My New Tattoo!

Celtic Motherhood Tattoo

I got a new tattoo!  It's actually my fifth one, but the first really visible one.  I have one on the top of my foot, but it's pretty easy to hide, if need be.  I feel like I've entered a new world of tattoo-having.  There's a pretty big difference between having tattoos and no one knowing it and having a tattoo that people will see the majority of the time (especially because I HATE long-sleeves - it's just so hard to eat with sleeves.  Or go to the bathroom.  Is that weird that I don't like to sit on a toilet while wearing a long-sleeved shirt?  I think it's the fear of sleeve-contamination-while-wiping).

Anyway, it is (supposedly, but even if it isn't accurate, I still love it) a Celtic Motherhood knot.  The top heart is me (January), the bottom heart is Husband (and co-creator of the children), the top left circle is Ant (August), and top right is Sweet D (October).  There is room to add more children, if/when the occasion arises (punny?).  I love it.  I've wanted a tattoo to symbolize motherhood since I became a mom, but I've never found an idea I liked before.  When I saw this one, I knew it was the right one for me.  I found the design online and came up with the idea for the mother/father hearts myself.  It's so perfect.  You know, unless I divorce Husband and/or get impregnated by someone else.  But I'll deal with that conundrum if and when I have to.  I'll just make sure I only sleep with people born in November.  Problem solved!  (Obviously that's in jest... one Scorpio in my life is more than enough.)

On a side note, I was surprised by how much this one hurt.  I either forgot how much they hurt (since it's been six years since my last one), or it hurts a lot more on your wrist than other places (I have one that's around 14" by 8" on my lower back, including over my tail bone - so I'm thinking I'm mis-remembering how much that one actually hurt).  Compared to childbirth, it was nothing.  But now I have a pretty scar to bear that reminds me of my most favorite people in the world - instead of the "tiger stripes" adorning the rest of my body (of which I'm not embarrassed, but also far from fond of).  I put on my tough-girl face, though, and Husband said he couldn't tell I was even slightly uncomfortable.  Now if only I could be that tough again through labor in the future (which could take about as long as this tattoo took, since Sweet D took an hour and 45 min)...

The Day I Defiled My Coffee Mug; or, Coffee Mug, Forever Unclean

I love Thanksgiving.  It's probably my favorite day of the year, because it's a day dedicated entirely to cooking and eating my favorite foods.  Any meal that requires at least two full days of preparation/cooking is particularly awesome in my world.  So when I promised Husband that we could spend Thanksgiving with his family this year, it was a fairly big deal for me.  I do love his family, though, and I knew it would be fun, but I was essentially sacrificing the one day a year I get to eat my buttery soaked apple-bread stuffing baked in the juices of a turkey's internal cavities.  Simply making it myself and bringing it with us wasn't an option, either, as it not only requires an entire turkey in order to taste perfect, but the Thanksgiving dinner was a two-day, 13.5 total hour drive away.  And we would be taking Husband's brand new (to us) Prius, so space was limited.

Not to mention, Thanksgiving with Husband's family is not a small, intimate affair.  "Husband's Family" denotes extended family, not immediate.  Astoundingly, it's actually only his mom's family.  But she has five siblings, and they are all fairly prolific.  We were looking at upwards of a 52-person gathering (give or take some cousins' boyfriends/girlfriends, etc).  There would be more than enough dishes that no one would miss my stuffing (except me), and there would be little to no possibility of me forging out space in either kitchen (Aunt Mimi has two!) to make my stuffing myself.  So I abandoned the idea of having any of my own traditional foods this year.

About a week before we were supposed to leave, Husband comes home from work and tells me about some nasty gastrointestinal bug going around this year.  He had two soldiers come in with it two days ago, four soldiers yesterday, and an astounding six today, all saying they and their families were "vomiting and shitting uncontrollably."  I laughingly said, "wow, make sure you don't bring that one home!"

Oh, silly, naive Laura.  Did you learn nothing from the movie "Scream?"  If I hadn't said anything, we would have been fine.  That's how movies work.  That's science.

Monday night rolls around, and I get woken up at 1:30am by a hysterical Ant, screaming about how his stomach hurt.  I carried him into the kitchen to try and find some medicine for him, when he suddenly started gagging.

"THROW UP IN HERE!!"  I yelled as I held him hovering over the kitchen sink.  He did!

... Then he did again.

Then he slept for 20 minutes and had to again.

I quickly realized the idea of me running to his room to grab him and running with him to the kitchen to throw up in the sink every 20 minutes was not overly practical.  So we found an old ice cream bucket (currently being used for toy storage), and explained how he could just keep it in his bed and throw up in it when he needed to.

It only took about 6 more times of throwing up every 20 minutes before he figured it out.  Now that's what I call a parenting success.

After about 6 hours of the hysterical screaming followed by bucket-puking every 20 min, it seemed like the worst was finally over.

But at 7:30, Husband (who was up getting ready for work, so he was tending to the current scream-vomit-fit) came into the room and frantically woke me up.

"The diarrhea... it started... I... I don't know what to do."

I don't know why he assumed I would know what to do, any more than he would.  I guess because I have a uterus.  I picked up the coated pants and took them to a toilet to wash them out.  Seeing as how I've never had to deal with an excessive amount of shit in clothing before, I'm not exactly sure how I knew what to do, either.  I guess it is because I have a uterus.

Finally, after that last bout, we got about an hour and a half of sleep.  When we woke up, Ant was feeling much better.  And aside from two more (controlled) episodes of diarrhea in the morning and one isolated vomiting incident Tues evening, he seemed to be completely over it.

So the quandary loomed.  To road trip, or not to road trip.  We were supposed to leave Wednesday afternoon, right after Husband finished a half-day of work.  That would be less than 24-hrs after the last vomiting incident.  But I had made a promise to Husband...

We agreed that if Ant made it through the night without incident, we'd go (against the advice of an experienced mom-friend of mine, who has a family rule of "no traveling within 48 hrs of someone being sick").  Of course, Ant had a great night with no bodily fluid interruptions.

I finished packing and loaded the car while waiting for Husband to get home.  As soon as he did, we piled in and took off.  At best, this drive would take us no less than 10 hours and require at least two stops to deal with kids, food, diapers, etc.

We were making good time and everyone was in good spirits when we decided to stop for dinner (our second stop of the trip already) at a Chili's in Springfield, Missouri.  We'd just passed the halfway point of the drive, and things were going great.

Husband and Ant went ahead and got a table while I stayed back to nurse Sweet D and change her diaper.  We joined them afterwards, and Sweet D was in the happiest mood.  She was playing with everyone, banging (quietly) on the table, making insane-o noises, and generally being hilarious and good-tempered.

Then they brought our food, set it on the table, and abruptly, Sweet D started making strange noises.  I turned to see her vomiting.  Everywhere.  A LOT.  But fortunately, it was all just orange juice and milk.  Hardly vomit at all.  Except that it was coating everything.  The table, the highchair, the floor around her, and, of course, all of her.

All the parents out there know the feeling that ensued: that moment where something truly disgustingly terrible happens and you freeze.  Time stands still as you stare, open-mouthed, at the disaster, and your brain stops working.  After a few slow blinks, your brain can usually snap back on and spring you into action.  But that moment is quintessential parenthood to me.  A huge, embarrassing mess of human excretion, and it's your responsibility.

I grabbed Vomit-D and ran out, practically knocking the waiter over as I shoved past him, yelling over my shoulder, "sorry about the vomit; we'll give you a big tip!!"  Hopefully the 40+% tip Husband left him sufficed.

Back in the car, I got Sweet D changed into comfy pjs and back in her seat, complete with a bib in an attempt to catch future vomit-attacks (of which there were graciously few).  Husband and Ant finished their dinners and brought mine in a carry-out box.

Husband joked as I opened my food that he wasn't sure if his stomach hurt from eating quickly, being overwhelmed by the public vomiting, or if he was getting sick, too.  Suddenly the smell of my favorite Chili's food (Buffalo Ranch Chicken Sandwich) started my stomach turning, too.  Surely it was just stress.

I opted not to eat, regardless.  And less than 40 minutes later, I had my answer.

"Okay, I need you to pull over.  Now.  Now.  NOW!"

I undid my seat belt and scrambled to lean out of the car, which is wonderfully low to the ground, thank you, Toyota.  After a few minutes of puking, I felt a bit better.  We drove for another 20 minutes before it happened again.  And again.  And again.

Shortly before the sixth time, we passed a State Trooper vehicle that had just finished pulling someone over. "Oh good, he's probably going to meet us the next time I have to throw up."

Less than a minute later, there I was, seat belt still on, leaning out the side of the car, puking my guts out, when the red and blue lights started flashing behind us.  The cop cautiously approached my side and asked if everything was alright.  We explained the situation, and he laughed at me.  Then he told me we still had at least three hours of driving left to do.  And reminded me that the worst roads were yet to come (Northeast Arkansas has some of the most beautiful, winding, hilly roads I've ever seen - with little to no shoulder room).

The cop, laughing, left me to hang out of the car and feel like death (he did offer to call an ambulance, if I needed one, though).  And off we went again.  For another 20 minute drive before frantically pulling over.

It continued like this until we got into Arkansas.  With the hilly, winding, forest roads.  With no shoulders.  When I felt the urge coming on again, I hollered for Husband to pull over.  But on two-lane roads with steep drop-offs immediately off the road and sharp turns only 20-feet ahead, there is little to no room to pull over for your wife to vomit out the side of the car.  The only option was the intermittent driveways.  But they weren't conveniently located every time I had to throw up.  And I didn't want to throw up all over the inside of Husband's brand new car.  I only had one other option, rolling around by my feet.

I'm so sorry, my beautiful coffee mug.

For the rest of the drive, I had to throw up into my coffee mug while Husband frantically searched for a driveway for me to puke on.

At one point, I sent a text to my friend, professing my dutiful obedience to all her family rules in the future.  If only I'd listened to her, I could be at home, throwing up in my own toilet.  Not on every driveway between Mammoth Springs and Jonesboro.

We finally made it to his parents in right around 12.5 hours.  The exact same drive only takes his dad about 8 hours.  We had to pull over 14 times for me to throw up.  But miraculously, the diarrhea held off until we were out of the car.  Praise the Lord.  (I later learned the same fortune did not grace one of Husband's cousins, who also had the same bug the weekend before Thanksgiving - but he fiance cleaned the car for her, because he's a wonderful man who clearly loves her.  I can confidently say, Husband would not have done the same for me.)

After a terrible night of little to no sleep, and lots of quality time with the toilet, it was suddenly Thanksgiving. And we had about three hours to get ready to drive down to the big family hoopla in Little Rock (another 2.5 hour drive).  I decided I shouldn't go.  Husband swore I wouldn't be contagious anymore, but the thought of being trapped away from a bed and a bathroom again was enough to make me cry.

At the last minute, I changed my mind.  I'd suffered through the whole drive down here, I didn't want it all to be for nothing when I was already this close.  So off we went again.  Miraculously, I slept the whole way.

I was glad to be there, even if I felt pretty miserable.  It was wonderful to see everyone again, and the kids definitely had fun.  The food all smelled delicious... but I was in no mood to eat.  I ended up eating half a piece of pumpkin pie.  Not exactly the Thanksgiving meal I'd anticipated.

Shortly before we left, Sweet D needed her diaper changed.  After getting her in a clean diaper, I realized she still smelled funky.  Or rather, her clothes did.  Because the diarrhea finally caught up with her.  And I'd been holding her most of the time.

I changed her into warm pjs (again), but the smell was still all over me.  Time to go. When you're covered in baby diarrhea, it's usually time to leave the party.

The rest of the weekend was fabulously uneventful.  Husband did a fabulous job driving the entire time there and back, and he (somehow) managed to not ever get sick.  The ride home was full of a lot of screaming and being sick of the car, with multiple stops to try and keep us all sane (including short visits with both my mom and my college German professor), but we made it.  Sometime after midnight.

Ant, who never falls asleep in the car, fell asleep for the last 20 minutes of the trip.  When the car came to a stop at home, he woke up and started screaming.  We couldn't get him to stop.  He walked inside, took his shoes up, went upstairs, we brushed his teeth, put him in pjs, got him in bed - all while he screamed like a lunatic.  Finally, after 45 minutes, he fell asleep.  We still have no idea what he was doing.

The next morning I unpacked all the bags and started laundry.  Our vomit, diarrhea, and germ filled clothes.  One load in, I turned the dryer on.  It clanged around, smelled like smoke, and stopped working.  Great.  Now, over a week later, I'm still waiting on the replacement part to come in and the repairman to come back.  We made a make-shift room dryer out of extra shower rods in the kids' bathroom, combined with a space heater, the bathroom fan, and a lot of hangers.

And now, the plan is to head up to South Dakota on Wednesday afternoon for the weekend.  Because, evidently, I haven't yet learned that I should give road-tripping a break for a while.  Hopefully our clothes all dry before then and Husband doesn't bring home any more terrible germs.  Wish us luck.

The Day(s) I Built a Play Set; or, What Being an Army Wife Means to Me

As I've mentioned before, Husband is currently deployed.  But, in the grand scheme of deployments, this one is pretty minimal; in fact, it's not technically even going to be considered a deployment.  It won't reset his deployment clock, which means we run the (very slight) risk of Army turning around as soon as he gets home, sending him to another unit that needs a PA and deploying him for a full year-long deployment.  I seriously doubt that will happen, but it could.  The smartest approach to surviving Army life is to always at least be aware of what could happen.  We're expecting him to miss Sweet D's first birthday (but not by so much that we won't just postpone her party until he gets home) and another anniversary of ours, but if that's all he misses, we still have very little to complain about.

This is our first deployment with kids, so it's taken a bit more adjusting for me than the last one.  The first week was hard on me.  The second week was much easier.  By the third week, I began to realize that I could do this for a year, if I had to (which, thankfully, I don't - at least not this time).

Before he left, we bought a giant play set for the backyard, with the intention that we could get it built relatively quickly, and we'd have a fun and safe place where Ant could burn a lot of energy every day, without me being obligated to take both kids to the park (which is something I don't like doing alone, since I have to hold Sweet D the entire time, so if Ant gets stuck somewhere or slips, I can't just run up and help him with my arms full of baby).

We picked out an awesome one.  A slide, monkey bars, a rock wall, a rope ladder, climbing steps, swings, a tunnel, etc.  There were two different building kits to choose from: do-it-yourself, or ready-to-assemble.  We're not really that big on DitY type stuff, so we spent the money to get the ready-to-assemble kit.  Husband borrowed a friend's pick-up truck, loaded up all the pieces and brought it home.  We unloaded it all and moved all the pieces to the backyard, and Husband got working on it right away.  We figured we could get most of it built over the weekend, and maybe finish up the rest in the evenings after he got home.

How foolish we were.  Destroyed by our own hubris.

Ready-to-assemble simply means that most of the wood has already been cut to size.  Most.  Not all.  None of the wood had pre-drilled holes, but all of the wood required them.  Add to that more than several pieces of fairly warped wood, and we were looking at a lot more than two days' worth of play set building.  Combined with two small, usually screaming and impatient, children, I soon realized the likelihood of the play set ever being finished was dwindling.

Husband worked on it for several hours the first day.  Until all his drill bits were broken.  After a run to the hardware store, he got in a few more hours on Sunday, with meager results.  I'll admit at that point, knowing he was so close to deploying, I was feeling overcome with frustration and anger.  So much for our plan to have the play set finished.  Ever.

After coming home from work, Husband would go out and work on the play set for a couple hours each day.  It was coming along, slowly.  I helped when I had the chance, but for the most part, I just kept the kids from screaming at him so he could work.

Then he went to Ft. Sam Houston for training for a week, and I went to South Dakota for a "vacation."  We got home that weekend, and I decided we had to do as much as we could before he left.  We worked for about four hours on Sunday, again until all our drill bits broke and we had to stop.  On Monday, we found out he would for sure be deploying that weekend (Labor Day weekend), so he was determined not to spend his last days with us out in the blistering heat, working on the damned play set.  I resigned myself to not having the play set while he was gone.

Thursday morning he got a call that he'd be leaving that night at 1:30am.  I was a little frustrated that they'd taken away our last night together, but at least we finally had a time.  Four hours later, they called and moved it back 24 hours.

"That's it," I told him.  "We HAVE to do as much as we can to the play set."

So his last day here, we finished up everything we could.  The main structures were up, and the braces for the swing set.  It was a wooden frame, but at least I could hang the swings by myself.  It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

The morning after Husband left, both kids took a nap at the same time.  Determined to at least get the swings hung, I went out to work on the play set.  In less than two hours, I got the swings hung, the slide securely attached, the rope ladder up, and the rock wall parts in place.  Over the next couple of days, working on the few occasions the kids both napped at the same time, I managed to build the climbing stairs - which involved cutting the 2x8 boards with a manual saw.  I was so proud of myself, I became determined to do as much else as I could.

I've since attached the telescope (it doesn't actually work, but don't tell Ant that), and the tarp over the top, as well.  And I built the monkey bars (which also involved the manual saw, a lot of gigantic bolts, and a good amount of swearing).  The monkey bars are not yet attached, however, because they require two 10.5" holes to be dug where the legs will be secured in the ground, allowing the top to be level.  I struggled for an hour or so one afternoon with a post-hole digger, a shovel, and a pickaxe, and only made it about 6" in the rock-hard soil.

I had more than a few friends comment on how I should either wait or find a "man" who could dig the holes for me.  Surprisingly, I balked at the idea.  At first I didn't know how to explain it, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I have to do this myself.  As an Army wife and a mother to our little Army brats, I have to finish this play set, and without help.

"Why?" a friend asked.

"Because.  What if Patrick were killed?  I have to know I can build my kids a play set."

I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's the truth.  I have to prove to myself that I'm good enough, and capable enough, to be both their mother and their father.  I have to be able to bake them awesome Minion cakes, but I also have to be able to build them big play sets.  I have to be twice as patient with them while he's gone, and twice as loving, because I'm both parents right now.  When one of us would get fed up with them, the other takes over.  They deserve the patience and love of two parents.  Whether it's for a day, two months, or 12 months, it doesn't matter.  When one parent is away, the one who stays behind has to be good enough to be both.

The play set is just a microcosm of the reality - just the physical embodiment of my role as "dad," but if I can do it, by myself, then I'll feel confident that I can do anything else.  I can handle a two month, or a nine month, or a fifteen month deployment.  I can be strong enough, loving enough, patient enough to be what my kids deserve - and what civilian kids with both parents at home can take for granted.  If I can do this, I can truly be an Army wife.

The Night I Invited a Strange Man to Stay Over

Alright, I feel like this post needs a disclaimer right off the bat.  For starters, yes, I realize this was not the smartest thing I've ever done.  If at all possible, please try to refrain from scolding me about something that's already happened (and that turned out well).  I promise I won't ever do anything like this again.  Or, at best, I'll try to be smarter about it (because I really shouldn't promise not to help people - what are you all, heartless monsters?  You don't want to help people in need?  I'm ashamed of all of you).

A few weeks ago, while I was mopping the front entryway to our house, the doorbell rang.  I opened it to see an exceptionally tall young man who explained that he was from Estonia (and was astounded that I knew where Estonia was... which doesn't say much for the other good folk he's encountered on his door-to-door sales experience here in "middle America...").  I tried my best to look frazzled in that "please just leave me alone" way, but he explained that he was selling educational books for children and asked if he could come in for a moment.

Since he clearly knew my personal kryptonite is educational books for children, I had no choice but to let him come in and fall victim to his sales scheme.

After talking briefly about Europe (he was excited to hear that I'd lived in Germany for several years on my own), he showed me the books, and Ant (who was supposed to be enjoying "quiet time" in his room, but, in true "quiet time" form was actually hiding behind the couch) immediately grabbed the books and started excitedly exclaiming about every single picture, shape, color, and letter in them.  Way to go, kid.  He basically painted me into a corner of obligatory parental guilt: I have to buy the books, or he'll probably turn retarded and will likely fail out of pre-school.

I offered the Estonian something to drink, and while I was getting him some juice, he asked what I do all day.  I'll re-mop the front entry way after you leave... I thought, but then I realized, I had the perfect display of "what I do all day" sitting in my fridge - my minion cake.  He was so impressed, he asked if I could take his picture with the cake and email it to him, exclaiming that his friends absolutely wouldn't believe that it was a homemade cake.  Ego boost - another point in his favor for buying the set of educational books.  He really was a good salesman.

He explained that I'd be receiving a postcard in the mail sometime in September with the date he'd personally return to deliver the books.  I wrote out a check for half the cost of the 6-book set, and sent him on his way.

Several weeks later, I received said postcard.  I waited around the entire morning on the date he was supposed to arrive, but he never showed up.  Fearing my gullible nature had led me into a scam (the check had already been cashed weeks ago), I began to do some research on the company he was working with.  Southwestern Advantage.  It would seem as if there is a good deal of negative attention toward them on the internet.  The more I read, the more sympathy I felt for the tall, friendly Estonian.  Was he being taken advantage of by this large, evidently evil corporation?  Did he have any money after all the out-of-pocket expenses he's expected to pay, or is he starving and miserable?  Has he been assaulted by strangers on his door-to-door adventures, only to find out the company refuses to involve itself in any of the salespeople's legal issues, to include violent assault?  Was he on the verge of suicide, driven to depression from the weeks of stress after working 80 hours every week for the entire summer - walking door-to-door in this exceptionally hot Kansas summer?  I have to do SOMETHING for him!  (Assuming he ever shows up.)

So, true to my nurturing, motherly nature, I baked cookies.

He didn't show up the day he was supposed to, and, instead of believing I'd been swindled, I grew increasingly concerned for his well-being.  I was convinced he'd run across some psychopath living in central Kansas who was probably holding him hostage somewhere in his basement and torturing him.  The poor, naive Estonian.  He wasn't raised in America, where we're taught everyone we don't know is a serial rapist/killer who just wants to kidnap us/our children.  There's no way he can survive in this cruel, violent world of central Kansas.

I was outside, working on the (never-ending) play set when the doorbell rang.  I ran to answer it, and there he was - the tall Estonian kid, not (visibly) harmed or being held captive, books in arm.  He apologized for being a day late and explained that his car had broken down yesterday (gesturing behind him at a very used 1992 piece of rusty metal), and he'd gotten behind in all his deliveries.

I invited him in so he could show me the books, and then I offered him cookies.  And juice.

And then I started to question him.  About the company, about his experiences.  I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

Like some of the voices out there on the internet regarding Southwestern Advantage, he simply said, "it's not for everyone."  He explained that yes, he has a lot of out-of-pocket expenses, and he works extremely strenuous hours, but he expected as much.  The people who feel used or abused by the company are the ones who don't do the research beforehand and expect the company to do things for them, like find them lodging in their assigned cities.  For instance, he was no longer staying with his host family (he was the only one in his group who hadn't finished his deliveries yet), so he didn't have anywhere to stay tonight.  He said he'd just start asking people as he dropped books off this afternoon.

I didn't win the "Good Samaritan Award" six years in a row at three different schools in elementary school for nothing.

"You can stay here, if you need a place to stay!"  I blurted out without really thinking it through.

He seemed about as surprised as I was.  "Are you sure?" he asked. "I only need a clean place on the floor to sleep... and maybe a shower, if that's okay."

Where has this poor guy been staying that he thinks those are acceptable conditions?!

"Oh no, I have an entire guest room downstairs - and a full bathroom."

"But I won't be getting back until late... like after 9pm.  Would that be okay with your kids and their bedtime?"

Sweet D doesn't usually go to sleep until 11, and that's past Ant's bedtime, so I didn't see a problem.  We agreed on it, exchanged phone numbers, and he told me there was a chance he'd finish all his deliveries early and not need a place to stay, but if he didn't, he'd be extremely grateful to me.  I sent him off with a bag of cookies and a big travel mug full of coffee, feeling good about myself for helping out someone in need.

I'd like to take a moment to interject here that, if he'd been an American, I more than likely wouldn't have even considered letting him stay here (especially with Husband being gone).  I just felt like I had a certain camaraderie with him, as a European, that I couldn't have with an American.  It reminded me of so many wonderful Germans I'd met, who would welcome anyone into their home and treat them just like family.  I've had some of the most amazing, welcoming, warm experiences in German households with people I barely knew - but I know if I ever end up back there, I could just ring their doorbell, and they'd welcome me back in like a long-lost cousin.  It's not something I've ever encountered in America; it's simply a different way of life, and I saw this as my opportunity to "pay it forward" for all the times other Europeans have done it for me.

Still riding the high of feeling like I've done a really good deed, I talked briefly to Husband online and told him (I'd seriously considered NOT telling him, because I knew his reaction wouldn't be favorable, but I figured he'd trust my judgement).  As expected, Husband wasn't thrilled with the idea.  I believe his exact words were "no."  After some mild convincing that I'm not, in fact, a complete idiot, and I might even be a decent judge of character, he relented and said, "fine, but I'm going to be worried sick until I talk to you tomorrow."  Understandable.

Then I texted my good friend Mouse, who happens to live in the same town as us (one of the main reasons I wanted to move here in the first place).  She, like Husband, flipped out.

Their reactions were starting to wear on me and convince me that maybe I wasn't the best judge of character after all.  And maybe I'd just agreed to something that was going to get me raped and all of us killed.

So my American-raised mind agreed to do something I never in a million years would have before considered.  I borrowed Mouse's gun.

I should probably tell you now how incredibly anti-gun I am.  I HATE them.  Even the thought of guns makes me feel queasy and my hands start sweating.  When I was growing up, we weren't even allowed to point finger guns at each other.  There's a chance I've tried to fire a BB gun once or twice, but I even hated that.  I can't stomach the thought of guns in my house, ESPECIALLY with small children also in my house.  Yes, I am aware that I'm married to a soldier, but he doesn't bring his guns home.  I'm not opposed to the idea of guns - I see them as necessary for many things in life.  I'm opposed to the idea of ME and guns.

She came over in late afternoon with this adorable little pink camo gun case and gave me a quick tutorial in how to load and fire the gun.  I couldn't bring myself to actually touch it, but I'm a relatively fast learner, so I got the basic gist of it.  She told me she felt much better with me having it, I know Husband felt better with me having it, and I have to admit, after the two of them riled me up into thinking I was going to be raped and killed, I felt better having it, too.

I put the gun on the armoire next to my bed.  Then I put my canister of dog mace in easy reach in the living room.  I was prepared.  The AmURican way.

Shortly after I got Ant to bed, the Estonian called to make sure it was still okay if he stayed the night.  As soon as I heard him on the phone, my fears (mostly) dissipated.  I'd gotten so nervous and wound up between Husband and Mouse's concerns, I'd forgotten that I'm not an idiot, and I CAN trust my own instincts.

Sweet D went to sleep just minutes before the Estonian arrived.  I showed him in and showed him the guest room.  He was extremely grateful and offered to sleep on the ground, so he wouldn't dirty the sheets.  I told him to quit being ridiculous and just sleep in the bed.  He was my guest, and I was going to treat him as such.

He said he'd have to leave around 6am (way before I'd prefer to be awake), so I showed him how to lock the door behind him, and asked if he had breakfast (he showed me this absurdly small breakfast bar).  So I took him to the kitchen, got a pot of coffee ready so he could brew fresh coffee, showed him where the poptarts and cereal are, and then asked if he'd eaten dinner.  He seemed almost apologetic and said no.  I made him a garlic pork sandwich on fresh homemade french bread.  Then I got him juice and chips.  While I was digging in the pantry for more food to throw at him, he remarked how much I reminded him of his mom.  What a fantastic compliment.

I've always been a motherly figure.  I was voted "most likely to have 15 kids" in my high school class.  My Fulbright friends used to joke about how they'd be high, and I'd be sober, making sure they all had their mittens on before we went outside in the cold.  I guess I'm just a very mother-hen type.

We talked for a bit about Europe and America and politics and his job, etc.  And I remarked about how I likely wouldn't have invited him to stay if he'd been American.  He seemed to think it over for a minute, and then he agreed - the whole situation was much more European to him, too.  He said he felt comfortable here, like he would have in a typical European home.  Not that Americans can't be hospitable or good hosts, but it's simply a different mindset for the majority of people.  After I shot down his ridiculous notion of changing the sheets on the bed when he got up in the morning, he thanked me for everything I'd done for him (which really wasn't much of anything), and told me that I shouldn't ever lose my European-trained sense of hospitality.  I whole-heartedly agree.

After sending him to bed, I cleaned up the kitchen and brought the dogs into my room (who, it turns out, are COMPLETELY worthless as guard dogs - they didn't even make a noise when he was up in the morning in the kitchen - but I was wide awake the whole time - and only a little nervous).  I didn't sleep very well, waking at every noise and running through my plan of how I'd grab and load the gun if he came anywhere near our rooms (it's hard to get over the ingrained fear - especially in such an unknown situation).

Of course, everything turned out fine.  The Estonian really did just need a place to stay (which I knew was a common problem for the Southwestern salespeople from all the reading I did on the internet about the company), and I'm glad I was able to provide that for him for a night.  It's the least I could do after all the wonderful people I've met during my travels who have done the same for me.

And a final disclaimer, if you believe anything untoward may have happened, then you truly don't know me.  I was far too mentally-consumed with the idea of "tonight being the very first time I may kill someone!" to even consider the notion of infidelity.

Oh, and Estonian - if you read this (I'm friends with him on facebook now!), please don't be offended that I armed myself against you.  I am an American, after all.  :)

The Day I Bought a Steam Vac (Today!)

Ant had been giving us signs that he was ready to start potty training for a while now. He's interested in the potty chairs, excited about "big boy underwear," and he's met all the other milestones the experts recommend (being able to stay dry for a certain amount of time, being able to undress himself, etc). So after Husband deployed (and Ant seemed to show no reaction to Daddy being gone), I decided it would be a good way to pass the time. And what an awesome "present" for Husband to come home to - one kid out of diapers without any work on his part!

We started yesterday. We read all our different books on using the potty, took a tour of the bathroom, including two potty chairs (one on loan to us that looks like a dinosaur!), his potty chart, rewards for going potty, toilet paper, the sink and soap, etc. We were set, and we were both very excited to get this show on the road.

How do you start potty training? The "experts" all say to let the kid run around without pants on. They're more aware of what's going on with their down-theres, then, and less likely to confuse underwear as just another form of diaper (which also means less laundry in the form of soiled underwear every time the kid forgets). I knew going in to this that we'd have some accidents, and they'd likely be on the carpet, so I was prepared. I've had two kids, we have two painfully stupid dogs and a cat; I'm certainly accustomed to messes on the carpet, couches, walls, and so on. I bought a brand new bottle of Resolve Pet Stain Remover just the other day.

The morning started out with me asking Ant every 2 minutes if he had to pee or poop and reminding him to run to the potty if he felt like he needed to go. I can't even begin to tell you how excited I was the first time he jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and happily exclaimed that he'd peed in the potty. I ran in to see for myself, and, sure enough, he had! Pee, right there, in the dinosaur potty. And some next to the dinosaur potty. ... And some on the rugs. But still! Pee in the potty!!

And he kept doing it, too! Pee, in the potty, at least 8 times yesterday.

But pooping was another thing entirely. I had a feeling it was going to be more difficult, but the peeing was just going so well. He was playing by himself with his Little People farm toy when I notice he stopped moving for a second... and was in a tell-tale squatting position... I jumped up to grab him, yelling (in my most helpful, polite-but-urgent, mommy voice), "Ant! Do you need to go to the potty to poop?!" Too late. Poop. On the carpet.

It's okay, not a big deal. It cleaned up easily (easier than the stupid dogs' poop ever is). We talked about how he didn't get a prize (skittles) for that one, because it was on the carpet, and not in the potty, where it's supposed to be. He was sad, but he understood. Just to show me how well he understood, he proceeded to pee in the potty (and get his skittles).

The rest of the day was uneventful (except for one pee incident, on a kitchen chair, because he was too involved with his play-doh to realize he had to pee - in spite of my asking every 2 minutes if he needed to go). More successful pottying, and even some (remarkably small) poops. Gross, I know, but this is the reality of having and raising children, people.

The day ended with a minor battle over how to proceed with nighttime potty training. I made the mistake of telling Ant he could come and get me if he needed to pee, and I'd help him take his diaper off. Being the crafty little kid he is, he realized this was the perfect excuse to stay up late - even if it was just staying up to sit on the potty. I let him sit there for 30 minutes (producing nothing) before I cracked and forced him to go to bed, telling him it was okay if he peed in his diaper.

He woke me up this morning, bright and early, excited to get back to potty training. It should probably be noted that he thinks a "potty train" is an actual train and something that will be his when he can use the potty correctly. He keeps asking for his potty train, which, to anyone who didn't know what he actually meant, would probably sound very progressive - toddler-led potty training: "I want my POTTY TRAIN!!" It isn't progressive; it's actually just greedy.

It would appear that he had peed immediately before waking me up, because his diaper was fully loaded, and he didn't need to pee for the first several hours we were awake, in spite of my incessant asking.

He was sitting on the couch with his blankets and a hammer-and-ball toy thing when my phone rang. Seeing a number that started with a bunch of 0's, I got super excited, because I knew it had to be Husband, calling from somewhere "over there." I hadn't talked to him since he left, so I was very eager to hear his voice and regale him with the events of our last few days, specifically our potty training successes thus far.

About two minutes into the annoyingly-voice-delayed call, Ant suddenly started screaming. I looked up just in time to see him jump up from where he was sitting on the couch, kick his legs and flail his arms about, and throw himself to the other side of the couch, before dropping to the floor, all while screaming like a lunatic. His toys and blankets got caught up in the action, also springing about on the couch, and Sweet D, standing in front of the couch where Ant had just been sitting, began to hit the couch and yell in excitement.

But then I noticed a little something else was involved in the flailing mix. It didn't register at first, because I'd never been witness to anything similar, mostly because I've never spent any remarkable amount of time in monkey houses at the zoo.

Shit. It was shit. I don't feel like I need to apologize for using that word in this scenario, because it's truly the only appropriate word to describe the reality. It was horrible, noxious, filthy, diarrhea shit. And it was all over my couch. Then all over Ant. And all over his blankets and toys. Oh God, no, the table. Stop moving, Ant, STOP MOVING! Now my pillows. And the carpet. JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP MOVING. IT'S SHIT; HE SHIT ON THE COUCH; OH MY GOD. And the rug. No... NO, SWEET D, NO!! ... And Sweet D.

I was frozen for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a couple seconds. I yelled to Ant, "did you not know you were going to poop?!"

"Nooooooo!" He wailed. Looking at the diarrhea-poop, I'd guess that was probably true.

"GO TO THE BATHROOM AND WAIT FOR ME."

Oh yeah, I'm still on the phone to Husband, who is separated from the shit-living room by his security bubble of half the world and a 3-second phone delay. I started trying to explain to him what was happening when I saw Sweet D going for the kill - inches from a giant pile of shit, she had that crazy look in her eyes that only an eager 10-month old can get when she's about to grab something that she instinctively knows is off-limits.

"WHAT DO I DO?!"

Husband, ever the level-headed rational one suggests, "put Sweet D in the bathroom with Ant and deal with him first, then clean everything else up after he's calmed down."

Good plan. Baby to the bathroom. Oh God, the bathroom is also somehow covered in shit. Is more coming out, or is it just splatters of already-coated flailing limbs? HOW DO I EVEN BEGIN TO GET CONTROL OF THIS?!

Ant, sitting calmly on his dinosaur potty now, stands up and announces, "I peed in the potty! I get a special treat."

Ha.

I start trying to wipe Ant off with toilet paper and realize it's just not going to cut it. "Let's go to your room and use some wipes. Oh no, what does Sweet D have? IT'S SHIT. SHE HAS SHIT ON HER HANDS. AND SHE'S PAINTING THE FLOOR WITH IT!! AHHHH, CHILDREN!!!"

After frantically cleaning Sweet D's hand, we proceeded to clean Ant up in his room (and getting more shit all over everything in there), and then back to the bathroom to have a family bath. I'll never feel clean again. Ant, in typical Ant fashion, starts throwing a fit. No sympathy, into the tub. Thankfully, Sweet D loves water, so she gladly gets in and gets clean. My kids have some sort of psychic ability with each other - if they're only minorly upset, they will, inevitably, always be minorly upset at the same time. They throw fits at the same time, wake up at night at the same time, get hurt at the same time, need attention at the same time. But if something is TRULY wrong (like shit-splosion all over the house, or accidentally biting their tongue in half), they have an awesome ability to take turns. I'm so thankful for that.

I get the kids cleaned, DIAPERED (both of them), and dressed, then head back out to clean up the shit-covered living room. Meanwhile, the phone system interrupts our call and informs Husband and me that we have 15 more seconds to talk. Great, I'm glad we got a chance to catch up...

I used half a bottle of Resolve on the couch, carpet, and rug, and half a container of disinfecting wipes on the table and toys. Blankets go into the washer, my hands get washed 18 times, and I sit down at my computer to get on Amazon and order a steam vac. I've been wanting one since we bought our house, and it seems now is the perfect time to stop putting it off. Because I'm NOT going to sit on that couch again until it's been semi-professionally cleaned.

In the meantime, I've decided it's not going to hurt anything if Ant doesn't potty train right now. He's not starting school any time soon, and I hate the idea of having to hunt down bathrooms every single time we go shopping or to the park, etc. Maybe another few months in diapers won't be a bad thing, and I'll be thankful to have the stress off of me. If Husband were going to be gone for a real, full-length deployment, I'd have no choice but to do it myself. But as it is, it seems like waiting 3 months and doing it during his Block Leave, so he can help, is a pretty freaking ingenious idea. After all, I've heard some stories about what a nightmare he was to potty train (whereas I potty trained myself at 18 months). It would seem as if there's some 26 year old karma waiting around to catch up with him.

The Day I Took a Road Trip to Hell

Husband is in this seemly never-ending struggle to deploy (the unit he's currently assigned to has been in Baghdad since October, but he was in PA school until June, so we've been spending the last three months trying to get him over there - with the Army saying, "He'll deploy next week, for sure." Then the next week comes and they realize there's something else they forgot to do to deploy him, so it gets pushed back another week. The whole thing is really annoying. It's not that I want him to deploy, but if he's going to, I just want it to happen so we can move on with our lives and stop living in this "this is our last weekend together" mindset. That's just too exhausting, no matter how much we love the guy.) As part of the pre-deployment process, he had to attend a course at Ft. Sam Houston (in San Antonio - I was so jealous) for medical providers deploying to combat zones (basically a crash-course in how to treat acute war-related injuries). So I figured, if Husband was off playing Army for the week, the kids and I should take the opportunity to visit my dad up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota; we usually make an annual trip up there around this time, and it would help pass the week without Husband (I usually road trip without him, anyway, so it would be "normal" for us).

Ant's birthday party (complete with Despicable Me Minion Cake) was on a Saturday, and since the most recent move, we're now much closer to my dad (Pop-Pop), so I was able to convince him to come down for the party, wait around on Sunday to help watch the kids while I packed, and then caravan up north with me and help out on the stops (the only thing that make me nervous about road tripping with two little kids - how do you handle stops alone? 10 month old, + almost 3 year old + public bathrooms + two arms = not enough arms). The drive up went well (thanks to Pop-Pop), despite one hysterical fit in Burger King (I'm still not sure why that one happened - also, their guacamole is not very good, which shouldn't have been as surprising to me as it was), and then we were there, in Pop-Pop's completely not baby-proofed house, with a giant pool out back that just begs little boys to sneak out there and run around it in the hopes that they'll slip, and it will get to eat them. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.

The first day and a half went great, other than the constant need to watch the children, which got old fast (and resulted in me not getting to lounge around reading "A Song of Ice and Fire," as naively planned). Then Wednesday morning happened.

We woke up early, woke up my younger brother (both of my brothers also came to visit from Arizona), and went to eat breakfast before our planned trip to the Sioux Falls Zoo (if you're ever in Sioux Falls for any reason, I suggest going to the zoo - there's also a museum there called the Delbridge Museum. Apparently, some super rich guy in the early 1900's or something had too much money and too many guns, so he went around the world, killing as many animals (including endangered ones) as he could find. Then he had them stuffed, often in comically ferocious poses, and when he died, he donated them all to the city of Sioux Falls.) I was feeding Sweet D, and Ant was eating/playing around on the bar stools in Pop-Pop's kitchen, as he had been since we got there (they're pretty cool saddle-style stools). I heard him slip, followed by the unmistakable *thunk* of hitting his head, and the ubiquitous howl of a constantly-being-injured, usually whiny, almost 3 year old. I turned to scold him (good mother that I am), and froze.

There was my sweet little boy, climbing back up the stool, crying and howling, with blood literally pouring out of his mouth. My first thought was one of resentment, "why did we spend the last two nightmare years with Husband in PA school if he's not even going to be here when the kid turns into a blood-fountain?!"

I scooped up the boy, spraying blood all over Pop-Pop's kitchen, carried him to the sink and started trying to locate the source of the blood. "Please don't let it be his teeth," I thought. Through his hysterical screams, I could see all those beautiful little white dots, shining brightly through a flood of red. Okay, it's not the teeth... so what is it? Gums? Tongue?

Then I saw it. A gigantic flap of tongue, sticking up in the middle of his mouth. It was like two tongues in one, but the second one was smaller and facing the wrong direction. And blood was pouring out from under it.

Panic. Call Husband.

Husband doesn't answer.

Panic.

I looked at my little brother, who was standing in a state of shock with that unmistakable "I'm never having children" look on his face. "We have to go to the ER," I told him. He nodded in celibate-terror agreement.

In the meantime, Husband left class to call me, I explained the injuries, and he agreed that we should go to the ER. So off we went.

I'm forever indebted to my younger brother for coming with us and helping with Sweet D. He pushed her in the stroller around the ER parking lot for 30 minutes while I took Ant inside. I don't know how I would have handled both of them myself (well, actually I do, but it would have involved a lot of crying and screaming from all parties, and anyone else in the ER would have been much worse off for it). We got Ant to stick his tongue out (after much coaxing and promises of baby rhinos), and the doctor informed me that it would heal on its own, then sent us away with nothing (which I later learned, via Husband's frustrated outcries, was not the appropriate course of action on the doctor's behalf - she SHOULD have given us a prescription pain killer).

Back to Pop-Pop's we went, with the world's most pathetic little boy. He couldn't swallow or talk because of the pain, so bloody drool was dripping from his face (for the next two days), and he could only make "uh-huhs" or "uh-uhs" noises to communicate. As I carried my tall-for-his age, drooling, grunting, filthy little boy into Walgreens (and I myself was unshowered and covered with splattered blood) to buy him popsicles and medicine, the disgusted glares of the check-out lady made me realize I looked like an impressive sample of trailer trash, hauling around my clearly mentally retarded, angry (and evidently spoiled and injured) child. The only difference was that I have shame; so I was embarrassed.

At Pop-Pop's house, he curled up into a ball on my lap, whimpering continuously, and refused to move. We watched a movie until he fell asleep, and I put him down in his bed upstairs. He woke up after an hour or so, screaming hysterically. When I got into the room, he looked at me and pathetically cried (as deciphered through swollen-tongue screams), "you left me, Momma!!" Stab me in the heart.

The rest of the day wore on with more drooling, whimpering, and grunting. By about 6pm, I realized he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his two bites of peanut butter bread at 8am, moments before he tried to bite half his tongue off. I called Husband, who proceeded to incite panic in me, telling me if he didn't drink something soon, he was going to get dehydrated. He gave me warning signs for dehydration and told me they'd have to hook him up to an IV if he did dehydrate. Panic. I tried begging and forcing him to drink; neither worked. Then I realized his drool output would be a good indicator of dehydration. And based on the current saturation level of his shirt, I still had nothing to worry about.

He went to bed the first night still having not consumed anything since 8am. We were all (Ant, Sweet D and I) sleeping in the same room, which, generally speaking, wouldn't be much of an issue. Sweet D still wakes up 2-4 times a night, but Ant is a fairly heavy sleeper. So I was surprised when he woke up screaming hysterically at 2am.

I ran over to him, and he looked up at me, moaned, and proceeded to throw up all over my shirt. Fortunately, he hadn't eaten since 8am, so there wasn't much to throw up (the doctor had warned us that he'd likely throw up because of the amount of blood he swallowed during the blood-fountaining, and it's a basically a rule that 3 year old are only allowed to throw up in the middle of the night or in moving vehicles). I rushed him to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and pointed to it, telling him, "throw up in here!"

He gave me a confused look, dropped to the ground, and threw up again, down his shirt and on the floor.

I picked him up and set him on the counter, pointing to the sink and telling him, "throw up in HERE!"

Again the confused look, followed by more vomit on his shirt, my shirt, the counter, and the floor.

So I handed him a towel and said, "throw up on here?"

He was done throwing up.

We went back to bed where he promptly passed back out. The drama had woken Sweet D, who had woken Pop-Pop, so I retrieved her from him, and nursed her back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, Ant was up again, screaming and retching. I ran to him and grabbed the towel, putting it in front of his face.

He screamed angrily, shoved the towel out of the way, threw himself backwards onto the floor and proceeded to vomit straight up in the air, ensuring the widest coverage of clothing and carpet. I tried to sneak the towel in to catch it, but this only upset him, causing him to roll back and forth as he projected vomit in a 180 degree arc above his head.

As soon as he was finished, he passed out in bed again. I picked up screaming Sweet D and nursed her back to sleep.

Repeat 15 minutes later, complete with floor-rolling and full-carpet-covering vomit.

And an hour after that.

The next morning, I felt like a zombie. Ant still couldn't eat or take pain medicine, but he was finally able to take some sips of water and chocolate milk. He had no recollection of his impressive show of preschooler incoherence the night before. We went to the zoo, played with some friends, went swimming in Pop-Pop's pool, played with Crayola colored bubbles (which stain EVERYTHING within a 50 foot radius of them), and by dinner time, Ant was able to eat some ice cream. Quite a bit of it, actually.

We were planning on leaving in the morning, so I was praying for a decent night's sleep. I was already nervous about how I was going to handle both kids by myself, and I knew I needed to be well rested so I wouldn't accidentally kill us all. I got us all asleep by 8:30pm, and everything seemed great.

Until midnight, when Ant woke up screaming hysterically. I ran over to him and asked what was wrong (meanwhile, Sweet D woke up and joined the screaming). He refused to open his eyes or quit screaming, but he managed to yell, "GET IT ALL OUT OF MEIN BED!"

Assuming he was talking about his blankets and toys in his bed, I took them all out. Wrong.

"PUT THEM BAAACK IN MEIN BEEEED!!!" For some reason, he's German when referring to his possessions.

I put them back, but he kept screaming. After trying another 10 things, I finally lost it. "ANT. STOP SCREAMING AT ME!" It snapped him out of it. He finally opened his eyes, looked right at me, then promptly laid down in bed and zonked out instantly. I picked up screaming Sweet D, nursed her back to sleep, and fell asleep myself. For all of 15 minutes.

Then the screaming started again. Cycle through the process of trying to figure out what he wanted, end up screaming back at him, and he falls asleep instantly without responding. Nurse Sweet D to sleep, sleep for 15 minutes. Screaming. Nurse. 15 minutes of sleep.

And so on, for the next 6 hours.

In the morning, I felt like death. There was no way I was going to be able to handle packing, loading the car, and driving 6+ hours back home - including making multiple stops with two incredibly dependent little humans. Practically in tears, I trudged my way through preparing to depart. I loaded the cargo topper on the car, threw the rest in the back, and managed to get the kids ready and into the car. And then I did something I've NEVER done before.

I trick Ant into taking benedryl.

He HAS constant allergies, and he takes zyrtec every day - but we ran out of his prescription before we left for South Dakota, so he hadn't taken any in the last five days (not that he would have taken it with his giant, swollen tongue, anyway). And we WERE heading back to Kansas, where I knew his allergies would be acting up again. So technically, it wasn't JUST to get him to sleep in the car.

But mostly it was.

And it worked.

But about 40 minutes into our drive, I was passing a pick-up pulling a U-Haul trailer. Since we were in South Dakota, we were going in excess of 80 mph. As I was pulling up along side her, she decided to come into my lane for no apparent reason. It all happened so fast, I didn't get a chance to honk until my left tires were already in the grass in the median. She frantically (at least it appeared frantic to me, but in retrospect, I may have just been interpreting her very large, feathered, 70's hairstyle as "frantic" and her actual implied emotion was something else entirely) pulled her car back and mouthed "sorry." My usual reaction would have been to glare or make choice hand gestures. But after the week I'd had, I just lost it. I had to pull my car over on the shoulder, where I burst into hysterical tears and shook violently for about five minutes.

Like typical self-centered children, neither of my kids reacted in any way to this incredibly uncommon maternal outburst.

Back on the road (we passed the U-Haul lady again, but I didn't realize it until we were well past), we made it all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska without stopping. Then Beatrice, Nebraska (near the NE/KS border). Then into Kansas. Once we passed the state line, I was committed. No amount of screaming from the children or urgent need to urinate was going to keep me from making it home without a pit stop.

And we made it. Without a single stop. In just 5 hours and 45 minutes. We were finally home, and the nightmare was over. And I didn't even pee in my pants. I just wanted to buy new air fresheners for the car for no reason, not to cover up the smell of urine soaked into the driver's seat.

(In case you're concerned, Ant is back to his normal self. He can eat and talk again, and he's no longer a drooling, grunting, mentally questionable puddle of whining. Though his tongue does still look pretty gross...)

Adventures in Caking: The Making of the Minion Cake

The Minion Cake!!

My son just turned three. We had a party for him, and some family and friends came over to help us celebrate. They were all pretty blown away by the cake I made for him, but the truth is, even if it had just been me, my husband, and the kids, I would have made the same cake. I got one comment from someone who said my kids are the luckiest kids in the world (to get awesome cakes on their birthdays, etc). It's such a sweet thought, but my first reaction was, "why? I did this cake for me." I guess I should just not tell the kids that, and they can live their lives in ignorant bliss, believing their mom would "sacrifice" an entire week of her time to bake them ridiculous birthday cakes (yes, I foresee this becoming a tradition in our house - hopefully I'll be able to live up to each cake wish!).

Several people asked me how I made the cake, so I thought the easiest way to share was a photo blog entry (also, I know this doesn't count as a "real" entry, so please forgive me - I SWEAR I'll work harder at updating regularly - I'm just waiting for my life to settle down for a second - please forgive me, loyal fans (i.e. Joe)).

Without further ado, here is how the Minion Cake came to be:

First, I tinted and sculpted the little features out of Wilton (store-bought) fondant. I also use Wilton coloring for all my cake decorating. It's easy to work with and cleans up well (even if it looks like it will stain your counters forever - so far, it's always wiped up clean for me). I use the store-bought fondant for the external features because it hardens quicker and sturdier than my homemade marshmallow fondant. But tinting it is a mess. Anything with black food coloring is a mess.

I made the goggles out of the Wilton fondant, cut into strips (with a ruler and pizza cutter), and let them harden around soda cans. Then I molded the eyes to fit inside them, added pupils and eyelids. After the eyes set for a few hours, I turned them over and shoved toothpicks in them (so I could put them on the cake later). I let all this stuff harden for about 5 days. It gets hard overnight, but I had too much to do, and it was nice to get it done so early and not have to worry about it again. After they'd hardened for a couple days, I sprayed the goggles with edible silver spray. It didn't seem to have any affect on their texture or hardness, which was a concern I had after reading other people's reviews of it.

The "3" candle, gripped in a little minion hand, waiting for the cake to exist.

I baked the cakes that would become the minions about 5 days in advance, too, and froze them. I used 6" round pans and the Wilton sports ball pan.

Four days before the party, I made all my homemade fondant. Three batches. Fondant is very messy. I plan on making a photo blog with my fondant recipe and tips. I'll try to do that in the near future. :)

Scraping yellow pre-fondant out of the bowl. It's hard work!

All my little features, sitting out to dry. The hair and arms were made with (store-bought) gum paste. It's the first time I've ever used gum paste. The only difference I really saw was that it was harder to get the lines out of it than it is to get a smooth surface with fondant. It worked nicely for the hair, and it weighs less, but otherwise, it seemed almost more difficult to work with. Maybe if I knew how to make all those fancy flowers, I'd have more of a purpose for gum paste.

The base cake, crumb-coated and chilling in the fridge overnight before it gets fondant. It was cream soda cake with root beer frosting (and eventually, root beer fondant).

The smaller minion - I crumb coated him with strawberry frosting (he was lemon cake), then carved his mouth out of the frosting. Also, he was two 6" round cakes and a half of the Wilton sports ball pan.

Stacking the taller minion. I used bubble tea straws as supports to keep the cakes from sliding off each other. He was chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

All three cakes, crumb-coated and chilling overnight before they get fondant!

Fondant on the little minion! His mouth is just another piece of fondant that I cut to fit, then I molded little fondant teeth.

The fondant-covered base cake. The rivets are just fondant balls (a lot of fondant on this thing). But the root beer flavoring worked GREAT in the fondant. I actually liked it more than normal vanilla. The only issue was that root beer concentrate is very dark - it would only work for a fondant that was being colored a darker color, or something that could easily incorporate the brown of the flavoring.

Taller minion with fondant and hair. His lip is just a small, rolled piece of fondant, stuck in with a tooth pick. Then I covered the whole thing with the yellow fondant and used the back of a paring knife to draw the mouth lines.

Blind, naked minions in my fridge.

Overalls! Again, just rolled out fondant, cut with a pizza cutter and ruler.

He looks like an idiot farm boy or something.

The "stitching" on the overalls was one of my favorite features of them - it was done with a tracing wheel (like the thing used in sewing).

My kitchen was a giant mess of confectioner's sugar. But the Boy is getting excited about his cake!

The "G" symbol was cut out of a rolled out piece of gum paste.

Big minion's "G" symbol.

And one on the cake, for good measure.

Sightless minions in my fridge!

The completed cake.

A lot of screw-ups with the fondant on the back (and a minor incident with the taller minion's goggles, because I didn't take into account how rounded his head would be - oops!). But I definitely learned from this time, and my fondant work will be better on the next cake. :D

Husband made fun of me for my attention to detail, but I think little things like the hinges on the sides of the goggles are what make the cake work.

It's kind of sad to think that my little boy probably won't even remember this cake. Hopefully I'll just keep learning and making cooler and cooler cakes that he can remember more easily as he gets older.

My sweet little minions. I got very emotionally attached to this cake.

Sitting in my fridge, smiling at me!

A fair likeness, if I do say so myself!

He WAS happy about the cake...

Tasting the fondant!

The inside of the chocolate minion - you can see the layers and the bubble tea straws used for supports. I also had both minions on their own round cake boards, sitting on top of the base cake, with supports going through the base cake (the minions each weighed quite a bit and I was concerned they would crush the base cake).

The inner workings of a minion cake.

Losing a goggle...

Happy Birthday to my favorite Big Boy!!

Also, check out my cake's page on Coolest-Birthday-Cake's website!

http://www.coolest-birthday-cakes.com/coolest-despicable-me-birthday-cake-6.html