Tag Archives: birthday

It Was Such a Cute Little Tushie

Chickie turned seven years old today, which means I’ve been a mother for seven years. I think I’m totally getting this parenting thing now. Upon heading out for a small celebration with a few of her friends, she warned me in her most stern seven-year-old voice:

“Now remember, Mom. You can talk to my friends about anything EXCEPT for my teeny tiny baby tushie.”

Mom? I have become you.

Little Sister: taking notes on tushie talk.


Things You Can Do with Playdough

Dumples is four today!

Every Wednesday and Friday she goes to preschool. Every Wednesday and Friday, she cries at drop off. At the end of the two hours, she has had a great time. Every Wednesday and Friday at dinner, I ask her what she did at preschool.

“I played wif Playdough,” she tells me.

“You sure play with Playdough a lot,” I told her. Better at preschool than at home. That stuff is crazy hard to get out of nooks and crannies, and once it gets under your fingernails, fuggedaboudit.

“Yeah,” agrees Dumples. “He’s my best fwiend.”

Wait, what?

“You mean the clay stuff that you mush into shapes and hide in the couch cushions?”

“No. Playdough isn’t a clay stuff. Playdough is a puhson.”

Today, for Dumple’s birthday, I took the day off from work to do fun stuff with her. (Yay birthdays!) First, I accompanied her to preschool so she could show me all the cool stuff they have to play with.

“Okay,” I said, kneeling down next to her as we glanced around the room buzzing with eager children, “which one is Playdough?”

“Uh, Mom,” she hissed at me, “There’s no kid named Playdough. That was just pwetend.”

Dumples + Playdough = Best Friends

At the end of preschool, I picked her up to take her to lunch (Chuck E. Cheese!). “How was preschool?” She told me she wasn’t shy today, on her birthday; she talked! She told the class about her show-and-tell item, her Flying Doggie. “And I played with Playdough,” she said. And she laughed.

The Tempest AKA The Birthday Party

A wise woman once told me that a house filled with preschool aged girls is akin to a NASCAR event, with children running laps until they are sweating (yet they never crash…except into mirrors).

Unfortunately, that wise woman did not bestow that wisdom upon me until five minutes prior to eight school-aged girls arriving and immediately converging into an Olympic style event that involved running, running, running…and not stopping. Ever.

Erma’s art-themed birthday party was 5% art, 5% cake and apple juice refills, and 90% tempest.

Erma said it was the best party she had ever had.

Next year in Jerusalem. Or the gymnastics studio or Clay Your Way or the zoo or…anywhere but here.

Eating Her Cake

The only picture I took of the birthday girl at her birthday party.

Leftover Cake

Sigourney really gets into her cake.

O the Owl

Our homemade O the Owl pinata. We decided giving a bunch of very, um, “active” girls a bat and telling them to start swinging would not make the best ending to the party, so we’re saving the pinata. Maybe for next year. 😉

Daniel Tiger Cake

It was interesting to cut this (divine) chocolate Daniel Tiger cake. I had to lop off the ears, then someone wanted a shoe, then someone else wanted a piece of stomach. I think I ended up eating his rear end.


That’s my girl. My five-year-old girl.

Happy Birthday Clifford

How do you know when it is your fish’s birthday? Simple. He tells you.


For Clifford’s birthday, Erma did exactly as Clifford asked. She even gave him a present: a picture for his wall.


Now Clifford can look outside his tank and see a picture of himself and all of the things that he gets to look at 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. There’s his bridge, his gravel, his fake purple flowers, and even the bottom of the filter.


Clifford seems to think that Giant Fake Clifford is his enemy. He gets all puffed up when he looks at himself. He gets that way around Flathead, too.


Here’s a chill flake, Clifford. Just relax and enjoy the show you are starring in. And have a happy birthday!

T-Shirts for America!

In honor of American’s 236th birthday, I present to you something more American than apple pie: my t-shirt collection.

The essence of America is punk rock, Jazzercise, and men who aren’t afraid to wear sequins. Also, this is the end-all and be-all of my t-shirt collection. What is it about t-shirts? I never wear them. Ever.

If that’s not America enough for you, how about these girls?

Red-white-and-blue popsicles. You know you’re not in France, Australia, or Norway when you see these three colors together. Am I right or am I right?

Happy birthday, America! You are still just a toddler of a nation, having your temper tantrums when you don’t get your way, always wanting the opposite of what is good for you, and never ever ever ever ever letting anybody get enough sleep at night.

The Wish

Erma has been counting down her birthday for about 366 days. (It was a Leap Year. The torture was even more drawn out than it would otherwise be.)

Then! Finally! Erma turned four on March 28. Somehow or other, she ended up with not one but TWO birthday parties, a cupcake party at preschool and a friends party at the children’s museum. (I blame her parents for lack of organization.)

For the past, say 178 days or so, Erma has been continuously informing me of her birthday cake. It has been the same every, single day. And it all came to fruition (cakition?) today at her second party:

Chocolate cake with strawberry frosting, jungle theme with Scooby Doo surrounded by animals. Holding a flashlight. Check, check, check, check, check. I know an awesome cake decorator.

As her friends gathered around the table, a fairly large number of four-ish-year-olds were prepared for cake. Right. Now. CAKE.

That is when I realized that there were no matches. In any event, there is always one item to be completely forgotten. I even had a list (so organized!) with “matches” under the category of “supplies.” It was right above the last item on the list, which was “this list.”

One of the moms went to her car to see if she had matches (nobody carries them anymore? what are we, a healthy, body-respecting, Earth-loving, smoke-free, matchless society now?). She came back in with her car lighter. (I think. It could have been a spark plug. I don’t know anything about cars.)

Before the spark plug could be put to use, I turned around to four pink candles topped with orange flames on Erma’s cake. A fairy dragonfly must have waved a magic lighter, because nobody took the credit for it.

We sang that notorious, out-of-key birthday song and then it was time for Erma to make a wish and blow out the candles.

After the party, we carried home our leftovers (including four animal cups?? who didn’t get their animal cup craft?? I’m saving them…I know you want to keep them in your child’s Forever Box) and Granny and Papa stayed to play with the kids in the backyard for a better chunk of a 72-degree day.

I pulled Erma aside and posed a question that no person should ever ask a birthday girl. “What did you wish for, when you blew the candles out?” I asked softly into her ear.

She whispered back, “Scooby snacks.”

"Scooby snacks."

That’s my girl.

That’s my four-year-old girl.