How I broke my foot, and Other Lame Stories

Last Tuesday I broke my foot.  I’ve tried to come up with a good story about how it happened, but nothing really stuck.  Me playing sports is pretty unbelievable, as is me rescuing someone or performing some other heroic act.  There really aren’t any other ‘cool’ ways to break your foot, so I’ll just stick to the truth:

I was walking.  I had put Allie’s swim clothes in the washer in the mud room, and I turned around to go back into the kitchen.  All of a sudden, I was sitting on the floor in excruciating pain.  My best guess is that I somehow miss-stepped and instead of using the bottom of my foot like most people, I stepped on the top of my foot.  I realize this implies that it was my own weight that caused two bones in my foot to break.  Believe me, if there was another way to tell it, I would.

Anyway, as I was sitting on the floor in tears because of the pain, Chris was on the phone and the girls were running around gleefully.  Allie stopped her gleeful running long enough to say, “Why are you sitting on the floor, Mommy?”

I told her I hurt my foot, to which she replied, “Oh,” and continued running around like a crazy girl.  A few minutes later she stopped in the doorway again.  “Mommy?  Why are you still sitting there?”

It was at this point that I decided Chris wasn’t going to get off the phone anytime soon, and that I would receive little sympathy from my daughters.  I crawled to the couch and asked Allison to bring me a bag of ice.

Only I should have been more specific because about ten minutes later she arrived proudly holding a gallon ziplock with two lonely pieces of ice inside.  By this time, I had done some research on my phone and found that the urgent care center near our house was open for just 30 more minutes.

Chris got off the phone and found me in a whole lot of pain on the couch.  I told him the happy news about still being able to make it to urgent care if we hurried.  He looked at my foot and said, “Are you sure we should just rush right in?  Why don’t we wait until the morning?”

I would have kicked him except I was in too much pain.  Instead, I crawled up the stairs, took a couple of Advil, and begged for more ice.

The next morning, Chris stayed home from work to watch the girls, and a good friend of mine took me to urgent care.  I told her she could just drop me off, but sweet girl that she is, she insisted on staying.  Three hours later, after urgent care, x-rays, and orthopedics, it was confirmed that I had fractured my 3rd and 4th metatarsals, and I was given a walking ‘boot’ to wear for the next six weeks.  The doctor said that I could walk on my heel, swim, and ride a recumbent bike if it was tolerable.  It definitely could have been worse.

I might have scoffed at the idea of swimming or using a recumbent bike except for the fact that I had joined a gym a month earlier.  I didn’t want to waste the money I paid for the membership, so I packed my wildly unattractive swim suit and headed to Gold’s Gym.

After 20 minutes on the bike (which is harder than you’d think for a machine that keeps you in the exact same position you’d be in if you were on the couch with your feet on the coffee table), I checked out the pool schedule.  Water aerobics was starting in just 5 minutes.

I had planned on swimming laps, though I use the term ‘swimming’ loosely.  I can’t really swim in the sense that I use alternate arm strokes while keeping my face mostly under water except for taking breaths.  I swim more in the sense that I can be in water that is over my head without drowning.  I do this weird modified breast stroke where my head is always above water and I kick both my feet out at the same time.  I imagine I look like a large frog, only more awkward and, well, less green.

I figured water aerobics couldn’t be any worse than that, and it might even be better.  I joined about 30 others in the pool.  As anyone who has witnessed a water aerobics class may guess, I was the youngest by about 40 years.  Also, I had the perkiest boobs, a title I certainly couldn’t claim in the larger gym population.  Score.

The class was really pretty fun, and at times, even strenuous.  The truly fabulous part was that due to the acoustics in the pool area, I couldn’t understand a word the instructor was saying.  I’m pretty sure everyone else, whose ears were 40 years older than mine, couldn’t hear anything either.  So for the whole hour, we all just sort of flailed our arms and legs about in our closest approximation of the instructors’ demonstrations.  It was such a hoot that I may even continue to attend the classes after my foot as healed.

Speaking of things I may continue to do after my foot has healed: I LOVE my walking boot.  At first I thought it was really uncomfortable, but it turns out that it just felt uncomfortable because walking on a broken foot hurts.  Go figure.

As my fractures have begun to heal, I’ve come to adore my boot.  Around the home, I wear my boot on my right foot and an Eddie Bauer ‘wicked good clog‘ on my left, and I have to admit, the boot gives the clog a run for it’s money.  It is just so spacious, what with it’s velcro straps and all.  Also, it extends a good inch and a half past my foot, which means it has saved me, on several occasions, from stubbing my toe on the kitchen island.  What more could one ask for in footwear?!?

I’m thinking of ordering another for my left foot.  Of course, after the overalls incident of 2003, the fashion police probably won’t allow it. 

The Unintentional Lock-in

I know I said I would try not to wait four months before blogging again, and I didn’t.  I waited five.  But something happened today that is, most definitely, blog-worthy.  Facebook saved my life.  Or at least about 5 or 6 hours of my life...

Today is Thursday, so Allie is at pre-school.  One of the main perks of pre-school (aside from Allie getting an education and all) is that I have Nicole’s nap time completely to myself.  I can do whatever I want:  Read.  Clean.  Watch TV that does not include weirdly-intelligent monkeys.

You can imagine my excitement when noon-thirty rolled around, and I announced to Coco that it was nap time.  She grabbed her blankie, two stuffed puppies and her sippy cup and headed upstairs with me.

After I changed her diaper and she had set up her ‘lovies’ in the exact right place, we were ready to read her story.  For the last three plus months, the only story she has asked for is, “Jingle, The Husky Pup.”  It’s a sweet story, but anything read two times a day for three straight months can get a bit old.  Especially since Nicole is so particular about the way we read it.  She has several items on each page that she must point to, and if we miss one, she will insist on going back so it can be properly pointed out.  Also, the door to her room must be closed while we read.

I thought nothing of it when Nicole got up and carefully shut the door as I hurriedly read her story.  When we made it to the end, and Nicole had pointed out the last item in the book (candy cane), I covered her up and gave her a kiss.  Then, as I do every day, I closed the blackout shade and walked to the door toward sweet freedom.

The Perpetrator: 2'6'' tall.  31 lbs.  Brown Eyes, Blonde Hair.

Only sweet freedom was nowhere to be found.  Because the door knob wouldn’t turn.  Coco, who has never until this day successfully locked or unlocked a door, had locked us in.  I turned it a little more fiercely, and panic began to set in.  I had left my phone downstairs, and the only key to our doors is kept above the bathroom door in the hall.

I turned on the light, which is about when Coco noticed something was up.  She got out from under her blanket and walked over to the door knob.  She did some fierce turning herself, and then looked at me and said, “uh-oh Mama.”  Uh-oh indeed.

I tried to think of something long, thin and pointy that might be in the girls’ room.  But the girls are 5 and 2, so we spend a lot more time making sure pointy things are out of their room rather than in.

Thankfully, Nicole had been doing some thinking of her own.  She grabbed one of her favorite board books and shoved it between the door knob and the frame.  This technique, as you may have imagined, was quite unsuccessful.  She abandoned the attempt and went to Allie’s nightstand where she retrieved a pair of sunglasses and a flashlight.  Helpful, that one.

In the meantime, I found a single artificial flower on the girls’ dresser.  I popped the bud off, and hopefully poked the stem into the lock.  No such luck.  The hangers in the girls’ closet were too big, and the posts in the door were too tight to move.  I had pretty much exhausted all hope of getting out of there without assistance.

This was pretty problematic for several reasons.  First, Chris was supposed to be working late, and he wouldn’t be home until 6:30 pm.  Secondly, Allie’s pre-school closes at 6:00, and they would have been pretty worried if nobody came to get her.  Thirdly, I had to pee.

I looked over at Coco, who had apparently given up on escape and had decided to take a nap.  I turned off the light and then remembered something which would become crucial to my getaway:  Allie has an iPhone.  My dad gave her his old one so that she can listen to music at night, play games, and take pictures.  It doesn’t have a sim card, but it does have wi-fi.  Thank goodness for spoiled five year olds.

I turned it on and began face-timing every one of her contacts.  It didn’t take long because she only has three: her Grammy, Opsi, and her Auntie Laura.  Sadly, none of them answered.  I sent a few iMessages as well before recalling my most favorite app in all the world:  Facebook.

It only took a couple of minutes to download the app and login, and just like that, I was connected to the world again.  I posted this plea for help:  Umm--Coco just locked me in her room (we have the lock turned around for Allie). I have nothing but Allie's iPod. I need someone to call Chris or if you live near by let me out!!! Message me if you can and ill get you his number or our garage code. Facebook world don't fail me now!! ;)

I tagged a few friends who live in the area in the hopes of expediting things a bit.  It only took a couple of minutes before the comments and offers of assistance began coming in (thank you, fellow Facebook addicts, thank you).

I guess I should note that my Facebook status was not particularly well-worded.  Mainly because it made it sound as if I was inside the room while Coco was running pell mell about the house.  Had this been the case, I think she would have a) gobbled up all of the jelly beans she could find b) brought me my phone, or c) managed to unlock the door.  But this was not the case, so my apologies to anyone who was worried about my child’s safety during this whole ordeal.

I should also note, before anyone calls the Child Abuse Hotline, that we never lock Allie in her room.  Well, hardly ever.  We haven’t even had to threaten it in ages, but it was pretty effective in getting Allie to stay in her room at bedtime.

Anyway, some good friends of mine called Chris almost immediately and explained my predicament.  They also stopped by the house and tried to use our garage code to open the door.  But fate was against me, and the door wouldn’t open.

The attempted break-in.

Being the marvelous friends they are, and after checking for any unlocked windows, they headed to Walmart to get a new battery for the keyless entry on the garage, or a screw driver or something to toss up to me through Cole’s window.

At that point, there was not much to do but wait.  I perused Facebook a bit and discovered a pretty cute way to make a birthday cake.  I messaged a bit with my sister and browsed Pinterest.  I even searched for ‘locked in.’  The results included a heart shaped egg on toast, a pair of earrings and a tub of beer.  Huh.  Who would have guessed?

Then I heard a door open and footsteps downstairs.  I have never been quite so overjoyed to hear an unknown person inside my house.  The girls’ bedroom door opened seconds later, and there stood my hubby, Chris.  My knight-in-shining-armor (or rather my knight in jeans and a polo shirt).

Thanks to good friends and spouses for making this a blog about how much I love Facebook...and not a frightening tale about how I yelled for help out the window for three hours only to have to pee in one of Nicole’s diapers while Allie sat forlorn and seemingly forgotten at her preschool.  Yes.  Thank you.

Coco the Two Year Old

I realize it’s been a very long time since I’ve last written.  I think it’s mostly because it has been very hard to top the Costco/Penis incident of July.  But if something that eventful hasn’t happened in the past four months, it probably never will.  Knock on wood.  I may as well get back to blogging the more mundane details of life at the Claussen’s.

Nicole turned two on October 6th, and while her vocabulary has not significantly grown, she has.  The doctor claims that at 34.5” tall, she is taller than just 55% of her peers, but that can’t be right.  The kid towers over her fellow two year olds.  She can open door knobs.  She can reach the TV in our entertainment center, and she turns it off and on at will.  But her height is nothing compared to her weight.  Her pediatrician bluntly told us that she weighs as much as the average three year old (she’s 28 lbs 9 oz).  Add to that a shriek that can shatter windows, and you have a force to be reckoned with.  A very cute force.

Nicole, the not-so-terrible-two-year-old

Cole still sucks her thumb and has a purple ‘blankie’ that must go everywhere with us.  Anytime she is hurt, gets in trouble, or receives a stern look, her lower lip begins to tremble, and she pulls her hands up to her chest, the sign for blanket in ASL.  I know eventually we’ll want to break the thumb-sucking-blankie-carrying habit, but right now it has its definite advantages: A.  She sleeps like a champ (12 hours a night, 3 hours for naps)  B.  She is easily placated and C.  It’s just really darn cute.  Not everyone can pull off the ‘Linus’ look, but Nicole definitely can.

Cole, with her thumb, her blankie, and her Allie.

A few more of Cole’s favorite things: babies, Tow Mater, football and cheese-balls.  She loves carrying baby dolls around, and she has a few favorites.  Mostly, the naked babies.  Nicole loves to undress her dolls, and few things make her happier than carrying a naked baby around by its ankle.  

Tow Mater, the push toy Nicole got for Christmas last year, is her very favorite mode of transportation.  She can really fly on that guy too; she motored all the way to the elementary school and back, which is close to a mile.  No easy feat, and Mater is looking more and more like Mater everyday.  

Coco with her faithful steed.

Her love of football may really just be a love of staying up late watching TV with Mom and Dad, but she does raise her hands in the air and yell, ‘ball ball’ at the top of her lungs every time a game is on.  

Oddly, ‘ball-ball’ is also her way of saying cheese-ball.  Fortunately for me I can differentiate the two because when she is talking about cheese-balls she always points at the neighbors’ house, where she and the spherical cheetoh were first introduced.  Almost every time we walk by, she points at their front door and says, ‘ball ball’ in a hopeful sort of way.  

Not quite as revered as the cheese-ball, but still pretty good.

“Curious George” has become a source of constant background noise in our house, as Nicole adores him.  She throws her hands in the air and makes monkey noises until we turn it on for her.  I think she can really relate to him as their communication skills are almost identical.  She gets particularly excited whenever the man with the yellow hat comes on; she will come and get me yelling ‘ooh, ooh, aah, Dada!’  Allie always jumps in at this point and explains that George’s real daddy is not a man but a monkey.  She is almost five and is an expert in most things.

In fact, Allie is an expert in so many things that I simply don’t have time to get into them all now.  That, my friends, will have to wait for the next blog entry...which will hopefully not be four months from now.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

For us, Sunday morning is often Costco day.  It’s a ludicrous thing to do.  “Let’s go to Costco on the most crowded day of the week with a four year old and an almost two year old.  That will be so much fun!” said no one ever.

But to Costco we go.  I am a creature of habit, and I like to do my shopping for the week on Sundays, crowds be darned.  I had the girls completely ready to go by 9:30 AM in the hopes we could pull in by ten and beat most of the after-church mob.  To my knowledge, Chris was still sleeping, so I sent the girls in to say, “goodbye” before we left.

I was mistaken.  Chris wasn’t actually sleeping, but using the bathroom.  With the door wide open.  I got there in time to witness this sequence of events: 

A.   Nicole ran up and threw her little arms around Daddy’s left leg.

B.  Allison accosted him from the other side, simultaneously waving and trying to figure out how it was possible for one to pee standing up. 

C.  Chris turned to block Allie’s view and at the same time tried to dislodge the small toddler attached to his calf.

When I was finished laughing, I herded the girls downstairs and in to the mud room to put on shoes.  That is when Allison looked me in the eye and asked evenly, “Can you tell me what boys have growing out of their bottoms?”  She placed her fist in the appropriate place to clarify.  (I should explain: everything between the belly button and the top of the legs, on the back or front, is known to Allie simply as, “the bottom”.  Thus far, I have not corrected her.)

I responded as casually as possible, “That’s called a penis.”  I hoped that I might get lucky and the conversation would be over, but I could see the wheels turning behind her big brown eyes.  That’s when she dropped the bomb: “Mommy, will you please tell me everything you know about the penis?”

I fumbled for one more way out.  “Um, sure honey.  In the car.”  I thought she might forget by the time we got everybody buckled in, but no such luck.

The moment I put the car in reverse, Allie’s little voice rang out clearly, “Ok.  Let’s talk about the penis now.”

I wanted to be as honest as possible, without telling her more than she needed to know.  All those commercials about how important it is to have open communication with your children scared the bejeezus out of me.  What if I did it wrong and she felt like she couldn’t speak to me about these things, and she ended up pregnant and STDd at 14?!?  I should have called that hotline when I had the chance.

I settled for telling her not everything I  know about the penis, but what I thought she should know at this age.  Basically, that boys have it and girls don’t, and that it is where their ‘pee-pee’ comes out.  I also tried to emphasize that while it was perfectly okay for her to talk about it with mommy or daddy, it wasn’t something she needed to discuss with other adults or her friends at this time.

There were a few more questions, but thankfully, Allie is a four year old and has the attention span of one, so she suddenly asked, “Mommy, can you tell me about how my heart works?”

Honestly, I couldn’t.  But I gratefully launched into a barrage of every detail I could remember from highschool anatomy class until the conversation took another turn.  “Mommy, is it true that at every birthday I get more toys?  And more cards?”  Thank goodness for the four year old attention span.

It was about this time that we pulled into the parking lot of Costco, and we waited with the other heathens to charge the doors at promptly ten o’clock.  The shopping trip went much as it usually does, with a lot of “Can we get that?”, “No.”, and a side of “Nicole, stop poking your finger into the chocolate chip cookies.”

We made it through the check out line (and the line for people who forgot to use their coupons) before getting in line for our celebratory hotdogs.  Allison asked for her half-dollars, which she had earlier stashed in the pocket of my elastic waisted shorts that I’ve been living in since I was 9 months pregnant with Nicole.  I distractedly told her to wait a minute as I attempted to juggle Nicole, two soda cups, and two hotdogs.

I was about to fill the first drink at the beverage station when I felt my shorts slide down to my ankles.  Allison, in her effort to retrieve her precious half-dollars from my pocket, had pantsed me.  It’s possible that if I weren’t holding so many things, I could have pulled my shorts back up with out any one noticing.  It’s possible that I could have set everything down and quietly pulled them back up with just a few people noticing.  But in my shock and horror of finding myself in the food court of Costco without any pants, I yelled, “ALLISON!!” 

I did not use my inside, six inch voice.  I did not use my six foot voice.  I idiotically bellowed, “Allison,” loudly enough that everyone in the crowded store turned to stare.  At least I assume they did.  I was too busy being mortified to get an accurate head count.  But I guarantee at least a few of the ‘after-church’ crowd now has an image burned into their brain that they wish they didn’t.

I guess I shouldn’t have laughed at Chris’ predicament this morning.  Karma’s a b#%^&.

Culinary Concoctions: Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl

The Original Recipe.  Why does it look like an 8 year old wrote it?

A few days ago, Allison told me she wanted to make a recipe card for my recipe box.  “Great,” I thought, “This will probably be cute and a nice keepsake.”

She got out some paper, handed me a pen and without further ado, began to dictate her culinary masterpiece.  “This is called Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl,” she stated seriously.  “Did you write that down, Mommy?”

The recipe went like this:

Ingredients:
    4 scoops sugar
    1 little teaspoon milk
    1 cake
    Cinnamon; 4 or 1 or 2 scoops so there is enough room for the sprinkles
    1 Candle on top; optional
    2 cups flour
    1 cup oil
    2 eggs

Directions:
    Put it in the stove so you can bake it really well.  You can make it tall or little, but it takes a long time to bake the big one, so be careful.

When I was finished writing it down, Allie drew a picture of the finished product at the bottom.  The circles are cinnamon and the ‘x’s are where she put too much cinnamon and crossed some out.

I was surprised that the recipe for Cinnamon Ice Cream swirl did not include any ice cream, but who was I to judge?

Allie carefully folded her recipe and tucked it neatly into my recipe box.  Then she tiptoed into the family room where Chris was watching TV.  “Daddy, guess what!” she whispered excitedly.  Well, she tried to whisper.  Allie has many wonderful qualities but stealth is not among them.

“Tomorrow, I am going to wake you up early and we are going to make my recipe for Mommy!!!!”  She made her eyes super big and turned her mouth into an ‘o’ of surprise for effect.  She stared at Chris expectantly until he noticed her and said, “What?  Yeah, okay, that sounds good.”

Which is hilarious because Chris never agrees so easily to anything that requires him to get up earlier than he absolutely has to.  I enjoyed a good chuckle before putting the kids to bed, figuring Allie would forget her recipe by morning.

Only she didn’t.  She asked if we could make it the following day.  And the next day.  And the day after that.  Finally, Saturday rolled around.  We usually do something out of the ordinary for breakfast on Saturday: chocolate chip pancakes or blueberry buckle.  This Saturday, Allie convinced me to try making “Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl,” which would definitely be out of the ordinary.

Allison was ecstatic.  She gathered ingredients and bowls and measuring spoons and pulled a chair up to the island to begin baking.  Nicole, of course, had to pull up a chair as well.  She requested her milk and her cheerios (with signs--she still isn’t talking), and settled in with what can only be described as an, “oh, this is going to be good,” sort of expression.

Fortunately, since Allison had used some rather vague measurements in her recipe, I was able to doctor it as we went.  Unfortunately, I am far from gifted in culinary pursuits, and I had no idea how to doctor it in a way that would make the final product edible.

In the end, we made these changes:
    1 cup sugar (4 scoops with a 1/4 c measuring cup)
    1 heaping 1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon (so as to leave plenty of room for sprinkles)
    omit the ‘cake’
    omit the candle
    1/2 cup oil instead of 1 cup
    We also added 1/4 teaspoon salt and one and a half teaspoons baking soda    

Allison dumped all the ingredients in our kitchen-aid mixer bowl while Nicole pointed and grunted in a helpful sort of way.  We turned on the mixer and watched.  I was curious what kind of consistency we were going to be dealing with--Allie hadn’t really specified if this was a cake, a cookie, a biscuit, or something entirely new.

After a couple of minutes, she switched off the mixer.  “There, that’s just right,” she announced.  Nicole and I peered into the bowl.  It looked.......sticky.  Thicker than cake batter, but maybe a bit runny for cookies or biscuits.  I raised my eyebrows and looked at Allison for guidance.

“CAKE PAN, PLEASE!” she asserted.  I greased a 9x9 glass pyrex pan and spread the gooey mixture as best I could.  Allison oversaw my progress with words of encouragement: “Make sure you swirl, Mommy.  It’s Cinnamon Ice Cream SWIRL, remember?!”

When it was sufficiently swirled, we stuck it in the oven at 350, and I set a timer for 20 minutes.  About 10 minutes passed before Allison suddenly bellowed, “The topping!  We forgot the topping!!”

The 'cake' after the topping was added.

This was news to me, as I recalled nothing about a topping from the original recipe.  However, I mixed a teaspoon of cinnamon with a tablespoon of sugar (Allison remembered this particular ‘topping’ from making snickerdoodles), and Allie added about a half a jar of red sprinkles for good measure.  We took the cake out of the oven and spread our sugary mixture somewhat evenly over the top.  Allison added more and more sprinkles until I finally took the container out of her hands.  Then we popped it back in the oven.

After a total of about 30 minutes, the cake passed the toothpick test, and we took it out to cool.  It actually smelled pretty good, and the edges had puffed up nicely.  However, there was a big chunk in the center that sunk down, and it continued to sink as the cake cooled.

The highly accurate toothpick test.

I tentatively cut a couple of slices.  Allison took a bite and exclaimed, “Mmmmm, delicious!”  She had maybe two more small bites before wandering off to watch “My Little Ponies”.  Nicole, on the other hand, was a HUGE fan of the cake.  She ate most of my slice and part of Allie’s.

Surprisingly, I think the cake has some potential.  The edges tasted kind of like a cinnamon scone.  It’s biggest downfall was that it didn’t bake properly in the center...maybe it was really destined to be more of a biscuit?  If we ever make ‘Cinnamon Ice Cream Swirl’ biscuits, we’ll be sure to let you know how they turn out.

Taste-testers.  Nicole REALLY wanted that cake.

The Things That Matter

Everything that I’m about to write has been said before.  But it hasn’t been said by me, at least not outside my closest friends and family.  Some of you will read this and agree with every word.  Others will vehemently oppose it.  And let’s be honest, my blog doesn’t get that many hits, so the vast majority of the population will never read it at all.  But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth writing...



When it comes to people, there are things that matter.  It matters that they are kind and polite.  Respectful and tolerant.  It is a happy bonus if they are witty or clever, talented or hilarious.

And there are things that don’t matter:  the color of a person’s eyes, the color of their skin.  Whether they make six figures or minimum wage.  The sports teams they support.  The church they choose to attend, or not attend.  The music they sing in their car.  Whether they are attracted to men or women.

Yup, I said it.  And I mean it.  Which is why whenever I see yet another protest against same-sex marriage, or another piece of legislation that sets out to ban it, I think to myself, “What a colossal waste of time.”  There are people starving all over the world.  There are people right here in the United States that can’t afford to take their kids to the doctor.  There are people who are unemployed, homeless, and terminally ill.

There are certainly issues that are worth addressing and correcting.  Two consenting adults promising to love and protect each other is simply not one of them.  Marriage needs to be an institution available to everyone, everywhere.  Period.

And I have yet to hear a shred of evidence to the contrary.  Yes, I’ve heard the commonly touted lines: “Protect the sanctity of marriage!” Divorce rates are at an all time high.  We have reality shows that end with marriage proposals.  Marriage today may have problems, but the sex of its members is not one of them. 

    “What will I tell my children?”  I know what I will tell mine.  Two people get married when they are in love and in a committed relationship which they wish to have acknowledged and recognized legally.
 
“God meant for marriage to be between one man and one woman!”  If there is a god that is worth following, we will be judged not for allowing acts of love, but for allowing acts of hatred.

And the kicker?  Few of the people who are so vehemently opposed to same-sex marriage will actually be affected by it.  Did you notice when Jill and Joe Schmoe from two cities over got married?  Unless you knew the happy couple, probably not.  So why would you notice if Jill and Jane Doe got married?  This world needs as many examples of everlasting love as it can get.

In February, Washington State lawmakers voted to make same-sex marriage legal.  However, opponents of the law gathered enough signatures to require that the matter be added to the November ballot.  If you believe in marriage equality, please vote to approve Referendum 74!  If you do not believe in marriage equality, please do not vote at all.  Kidding, kidding.  Mostly. ;)

The Fairy-Unicorn-Rainbow Princess

Growing up, I was not exactly what you’d call a girly-girl.  I despised dresses almost as much as I loathed the lace tights that accompanied them.  My idea of style was pairing teal socks with teal shorts and a teal tee-shirt.  I would complete my monochromatic look with a teal windbreaker and four teal barrettes.  I wore my hair in two pigtails every day until the 6th grade, and I wore my pants pulled up so high that they were dual functioning; I was able to delay the purchase of a bra by a full year.  Lovely visual, yes?  [Picture of me in my Bra-nts to come if my parents can round one up...]

Things got slightly better for me with the re-invention of low-rise jeans (a godsend for the short-waisted) and a few months of access to TLC’s, “What not to Wear.”  My hair was eventually introduced to those mane taming essentials: the hair dryer, the curling iron and my personal favorite, the flat iron.  I learned a few make-up tricks, and my sister got me mostly up to speed on the importance of accessories.  With enough time and motivation, I can fake a sense of style for an evening or two, but mostly, I still rock the pony-tail-no-make-up-tee-shirt-and-jeans look that has been my signature style for the past twenty or so years.

Allie looking fierce in her chosen outfit.

You can imagine my surprise when my first daughter turned out to be Allison.  At 18 months old, she owned more purses than I did.  She was expressing strong opinions on her clothing before she turned two.  By the age of three, Allie had sworn off jeans in lieu of dresses (preferably pink or purple).  I recently discovered her in her room wearing a green tutu, a butterfly patterned tunic top and bright pink leggings.  “I bet you never thought of putting this outfit together!” she exclaimed proudly.

Allie’s favorite color is rainbow, and she wants to be a princess when she grows up.  Specifically, she hopes to be Princess Tiana.  I have caught her staring wistfully out her window on several occasions, whispering, “I wish I had a pet unicorn.”  She details the proper way her hair should be done, and is constantly seeking out new nail polish colors for her self performed manicures and pedicures.

Princess training.  Note the mani.

And she is more than happy to share her fashion knowledge with me, her poor style-stunted mother.  She brushes my hair and paints my nails, and is forever hoping to pick out my clothes.  Awkwardly, she gravitates towards the silky negligés that have been stashed in the back of my closet since Chris’ and my honeymoon six years ago, but she is usually placated with a casual dress and some jewelry.

My eldest daughter may be one of the girliest-girls I know, but she still has some not-so-girly interests.  She loves to dig in the garden with Chris and run barefoot in the back yard.  Her newly found love of He-man (thank you, Netflix) has made her more adept at playing super heroes: instead of whacking hulk with a sword while screaming, “piñata,” she now makes The Abomination skulk up to an opponent, and in her lowest register she growls, “You can’t handle me!”

I don’t know where life will lead Allison, but I am sure that wherever she goes, she will go in style.

Allie and her lady in waiting, going in style.