Anything that you might need, I’ve got inside for you!

A few months ago, I found myself standing in line with a woman whose daughter is currently a first year kindergarten teacher in Texas. About a week into the school year, the daughter called home to talk about a boy in her class who always claimed to have forgotten his backpack. Every afternoon, the teacher would ask the kids to put their papers into their backpacks, and every afternoon the boy would say, “I forgot my backpack!” When the teacher finally asked how she could help him to remember his backpack, the boy looked at his feet and admitted that he didn’t have a backpack at all, because his mom didn’t have the money.

The teacher went out that night and bought the boy a backpack. (The woman standing behind me in line said that the teacher should NOT have done this, which I thought was interesting. I would have bought the backpack.)

Anyway. It recently came to my attention that there are some kids in the girls’ school who are without backpacks for the same reason. AND, a few of us want to fix that.

I’ve been searching the internet for inexpensive backpacks (not the drawstring kind) that can be purchased in bulk, and although there are quite a few sites that offer such a thing, I hesitate before ordering because of bad site reviews posted elsewhere on the internet. My sister told me to go to a place like WalMart, tell them the situation and how I want to keep the purchase local, and see what they could offer.

Before I do that, I want to throw it out to you, because you tend to have the exact information that I need. Do you know where I could get something like twenty backpacks for a decent price? Any advice would be appreciated.

AND, now I’m going to take your hand and drag you to the other side of the room to show you the bracelet I received in the mail today. When I turned 30, Jeff sent flowers to me at work. Inside the card, he had written, “I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl.” (It’s the opening line from my very favorite Elliott Smith tune.) Now that we have two daughters, that line carries even more meaning than it did when Jeff and I were dating. Anyway, I found an Etsy store that sells customized bracelets. A little more than a week later, here I sit with the greatest bracelet I’ve ever owned—a bracelet so great that it prompted me to make an eighteen second video to celebrate its existence.

From here to there to here: We’re currently two birthday parties down, with only one to go. May Day.

Any advice on the backpack thing? I thank you in advance!
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If you skate, you would be great if you could make a figure eight.

When Meredith was less than 24 hours old, she had already figured out how to kick her feet up to get comfortable.

mccutie

The new parents in the surrounding rooms loved to poke their heads into my room to ask if they could see “the ten pound baby.”

Mcd

One mom even brought her tiny six pound baby in, placed her next to Meredith on my bed, and took a bunch of photos. (I’m *still* not completely sure how I feel about that.)

Eight years have passed, and Meredith is still larger than life. She dances every day, sometimes taking breaks to sit down with a notebook to design clothing or coffee cups, she has a knack for writing great stories, and her love of King’s Hawaiian Sweet Rolls is unmatched.

MCEight

Happy Birthday, Meredith Claire. (And happy birthday to you, Jerry Seinfeld, Eve Plumb, and Uma Thurman.)
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I show my innards every April 28th! Tradition, Tevya!

Ah, here we are again—looking at my insides!

I’m here to remind you that six years ago today, this happened:

First Glimpse of Harper

I’m pleased to report that my scarring (both emotional and physical! Whee!) is minimal, and my souvenir is now a beautiful six-year-old named Harper Rose.

Six!

Harper is intelligent, considerate, and creative. AND, if you look closely, you’ll notice that she enjoys giving off that Subtle Rock Star vibe.

Flare!

Every year we let Harper decide where to have dinner on her birthday. This evening we’ll be dining Beastie Boys style at White Castle.

Happy Birthday, Harper Rose! (And happy birthday to you, too, Harper Lee!)
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I don’t care who designed Kate’s dress.

Harper will be six tomorrow, and I have a field trip with Meredith’s class (Chinese Buffet!). Meredith will be eight on Friday, and I have a field trip with Harper’s class (Zoo!). We have two birthday parties scheduled for Saturday and one for Sunday. Things are hectic, but it’s a Happy Hectic.

“Oh! Wait a second,” you may say, “I have noticed a glaring omission in your List o’ Hectic! Prince William! Kate Middleton! Have you no desire to put on a hat and participate in the jollification? EVEN ANDERSON COOPER WILL BE THERE!”

Oh, Internet. I will not be dragging myself out of bed to watch the royal wedding (or The Royal Wedding, depending on how much oomph you feel this event deserves). I dragged myself out of bed when I was eleven years old to watch Prince Charles marry Lady Diana, and I do remember it as being sort of perfect as I sat wrapped up in a blanket on the couch next to my mom. But listen. Times have changed. I’ll be 41 in a few weeks, and at this moment I can’t think of many things that excite me so much that I would leave my bed. I’m TIRED!

Okay. The Following Things Would Excite Me So Much That I Would Leave My Bed:
1. A midnight showing of Amélie complete with complimentary sweet potato pancakes and bottomless chai tea lattes. (Click on the link. It will take you to one of my favorite scenes from the movie. It never fails to bring tears to my eyes.)

2. Schmutzie has a pair of new Stefanies she’d like to give me for twenty bucks if I can meet her at a coffee/pancake dump at two in the morning.

3. Mumford and Sons are playing in my back yard, Tina Fey has set up a burrito stand, and Jimmy Fallon is hanging out by the fence with a Pocket Full of H’s!

4. Unexpected movement of the detritus that tends to sit motionless in my intestinal switchbacks.
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Ghandi does not rhyme with Tuesday.

I just spent nearly 30 seconds trying to think of a word that rhymes with Tuesday. When I didn’t feel like wasting any more of my time (It’s worth over twenty bucks an hour at times! Other times? It’s worth absolutely nothing! You’ll never hear me complain!), I typed a search into the Internet. I was told that Ghandi rhymes with Tuesday. I’m no poet/songwriter/seamstress/cook/etc., but I DO know that pairing up Tuesday and Ghandi is a stretch. Blues day. Goons day. You stay. Anyway.

This Easter was the worst Easter I’ve ever had. Seriously. Ever. It had nothing to do with lack of eggs or candy or fellowship or amazing food, because we had all of that. It had everything to do with this little puppy and how we got her on Friday but had to take her back on Monday, and who knew my heart could bust up SO MUCH after spending less than 72 hours with a muffin-footed hound?

Beezus in the morning!

I won’t talk about the reasons why we had to take her back, because it tears me up and I don’t need additional help in the tearing up department. I’ll just say this: She’s an awesome dog, and is at the Maryland Heights Humane Society in St. Louis. (They call her Candy. We called her Beezus.) Go adopt her. She’s a super-quick learner and sleeps through the night without whining! She’s great with cats AND with kids. She’ll even take a nap on you if she feels the urge.

Beezus 'n' Me

Let’s change the subject. In about an hour I have a doctor appointment during which we’ll be talking about cutting something weird off of my hip. (I’m purposefully going to leave you hanging, because the only thing I can think of that rhymes with Cellulitis is Norman Fell? You bite us!) I’m hoping we can get through the appointment without me having to remove my pants. In other words, Typical Tuesday for Angela Pudding. (Yes. Typical Ghandi.)

For the first time in a long time, I’m going to not allow comments on a post. This post. First off? Because of Beezus and how her leaving has made me more than sort of sad. Secondly? Because I don’t want to hear what else might rhyme with Tuesday. Or Cellulitis. Enjoy your Ghandi. (Until you fight us.)
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We’ve got an 11-96 and a 5150 at The Pudding House.

On Monday morning, at approximately 8:27, the girls and I exited the house for the drive to school and quickly noticed a man sitting in his car right by our mailbox. I looked at him. He looked at me. I gave him the roughed up “Dude. This is MY house. Move it along.” raised eyebrow action. He didn’t flinch.

I quickly corralled the girls into the car, loaded their favorite Selena Gomez song onto the iPod, and slowly backed down the driveway. When I was parallel with Suspicious Vehicle and Man Inside, I made it clear that I was writing down his license plate number in one of the 38 tiny notebooks that I keep with me at all times.

I dropped the girls off at school and called Jeff, who took down the plate number and description of the car and the guy. He then alerted the police, because we’ve already had one person die at our house, and Better Safe Than Sorry.

I killed fifteen minutes (The drive to school takes about five minutes.) before re-entering our subdivision. The car was Still There. Instead of turning onto our street, I drove straight and looped around until I found myself in a Dairy Queen parking lot.

Me (to myself. Soliloquy!): Okay. I need to keep driving by the house to see what he’s doing, but I’ve got on this bright yellow sweater thing (which seems severely unflattering lately. Perhaps I should give it away?) and these black glasses. I need to shake it up to become unrecognizable so the guy doesn’t notice me driving past him every twenty minutes!

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Do you know of a place that can alter the appearance of our car in less than fifteen minutes?

Jeff (always dealing with me in the nicest way possible): No.

I then did what anyone would do in this situation. I took off the top half of my clothes in the Dairy Queen parking lot, removed my glasses, and tousled my hair until it looked exactly the same, only a bit more AWESOME. I then put my black t-shirt back on, sat up, and drove back to the subdivision.

Still there. Once again, I went straight instead of turning. This time, *I* called the police, and a woman who was in NO MOOD for chit-chat told me that an officer was on the way. (I suppose I’m sort of glad to know that the lady who dispatches the calls doesn’t like to spend time gabbing on the phone with people like me.) I headed straight to the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot, where I noticed a manager unloading a few boxes from his truck. (What could he be bringing in from home? Straws? Lids? Those Delicious Biscuits?!)

From the KFC lot, I called my neighbor to let her know what was going on. She said she was going to get a better look at the guy just in case we would need to identify him at some point.

People, this was getting Exciting. In my world, where the biggest adrenalin rush occurs when I have lunch plans AND a batch of cake balls that need to be made, having a potential menace in front of my house is Heavy and Invigorating. I drove into the subdivision again. Still there. Still There! (This was about thirty minutes after I spoke to Mrs. No Nonsense at the Police Department.)

Me (on the phone with Jeff): Damnit! He’s STILL THERE! And I think he saw me. I’ve driven into the subdivision THREE TIMES NOW, and I’m supposed to be meeting my mom for lunch in less than an hour and I’ve been driving AROUND for nearly an hour and I STILL HAVEN’T APPLIED MASCARA! I NEED TO GO HOME!!!

Jeff told me that he would place a sane follow-up call to the police to see what was going on, because really: I’m sure our fish is a small fish compared to the other fish they have to fry.

I slowly drove back into the subdivision and wound my way around until I was parked on a side street where I could see Potential Danger, but he couldn’t see me. (I really need to have a hat made that says Bird Dog to wear during my imaginary super sleuth adventures.)

Suddenly, my phone rang and scared The Crap out of me. It was Jeff.

Jeff: Go home. He’s a detective.

Me: He’s a what?!

Jeff: All they could tell me is that he’s a private detective and at this point you’re being doubly protected.

Me: Doubly Protected?! What is he DOING?

Jeff: Well, I told them that I didn’t feel good knowing that a detective is parked in front of our house, but they assured me that everything is okay.

Over an hour after I took the kids to school, I returned home—wearing completely different clothes, no glasses, and with screwed up hair. When I looked down at the guy in his car, he rolled down his window and quickly flashed his badge at me. I cautiously approached him. (Probably not so cautiously, actually. Cautious is hard to manage when your lashes are in need of definition and you’re carrying your clothes. Embrace Your Whimsy.)

Me: Yeah, so, I’m sorry I called the police on you. It’s just that I HAVE DAUGHTERS.

(Really. I said that.)

Detective: I get it.

He then rolled up his window, which told me that he didn’t have time for my breeze shooting.

And that’s HIS loss, because I was going to offer him some cake balls. (If you give me an inch, I tend to take a yard.)
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Warning: I’m about to Mommyblog it out over here!

A few months back, it was brought to our attention that the school district’s literary magazine was accepting submissions, and that this year’s theme was Discovery. I talked to Harper, and she decided that she would love to write a poem. Because her class had recently written a few sensory poems, that style was fresh in her head.

Harper: Discovery smells like pizza.

Me: What kind of pizza?

Harper: Sausage pizza!

Me: Yes! I like that it’s sausage. Where do you get Discovery Sausage Pizza?

Harper: Disney World!

Me: Is there anything else you want to add about the pizza so everyone can picture it in their head?

Harper: It’s JUICY!

We continued back and forth until the poem was written and submitted. I’m pleased to report that Harper’s Discovery Poem was selected for inclusion in the magazine, and she was able to read it at last night’s reception.

As she was getting ready for bed, I asked her how it feels to be a published writer at age five. She answered, “Well, I’m not so sure I want to be famous, but I like that we went to Dairy Queen to celebrate.”
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Holes In My Head

At age 32, when I became pregnant with Meredith, I removed my Billy Pancake ring (long story) along with the four “extra” earrings in my ears. For whatever reason, I viewed Pregnancy as a time to say goodbye to superfluosity, which is not a recognized word in the English language. (Apparently, I’m making up a lot of non-words these days. Unimaginability!)

When I was at Camp KIP (I know! Here I go again with the mentioning of knitting camp! NOW I’m actually calling it by name! Next up? I’ll probably rename my goofy website “Fluid Pudding Goes to Knitting Camp!”), I noticed a LOT of people with “extra” earrings, and some of the pierced folks were moms and some were not and I couldn’t stop wishing that I hadn’t removed my tiny hoops over eight years ago. Because, really. Being a mom doesn’t necessarily mean you’re allowed only two earrings, three pairs of khaki capri pants, and four t-shirts with subdued floral prints. There really is no Mom Costume, right? Am I right?

Last night we met some friends from New York for dinner, and the last time we saw these particular friends was nearly ten years ago—before any of us had kids. Last night there were four kids at our table, and for whatever reason, it really hit me that not much has changed in the past ten years, yet we’re now a party of eight instead of a party of four—BUT we can still talk about good music and books that poke our brains. (Can you tell that I’m typing this out really quickly? It’s very difficult (yet such a rattlesnaking cliché) to describe how some things change yet others stay the same, and perhaps I should have relegated this particular Ironing Out to my handwritten journal, but sadly, my handwritten journal doesn’t even exist at this time. I keep meaning to get back into pulling out my notebook every morning, but then I don’t. I could learn so much from this guy. (I actually cried when I watched that video. (Happy HandToFace Crying.) His website is here, and is one of my new favorites.) Where was I? Have I closed all of my parenthetical asides?!)

After we ate at Fitz’s last night, we walked to FroYo, whose website blasts annoying loud music, and I feel the need to warn you before I actually link to it. To get to FroYo, you have to pass by Phoenix Rising. (Fact: Nearly fifteen years ago, I purchased tiny hoop earrings at Phoenix Rising, and I’m now unable to find those hoops.) As we sat around eating our frozen yogurt, the pull became too much for me. I excused myself, walked next door, asked if they had tiny hoops (they did—at five dollars per pair!), quickly checked out, and was back in my yogurt seat in less than five minutes.

I am pleased to report that I have replaced three of my hoops, and only one of my three chosen holes needed to be partially redrilled. (In case you’re wondering about the fourth hole, I’m not quite sure I can get away with having a hoop on the top of my ear. For now, that story will remain untold. Also, I will not redo Billy Pancake.)

Holes In My Head

Suddenly, my ears look eight years younger.

Speaking of which, you know that I stuffed my mouth with marshmallows for you, I eyelinered my face for you, and I Sharpied my hands for you. My birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and I’m out of ideas. Feel free to challenge me.
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This is (mostly) NOT another post about knitting camp.

Confession: I’m one of those big whiny babies who blasts from three to ten when the outside temperature travels more than ten degrees beyond my comfort zone. On any given day in August, if you put your ear against my house, you will not hear the ocean. You will hear me getting out of the shower and screaming, “It’s HOT IN THIS HOUSE! I’m out of the shower and I’m SWEATING DOWN MY BACK!!! Somebody FIX THIS!!!” (I know. The current estimated world population is 6,894,765,132. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most of those people probably don’t have residential air conditioning. My rule: We can all complain about three things in life. One of my chosen three is Torridity. I am not completely unlike Scarlett O’Hara.) ((If you’re curious, another of my chosen three is the fact that the best French onion soup is made with beef broth, and Vegetarian Me is really bummed out about that.)) (((I’ll keep the third thing to myself so I can change it desultorily.))) Fact: Today I used the word unimaginability for the first time, and I now see that it isn’t actually a word. Imaginability? Yes. Unimaginable? Yes. Unimaginability? No. And I was feeling so SMART when I said it!

Back to business. The temperature in our room at knitting camp was difficult to regulate. On two separate occasions, my friend and I had to walk to the front desk and ask how to switch the unit from Hot to Cold. (The answer? Press seventeen different buttons in the correct order to turn the Sun into a Snowflake! Obvious!) Eventually, we were able to reach our inner Mordecai Meirowitz to transform Sun to Snowflake, but it wasn’t enough. We then became ambitious and decided to figure out how to increase the intensity of the air flow.

I am pleased to report that after finding our remote control manual for the air/heating unit, we learned that the available settings were Low, Medium, High, and CHAOS. (The all-caps treatment was theirs, not mine.) CHAOS! When we took our unit to CHAOS, the room filled with butterflies, and three days later there was a tornado in Luxembourg. The End.
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Average gestation for a llama? 350 days!

If you’ve been with me since March of 2006, you know that I’m a sucker for alpacas.

The photos in that entry have disappeared, but because TimeWaster is my middle name (Thanks, Mom and Dad!), I searched our external hard drive and found them for you!

Here they are, ordered as they appeared in the original post—over five years ago!

paca02

paca04

paca01

yarn

By the way, this is what Jeff and the girls looked like over five years ago.

Daddy and The Golyz

(If everything Steve Miller says is true, we will be doing this in about a week.)

Anyway. Over the weekend I discovered that not only do I love alpacas, I also love llamas! (You know what? I’m going to throw caution to the wind over here and just say it. I love ALL camelids!)

Barack O'Llama

Just look at this guy, who may or may not really be a girl! (I’ve been calling him Barack O’Llama, so let’s go with Boy.) He was sheared on Friday morning, and I was able to walk away with a tiny bag of his hair. I’m going to plant that hair in my back yard, and when I wake up with a yard full of adorable baby llamas, you will be the first to know.

(A dream is a wish your heart makes.)
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This one ends on Wednesday!
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