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Laylee just went into my room and came out with 3 books, one for each of us to read. For Dad, she brought “The American Chess Player’s Hand Book.” Good choice. For herself, she brought, “The Little Giant Encyclopedia of Superstitions.” Okay, she wants to know that eating chicken gizzard makes you more beautiful, that it’s unlucky to cut a loaf of bread from both ends and what the left over glumps of cocoa at the bottom of her cup mean.

For me, she brought this (a relic from our pre-married past that I can’t bring myself to get rid of):

“This is for you to read NOW mommy!”

What the heck? I’ve had two kids. I have a happy and fulfilling love life. Is she hinting at something or did she just like the picture of fluffy blue pillows on the front?

Maybe she just wants a sister. It will take more than a book to make that happen in the near future, sweet pea.

What I would really like to do is apply for a job at working for the New York Times Style Section. Now that I’ve made my photo retouching debut, working on the Tina Turner image, (WHAT? That wasn’t real? I know, my skills are quite excellent and my work exquisite.) I think I’m ready for more challenging work.

Okay, I have an option for those of you who have expressed interest in the DYM shirts. I can get a discount on any item if I order 15 or more at one time.

So, if you want the jr. pink ringer t-shirts and don’t care how long it takes to get them, email me your order with size preference (Kathryn at daringyoungmom dot com) and when I get enough to place a bulk order, I will take your payments through paypal and send the shirts to you directly. The price would be $15 total (instead of $17.99 plus shipping and tax).

For the license plate frames, I can do the same thing for $11 total (instead of $12 plus tax and shipping).

Let me know.

Well, sort of. Currently the Woob is in the possession of one adorable two-year-old with the nickname of Laylee.

My mom made me the blanket when I was an infant and I carried it everywhere. It was originally made with two layers of fuzzy flannel and had a large duck embroidered in one corner. From age 3-12, the blanket was an actual need. I was terrified to go to bed at night and needed the blanket to comfort and protect me. I slept with it up through high school. At that point, it was more to be quirky than from actuall need.

The duck is gone.

Layer number 2 is gone.

Most of the blanket is gone.

All that is left is a small transparent rag that has been re-hemmed about a hundred times by a woman with the nickname of — My Mommy. I took the Woobie to college — not because I still needed it, just to have something familiar around. Sheesh!

Now when I’m allowed to use it, I roll it up and sleep with it over my eyes like a mask. I did this a lot after Magoo was born and I was struggling for every moment of sleep.

Last night, we found Laylee asleep on the floor with the Woob wrapped tightly around her like a little cocoon. It made me feel so warm and fuzzy and glad to see it passed down. You know you can never force them to form an attachment to anything. We certainly didn’t encourage her love affair with Ducky.

My friend recently used the word gelatinous in her post. I love that word. My favorite use of that word is found here. Please go look. It’s worth it. I promise. Make sure your sound is turned on before you click on the link.

Well, I don’t know if that’s exactly what they’re doing, but there’s surely some major commotion down there.

I love hockey. This was something DY Dad discovered about me 2 months after we were married when I made him watch Olympic hockey with me while wearing my Calgary Flames Jersey and periodically crosschecking him with our broom. When some kids started playing roller-hockey on an outdoor basketball court near our house, I made a point of showing them to Laylee and telling her all about the one true sport.

In an effort to tire her out one afternoon before naptime, DY Dad took her to the outdoor court and taught her a “racing game” which involves running lines back and forth across the court. The only thing that sets this apart from forced drills is that when you get to one end of the court, you touch the post and say, “Marks, get set, GO!” before running the next length.

We have all grown to love this game, especially right before naptime. However yesterday as we were playing it, she said, “This is so fun! I LOVE HOCKEY!”

AAHHH! NO! She thinks bedtime-wear-out-tactic is the beloved sport?

A closer “game” would be if I ripped off my gloves, pulled her pink bunny shirt up over the back of her head and body-checked her into her toddler bed, while Dan tried to pull us apart and sent me to the penalty box.

*I chose to use “deke” because it was always my favorite hockey term. I love the sound of it. “What a great deke” sounds so much cooler than, “What a great fake.”

deke or deking:
a decoying or faking motion by the puck-carrier; the art of making a defensive player think you are going to pass or move in a certain direction when you are not. There are shoulder dekes, stick dekes, and head dekes.

Okay, because I can’t HELP MYSELF…….

They’re so cute, I’m practically vomitting. Check out the new stuff from my “other” site:

“Dare to jump in puddles. Dare to eat the green stuff. Dare to sing your own song.”

“Dare to love without limits. Dare to adore your job. Dare to be fabulous.”

And finally…………..

SHOW AND TELL
I really couldn’t decide this week since Blackbird didn’t specify hot or cold beverage. So, I picked two. For hot stuff, I love my mug I got at the Globe Theatre in London. For chilly, I like this Migo insulated cup with straw, although I’m kind of miffed because I can’t figure out how to get replacement straws and there’s no way I’m buying a whole new cup when the straw goes AWOL.

And yet, I love her still.

This afternoon my mom called and she had a sad tale to tell. One might even call it a gruesome tale. If you are squeamish, do not read on.

She keeps a basket at the bottom of the stairs where she puts things that need to go away on the second floor. I love this idea. I am using it in my book.

Yesterday while carrying the basket upstairs, a giant needle fell from the basket and got lost in the carpet. She found it a while later…..with her foot.

Here’s how it went down. The giant needle went EYE FIRST in at her toenail, coming out the bottom of her toe somewhere around the middle and then lodged itself in the BALL OF HER FOOT. The pointy part was still sticking out the TOP OF HER TOE and she couldn’t get it out! What the heck kind of needle was this and more importantly, did she even have a permit to be carrying such a weapon? My WORD!

She had to hobble to the phone and call her neighbor (a nurse) and ask her to come over with pliers to remove the object. Are you kidding me? They had to pull it back through the foot and toe by the pointy end because that was the only part sticking out.

If I didn’t know and trust my mother, I would disregard this as another lone-gunman, magic-bullet, what-grassy-knoll?, theory. However, I know she is true and OUCH!!!! So, what’s one of the first things I ask her? “Did you take a picture of it?”

Here’s where the extreme selfishness comes in. She did not, in fact, take a picture with the needle still in her toe. She said it “hurt too much” to think about taking a picture for me to post on my blog.

Don’t people think about anyone but themselves anymore? I mean, GOSH!

The picture I have posted here was taken a while ago after Grammy had received a pedicure a la Laylee. You’ll have to imagine the giant spike sticking out of her toe because someone was too busy “seeking medical attention” to photodocument.

First, and randomly, Laylee is always telling me and DY Dad that we do a “GREAT JOB!” This morning was one of the weirdest ones yet. I had just finished pulling on her pull-ups when she stopped, got very serious, inspected them thoroughly and then looked up with a furrowed brow and deep look of respect. Very slowly, emphasizing each word, she said, “Mommy! You did a really good job at that.”

“Well, thank you, small fry. I’ve had a little more experience pullin’ up the ole’ panties than you have. Mine also happen to be dry. Wanna check em for me? Can I have an M ‘n M?”

Okay, so Magoo is still at the “hit the deck” stage of his sleeping abilities. This means that if we step on a twig or creek the door hinges as we enter the room, he will stir and look up. If he sees us, we’re dead-meat. The screaming! If not, he looks around groggily and then goes back to sleep.

So, if one of us sees his head start to raise, we will mouth to the other, “HIT THE DECK!” at which time we drop silently to the ground and pray that our clothing will allow us to blend in with the carpet. Then we lay without moving for sometimes several minutes until he stops looking for prey and goes back to dreamland. “Whew, that was close!” The hardest part is to keep from giggling. When we’ve “hit the deck,” my husband and I can not look each other in the eye or all is lost. You see, Magoo is sensitive to movement AND sound, particularly the sound of his parents’ maniacal laughter.

Laylee has long since passed the “hit the deck” phase. She is now in the phase where we can pick her up by her toes, rearrange the blankets, twirl her around like a baton over our heads, take her parasailing, dress her up like Tina Turner, snap a few pictures with the flash on the camera, remove the lipstick, and put her back in bed with a kiss and some loving words. She will then open her eyes a slit, smile and say, “mmmmmm,” and go back to sleep.

In other news — Jack is either the laziest or on-the-verge-of-dying-est fish ever. He lies on the bottom of the tank all day except to eat. He spoons up to the fake plants and just “sleeps?” I have a feeling he’ll be “sleepin’ with the fishes” before long.

At breakfast this morning, Laylee held up her fist in what looked like a black power sign and said, “Now you should go like this!” Usually I don’t give in to demands that don’t involve the use of the magic word but I decided to play along.

“There!” she exclaimed, “We just did ‘GO COUGARS!’”

In a burst of school spirit a couple of months ago, I decided it was a travesty that Laylee did not yet know the cougar fight song. She has the shirt, where’s the mindless singing and cheering, I ask you, where?

So we began singing it periodically and she is in love with it. She even asks us to sing it to her at bedtime, which we do, slowly like a lullaby (Does anyone else have the feeling of deja vu? Are you ever writing a post and think, did I post this exact same thing a couple of months ago?).

Our favorite part comes at the end:

“Rah-Rah Rah-Rah-Rah. Rah-Rah Rah-Rah-Rah. GOOOOOOOOOO (hands rolling) COUGARS! (Fist up in the air)

Then we attempt to calm down enough to eat the rest of our Panda Bear Crunch cereal, saltines, and watered-down gatorade that we like to call – breakfast. Stop yelling at me! I’ll throw her a banana in an hour or so.

I never finished Moby Dick. This may not come as a complete surprise to my American Novel professor who graded the exam where I answered that Ishmael, THE NARRATOR OF THE ENTIRE BOOK, dies at the end. (The first words of the book are “Call me Ishmael” which should have been my first clue that he lived through his dealings with the massive beast from the deep in order to record his experiences. Alas, I remained clueless.)

To the rest of you, this may seem shocking.

The truth is, I just couldn’t do it. It was so long and there was so much information about whale anatomy, I was taking a billion classes and we had only one week to read the book. So, I read until he started describing each whale species and every single atom it possessed. Then I read/skimmed the Cliff’s Notes and moved on with my life.

It is a happy and full life and I don’t really feel bad about it. I still got a B in the class and they even let me graduate.

The Mobe-ster still sits on my shelf of “great literature” and one day maybe Laylee will read it and tell me what happens. Until then, at least I can comfort myself in knowing that Ishmael is still alive to write his life story.

The coveted Daring Young Mom gear is now available, “just in time” for Christmas. Check it out if you’re bored. I had fun getting it all set up.

I think the yellow bag with the giant picture of my HEED is the best item. I’m trying to redesign that with just the simple logo but am running into “issues.”

All the stuff says:

We know we’re all supposed to eat about a bazillion veggies every day. We are also encouraged to coerce our children into consuming said vegetables. Even I, a self-proclaimed veggie lover, struggle to eat enough because they seem to take so much time and effort to prepare.

What tips can you offer for making this process a little less painful for all concerned? How do you conceal these healthful morsels or make them more appealing to your family members? How do you get down your 3-5 servings each day?

A couple of ideas:

Orange or Green Mashed Potatoes – My aunt taught me to boil carrots or spinach within an inch of their lives in a small amount of water, just barely to cover. When they are super-mushy, add the whole pot (water and all) to the potatoes you’re mashing for dinner. This becomes a novelty food – green or orange mashed potatoes.

For young toddlers who can’t chew carrot sticks yet – Every few days I boil several carrot sticks and then stick them in the fridge. When Laylee wants a snack, I hand her a couple of carrot sticks “just like mommy eats” and she loves them.

Now I want your tips. Gimme, gimme, gimme!