ForMOOitous

According to dictionary.com, the word fortuitous means lucky or fortunate. And, according to me, the word forMOOitous means that you've shown up at Chick-fil-A by 10:00 on a Thursday morning to enjoy the free story-time/craft activity there. Harlan and I did that today and sure are happy we did. Did you miss out on the Come and Play fun? If you did, no worries; it's an every week kinda thing.

The story theme of this week was stars. Several children's books about stars were read, and then, it was craft time. Every child in attendance was offered either a red, white, or blue foam hat, which were purchased at Michael's if you wanna pick one up for yourself. Then, the kids were all given an assortment of red, white, and blue stickers to decorate their hats with. This activity comes just in time for Independence Day and also just before Pay Day in my house, which makes me doubly appreciative of this and every other free kids' activity I can find in Harrisonburg and the surrounding Rockingham County. 

Just when I was feeling good about our decision to come to Chick-fil-A this morning based solely on this amazing hat here, we found out about more cool stuff. First of all, I didn't know about the stamp card. Every Thursday morning that you come to Come and Play time, get that stamp card stamped. Once you collect four stamps, thus filling up your card, you get a free kid's meal. The freebies just keep coming, don't they?

And, I've saved the best, most exciting opportunity for last. I already know you and your family want to have fun in the 'Burg this summer...so why not join the "Cows Around Town" Photo Scavenger Hunt! Just stop by the Harrisonburg Chick-fil-A and ask about it. You'll get a family cow and a sheet that explains the activity. All you have to do is take pictures of the cow with you and your family during your visits to the participating businesses. Then, send the photos via email to kate.cfaharrisonburg.gmail.com. Submit them by August 16th to be eligible for the prizes. Make it a goal to hit all 20 locations this summer, and win the grand prize of a FREE chicken sandwich meal AND a FREE small milkshake. You can't beat that forMOOitous opportunity, now can ya?!

Wherever the Wind Blows

Don't you just hate those days when you have everything planned perfectly, and then you end up completely off schedule for the entire day? The kind of day where nothing goes as planned?  OK, well, I don't. I mean, that's the truth if I'm actually being honest about it. It's just that, yeah, I think I'm supposed to be opposed to days like those, but I'm not. To me, true enjoyment in life comes from living it spontaneously. Don't get me wrong; planning is important. It's just that, when plans don't work out, it just means that life has a different purpose for me that day. And...I love letting it take me wherever it leads.

To many, spontaneity is a symptom, a characteristic, if you will, of the immature...the irresponsible...of those daggone teenagers. First of all, if you wanna call me immature, so be it. Most likely, you'd be right. Irresponsible? I would say yeah...sometimes. If you call me a teenager, I'd say, "I love you. You must think I look younger than I actually am." 

Here's the thing, though; lately, I've come to realize that those days where I do the most impulsive things are the ones that allow for the most excitement, for the most "joie de vivre," as the francais, well, say. I'm proud that I live spontaneously...in spite of the fact that people may judge me for it and that I find myself at the end of many nights thinking, Will I ever catch up with myself? 

So, I woke up last Thursday morning at 7:30. My kids were fast asleep, and I knew they would be until I woke them, which I planned to do at 8:00. I just wanted 30 minutes to myself as I drank my coffee and watched a bit of Good Morning America. Then, I would wake them and take them to day care, where they're both signed up to spend Thursdays and Fridays this summer. And...I would have the day to myself cleaning my house, which just had to get done.

Well, 8:00 came, and 8:00 went. Oh, I'll wake them up at 8:15, I thought. Well, 8:15 came and went and turned into 8:30...which turned into an extra cup of coffee and a "quick" Facebook check...which quickly became 9:00. At that point, I said, "Might as well let 'em sleep in." (Like they hadn't already.) This definitely meant there would be no day care on this particular day. There, the kids are still expected to take a nap...for a couple of hours. There was no way my kids would sleep. 

So, what I ended up with was a day without a planned activity in sight. And what I love about days like these is that there are a million possibilities. 

Once the kids finally woke up on their own, we decided to let the wind blow us wherever it wanted. The first place we landed was Barnes & Noble, where my son still had a $25 birthday gift card to use. 

Once we were in the store, I looked at him and saw the smile on his face as he thought about what to buy. "Do you know what you want to get?" I asked. 

"I'll show you," he said. "I know just the thing." He led me back to the books, and I was thinking he'd look for a Lego set...or a few books. Instead, he went right for it...something he's mentioned before...something I never thought he'd seriously be interested in. "I want this," he said, to my dismay, pointing to a 30-dollar Harry Potter item. Yep, he wanted a magic wand. And, he totally thinks it works. (I'll have to tell you more about the "magic" he performs in our house later.)

When we left, we drifted downtown to the Explore More Children's Museum to meet Leo's friend Noah. When we walked in, I talked with the woman at the counter about purchasing a membership to the museum. I've been thinking about it for some time...(still thinking, I guess). When I was finished with my conversation, I realized that both of the kids had run off. There's just so much to play with; they were lured away by it all.

When I finally caught up with them, I found Leo underneath a car asking Harlan to bring him the engine, like she would know what that was. I wouldn't know what that was. Well, after receiving specific instructions, she found it and handed it to him. They continued to work on the car while we waited for our friends; they even replaced a dirty filter and tightened some screws under the hood. I swear, the teamwork with the two of them was amazing. Throughout the entire process, there was never an unkind word exchanged. If the children's museum has that kind of effect on my kids (who usually fight a lot at home), I'll bring them back every day. Or, I could just ask Joe Bowman to set up the car and its accessories in my own house. Wonder if that would work?

When the work on the car was complete, Leo looked at me with that same smile on his face, and I noticed that he had something behind his back. "What do you have there?" I asked.

"Follow me," he said mysteriously. I should've known what he had, where he was going...where he'd planned to go all along. The car had been a brief distraction. In no time at all, we were in the theater, and Leo had pulled out his wand, transforming himself into Harry Potter. All he needed, he said, was the...scar. And, he did it himself right there on the spot, with no help from me.

As for Harlan, well, she headed straight for the make up. I was terrified that she would end up looking like Mimi from the Drew Carey Show, in spite of the fact that she would be attempting to look like a Disney Princess. I just  knew it wouldn't work out. And, at this point, you might be asking, "Well, why didn't you help her?" Trust me; I tried. She didn't want me to have anything to do with her makeover. I totally left her alone for a little while. I was in the shadows just waiting with the wipes...and taking pictures of the process, of course.

When she finished, I took one look at her and really was at a loss for words. I had no idea what she was goin' for, so I simply asked her. "Harlan, who are you?"

"I'm a Abahrigahneeee people," she said. And right away, I knew exactly what she meant. She had been learning about the aboriginal people of Australia the week before at day care. It made sense to me; I just wasn't sure if the other people in the museum would get it...or if they even needed to. She did look kinda scary after all. But, I just decided to leave her alone. She loved the way she looked.

While we continued to wait for friends, we shopped for fresh produce at the Farmer's Market. We were even given a list of items along with prices. Since Leo had stolen all of the money from the cash register at the theater's ticket booth, we were loaded. We could afford any and everything we wanted.  But, if we couldn't, we had a scary-looking Harlan; she could get us anything money couldn't buy.

Once we had selected and paid for all of our "fresh" fruits and veggies, we wanted ice cream. Luckily, we knew the little girl who was selling it, and we got a good deal...and a lot of ice cream. 

By the time we were finished, our friends were there, and more fun was had...and by all, I think. The boys built a house, took turns burying each other, and laughed a lot. On the other hand, my aboriginal princess played by herself, not at all fazed by the stares.

As my kids ran around the museum, they explored all the exhibits it had to offer. I watched as other children and their parents flitted here and there and observed as they seemed to take notice of my little Harry Potter with his scar and wand and my little aboriginal princess as she jumped up and down and bounced around.

We were all tired when we left downtown Harrisonburg, but not too tired for another stop; this time, we headed for Brusters. All of that fake ice cream made us hungry for the real thing. So, after we'd had our fill, and our fingers were sticky with ice cream, we headed off to Kinetic Kids just in time for the 4:30 karate class. Once we arrived, we met Mrs. Mayes there out front, and she told us there wasn't a 4:30...only a 5:15. We were welcome to come in and play; only, after looking through her purse, she realized she didn't have her keys; therefore, we were temporarily locked out.  Ironically, I was waiting until we got there to use their bathroom to wash off the aboriginal paint, the scar, and the oreo chocolate ice cream from between my fingers.

And suddenly, it hit me. We hadn't even eaten lunch. I mean, we'd "eaten" a lot of plastic  produce and some actual ice cream, which I'm thinking could count as lunch, right? OK, yeah, I know...not at all. So, I had to find a quick place to grab a bite for them to eat.

So, the wind wasn't done. It blew us down to check out the new restaurant, Angelina's, in the same set of buildings as Kinetic Kids. There, I got the kids a small pizza to eat before the 5:15 belt promotion ceremony for Leo (he's now on his green belt with the Lil Dragons). While I paid, I noticed that my fingers were still sticky from the oreo chocolate ice cream, and I realized I had to go to the bathroom. Thankfully, they had one we could use, so we all went back and looked at ourselves in the mirror. Harlan scared herself just a little; Leo transformed into Harry Potter; and I, well, nobody had told me that I had saved some of that ice cream on my nose and chin. So...we are three crazy people who are perfect for each other. Can peas come in pods of three?

Untangled

My kindergarten yearbook photo

At first, my daughter, Harlan, wanted her hair to grow long like Rapunzel's, and I have to admit; I wanted that for her too. I think my hair was naturally curly at birth, which meant I spent my toddler, even  my elementary years, with a white girl 'fro (with the exception of my fourth grade mullet and my Olivia -Newton-John inspired style I attempted to impress my boyfriend). Nothing worked on my hair.

My hair idol, Olivia Newtown John

My mom tried to make it look cute though. I remember one specific hair style that involved a barrette strategically used to flatten the top of my hair to the side and then hold it down. I didn't know there was anything wrong with it then; I was too young. But when I look back on it now, I swear to God, my hair looked like a set of earmuffs. So yeah, I wanted my daughter, whose hair is fine and stick straight, to grow long; I wanted her to have the hair I'd always wanted. And, I'm kinda  glad that hers isn't naturally curly.

In addition to the hateful curls (which I now have a love-hate relationship with), my hair was an ugly color during childhood. I haven't always considered myself a natural blonde...that didn't start until I was 10 or 11. Before that, when I was much younger, my hair was the color of an outdoor mouse...sandy, or "mousy" brown. Good thing it wasn't the color of an indoor mouse because then I really would've looked just like a little old lady who'd put curlers in her hair the night before. Not attractive look for a little girl.

Harlan's nightly French braid

Harlan ready for day care
 in the morning

Just like my mother, I tried so hard to help Harlan see her dream through; I did. She wanted to be Rapunzel; gotta love a girl with a goal. Only, I was not prepared for the nightly fights that would ensue after bath time. Every single night, after her hair was washed, I had to brush it.It was always so Tangled (hope you're getting the Rapunzel allusion here). Even with de-tangling spray, it was difficult to comb without hurting her. And...once I did finish brushing, I just had to braid it. If not, the tangles would be back with a vengeance in the morning, and we'd have to go through the entire process again. 

It always turned out well in the morning, though. When she would wake up, we'd take out her French braid, and she had the most beautiful, wavy hair. Sure, it was a lot of work. She never wanted me to brush through it, hated for me to braid it, and never wanted me to take out her braid in the morning before day care. We were not the best of friends during this hair-growing process.

This nightly process wore on me. I usually ended up chasing her around the house with the brush and bribing her to let me brush it and braid it. And, one night just two weeks ago, I grew very frustrated. "Harlan, you've got a choice to make," I said sternly, pointing my finger at her, using it to emphasize every word. "You will either let me braid your hair, or you're gonna get in big trouble." She looked right at me, pointed her finger back, and said, "I choose the trouble. OK? That's my choice."

The next day, I took her to get her hair cut. In between the I-want-my-hair-long-like-Rapunzel phase, she wanted it cut. How did that happen? Well, there's a little girl in her class who'd had a little too much fun cutting her own hair and ended up with a stacked bob. That was the style my Harlan had her eye on. I decided that, to make her hair easier to brush and to make our relationship less, well, tangled, that's what she would get.

I was worried about how well she would do getting her hair cut. I knew that she would be quite a challenge. She is not the most easygoing child in the world. She's also quite moody. Oh, and she really doesn't care about making a scene. It's like she enjoys an audience really. So, a mother does what a mother's gotta do. I took her to Master Cuts in the mall to see Hallie. If there was anyone who could handle my daughter, it was definitely Hallie. She had been a student of mine years ago...my husband's student years before that actually. He and I have had our talks about Hallie. Yep, not only did Harlan need Hallie, but Hallie needed Harlan too. 

We scheduled our appointment, walked into the salon, went straight to the hair book for kids, and quickly found the haircut Harlan wanted. We showed it to Hallie, and she went to work. I had my reservations about cutting it off; I regretted it as soon as it began. But, Harlan looked so grown up and proud sitting there in that seat. It was like a rite of passage for her.

As the golden hair started falling to the ground, Harlan began with the questions: "Is it brown now Mommy?"

"Huh?" I asked. I was confused.

"It is turning brown like yours?" she asked excitedly.

"No, baby, it's not. It's still golden."

"It is? But...I thought it would turn brown. Rapunzel's did."

I knew at that point that I was missing something, like the conversation that we may have had at some point that made her believe her golden hair would "dye" if it was cut. What would I say? "Well, yours hasn't yet, honey. Maybe it still will." I shrugged like, Yeah, I know I just lied. Get over it.

"Oh, OK." And with that, she just continued sitting there still and patient, like the grown up girl her haircut was turning her into. Before long, she was done and ready for her tattoo. We said our goodbyes to Hallie and walked to the car.

"So, honey, do you love your new hair cut?"

"Yep."

"Me too."

"It's still golden though. It isn't brown. I mean, it didn't turn brown."

"Oh honey, no it didn't. But you still love it though, right?"

"Yes." And, as she said it, she grabbed a piece of her hair and said, "This is the piece of hair. If it's cut, the rest of it turns brown. I just know it."

"OK. But you're good with it now?"

"Sure. I might have it cut some day though."

And, Harlan's hair style absolutely suits her. It's sassy, just like she is. Most of all, it's a style for a little girl who's growing up. Harlan will be in kindergarten this fall. Besides, when it's all said and done, we can't all have long, blond hair. We should all just be happy with who we are and find a look that suits our personalities...and one that keeps us all...untangled.

The Foul Balls of Summer

This photo was taken by Megan Smith, #1 Turks fan

Last week at the Free Friday event Turks' game, well, once it actually got started, I thought I'd ask Leo some questions: one, to keep him engaged, and two, to show him that I actually do know about the game of baseball. I might be a girl, but I'm from Page County. That makes me much more well-rounded than most, and I guess less inhibited about doing it. 

"Honey," I asked him in my sweet Mommy voice, "do you know what a 'ball' is?"

"Mommy, what? Oh my gosh! Are you really asking me that?" Some of the men around us laughed.

"Yes, I am. What's a 'ball'?" I'm sure they didn't think I knew either.

"Mommy, it's the little white round thing the pitcher throws. You really are silly." OK, I guess I asked for that one, which made me really angry...at myself, at the men around me making me feel silly, and my little boy for thinking I had no idea what I was talking about. 

I sighed. "Baby, that isn't the kind of 'ball' I'm talking about. I'm talking about the kind of pitch a batter shouldn't swing at."

"Huh?" Leo asked.

"OK, well, for starters, do you know that batters don't swing at every ball that comes across the plate?" I was using my teacher voice; it sounded calm and professional.

"Well, why the heck not?" he asked, and I should've scolded him for his word choice, but I was too excited at my opportunity to teach him something about baseball, the first and only sport I ever had played in my life.

"Well, because the pitch could be considered either a 'ball' or a 'strike'." I took my time with this and enunciated clearly, probably even said it a bit too loudly so the other men around me could hear.

"But the purpose of the whole game of baseball, Mommy, is to hit the ball and get on base; a batter has to swing at every ball that comes his way. Trust me, I know this."

"Leo, ya know what? You're really starting to hurt my feelings. Why don't you believe me? I really do know what I'm talking about." Then, in true gender fashion, my dad came to my rescue, which, as sweet as it was, made me look like the helpless female, the damsel in distress that needs saving.

In his I-mean-business-voice, he looked at my son and said, "Leo, do you see that man behind the catcher?"

"What's a catcher?" He really didn't know.

"Well, Leo, don't  you know nothin'? The catcher's at guy's squatted down behind the batter, the one wearin' all that 'quipment. See him?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the guy behind the catcher...he's the umpire. It's his job to call the pitches. The pitch should be thrown right over the plate, not to the left of it or to the right of it, and not too low or not too high." As my dad talked, my mind got distracted, and I thought, Hey, this is the story of Goldilocksbaseball. My dad was still talking: "It's an umpire's job to determine whether a pitch is good, which is called a strike, or bad, which is called a ball."

My son started laughing like he was literally being tickled. "Oh my gosh, that's so funny Granddaddy. This is like Star Wars...The Umpire Strikes Back. Get it? Oh man, I kill myself." I think he spilled some of the popcorn from his bag he was laughing so hard.

"You are one clever dude, Leo. You know that?" I appreciated it, his punny jokes; my dad, on the other hand, does not appreciate a good joke, especially at baseball's expense. He, like everyone else from a small town like Stanley, VA, takes his baseball seriously. And my son? Well, I don't think he's gonna follow in my dad's good ole boy footsteps. His imagination is too active, along with his body, so I'm not sure that he'll ever be too content just sitting and watching a baseball game. 

Thinking about his restlessness took me back in time to a baseball memory. Ya see, on my team, I was an outfielder...a centerfielder to be exact. I remember standing out there with the glove in my hand, just rocking back and forth, not knowing what to do with myself. I walked back and forth from the left fielder to the right fielder just trying to pass the time before we got back in the dug out. 

Well, on one particular day, I really had to pee. I couldn't hold it; I tried so hard, but I just couldn't. So, I just walked right off that field and headed to the Port-o-Potty to pee. When I came back, I kinda wasn't paying attention. And wouldn't ya believe it? 

Just at that point, about 30 seconds into that game since my return, a ball was hit up in the air and was sailing back my way. I didn't have my glove back on. I remember just holding my hands up, like I was praisin' Jesus or somethin'. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground wondering what the hell had happened. Turned out, I caught the ball ...with my nose. Got a good broken nose that day, but that didn't stop me from finishing the game. Never even got it checked out. It hurt like hell; I remember that much. But...I was not about to let that make me look weak. That's what people expect from girls. I didn't even shed a tear.

About that time, a foul ball came out into the stadium near us, I mean really nearby, so I ducked my head and covered my nose. I didn't want a repeat. Well, a little boy close to us caught that ball barehanded. That was the first time I noticed that Leo looked genuinely intrigued. I saw this as yet another opportunity to introduce him to the world of baseball: "Hey, Leo. Do you know what happens if you catch one of those foul balls?" I asked.

"No, what?" he asked, showing excitement. 

"You get to keep it." 

"You do?" 

"Yep. You catch it; it's yours." 

I saw the smile quickly spread across his face."Wow, Mommy. That's cool." I could tell that he had found a goal worth working toward. I was proud. This would be the thing that hooked him.

Then, just like that, a sweet old man sitting in front of us turned around. Honestly, I thought he was gonna tell Leo to keep his legs still. He was kicking the back of the man's seat. Instead, he said, "That's not the way it happens anymore. If ya catch it, ya take it to the concession stand, and they give ya a freeze pop." 

"Oh. Really?" For starters, hearing that a tradition from my childhood was outdated from an 85-year-old man made me feel a thousand years old. However, feeling like I wanted to push him down the bleacher stairs made me feel like a teenager. I wanted to look at him and say, "Thanks Gramps. Just when my son thinks I'm cool, you come along and show him I'm not."

Hearing the old man didn't diminish his enthusiasm, though; Leo turned to me and asked, "Mommy, Mommy, can I go out in the back where all of those other kids are and try to get a foul ball?" 

"Aw, honey, that's cute. I used to do that too. I had a ball collection. Chasing after foul balls back then was like its own contact sport. You have to be the fastest and not afraid to play dirty." Nostaligic moment here.

"OK, I can do that...'cause I really want a freeze pop." 

That was a bittersweet moment for me. I was happy that he wanted to chase foul balls like I used to, but I was sad that his motivation was a freeze pop.  For me, it was just always about the ball, the tradition.

Leo was waiting for some foul ball action.

I let him go and just sit and wait for a foul ball to be hit, so he could chase after it. But none came...until, that is, he had gotten tired of waiting. That's always the way life works out. Ya wait and ya wait...and ya wait for that thing you've been waiting for...the thing that you can wait all your life on, and it never comes. Until ya stop waiting for it, that is. That's when the thing you've been waiting for comes for you...when it's too late.

I was thinking about that life phenomenon on the walk back to the car and realized I hadn't been talking to my son about his first baseball game. So, I decided to ask a question:

"Well, Leo. Do you wanna come back sometime?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Well, first of all, I'm gonna catch one of those foul balls. I will do that this summer. Just wait and see."

"OK," I said. In my head, I wanted to be hopeful, to think that it could happen for him. I didn't want to think about it too much, though. "So, was that your favorite part? The foul balls?" I asked to distract myself.

"Nope."

"Then what was?" I was really hoping he'd say it was spending time with his mommy learning about a sport she played when she was a little girl. He would've said that when he was five, I bet. Maybe he still would?

"The popcorn. I wanna come back and get some more. Oh, and the Skittles! I want those too."

"Oh, but Leo, you can get both of those anywhere."

"But it was all really good here, though."

"Now who's silly?" I said, opening his car door and making sure he was buckled in. "Well, let's go get your sister and see what she's been doing."

"Probably watching a Barbie movie," he said mockingly.

The most ironic detail about the whole night, especially considering my gender issues throughout the game, is that I left my daughter with my mom. Before we left, I told her, "We're having a boys' night."  

"But I wanna go wif you," she  said. "I promise I'll be good."

"But you're a girl, honey. You'll have more fun with Grandma watching Thumbelina," I had told her, and I cringed now at the hypocrisy.  

And with that I realized, I'm just as guilty as the rest of them.

I'm taking them both to the next one.

Rawwwr!

While I love days that I get to be my spontaneous self, I also love "theme" days, and yesterday was one of those. For starters, Leo just loves any Saturday morning when he wakes up and realizes he gets to go to Lowe's for their Build and Grow workshop. Lucky for him, yesterday was one of those days. Twice a month, usually the second and fourth Saturdays, Lowe's has a free workshop for kids from 10:00-11:00 am. The first time we went, I was surprised at how much my children could do and get for free at Lowe's. 

The Lowe's Build and Grow Process:

1. The first step in the process starts weeks before the event. You must go to the Lowe's Build and Grow site, check the dates of the workshops, and register for them as soon as you can. Spots fill up fast. 

2. If you have made sure to register for your workshop, you don't have to worry about getting there right at or before 10:00 am. Technically, the workshop is from 10:00-11:00, but really, the optimal time to arrive is around 10:45. If you get there at 10:00, think about it. Everybody's getting there at that time. It's hard to find available table space to build on, and the experience isn't as enjoyable. When we get there 45 minutes into it, most of the crazy rush of kids who make a lot of noise (pounding on nails with their hammers) has left. So, there are a few stragglers who are always very pleasant, and you have all the room you need, the attention of the wonderful employees who are always willing to help, and you won't leave with a headache. So, because you have arrived at a time of low stress, you won't have to stand in line to get your apron or your kit, which are both free.

3. And, at this point, you can just spread out, (make sure you're near a hammer), take up as much space as you need, and take your time following the instructions and building your free and fabulous product of the day. The kits may range in number of steps and difficulty level from time to time, but they are always fun. 

At our very first Build and Grow workshop, we made Sandy's airplane (from Rise of the Guardians). It was a tough one to start out with, but we got through it, and my son has been hooked ever since. We've made some monster trucks, a fire truck, picture frames, among many other cool kids' things. We've even made birdhouses to give as presents. So, you get to walk out the door at Lowe's without spending any money, but your children leave with their very own apron and something that they actually made. What's better than that?

4. The most exciting thing about the whole workshop, at least for my son anyway, is that you're given a certificate and an iron-on badge after you complete the project. Leo, well, he's a collector, so his goal is to fill his apron up with badges. He has collected several, I think 14 to be exact, and he is well on his way. That's a lot of excitement for a seven year old.

My all-time favorite Build and Grow workshops are the ones that feature movies that are out in the theaters. Some mothers don't like that, and I totally understand their reasons. I, however, see it as a way to build excitement about movies that my kids already want to see...Monsters University, for example. After spending about 45 minutes at Lowe's building the perfect MU storage chest (which can actually be used) and decorating it with stickers, the kids and I headed out to the movie theater and watched the movie. 

In my opinion, and the kids' too, it was the best Pixar movie yet...in spite of the fact that the two little ones ran around the rest of the day trying to see who had the scarier "rawwwr"!

The Autograph's the Thing

For Dorothy in Jerry Maquire, all it took was "Hello." I mean, he "had her" with that one word. For me to register my children and myself to see a play at JMU's Forbes Center for the Performing Arts, it actually took five words..."The Mouse and the Motorcycle." That's all I needed to hear, and I was sold. Well, actually, I was paying the $7.50 for myself and $6.50 per child. So, the total cost of tickets: $21.50; total cost of popcorn and drink: $0 (because they only take cash, and exact change at that); total value of the entire experience: definitely priceless. Anytime I get to leave a place with my kids without wanting to run to the car as fast as I can just so I can tell them how much they embarrassed me publicly is a good time. And, tonight was one of those nights.

I mean, it didn't start out that way, which is usually a good indicator that, if it starts out on a bad note, it will end up on one as well. Since we didn't realize parking for the event is slightly tricky, we spent some time trying to figure out just where to go to park. So, let me save you some trouble if you're going and aren't sure. Basically, you must take your left (or right depending on which way you're coming) beside the Forbes' Center, drive past it and past the parking garage, take a right at the stop sign, and enter the parking garage that way. That should save you that hassle. Also, we weren't exactly sure which doors in the actual building to enter. The Forbes' Center is massive and gorgeous and a work of art on its own. We pretty much just walked through one of the many doors there and explored for ten minutes before we realized where we needed to go. It was neat. We were walking around by ourselves. The only downside to that is that, of course, my children found vending machines, and they desperately wanted candy. Of course, we couldn't find the Box Office or any other signs of life anywhere, but my kids could sniff out glowing vending machines filled with any candy imaginable. Luckily, I didn't have cash, or that's where we would most likely have stayed.

We soon heard voices and realized we were headed in the right direction. I approached the Will Call ticket window and asked for the tickets, which I'd paid for a month in advance. Score. (I always worry about what could potentially go wrong in a situation like this. Luckily, it worked out this time.) We presented our tickets, and I asked my children to pick out seats. The thing I love about children's theater at the Forbes' Center is that there are these beautifully, vibrantly colored seats front and center just for kids...a few rows of them. Children can sit there without their parents and just be right there smack dab in front of all of the play's action. That's where I would've sat as a kid. That's where I'd expect any kid to want to sit...not mine. They headed up the stairs to the balcony. My son insisted. "Why would I sit with a bunch of kids I don't know?" Yeah, he's more of a loner. 

Photo found at: http://www.jmu.edu/jmuarts/forbescenter/venues.shtml

My daughter, on the other hand, she actually wanted to jump up on the stage and be part of the action; she would've if I'd let her. At one point, poor Ralph, the mouse, was trying to roll an aspirin pill to sick Keith, and he just couldn't do it because it was too big for a poor, little mouse to carry. Harlan looked at me at one point and said, "Why isn't anyone helping Ralph?" 

"It's a play, honey," I said. 

"OK, well, can I go help out?" 

That was my most favorite part of all.

My daughter had fun; she just grew a little fidgety at times. It's hard for her to sit still for five minutes, much less an hour. The time flew by, though, and the plot was engaging and fun. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that, when I was in elementary school, Ralph S. Mouse was my favorite character of all. I read the books with my kids, hoping they'd fall in love with them just like I did. Unfortunately, my seven year old somehow skipped all of those books and is a huge Harry Potter fan. Poor little Ralph S. Mouse can't compete. If Ralph was a princess, Harlan would be into him.

So, what I can say is this: my kids thought the play was OK, even great and funny at times. When the hour was up, they were happy just to leave...until, that is, they heard that they would get the chance to meet the characters and have the entire cast sign their programs. Knowing that made my children perk up and take notice.

Yeah, so in Hamlet, it goes like this: "The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King." For my kids tonight, it was more like this: "The autograph's the thing wherein the cast of 'The Mouse and the Motorcycle' caught the attention, the adoration of my kids even"...They are now fans for life and ecstatic to go back to see their new friends perform in Charlotte's Web.

The Rapunzel Phenomenon

People always ask me what my natural hair color is. It's like they know not to ask my weight or age (except for teenagers; they ask any and everything), but, people in general, they don't know that natural hair color is also off limits. Not that I don't want to tell them. It's just that, honestly, I don't really know the answer. Seriously...

This is a picture of Leo and me at his preschool graduation in May of 2011.

I've been a blonde for as long as I can remember (with the exception of the short time I spent as a redhead after a break up that left me needing a change). Even when I was a kid, I remember my mom spraying on the Sun-in right before I went outside to play all day in the summer. So, in my mind and its memories (and my mom's too), I'm a natural blonde. Well, at least I was until lately.

On the day the world was supposed to end...yep, 12/21/12...I decided to do something that I would never in a million years do if I hadn't thought we could all potentially die. Because I'm a big fan of puns and silly jokes, I decided it'd be fun to go dark, to dye my hair. My joke was, "Something has to dye today. If it isn't all of humanity, it might as well be my hair." I don't know if anyone else appreciated it, but it didn't matter to me. 

Once the whole process was over at The Studio, and I was a medium brunette, with dyed eyebrows even, people spoke honestly to me about their previous feelings regarding my blond hair. My mother said, "You just looked so washed out before."Yeah, thanks for telling me. My husband, whom I was worried would get upset, said, "I'm glad you did it. I've been thinking you should. Once again, thanks for telling me. While everyone who saw me were fans of the change, I knew my kids would have a difficult time adjusting. They, like everyone else in my life, had only ever known me as a blonde, a fake one at that. Most people, though, knew it was fake. My kids thought, well, part of my identity as their mother was wrapped up in my hair color. Would they accept me? I wondered, obviously too damn late. To say that they most certainly did not accept me at first would be an understatement. They didn't know me, didn't like me, basically didn't want to have anything to do with me. 

My son got used to it even though he didn't really like it. My daughter, however, had a rather difficult time adjusting.

At first, she started with the obvious question: "But, where is your golden hair?"

"Gone," I said.

"Is it because you got it cut?" I think she figured that, like Rapunzel in Tangled, I got it cut, which logically results in brown hair. I mean, if it happened in an animated movie, of course it could happen in real life.

"Yep," I lied. I don't know why; I just did.  

"Well, I want it back. Now!" 

"It's gone, though. It changed." 

"Will it turn back to golden when it grows some?"

"Nope." In hindsight, I should've continued to lie to her and told her yes. 

Wanna know why? Because bad things started happening to the brunette Barbies in our house. At first, they all got haircuts...like the Pixie kind. Only, she hid them when she was done. I couldn't find them anywhere; all I could find were piles of brown hair underneath her bed. At first, I thought they were our cats napping. As I got closer though, I realized a few things...well, one, that Barbies have a lotta damn hair; two, my daughter had too many Barbies; and three, Where in the hell was I when she was doing this? How much time does something like this take?  Oh, and I also realized that this was her way of showing me how much she hated my new hair color.

When I confronted her about the location of her brunette Barbies, she told me she buried them in the sand, that they died. I got the feeling then that my hair was in danger, but I disregarded it. I shouldn't have because, not long after that, she took to decapitating her brunette Disney princesses. Poor Belle was the first to lose her head...literally. She pulled it right off and threw it away. It definitely got my attention and made me reconsider going back to blond for a second or two. And, I slept with one eye open after that. But, I wasn't going back to the light side. I discovered that it's brunettes who have more fun, not blondes. I think the brunettes got together and made up the "Blondes have more fun" myth so they could have their hair color all to themselves. I began to wonder if there really were any natural blondes out there in the world.

This is a picture of Harlan and me at her preschool graduation in May of 2013.

I remember the day my daughter got on the I-like-brunettes train. We were locked out of our house one evening in early May and sitting on the front porch steps waiting for the boys to get home. She cocked her head to one side, stared at me for several seconds, and then said, "Mommy, I like your dawwk hair."  

"You do, do you?" I was suspicious; I thought it was a trick.

"Yep, and ya wanna know somethin', Mommy?" I cringed because I had no idea what to expect to come out of her mouth. "God's girlfriend has dawk hair too...just like yours.  And I love hers." 

"Oh really. When did you see her?" With Harlan, ya just have ta go with it. There's no point in doing otherwise.

"When I was at Justin Bieber's house." Yep, no lie. She's convincing too. "Now, I want dawk brown hair," she said. "OK Mommy?"

At that point, I was on the phone with her daddy and was too distracted to know exactly what she was saying. So, I do what I always do when I'm in this situation. I answered with, "Sure honey."

"So I can get my hair cut Mommy, and it'll turn dawk brown too? Will it Mommy?"

I should've been listening, but I was trying to hear step-by-step instructions on how to break into my own house. "Yep, honey, it will."

"Yay! I wanna go get it cut tomorrow, Mommy. OK?"

"OK baby," I said.

If I'd only been listening to her...