Fun at the Pumpkin Patch

Today, we loaded Luce into her new jogging stroller and walked to the pumpkin patch in downtown Simpsonville. The weather was absolutely beautiful, and we enjoyed the hints of color just beginning to tint the leaves. Lucy had great fun on the way, happily singing and pointing to the birds and even a passing jet. She had even more fun at the pumpkin patch. She laughed heartily at the mini-pumpkins and picked out her first one, a perfectly round miniature orange sphere with a long stalk. Of course we stopped for a photo op at the haystalks before trying to find a bigger pumpkin for carving. Luce had fun climbing on the larger pumpkins and rearranging the smaller ones. By the time we left, we had accumulated one mini pumpkin, a larger pumpkin, and a super fun, mini warty gourd. It was an awesome afternoon, and we can't wait to carve and paint our pumpkins this week. Pictures soon to come!

This is What Happens When Daddy Babysits

No Party in Her Tummy

For anyone familiar with the wildy popular, 80's throwback children's show "Yo Gabba Gabba," you know the reference in the title of this post. Admit it, you find yourself humming the catchy, albeit cheesy, song "Party in my Tummy," as you go throughout your day, sometimes at the strangest moments. Those Gabba show writers are genius when it comes to brainwashing. I often find myself repeating such phrases as "It's not nice to hit your friends, not nice to hit your friends," or "Don't stop...don't give up," or Jamie's personal favorite"I like fish...I like fish." All of these with fun little beats mind you. We've learned to brush our teeth, drink water with meals, and eat our veggies. In fact, after watching the fun-loving, if slightly daft, green monster Brobie eat his veggies while singing "Party in my Tummy," I even want veggies myself. One member of our family, however, is completely immune to the slick phrasing of the show. Our very own Lucy. There is definitely no party in her tummy when it's time to eat her vegetables.

Little Luce used to love her veggies. As an infant, she would happily eat pounds of greenbeans. In fact, she preferred them to most any other food. But over the last few weeks, her love of veggies has turned into outright disdain. It began innocently enough. A few greenbeans thrown onto the ground here and there. Next, peas which she once popped happily into her mouth, became fun objects to squish and smash on her plate. I realized there was most certainly a vegetable "issue" while at our church homecoming a few weeks ago. Though she scarfed down her mac n'cheese and sweet orange delight, when I gave her a piece of squash, she immediately spit it out, gagging dramatically. When I offered her another piece, she pursed her lips and shook her head "No."

Since this fateful day, the scenario has repeated itself time and time again. Green beans...broccoli...squash...carrots...doesn't matter. She can spot a vegetable a mile away. And when she sees one folks, "she ain't happy."

Last night I thought I'd try to sneak squash into her meal by making a deliciously cheesy squash casserole. I figured that with all of the cheese and the cracker crust, my little dairy and carb-lover couldn't refuse. I watched with baited breath as she took her first bite. She began to chew. Yes! I thought. I've hit a home run. I felt rather pleased with my own cleverness. "Gack...puh!" She gagged again, this time with more of an air of superiority than surprise, spit the squash out, and looked at me, shaking her head "No." Frustrated, I poured myself another glass of wine and threw my hands in the air. This only served to make Luce angry. I gave in, cutting her a banana. "You cannot live on cheese, bananas, crackers, and turkey little girl," I told her as she happily ate her fruit.

Tonight, after receiving advice from lots of other mommies, I decided to try another approach: veggies incognito. I decided to make her favorite meal of mac n'cheese, but this time I threw in some finely shredded chicken and broccoli. I steamed the broccoli until it was practically mush. I mixed everything together and with a cheerful, yet nonchalent manner, put her plate onto the table. "Here ya go," I said, feigning disinterest.

I threw her a sideways glance, sure that she would immediately chow down on her favorite food. What baby can refuse this day-glo orange Kraft staple?

I saw her leaning over, looking at the food in front of her closely. She then sat up and began to shake her head "No." She picked up several pieces in her fingers, a sour expression on her face, and disdainfully threw them down.

I'm still not sure how she has the uncanny ability to recognize a veggie from sheer inspection alone. It's like she's the equivilant of a narcotics-sniffing dog only her nose is trained to sniff out clandestinely placed veggies from mom. Perhaps this will be a useful tool someday, but for now, the only thing it's good for is driving me bananas.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Next to them, the river currents moved lazily, pushing picturesque pieces of Spanish moss and other flora and fauna on their way. The clouds, stark white against the cornflower sky meandered, taking on the shapes of dragons and castles. Up the river, a quaint white pontoon boat with bright blue stripes and the name "Louisiana Lady" across its bow, made its way to the tree-lined shore where eager passengers awaited. It was a scene straight out of a movie, a scene only Disney could engineer in reality. And then we saw them. The mother walked quickly ahead, taking three steps for her daughter's one. She pulled the child along by the hand, shaking her head. "I can't believe we're at the happiest place on Earth, and you're going to be sour..." she said as they passed, the girl hanging her head, indeed a sour expression on her face.

And there folks, is the true Disney experience. Behind every fairytale scene is a stressed out Mom or Dad and child either on the verge of or in the midst of a full-fledged breakdown. Now don't get me wrong. I love Disneyworld. In fact, I might even classify myself as a full-fledged Disneyofile now. The old Jennifer who would scoff at people spending their vacation with The Mouse, is now wondering when she can convince her husband to go back. However, traveling to Disneyworld for the first time with my own child definitely gave me a new perspective.

I began to notice more and more families on the verge of breakdowns--we were one of them. The first morning at breakfast, amid the loud, chaotic French Quarter food court, the room went silent for a second when the words, "I told you to sit down and eat your breakfast" echoed across the room. I, too, turned around only to find a frazzled mother looking up in embarrassment when realizing just how loud her admonishment had been. Wow, I thought. At only 9 in the morning, I couldn't imagine how stressful the rest of their day would be.

Later that night, I watched in guilty amusement as a father grabbed his too-hyper for 10pm munchkin by the arm, saying just audibly, "If you run away from me again, you're going to get a spankin."

Everywhere I looked, I saw kids with eyes wide open--they could hardly sit still. Hyped up on too much sugar from cupcakes, candy, and soda, it's no wonder. At breakfast, I had to laugh when a mother and her daughters sat down to a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and a huge cupcake with blue icing and Mickey mouse sprinkles.

Another day at breakfast, I stood in line next to a lovely British lady ordering food for her husband and three children. After battling with the tween son over what he wanted to eat, she looked at him and said a little too sweetly, in a delightful accent, "If you keep it up, I'm going to get quite cross with you."

While I found amusement in watching these families struggle with the stresses of Disney, we had a few stresses of our own. First, our little sweetie had a bit of a meltdown while dining with the Disney princesses at the Norwegian castle. Though she loved Belle and tolerated Sleeping Beauty, she lost it with Cinderella. As the charming princess in full blue ballgown kneeled down next to Luce, she hauled off and smacked her in the face. "Ohhh" the princess exclaimed. I was mortified. "I'm so sorry," I said. In true form, Cinderella just smiled, every bit the quintessential princess, "Oh, it's all right. Really, it is..."

The next day was worse.

Apparently, our little munchkin managed to scratch another little boy (8-years-old) across the face while attempting to grab his shirt. The result was an irate father who loudly proclaimed to Jamie, "You need to learn to control your kid!" For a moment, it looked as if there would be a good old-fashioned parking lot fist fight, but thankfully, the bus arrived at Epcot just in time.

By the end of the week, after witnessing countless breakdowns--most often at 3:00 p.m., the witching hour for kids at Disneyworld--and experiencing a few of our own (mine included), we found ourselves eating one final breakfast at the festive French Quarter food court. Weary from days of lugging around an overflowing diaper bag, drenched in sweat, I felt a bit deflated. I feared the Disney magic had worn off.

"Is she your only one?" I heard a voice ask. I looked up to find Miss Ethel, an elderly woman who worked the breakfast shift cleaning tables and sweeping up the crumb covered floors. She smiled at Lucy. I told her that yes Lucy was my only one, all the while thinking that after this trip, she most certainly would remain the ONLY one. "I'll be right back" she said.We waited for a few minutes before Miss Ethel returned. She brought a giant sugar cookie, a container of white icing, and some Mickey Mouse sprinkles. "This is for your little one. I hope she'll enjoy decorating her cookie. She's a doll."

Suddenly, the Disney magic returned. So what if our vacation had a few ups and downs? Overall, just like our last morning with the special surprise from Miss Ethel, our first trip to Disney as a family was perfect. And I'm pretty sure that Disneyworld really might be THE happiest place on earth.

Daddy's Little Stuffed Sausage

Some things are universal, especially when it comes to men, and especially when these men become Dads. The first is the difference in parental roles. While I take care of meeting most of Lucy's needs, Jamie gets to be the fun parent. He sings with her, dances, makes up silly songs. By the time I've changed her dirty bum, fed her three meals and snacks each day, managed to entertain/distract her with a variety of activities, and wrangled her to bed for her nap, I'm exhausted. My energy tank is depleted. As the Dad, Jamie has the luxury of stepping in just in time to play. This is one special joy of fatherhood.

The other joy involves their ability to remain blissfully unaware.

This seems to be true of fathers worldwide. Just a few weeks ago, I had a hilarious, and a bit frustrating, conversation with our French friend Imelda. She described the time her ex-husband took her daughter, Orianne, for a week long holiday. Imelda took the time to painstakingly pack each of Orianne's outfits, folding and matching pants and shirts, shoes and socks, assuming that she was making the process as simple as possible for her ex.

The next week, Orianne returned from the trip with some interesting photographs. One, in particular, stood out to Imelda. In it, little Orianne played with her cousins, smiling. But Imelda couldn't focus on her daughter's face. She only saw Orianne's shirt and pants--a pajama shirt and pants. "Orianne, why are you wearing your pajamas?" she asked. Her daughter looked at her in complete innocence, "Because Daddy told me to wear them. I tried to tell him that these weren't my clothes, but he didn't listen." We shared a laugh over her his folly (and ignorance!), but I quickly chimed in with an experience of my own.

Just months earlier, I had come home from a night of teaching, tired and ready for bed. When I peered in at my sleeping Luce, I noticed that she was curled in a little ball, her sleeper sleeves exposing her chubby hands and elbows. Upon closer examination, I realized that Lucy was stuffed into a sleeper that was two--maybe three--sizes too small. The poor babe couldn't stretch her legs. As I shook my head in irritation and changed her into something larger, I wondered how in the world Jamie didn't notice that he'd stuffed her into an outfit that obviously didn't fit. Could he be that oblivious? I also wondered how he managed to find the one outfit in her drawer that was too small. Out of 10 sleepers to choose from, he chose that one.

Tonight, he did it again.

Since it was Jamie's turn to give Luce her bath, I stayed downstairs getting her lunch ready for school. Earlier, I had folded all of her sleepers and put them in her drawer. I was confident Jamie wouldn't have any problem finding her something to wear. But when he brought her downstairs, I could only shake my head. She was stuffed into a sleeper that had to be FOUR sizes too small.

She couldn't bend her legs. Her feet were curled within the footies. Her round baby belly stretched the material around the zipper.

"What is she wearing?" I asked, exasperated. I hadn't seen that sleeper in months. "Where did you even find that?"

"In the clean clothes," he replied, seemingly oblivious to the little stuffed sausage in his arms. I shook my head and took Lucy from him.

"She's snugly," he said. "See, she can barely keep her eyes open."

"Probably from lack of oxygen," I replied as I took her upstairs and changed her clothes. As I unzipped her sleeper, her legs shot out and she began to kick them in relief.

"Your Dad..." I said. And we'll just leave it at that.

The "Papa Copeland"

Over the past few weeks, Lucy has been doing a look we've affectionately termed "The Papa Copeland." Do you see the resemblance??

Greensboro Reunion

This weekend, Lucy and I traveled to Greensboro, NC to visit Cheryl, my roommate from those years of graduate school in the mountains otherwise known as "the darkest period of my life." Without Cheryl, I probably wouldn't have survived my days in Sylva. We bonded almost instantly and shared so many experiences. Some were good; some were bad; and some were just altogether bizarre. We came out of our time in the mountains with a lot of laughter and a few valuable lessons on navigating life in Appalachia as an outsider.

Looking back on our years in Sylva, the most valuable lesson we learned might possibly be the "How to Avoid a Fist-Fight With the Local Ladies" lesson. No matter where we were, we found ourselves eye to eye with women who weren't happy to see us. Once, Cheryl narrowly escaped being pummeled by a none-to-happy lady (and I use term loosely) while waiting in line outside of the restroom at O'Mally's Irish Pub (another term I use loosely here). What had she done? It may have been the black sweater, dark jeans, and tasteful, yet eclectic jewelry she wore, three distinct items signaling to the locals that she was not "from around here." After a few similar incidents, we discovered it best not to make eye contact with the women. And after being hit on by our fair share of toothless married men, we decided to employ this same technique on the local men as well.

Living in a town where Walmart was THE place to be, we were also forced to find new ways to occupy our free time. We soon found ourselves indulging in long afternoons turned evenings sitting on my front stoop, gazing out at the vast green--and in the winter, stark brown--landscape, sipping almost sickeningly sweet white wine while listening to James Taylor with a side of Led Zeppelin thrown in for good measure.

As single girls in our twenties, the sting of recent heartbreak still too familiar, we also looked for new romantic interests to distract us from our general melancholic state of being. However, the list of prospects in the mountains was virtually nonexistent, and we found ourselves "crushing" on two library boys. After all, the time we didn't spend on my front stoop, we spent studying in the library. She had a soft spot for Dan, a lanky wanderer while I preferred the disheveled, socially awkward boy we nicknamed "Grumpy Hippie." It's funny what isolation will do to you.

There's also something about the two of us together that beacons the strange energies of the universe our way. After graduation, we decided to relocate to Asheville, the big city. After searching for a decent place to live, and turning down one freakish place after another, including a delightful apartment complete with wall to wall mirrors and a poll in the middle of the room on a stage, we stumbled upon what seemed to be the perfect house--a 1920's bungalow near downtown Asheville. We loved the hippie-feel of the neighborhood as well as the seemingly unending choices of restaurants, bars, and shopping. After our years in Sylva, Asheville may as well have been NYC. We wouldn't have known the difference.

But shortly after moving in, the fun began. Our basement flooded with sewage, and a week later a hurricane ripped through the mountains knocking out our power and water. For weeks, we couldn't flush our toilet and were forced to boil every ounce of water we consumed. Who would've thought a hurricane could wreck such havoc in the mountains? And if that wasn't bad enough, we found ourselves in the middle of winter with no heat. Two impractical, bookish girls from the suburbs quickly learned how to make a fire hot enough to keep a house heated through the night.

My years in the mountains were difficult. I was lonely. Homesick. Sad. Stressed. Yet somehow, Cheryl always made things better. We found comfort in our mutual misery and always managed to laugh. Now, we live several hours apart and don't keep in touch as much as we should. But being in Greensboro over the weekend, I was reminded just how important she is in my life. I was thrilled to watch Lucy get to know her Auntie Cheryl and look forward to our next visit with my old roomie and lifelong friend.