Surprise, Pawpaw!!

It shouldn't be this easy or this fun to deceive a loved one especially after we've done it so many times, but after pulling off another flawless surprise for my father in law, we realized that we laughed just as hard this time as we did the first time.

The first Carson Surprise (that included me) happened at the Greensboro airport.  Pawpaw was coming to visit us and our first, new baby for Christmas.  His other son, my precocious and adorable brother-in-law David,  was already at our house but had spoken to Pawpaw several times previously and apologized about the fact that he would not be able to come for Christmas.  Before we left for the airport, David got dressed in a full-on Santa suit complete with beard and hat.  During the drive he practiced disguising his voice.  Seated in the backseat next to my clueless seven-month-old, he drawled in a gravelly voice, "Hey Buddy, can I bum a cigarette for the road?"  Over and over he rhythmically repeated this query until it sounded completely absurd.  We giggled anticipating Pawpaw's shock, confusion and ultimate joy after being clued in.

When we arrived at the airport, we split from Santa and took our places, excitedly waiting for our guest's arrival at baggage claim. We hadn't counted on the fact that a Santa Claus at the airport two days before Christmas might draw a bit of attention from traveling children.  I cannot promise that our Uncle David didn't make a few less than jolly comments to the unfortunate children who approached him.  I distinctly remember one mother recoiling in disdain and pulling her little darling quickly away from our faux Claus after he grumbled, "Don't push your luck kid.  Get lost.  Santa's busy right now."  There really is no excuse for such low brow behavior.  I blame his parents.

Eventually Pawpaw did arrive.  He was likely the last one to saunter off the plane, wearing his newsboy cap and grumbling under his breath.  We greeted him with hugs and words of affection.  We gathered his luggage, and right on cue, a thuggish Santa Claus approached and gruffly asked, "Hey Buddy,  can I have a cigarette for the road?"  Pawpaw ever so politely obliged, "Sure, Buddy.  God bless you."

At that point, Uncle David retreated.  I think we had all expected a different response.  Pawpaw was not at all alarmed by a derelict Santa in need of a smoke.  David regrouped and re-approached a couple of minutes later, "Hey man, could I get a ride?" he purred in his practiced husky voice.  Pawpaw immediately waved him off like an irritating fly, "Naw.  Sorry, Buddy.  We can't do that."

My husband, George piped up, "Come on Dad, it's Christmas!" and turning to his costumed brother asked, "Where do you need to go, man?"

I joined in with the drama, speaking in a hushed voice as Carson-Claus looked pleadingly over the top of his beard, "We can't give that guy a ride, George!" I hissed, "We don't know anything about him, and have a baby with us!"

"Ya damn right!"  Pawpaw insisted, "That sucker might have a pistol in his pocket."

"Aww, Dad, he doesn't," George persuaded, "It will be fine."

As we approached the car, Pawpaw became so agitated that David suddenly pulled off his beard and hat and asked, "How about giving your son a ride then, Dad?"  Pawpaw replied with what has become his signature, speechless, dropped jaw.  It is the reaction we now crave anytime we plan a new scheme.   On that Christmas of 2002 Pawpaw was indeed shocked, confused, and filled with joy.

The following Christmas George and David paid Pawpaw an unexpected visit at his house in Gulfport.  David was once again dressed as Father Christmas and my husband assumed the role of a cheeky, bearded elf.   The two knocked at his door and sang a couple of personalized Christmas carols.  This time the jaw-dropping moment of shock when the identities of the carolers was revealed was captured on video by a neighbor friend, and we were all hooked on the rush of endorphins that comes with surprising Pawpaw.  (I still enjoy re-living the moment vicariously through the home video footage.)

Over the years the brothers have managed to pull off a couple of other surprises, but we were due for another, and Pawpaw's 75th birthday presented an ideal opportunity.  It was time for another sneak attack and for our first ever long-distance, family car trip.  After countless international, eight hour flights with our kids, the ten hour drive to western Kentucky was no big whoop.  Surprising Pawpaw, however, was priceless.

Not to arouse suspicion, we sent him a charming birthday card and called him (from a McDonald's parking lot in Indianapolis) on his big day.  We spent Pawpaw's birthday on the road headed to his hometown.  The next morning we had arranged for Pawpaw's wife, Barbara, our newest accomplice, to send him to his local Walmart with a shopping list.  He had no idea that there would be anything out of the ordinary about this trip, but David had worked his charm on the girls working in the bakery, and now his brother George was standing back behind the counter wearing a standard issue hairnet and a Walmart blue apron.  The kids and I had staked out a hiding place behind the potatoes, and Uncle David was lurking near the women's underwear with his eyes fixed on the entrance.  Pawpaw came rolling through the double glass doors moments later.  He was riding a motorized shopping trolley and was wearing a determined scowl on his face.  With list in hand, he sped back toward the dairy case.  David approached and began to closely follow the trolley with lumbering footsteps.

(Pawpaw and Barbara, our new partner and crime)

Pawpaw was apparently annoyed with whoever this too-close-for-comfort joker was.  He jerked his trolley to the opposite side of the aisle and continue to motor toward the 2% milk, but the guy was right up on him again.  When Pawpaw finally whipped his head up to see what was wrong with this yo-yo-brain, he had to look twice before his jaw dropped in recognition.  He immediately leaped out of his supermarket vehicle to hug his superhero-sized baby boy.  "I came to see you for your birthday, Dad!"  David explained logically, "Come on," he urged, "Let's go get you a cake at the bakery!"

Pawpaw, of course, had to get the milk first.  That was the reason he came to Walmart, right?  Finally, after insistently grumbling that he didn't need a cake, he was persuaded to return to the front of the store where the bakery is located.  The girls and I, still lurking behind the potatoes, watched as the scene unfolded.  Pawpaw approached the bakery case and surveyed the cakes, obviously annoyed, and George greeted him with an accent that belonged on the set of Hee-Haw, "Can I he'p ya, sir?"

"I dawn'no."  Pawpaw answered, "They say I need another cake for my birthday."

"Well, we got chok'lit wuns and that there li'l ole colorful one.  It just depends on whutcha like." my husband babbled.  Pawpaw continued to look back and forth at the cakes in exasperation.

"Dad!"  David coaxed, "We ordered you a cake.  Just tell the guy your name!"

Pawpaw looked the man behind the counter dead in the eye and, with a supreme amount of irritation, declared, "I'm WILL CARSON... or at least what's left of him."

"I think we got that one right back here.  Lemme just check..." George spluttered before turning around to 'check the stock', and at that moment, the light bulb went on, and Pawpaw's jaw dropped in recognition and astonishment.  The girls behind the counter were in stitches, and George turned around and joined in the with everyone else's laughter.  My husband came out from behind the counter, and the two brothers hugged their dad as he marveled at the coordinated surprise.

The kids and I were still watching from our post in the produce section.  We gave them several minutes to recover and bask in the glow of their surprise reunion before the kids came and pounced on him bringing on more laughter and cheers...and we carried on like that for the rest of the weekend.

Happy Birthday, Pawpaw!

We love keeping you on your toes!

Harry Potter Party

To be clear I am not a competitive "Build-a-Better-Birthday-Party" Mama.  I have definitely rolled my eyes at some of the over-the-top kids' birthday parties I've seen chronicled on the reality TV shows on TLC.  No, I'm pretty sure your two year old doesn't need a 10 foot tall Cookie Monster ice sculpture on his big day, but if it makes you happy, whatever.  I generally try to keep birthdays relatively simple.  Cupcakes and "Pass the Parcel" are more my speed, but this year Harry got involved, and things got a little bit colorful. 

So please know, if you are reading this, that I fully support whatever level of birthday party planning you're into.  I happen to be a ridiculous Harry Potter fan, so all of this was a labor of love.  I already had the Harry Potter character dolls, the Harry Potter Christmas lights, the Gryffindor scarf, and a head full of crazy Harry Potter ideas.  We also found that lots of our Halloween decorations worked with the theme.

Now here is what basically happened when we turned my house into the Wizarding World of Harry Potter...

When the girls arrived, they first got to choose their new Wizarding names and make name tags.  All of the girls at our party were completely giggly and excited about this.  We had prepared three jars with folded paper containing the essential components of a good wizard name.  In the first jar fabulous, traditional British first names were written on the slips of paper.  Names included: Gertrude, Bronwyn, Magda, Agatha, etc.  The papers in the second jar carried the first part of a good wizard's surname.  This often turned out to be an animal name or a nonsensical-sounding word that ended in -le like: Buckle, Badger, Mumble or Fox.  The final jar contained the last part of the surname, a collection of one-syllable words describing something kitchen-related or a body part.  Girls selected one bit of parchment from each numbered jar and combined the words to create a new wizard identity.  In the end we were rewarded with groovy new names like Edwina Grindlewick, Tuesday McGertlebloom, Phoebe Lemonfire, and Mildred Tigerplum.  Would you doubt the magical abilities of any of these characters?

Next the girls wandered about the house and chose their own adventures.  They could visit Ollivander's to select the perfect wand: a large pretzel rod which they dipped in melted white or milk chocolate and decorated with magical-looking sprinkles.  Every girl also wanted to stop by the Bertie Bott's Bean Guess table.  I had twenty different flavours of Jelly Bellies sorted into individual paper cups.  The girls sampled one bean from each cup and recorded their flavor guesses on a numbered grid that I designed on the computer.  Later, during the birthday feast, I revealed the actual answers which were met by a chorus of cheers and groans depending on the accuracy if each girl's taste buds.  It was such fun and made the mind-boggling jelly bean sorting that I had done the night before seem well worth the time and effort.

My fantastically arty-crafty friend Allison took charge in the dining room and helped the girls make Wizarding Clocks like the one in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen.  They used cardboard cake circles for the clock faces and made colorful  "hands" for each person in their own families.  The hands were attached to the center of the clock-face with a brad.  The clock was decorated with stickers, glitter, and markers and were labeled with possible "statuses" of family members: Sleeping, Traveling, At school, In mortal peril, etc.

 Even little wizards joined in the fun.

At some point I threw on a pair of ridiculously large glasses and a gauzy shawl and entertained interested girls with my grim divination skills.  I used Tarot Cards, runes and gazed into my crystal balls, white balloons which were "pre-loaded" with dreadful Trelawney-style prophecies printed on rolled-up strips of paper.  In the midst of divining, I'd somehow manage to pop the balloon and extract the awaiting girls' fortune, something like, "You were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn.  You should avoid chocolate at all costs!"

The best part of our party by a mile was potions class which was held at the kitchen table and led very dramatically by my own dear husband who assumed a character of his own making, Professor Snivelbottom.  Snivelbottom seemed to be a combination of Snape and every character ever played by Dick VanDyke.  Be still my heart.  Needless to say the girls absolutely loved every moment of the potions lesson.  They giggled endlessly and intentionally provoked the professor in hopes of extracting a hilariously nasty retort from him.  "I always knew you were an idiot, Miss Ravenbum, or whatever your name is!  Ten points from Gryffindor!"

The night before the party, the birthday girl helped me come up with some potion recipes.  These are the recipes that the girls used under the guidance and critical gaze of Professor Snivelbottom.  He made the class far more dramatic with the addition of dry ice which was purchased at our local supermarket.  True sticklers of the Harry Potter text will point out that our potion ingredients did not jive with those used in the books.  We assumed our party-goers came for fun more so than authenticity.  Here are our potions recipes for your consideration:

Polyjuice Potion:
1 Scoop of Troll Snot (lime sherbert)
A dash of Whomping Willow Sap (pineapple juice)
3 dashes if Phoenix tears (ginger ale)
Eye of newt (maraschino cherry with a jelly bean pressed inside)
1 Mandrake pod (circus peanut)
1 Phineas Finnegan Fatal Fish (Swedish fish)

Felix Felices:
1 Scoop Frozen Spider Silk (vanilla ice cream)
Large glug of Burdock root juice (root beer)
2 Flobber worms (gummy worms)
Eye of  newt (see above)
Rat Droppings (chocolate covered raisins)
3 Spirit teeth (mini marshmallows)

Potion Perfection!

After every girl had finished making her potion, the guests headed downstairs to the Gryffindor Common Room (also known as our basement) where they started watching one of the HP movies.  Professor Snivelbottom made occasional visits downstairs to chastise the girls and raise the general level of excitement.  While that was going on, I and my trusty Mommy friends, cleared up the great hall (dining room) and set the stage for the birthday feast.  We served a tower of cheese with crackers and pita chips, Herbology crudites with hummus, "mental" meatballs (per the birthday girl's request), pumpkin pasties, parchment scrolls (tortillas rolled up with turkey, spinach, and veggie-flavored cream cheese), and Peeps messenger owls.  I also improvised some butter beer in the blender with cream soda, heavy cream, butterscotch syrup, butter flavoring and lots of crushed ice.  It was nice and frothy and had a sweet and delicate flavor.  The girls seemed adequately impressed by the spread.

Wait!  There's more!! My wonderful friend Christy volunteered to make Emma a cake which looked like a battered potions textbook.  It was rather beautiful, and I am still  have sweet dreams about her homemade chocolate butter cream frosting.  Please sir, can I have some more?

So... did I go slightly over-the-top?  I don't think so.  I enjoyed every moment... even those panicky ones about 30 minutes before the party started when I was breathing into a paper bag.  I am also planning to very slowly read the Harry Potter series to my eight year old, so that I don't have to recreate these festivities for at least a couple of years.  Mama needs a little Harry hiatus.  Let the record show that I couldn't have pulled it off without the help of my Mommy friends, my kids, and my husband.  I'd also like to thank the Academy. "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"  Where's the Tylenol?

Let's Hear it for the Girls!

This morning my daughter and I got up really early.  I made coffee, the real kind, and fed my girl the breakfast cookies I had made around midnight the night before.  We made our way to the Community Center at 7:00.  My daughter donned tacky mismatched socks, had her hair painted red, stretched her muscles, listened to some motivational tunes on her mp3 player, and then set off with her official "running buddy" on her first ever 5K run.

Emma ran and ran with her trusty running partner, Mrs. Adams, who also happens to be her adorable art teacher.  While my girl ran, I cheered for girls.  I cheered for all of the girls, especially the girls in blue shirts who were part of the Girls on the Run program.  (I also cheered for an old guy wearing a neon yellow "Jogging With Jesus" t-shirt, not that he needed my encouragement.)  I cheered and cheered.  I yelled until my throat felt sore, "Go, Girls!!"  I hooted and hollered and shook a pink pom pom.  I gave a sluggish, passing girl a pat on the shoulder and remarked quietly, "You're doing great!  Keep going!"  She quickened her pace, and I cheered some more.

Emma finished the run with a smile and headed directly for the Snow Cone Tent.  She was the only runner from our family today, but we all felt that by noisily encouraging the 250+ determinedly running 3rd-5th grade girls, we became a part of it all.  What a wonderful morning!  What a wonderful program Girls on the Run is!  Next year Sophia is determined to finish her first 5K, and Lili might even have a go at the Tot Trot.  Emma is definitely up for it again...especially if there are Snow Cones waiting at the finish line.

GO GIRLS!!

Harry Potter Preparations!

For many weeks we have been planning, and now I, with a little help from my friends, have finally pulled off a successful Harry Potter party to celebrate my oldest daughter's tenth birthday.  I had a notebook filled with lists of ideas for games, activities and Potter-themed snacks.  I had purchased sparkly fabric, pulled out Halloween decorations that seemed appropriate, and scoured the Internet for inspiration.  Mentally I was prepared.  The night before the party, however, I started to hyperventilate a little as I attempted to sort and separate different shades of brown and pink and yellow Jelly Belly jellybeans into individual party cups for the "Bertie Bott's Bean Guess."  My husband walked into the kitchen as I sat at the table staring stupidly back and forth between a marigold-colored jellybean pinched between the fingers of my left hand and the slightly different goldenrod-colored jellybean held similarly in my right hand.  "I can't tell which is sun-kissed lemon and which is crushed pineapple?!" I moaned as the crease between my eyebrows deepened.

"You realize that this is a little bit crazy, right?" he asked flippantly, "It's a kids' birthday party."  He obviously did not understand.  The damn jellybeans required a little more time tha I had anticipated, but I deemed the "Guess the Jellybean Flavour" table to be of utmost importance.  The next day when every ten year old declared the activity to be "so cool," I felt validated.

The night before the party I also prepared party bags for the girls to take home afterwards.  In addition to a pouch of Jelly Belly beans (the official HP Bertie Bott's beans are ridiculously overpriced), the girls took home chocolate frogs (good ole melted Hershey bars poured into frog-shaped molds) and Skiving Snack Boxes a la Fred and George Weasley.

I will admit I was slightly proud of the snack boxes, particularly since my daughter Emma lists Fred and George Weasley among her most favorite characters in the Harry Potter series.  I cooked up a batch of plain chocolate fudge to serve as "Fever Fudge," and my daughter and I literally jumped for joy when we found some actual Rowntree's Fruit Pastilles at our local grocery store in the international aisle.  These fit perfectly into small paper cake cups and filled the role of "Puking Pastilles."  Snack sized Milky Way bars were wrapped in plain gold paper and passed off as "Nosebleed Nougats," and I was able to dress up some mini Hostess snack cakes to make them look a bit like "Fainting Fancies."   And even though my husband thought I might be slightly crazy,  all of this preparation was truly a labor of love since I delight in Harry Potter at least as much as the average ten-year-old.

("Sheila" was kind enough to allow the Internet community to use her Snackbox artwork via The Leaky Cauldron.  Thank you, Sheila.  You are a star.  I don't think I had it in me after the Jelly Belly palaver.)

Prior to the party we also made our very own pumpkin pasties.  Friends who aren't from Michigan or Great Britain were concerned that I might be donning tassels and providing inappropriate entertainment for a party of ten-year-olds.  Rest assured, pasties (pronounced with a short a sound) are filled, baked pastry cases.  The key, we learned to successfully making a pumpkin pasty, was to bake (and cool) the pumpkin pie filling completely before assembling the pasties.  On the day of the party I used regular rolled pastry, but kids might also like pasties made with rolled out/ flattened refrigerated biscuit dough.  Before baking, I brushed the tops of the pasties with melted butter and sprinkled on brown sugar.  They were rather wonderful when served with the rest of our Hogwarts-style feast.

Stay tuned for my next post all about the actual party, which was basically more fun that you could shake a stick at.
At least I'm pretty sure it was lots of fun. 
To be honest it is a bit of a blur, and some of us mommies may have had a glass of wine halfway through it all, but I am still rather confident that it was magical.

Learning Lessons in My Sleep

Lately I have not felt at peace.  Stress has been bubbling up in my chest.  It furrows my brow and causes a ringing in my ears.  My body has been telling me to pay attention to the fact that something is out of balance.  I have taken a leaf from Stuart Smalley's book.  Since I cannot practice hours of meaningful, deep, quiet meditation.  I settle for moments of silent affirmation.  My mind tells the rest of me, "You are patient.  You are loving.  You are blessed.  You are peaceful."  I pause and repeat such phrases silently in my head even when I do not believe them, even as chaos erupts all around me.  Sometimes before I fall asleep, I manage to affirm, "My dreams bring me clarity."

And lately my dreams have been speaking to me, obediently responding to my request.  Sometimes dreams appear to be meaningless mishmashes of nonsense, but lately I have on occasion awoken from my sleep as dreams have reached their conclusions.  My brain will not allow me to return to sleep until I consciously evaluate the messages that my dreams are carrying.

Last week I had a dream which I have had over and over again for a few years.  In the dream I am at home, and I suddenly stumble across a door I never noticed before.  The door has always been there, but I was never conscious of it.  I, of course, curiously open the door and find that there is another wing on our house.  It is beautifully furnished with rich wooden furniture and soft, clean, lacy quilts.  It is warm and inviting.  It is completely ready to be inhabited.  For only a brief  moment I marvel, "How did I ever miss all of this?"  And then I start to make plans.  I excitedly envision all of the things we will do with this newly discovered space.  We will invite more people into our home.  We will live more abundantly.  I continue to explore and discover more and more previously unknown treasures.

And then I woke up.  At 3:30 in the morning I found myself wide awake after having had this recurring dream again.  I put my feet on the floor and walked softly down the hall while everyone else slept.  I returned to bed and climbed under the covers.  I finally knew what the dream meant.  It was almost as though Someone bent down and whispered the secret into my ear:  I am the house.  I am that very familiar place, and there are things hidden within me that I am not conscious of.  There are peaceful spaces inside of me, and they have always been there.  There are richly furnished, welcoming rooms behind doors which need only to be opened.  I do not need to look outside of myself to find what I need to feel complete.  It is all here and always has been.  And with that thought swirling between my ears I drifted back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Dreams do not always deliver comforting messages.  This morning I awoke early after dreaming about fleeing from an angry hornets' nest with my two older daughters.  These particular hornets were especially fierce.  Their venom was not deadly but horribly painful.  The girls and I ran into a bedroom to escape the furiously buzzing creatures who were after us.  We slammed the door and stood staring at each other while our breathing and heart rates began to normalize.  Then I noticed a singular hornet perched atop a lampshade.  His bronze body shimmered in the light, and the sight of his delicate busy legs sent a wave of terror through my chest.  He hadn't noticed us yet.  "Sophia!"  I hissed at my younger daughter, "You have to get him!  Grab him and crush him with a tissue," I insisted urgently.

Sophia was equally terrified.  "I can't!"  she cried.  And I began to scream at her, "Do it!  You have to!!"  And I watched my little girl inch toward the tiny object of our terror.  She sobbed as she hesitantly reached for the insect and crushed between her thumb and forefingers with a tissue.  Then she dropped the lifeless vermin on the table.  For a moment we all heaved a sigh of relief, but then the hornet reanimated with a sickening buzz.  The furious creature made a literal beeline for me.  I growled angrily at my daughter before I dived under an ugly quilt where I cowered and trembled and did nothing to protect my children.

And then I woke up feeling more than  little disturbed.  Very little about that particular dream was realistic, but the shame and anxiety I felt when I awoke were very real.  I got out of bed earlier than usual.  I climbed up the stairs and gazed at my two older children who were still sleeping, and I realized that I have given them both a lot of extra responsibilities since their baby sister came along two and half years ago.  Two and a half years ago, when Lili joined our family, I felt so overwhelmed with health issues and sleep deprivation.  Those two girls had to learn to get along without me a lot of the time.  They learned to get themselves up in the morning and to sort out their own breakfasts.  They learned to be very independent.

I am all for independence.  Learning to do things independently is great for a child's self-esteem, but now that I am no longer recovering from surgeries, now that I am no longer a sleep-deprived lunatic, it is time to plug back into those early morning rituals.  I don't ask my children to slay dragons (or even bumblebees) while I cower in the corner, but I probably do require them to be responsible for more than they are developmentally ready for.  I expect them to know how to do things that they haven't been taught.  I expect them to manage their time more expertly while I, as an adult, struggle to get everything done.  I do not offer as much help as I could and then get frustrated when things are not done in the way that I think they should be done.  My children need more of me.  I say this knowing that I have not been doing my best in some areas.

This is a bit humbling.  I would say that I am a "good mom," but my hyperbolic, freaky hornet dream was pointing toward a very real issue.  I need to stop asking my kids to take the lead when I should be taking the lead.  I get it.

I am not certain that every dream carries a lesson, but as my "House Dream" indicated there are often answers to unasked questions inside of us.  Sometimes dreams are vehicles for these answers.  Are your dreams speaking to you?  Here is one last dreamy anecdote:

My husband's mother, whom I have never met in waking life, once visited me in a dream.  This happened about twelve years ago, and I still remember it very clearly.  Using few words and two soft, strong arms that embraced me with an unconditional acceptance.  She communicated to me that she was thrilled that George and I had found each other.  I remember her, in the dream, pushing past other family members who were so eager to see her, and she said, with a twinkle in her eye and a determined finger pointed in my direction, "No, I want to see this one!"  Then she hugged me as though she had known me forever.  She welcomed me into the family before my husband had even popped the question.  I cannot, of course, prove that this was anything other than my subconscious imagination generating a delightfully pleasant fantasy, but it feels like a gift.

I will continue to listen to my dreams.  Whether they bring encouragement, correction, affirmation or merely entertainingly warped adventures, I will stay tuned.

"Angels in some brighter dreams call to the soul while man doth sleep."

~Henry Vaughan