it ranks up there pretty high.

Oooh. Fun, fuzzy cotton balls!

After the cotton ball discovery, everything becomes a blur.

Daddy is home, too. See the feet? I'm surprised he didn't want in on the action.

As Jacky grinds the fibers into our BLACK interim carpet with his feet, I wonder if Daddy is googling how best to clean up a cotton ball mess.

Yes, such a mess. But oh, so much fun.

Thank goodness for vacuum cleaners. And tape.

ALERT: Jackspeak

At the kitchen table, talking to Jack about some big changes coming soon to our family...

Me: "So, Daddy is going back to school. And I need to take a phone call about it at 8:30, okay?"

Jack: "Daddy is going to school?"

"Yes, to become a teacher. There's some chance he could even be your teacher someday because he wants to teach children who are around your age."

"Around, like some are 3 and 4 and 5?"

"Well, you have to be at least 5 to be in elementary school. Um, so, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, I think."

"Or 161."

"Well, I don't know anyone who has ever lived that long."

"Santa has."

"Oh, yes. I forgot about him. He's been around a long time."

"And his reindeer. I don't know what it is about that weird Santa and his weird reindeer. They have been around forever."

"Yep. Weird."

I wore pillow shams to my high school reunion.

This weekend my husband and I attended our 20th high school reunion. We caught up with many friends from our pasts, unearthed answers to decades-old questions (both trivial and significant), and stumbled across memories we didn't even know we had forgotten. After the events came to a close (yes, events--there were three), I felt happy. Happy to know that old friends were doing well, happy to find that--in anticipating a major upheaval in our little family during the coming weeks, months, and even years--we are doing quite well, too. Nice to have that reminder reflected right back at you. We're solid.

But of course, the weeks leading up to the reunion weren't filled with deep thoughts about my past. No philosophical musings about how both of our lives had been shaped in part by these people we were about to re-meet. No. The weeks leading up to the reunion, at least for me, were spent sifting through my closet. What to wear, what to wear? I mean, THREE OUTFITS. That's asking a lot of a stay-at-home mom who hasn't been to a fancy restaurant, a dressy social gathering, or even a movie in over a year. Right now, "Steppin' Out with My Baby" means exactly that. Out with my baby. Capris, t-shirt, slip-on Mary Janes. And baby wipes for the impending mess on the t-shirt.

After a try-on marathon I felt confident about my fashion choices for two events:

Friday evening, alumni-only night at the high school: typical Stay-at-Home Mom attire. Capris, t-shirt, slip-on Mary Janes. With the addition of a beautiful beaded necklace my sister made. Fancy enough.

Saturday evening, dress-up banquet with real alcohol drinks and other indulgent stuff I had forgotten existed: chose the Stay-at-Home Rock Star look. I put the outfit together a few days before and walked into the front yard to show my husband. I immediately felt like I should hide. My neighbors didn't know this Jenny. Bretty said it was my style, though. And he had that look in his eye. (Yep, that one.) Done deal.

The third event was a Saturday afternoon picnic at a local park. Take the kids, bring your lunch, hang out and have fun kind of thing. A few weeks before I came across this post about making a skirt out of a sheet. I had been stuck for days trying to sew my first skirt from this Amy Butler pattern. I needed a break from it. A skirt from a sheet, huh? I figured I could at least finish it.

But instead of a sheet, I found two pillow shams I liked. Four bucks thrifted. See?

I unpicked the seams and decided I had enough fabric to do . . . something.

I added a raw-edge detail similar to the detail in the Amy Butler pattern I had been trying, trying, trying to complete.

Then I decided to add a big fat hem.

Ran out of fabric for a second hem, so I stole a bit of green from my stash.

And here's the finished skirt, all pressed and prettied up.

And here it is on me.

And finally, with less than ten minutes to decide what to wear before we departed to the picnic, I chose the pillow-sham skirt. With a t-shirt. And slip-on Mary Janes. And baby wipes for the mayonnaise and mustard and chocolate that 15-month-old Charlie ground into my skirt and shirt in an effort to keep mama within arms' reach among all the strangers. (I think there was some ground-in cheese, too.)

So. Stay-at-home mama. Stay-at-home rock star. Stay-at-home pillow-shams-into-skirt maker. Hmm. Perhaps I confused a few old friends who saw me at all three events. I mean, who was the real me? Who had Jenny become over these 20 years?

I remember reading a required book for one of my Women's Studies classes in college. It was called "Women's Ways of Knowing." It detailed exactly seven different ways that women could develop their self, voice, and mind. Seven ways of knowing.

When it came time to discuss the book in class, I was called on for my opinion. All I had to say was, "I am all of these women. I am all of them."

I am a stay-at-home mom. I am a rock star. (Okay, a wanna-be rock star. Still.) I am a thrifty pillow-sham-skirt-makin' fool.

I am all of these women. I am all of them.