Wait . . . just give me a second and I'll think of someone!

I've written before about how my children (at least Jacob and Elizabeth) are terribly picky eaters. I'm sure we've made that worse by indulging it. I mean, if we were consistent about just saying "Tortellini with Spinach and Prosciutto for dinner! Take it or leave it!" and refused to make the grilled cheese sandwich, EVENTUALLY they'd start eating the tortellini, wouldn't they? Well, most of the time I take the eating issues in stride, but every once in a while I get frustrated. Like the other night, when I made some oven-fried potatoes with salt. Just salt. No green flecks. No pepper. Potatoes and salt. Okay, and a little olive oil to brown them.

Jacob: What are these?
Mom: They are french fries.
Jacob: Are they like zoo french fries?
Mom: (frantically trying to remember whether zoo french fries are a good thing or a bad thing): No, they're better than zoo french fries.
Jacob: Hmmm. I don't think so. They look funny.
Mom: Jacob! I just tasted these! They are DELICIOUS! Dip them in some ketchup. You need to eat what I cook! I am a GOOD COOK! People tell me that I am a good cook!
Jacob: Who?

Oooooooh. A name. You want me to give you a name. The pressure . . . of a name. (okay movie buffs, name that flick!) I think I meekly answered: "Daddy? Grandma?" and he said "well, you're not a famous cook!" Ah, there's my problem! Apparently only famous cooks can get their kids to eat dinner! I tell you, if it weren't for Caroline, my ego would be in tatters right now. That child wolfed down some adult-sized portions of Butternut Squash Lasagna and then started waving her arms around and saying "muh muh muh" (I think that's "more.") There you go! Caroline thinks I'm a good cook! Of course, she also eats leaves and paper, so her standards are pretty low.

It's Not Always Easy Sorting Out Who is the Boss of Whom

Last night Jacob and Elizabeth were sitting together at their little kiddie table, enjoying a little conversation over dessert. This is what I heard:

Elizabeth: I am the boss of you.
Jacob: No, you are not the boss of me. I am the boss of you. It goes like this: Daddy is the boss of Mommy. Mommy is the boss of me. I am the boss of you. You are the boss of Caroline. Caroline is not the boss of anybody.

Ah, so much that needs correcting, so little time. First, given that everything we do is dependent on Caroline's sleeping schedule and her mood, I would say that Caroline is the boss of all of us. Also, we tell Jacob and Elizabeth every day that if they would just worry more about themselves, and less about being the boss of the other, then their days would be much more harmonious. Finally, David will need to tell us himself whether he feels like he is the boss of me. David?

With a moo moo here, and a quack quack there . . .

I dressed Caroline in her cute little farm animal romper for this picture for a reason, because we have big news to share with you! Yes, you guessed it: Caroline can now moo like a cow and quack like a duck! Isn't that exciting?? Now, I know, I know, you all know babies who spoke in complete sentences at 13 months, well, not my kid! -- but if it's barnyard animal noises that you need, Caroline is your baby. Sometimes she will start quacking when you tell her to moo like a cow -- details! -- but overall she is clearly very proud of her new farm animal noise-making talents. I would say that she's just a week or two away from baaaing like a sheep and oinking like a pig. Stay tuned!

I'd like some sprinkles with my sprinkles, please

You may recall that I have a freakish love for make-your-own-ice-cream-sundae parties. That means that we are loaded up with toppings in our house -- toppings in the fridge, toppings in the pantry, toppings, toppings everywhere! One recent morning was particularly chaotic around here. Elizabeth had a class trip to the fire station, and I felt like I was running around all morning trying to find her school t-shirt, find pants she could wear with the t-shirt, get myself ready, get everybody else ready. It was sort of like our usual morning on steroids. Well, I finally got Elizabeth ready and went to get myself dressed, and when I came back into the den, I saw this:



Oh yes, you are seeing that correctly. That would be Elizabeth chugging sprinkles straight out of the jar. I think I screamed and said "ELIZABETH!!!!! We DO NOT eat sprinkles straight from the jar!!" (Query: do you think I undercut the seriousness of my "no sprinkles" message by stopping to snap a picture before delivering the message? Just askin'.)

Well, apparently the answer to that would be an affirmative, because later that day, after we had arrived home from dance class and I was again back changing my clothes (I swear that this whole working part-time thing causes me to change clothes more times a day than Marilyn McCoo), I came back and saw that Elizabeth had once again gotten into the sprinkles.


Apparently she had focused on the "straight from the jar" portion of my earlier message, rather than the "we do not eat sprinkles" part, because as you can see, she poured the sprinkles into a bowl this time.

Really Elizabeth? Straight-up sprinkles? That just can't be good. At all. This whole experience further supports my theory that while children ARE little human beings, they really just aren't like the rest of us. The sprinkles (what's left of them, anyway) are now on a high shelf in the pantry.

It's My Blog And I'll Be Boring If I Want To

I know that my readers (thanks Mom & Dad!) might be wondering why I haven't posted in a while. Well, it's because absolutely nothing interesting has been happening around here. I suppose there have been a couple of kitchen disasters that you can read about on my other blog if you like train wrecks. And we did have a leak fixed in our basement (our handyman is named David Beckham -- I guess that is mildly interesting if you lower your standards -- but he does not look like or play soccer like THE Becks)

but he can definitely fix a leaky faucet, or a leaky basement as the case may be, better than the Real Becks.

Did I mention that Elizabeth is taking ballet this year? Here she is, decked out in her purple tutu:
Elizabeth does not have genetics working in her favor in the ballet department, seeing as David is the graceful one in the family and he's had both basketball and dancing-related injuries since we've been married. My parents claim that at my three year old dance recital, they took one look at me in my cute little teddy bear costume and my tutu and said to each other "she'll never be a ballerina." So the odds are stacked against Elizabeth, but let's hope she has fun anyway. She claims to be working on a "two-footed arabesque." Yup, that's my girl.