La Formule de Noël

It was going to be A Perfect Christmas.

I was going to get everything done and be relaxed and make lots of memories and take lots of pictures. My house would be spotless. Every dish would work out perfectly. No one would fight. It would be so special.

Yeah.

My biscotti (Grandma Mitzi's recipe) failed utterly because my oven decided to throw a tantrum and not hold or come up to the heat it should. It's only a few years old, so it shouldn't do this. (I'm calling the repair people soon.) As I sliced it to toast the slices, my knife came away sticky. Not exactly salvageable. My "Ultimate Spritz" were too floury and not buttery enough and didn't brown like I wanted and didn't puff up like Grandma's do. So next year, it's back to her perfect recipe (which blends butter and *shock!!!* shortening.) My krumkake were sort of soggy and kind of too brown. They were NOT PERFECT (but they didn't suck.)

Then, my deep freezer decided it didn't like working any more. ARGH!

The night the in-laws were supposed to arrive, I'd finished cleaning the house, except I didn't have time to shampoo the carpets and it was NASTY. I decided to plan to let Rowan leave toys everywhere so no one could see the stains. At 10 PM, we started rolling the lefse. Yeah, great planning, huh? Making a big floury mess late at night. Brilliant.

But the lefse actually turned out gloriously. Super thin, soft, tender, great flavor, though a little too big because I couldn't find the right measuring cup to make the "buns". I didn't mess with Grandma's recipe, except for my usual tweak (which is an improvement) and the fact we let it sit 2 days in the fridge because I was tired and my muscles were still sore from ricing the potatoes for it and Dr. B was unwilling to help until then. So, small success. (BTW, my friend Nikkibird had a great idea that I'm going to try next year because ricing potatoes is hard and it kind of sucks. Reminder to myself: KitchenAid attachment.)

The in-laws called, there were mechanical problems with the plane, and they were stuck in Detroit overnight. They were safe, but I didn't really have an excuse to make Monkey Bread in the AM. OH NO MY PLANS!!! FOILED AGAIN!!! (I really love Monkey Bread.)

I was a tish stressed.

They got here around noon, and I cobbled together a nice brunch and had it ready for them, with my standard Egg Bake (ham, cheese, and mushrooms), baguette, green salad, and juice. It was good. I felt a little better. I didn't plan afternoon snacks, and Dr. B yelled at me because he was bored and so therefore he should be eating more even though he wasn't hungry. I tried to ignore him. We had an early supper of pulled pork sandwiches, went to church, opened presents and had hors d'oeuvres and munchies. Which of course then he wasn't hungry for. (Grr.)

Then that night, after everyone else went to bed, Dr. B yelled at me for being stressed and trying to make things perfect and actually having a plan to follow (it's too regimented! too strict!) and always wanting a *SHOCK* clean house. Oh, the horror! It was my own fault I was on night 3 of an insomnia streak. I cried. It was bad. (He later apologized for being a jerk and said he used to do the same thing to his mom when she would get holiday stressed. You know, because yelling at me helps SO MUCH. I felt a little better then. But I still couldn't sleep that night or the next night.)

So anyway. Christmas morning, Rowan had her Santa gifts (which she loved) and then we got dressed and went to friends' for brunch. It was nice. Dr. B missed the fact that we'd all had coffee and he didn't get any until we got there at like noon, so I guess that was his payback. Heh. I drove because it was freezing rain (just in town, luckily, by the time we got to the country it was just rain) and he knew I'd freak if I rode, and he said he wanted me in a seatbelt (our car is dinky and with 4 adults and a carseat, the back is too packed for seatbelts.) But it was fine. She made spiced apple waffles and left out the cinnamon for me and made a really yummy quiche that had butternut squash and prosciutto in it. (We gave her Jewish husband a naugahyde bacon wallet and he got really excited. She's pregnant for the first time, so I gave her a Be-Band.)

On the way home, Dr. B suggested that he, Rowan and his folks go out for breakfast the next day and I stay home and sleep in. I took this as part good idea and part insult. His dad said it perfectly, "yeah, we just don't like you very much." Dick and I laughed. Dr. B sputtered. I let him.

I tried to take a nap. I had such a headache, and my nose was stuffed. Rowan decided to crawl in with me. Then she petted my hair. And hugged me. And kissed me. And "face mushed" me. And talked. I told her to be quiet. She said, "I am being quiet!" Then she laid there going, "Choo choo choo choo choo choo!!!" I told her she wasn't being quiet. "I'm not talking! I'm just going 'choo choo choo choo!'" UGH. I took 2 tylenol and a Benadryl and got up to cook.

But supper was great, if I do say so myself. Our friends came over (the ones we'd brunched with) and my in-laws (who are awesome) vacuumed and set the table with French linens and china and crystal and quickie-mopped the floor while I cooked. And everything turned out yummy and we ate by candlelight.

Here's what we had, all made from, as Rowan says, "scritch" (except the Tim Tams) and all delicious.

• Velouté de Courge Butternut à la crème (squash soup! It was really good.)
• Beef Tenderloin à point with a red wine reduction (even with a failing oven and a misfunctioning thermometer, I didn't overcook it. That was awesome.)
  
• Vivi's Fat Potatoes Fat Fat (Garlic mashed potatoes with whipped cream cheese, butter and sour cream. Made au pif because I make stuff like this a lot. They were so luxurious I got sick later. But worth it.)
• Haricots Verts à la vapeur (steamed green beans, left plain because the rest was so rich.)
• Spiced Pomegranate, Clementine and Lingonberry Relish (Au pif encore, and delicious. I should really write that one down.)
• Norwegian Lefse, with butter and sugar
• Red wine, vanilla Silk (for the kiddo), Apple-Pomegranate Sparklers (for the preggos. Bought that at Wegman's. It wasn't horridly sweet, so we liked it.)

• Venezuelan Flan (brought by my friend)
• Spritz, Krumkake, Chippers, Caramel Tim Tams
• Decaf Coffee

And my great plans for after Christmas? Eat the leftovers and make no plans. Take some naps. Rent some movies. Maybe go out to eat. It worked perfectly.

Hope you had a Merry Christmas. We did.

Christmas Child

This has nothing to do with my kid.

I'm referring to Julia. THE Child.

My New Year's Resolution this year is to watch more movies. Like eat more fish, wear more skirts, and eat more salads, it will be one I'll enjoy keeping. I may even spend less time on Facebook! (No promises.)

Since my in-laws were here, it wasn't hard to start. I married into a movie family. Last night was Angels and Demons (meh, not bad, not great), then today The Tales of Despereaux (I only caught the end, but that was really good.) Tonight, Julie and Julia.

I liked it! I was a little bit jealous, though. My expat blog still has not been picked up for a movie, and I'm pretty sure Nora Ephron would do a nice job directing. Some of my expat blogger friends had already discussed casting, too. (They liked Reese for me.)

Anyway.

Back to Julie/Julia. Love Merryl, of course. And the food, oh the food. I am craving duck as I type.

But the thing that got me the most?

Paris.

I miss it, so much. And not just the Paris you visit. The Paris you live. Because it's different, it just is. The banter with the guys at the marché. Finding "the good butter". Impressing the lady that sells the good butter by admonishing her husband when he tried to pawn second-best off on me, enough so she always had it at the ready and saved some for me, because she knew I'd show up late. So she offered to mail it to me when I tearfully told her we were leaving for the US, for good. The amazing bread, the happy homeless guy who loved our dog, evening walks up la rue Mouffetard and the beauty everywhere you looked.

When I was there, I missed the US. Here, I miss France. My heart isn't sure where home is, perhaps somewhere suspended above the Atlantic.

Gift

We talk a lot about preferences.

She likes pink, I like red. She likes cherry tomatoes, pickles are my favorite. My favorite number is 13. She's decided hers is 12.

"Mommy, you don't like that!" she says, when a "The Fresh Beat Band!!!" commercial comes on Nick, Jr. "You're right, I don't!" I answer. She doesn't like watching the local news. "I don't like that. I want my show!"

She eats the hot dog, I order Target's personal pizza. "I'm tired of this music," she says as a Couperin harpsichord piece plays in the car. "I'm not, and the driver gets to choose," I answer.

We both like string cheese.

Today, we ran out in the morning to do some errands before a promised lunch out. I was hopeful for a long nap* after so I could cross several things off my to-do list before her grandparents arrive late tomorrow night.

It's Christmas, I thought. It won't kill me, just once.

"OK, Honey. You were such a good girl at the store, I'll let you pick where you want to eat for lunch. Wendy's or (big mental shudder) McDonald's?"

"Wendy's!"

"Are you sure? You love McDonald's. I thought it would be a special treat. You really want Wendy's?"

"Wendy's, Mommy. You don't like Donulz. I like Donulz, but you don't like Donulz. It's OK, I like Wendy's!"

We went to Wendy's. And I ordered a Frosty to split. A special treat for my very special, thoughtful, sweet little girl.


*Unfortunately, she didn't make good on the nap promise. I crossed some things off my list, but in quite a foul mood, and one got crossed off and dumped in the garbage. Total biscotti fail. Ah well, if I were Martha Stewart, I'd have a staff to hide my mistakes, a personal trainer to keep my tushie toned, and a bazillion gazillion dollars to bathe in whenever I wanted.

18 1/2 Weeks: The Stats

I had a doc/LPN visit today, with Dr. B out of town in Philly. Rowan was better behaved with just me than she usually is when he's around to help--not sure what that means.

Did the usual, weigh in, pee in a cup (which Rowan was very confused by), ask if everything was OK, measure, listen to the baby's heart, check my ears for infection (Rowan's cold gave her one, I just wanted to be sure.) She suggested Sudafed or Tylenol Cold for my über-snot problems, and I got blood drawn for some tests.

Here's the good news: baby sounds fine, strong heart beat. The gentler movements may just be due to placenta placement (Rowan was rough, this one is noticeable but not nearly as easily.) I've gained all of 3 pounds, despite all the Rolos and Dove Promises Candy Cane bonbons I've been polishing off. My belly's at 18 cm. and the test results will be sent as soon as they get them.

And here's the day we've been waiting for: New Year's Eve, Jan. 31, we'll find out if Bootsie is a sister or a brother. What a Bonne Année, indeed!

Thoughtful

In first grade, our teacher at Kindred Public School, Miss Sorlie, gave awards to every child in class. A yellow construction paper ribbon, pinned to the bulletin board at the back of the class, highlighted a positive aspect of each of us.

I didn't really understand mine.

"Most Thoughtful." That was nice, I guess, but I was 6. I didn't really get it.

Sunday night, as I tucked my wiggly worm in, I promised her I would stay upstairs and read in our room. "I have a headache, Honey. I'm going to take some Tylenol and finish my book. I've got a new one to start, too. You just go to sleep," I said, knowing she was keyed up and wouldn't stay in her bed without some serious intervention.

After one more, "I just need another hug from you," she went to sleep.

Monday morning, I woke at 9 AM* to my little girl standing at the side of my bed.

"Mommy?" she said, stroking my hair. "Your head still hurt?" She leaned over and kissed my forehead.

Yeah, now I get it. She deserves a thousand construction paper ribbons.


*(Yes, 9 AM!!!! NINE!!!! And she did it again on Tuesday! I'm liking this.)

Letter of Apology to Martha Stewart and My Father-in-Law

Dear Martha and Dick,

I am sorry. I just can't do it anymore.

We did, every year, after Dr. B expressed how important it was to him, too.

We went to the tree farm or tree lot, hunted for the perfect one (read: small enough and cheap enough and not ugly), and brought it home. We fought over when to bring it in, when it was straight, and when to decorate it.

I strung lights, covered it in ribbons, beads and ornaments, took photos.

I watered faithfully, with a combination of water and 7up. I vacuumed up the extra needles. I peeled sap out of my hair. Some presents got wet and damaged, no matter how hard I tried to not be klutzy when watering (impossible). I put gloves on every time I had to put a fallen ornament back on, because I am allergic to the damn things and it's only getting worse. I took Benadryl to soothe my red, hot, itchy hands.

Then, 2 years ago (Rowan's first Christmas), we left town for a few days. We turned the heat down, made sure it was well watered, unplugged and nowhere near a heat source so it wouldn't burn our house down.

We came home to a house full of mildew.

I'm sorry. That was the last straw for both of us. Or should I say, the last needle?

"But I thought it was important to you, too?"

"It used to be. But you're really allergic. And that mildew... Ew! I'm trying to be a better Buddhist when it comes to Christmas trees and just let it go."

We've gone over the edge: Plastic Pre-lit. Please forgive us.

Love,

La Rêveuse and Dr. B.

Helper

Best of the Day, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Car conversation, returning from grocery shopping, Tuesday night.

"Mommy, I'm going to help God."

"Really?!? Well, I am sure He'll appreciate the help."

"Yeah."

"So, how are you going to do that?"

"Stirring."

Lorfa heefer

I was in the bathroom when the door opened abruptly. She came in, shut it, and climbed on top of her potty chair, mumbling.

"What was that, honey?"

"Loofah hoopah."

"What?"

"Loafah hayfa."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Can you look at me and say it really clearly?"

"Loffie Hoofar!" she shouted.

This went on for a while. Eventually, she settled on a pronunciation.

"Lorfa Heefer! Yeah. Lorfa Heefer."

"OK, Lorfa Heefer*. What does it mean?"

She stopped spinning in a circle, hand on the wall, and looked at me, rather exasperated, and shook her head.

"Mommy, It's complicated."

Next week, she'll begin my Astrophysics lessons.





*We eventually worked out that "Lorfa Heefer" means La Tour Eiffel, the Eiffel Tower.

Unprocrastination

People love my Christmas cards. I think the reason is I always overthink them, and by the time I actually get them out, it's usually Valentine's Day. By then, the winter boredom has set in and they have nothing better to do than read a long photocopied letter of me blathering and bragging about my brilliant child and all the hilarious things she did this year. (Hey, you're reading my blog. You don't even need the long, boring letter!)

But this year is going to be different. It's November, and I'VE ALREADY ORDERED THE PICTURE PART.

And the best thing? I got them for free. 100 of them. You can, too. Go here, read it, and do it. One of the codes expires on Saturday the 21st (tomorrow) but the other one doesn't, so you could at least get 50 free. No shipping, even.

I really liked their interface. The backgrounds were fine, I found one I liked, but the best part was that I could add as many photos as I wanted, wherever I wanted, in my choice of sizes, and could add captions and clip art and the whole works, so you can take something plain and really tweak it to your own liking. On the card I made, each photo is labeled with the month, some with the place, some with who the heck she was supposed to be (Halloween). The software was easy to use, and after giving it the OK, I was able to browse all my own photos on my computer very easily, which frankly kind of shocked me (no waiting for long individual uploads.)

So now, all I have to do is return the paper ones I bought, write a letter, copy it on the cute candy cane paper I got, stuff them, address them, put the return address on them, stamp them and mail them.

Yeah, OK, so I'm still thinking February.

Smells like...

Though the temperature rose into the 60's this weekend, we're definitely into the chillier months of the year. The leaves are pretty much all down, the air is cooler, and I always shove a warm jacket in the back seat when we go somewhere, just in case the temp drops by 30 degrees (which it does, as soon as the sun is as low as the housetops.) There's been little rain, and the air is dry. Rowan and I have limited baths to every other day, the true sign of Winter Approaching.

I pulled her out of the bathtub and dried her with a towel, and then reached for the lotion. She usually doesn't need it, but has recently begun scratching herself and announcing it to the world every time--"I scratch! I scratch my leg!", so the moisture is necessary. This time, I tried a new brand.

"Mmmm!!!!" she said, "Smells good, Mommy!"

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it? It smells so clean and fresh," I said, rubbing the lotion on her kneecaps.

"Yeah!" she answered. "Smells like..." She looked at the bottle, then back at me.

"Clock. It smells like CLOCK!!!"

Apparently, that's how clocks smell. Perfectly logical, if you ask me. I wonder if oatmeal smells like Quakers?

We're renaming the dog "Clearblue Easy"

She knew, before we did.

One day, she attacked Rudy. Our neighbor's dog, a little black poodle who should really be called a puddle because he just loves everyone and everything and he's all about the love and happiness. He got chomped, blood and everything. I was mortified.

The Fed Ex guy dropped a package at our door, and had it not been for the glass, he would have lost some of his own package.

She won't leave me, for a second. Even in the bathroom. She forces the door open with her head, and if it won't budge, she leans agains the door and whines.

Even when the tests said no, she knew. And she was right.

The baby's due May 15. Rowan is very excited. And Lucy? She's on guard.

The Crying Game

She had a good morning. A friend came to play, we had lunch, and her friend's mom came to get her friend around 12:30. Though it was a little late for Rowan, who normally naps around 12, I figured she could make it.

We headed up for the nap. She was crying already. Cried while we put toys away. Cried as we climbed the stairs. Cried, asking for Advil and water and to have her fingernails and toenails clipped. She climbed into bed, still crying.

"You've had your Advil, you've got your water. Here are your babies, here's your blanket. Lucy gave you kisses, I gave you hugs. Why are you crying? Is there anything else you need, Honey?"

"Moooooommmmmyyyyy!!!" she wailed, "I just need to crrrrrrrrryyyyyyyy!!!!"

Sometimes, she's just so wise.

Halloween 2009

Angelina Ballerina, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

More pictures are to come, but after finally finding my camera cord I was able to find one photo where she wasn't a blur of pirouettes and jetés (which, admittedly, looked more like karate kicks.) Rowan went as a favorite book character, Angelina Ballerina. This was the first book her daddy read to her after she was born, and is loved by the whole family.

Her costume was put together with various things we had around the house--a tutu from the hand-me-down box, white shirt and tights, white mittens (not seen here, and the kazoo isn't part of it, either), her Easter shoes, and ears and a tail made by me the day before. We ribboned and rosed her up and drew a nose and whiskers with washable markers. She really did look adorable, and had a blast trick or treating with her friends at one of the dorms on the Penn State campus.

And she shared her candy. Bonus.

Victory Farts

This is a post about potty training. If you're the squeamish sort, bye bye.

After a few tinkles months ago, the magic stopped. She was no longer interested, and would answer queries with a quick and final "No!" and walk away, to color in her Kai-Lan coloring book or make another little pink play-doh ball with matching play-doh crumbs.

During her visit with her maternal grandparents in DC, I heard the expected, "She's so smart! She knows her ABC's, can count to 20 in English and 10 in French* and she's only 2? She should be potty trained by now. So'n'so's kid was trained by 18 months! Why isn't she trained yet?"

Yeah, like I haven't tried. Sigh.

So they tried, the questions, the incentives, the promises. And her response?

"No!"

Then this week, she refused to let me change her diaper. I was kicked, screamed at, cried on, hit, and just generally abused. Not fun. Even so, she'd begin crying suddenly, with an "I peed my big girl bed!" or "I peed my booster chair!" (while wearing a diaper, still.) Since her dad finally had a weekend where he didn't have to really do much (this is exceedingly rare--he never takes any time off, but he needed it), it became his job to deal with diapers and the like. Rowan needed Mom to take some distance.

She didn't fight him, but still had no interest in the potty. However, she did have an interest in the Hello, Kitty! panties.

So he tried it. She wet through a couple of times, but he said it seemed to make sense to her. She insisted on the panties over her diaper at bed time.

Today? No requests, and many refusals. (All the panties were dirty.) But tonight before bed, she acquiesced. She sat on the potty, happy, with Mom in the room, for a good 5 minutes.

And?

She FARTED. At least 5 times.

I call that a win.












*That would be Un, deux, trois, quatre, six. Un, deux, trois, quatre, six. Un, deux, trois, quatre, six. Close enough.

This was totally her idea.

She teaches me every day!, originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

You go to Washington to visit the monuments. We go to hang spoons from our noses in public.

Heard, on a Fall Walk

"I'm running, on my tap toes!"

"Your tiptoes?"

"No, Mommy! My TAP toes!"

Stopping for every surviving dandelion and remaining patch of snow, downed branch or frozen berry, we made our way up the hill. She ran to the top, turned around, grinned as she caught my eye, and raised her arms up in the air.

"Ta-DAH!!! Ladies and Gem-men!!!"

She threw herself down on the still green grass, brown, red and yellow leaves, and rolled to the bottom of the hill.

She stood, smiling as she brushed the leaves from her sleeves, and ran to me, grabbing my finger tightly. "Come on, Lucy!" she called, as we headed for home.




*Note: I hope to have new photos soon. We've returned from DC, and I am awaiting the return of our camera, which the team was borrowing for use with the competition. I'm going through withdrawl. The phone camera just doesn't cut it. Updates on the trip soon, too.

Force feeding fruit

My kid likes veggies. I know, crazy, right? I guess no one told her not to. I do, her dad does, maybe it's genetic. Whatever. Her favorite food is "tomaaaaadoes", and she prefers the fancy heirloom tiny ones from the CSA basket, turning up her nose at store-bought. Begging for a treat usually means a little cup of frozen peas, or perhaps "cold bread" (frozen french bread chunks.) Yeah, she's kind of weird.

Usually fruit is fine, too, and she likes just about everything we give her, except for some reason squash and carrots (an orange thing?), and anything too spicy, though her dad is working on that. So I shopped for our week together while her dad was in DC, buying fruit for us to eat together. Apples, oranges, grapes, and bananas.

And of course, the bananas are not getting eaten in a timely manner. Before, when I had none in the house, I'd be begged for them. But of course when I do, she doesn't want them.

So today, I whipped up a special delight, and it worked. "Bananas à la Ronica!!!"

They were a big hit.

My secret?

Rainbow Sprinkles.

I think I'm going to try them on carrots next.

DC Dreaming

The Solar Decathlon is nearly here. Yesterday, the house was wrapped and loaded on a truck, on its way to Washington, DC. The students are heading down to begin the massive amount of work it will take to get it operational and camera-ready. Ed Bagley, Jr. was here to speak, and joined us at the house. He said he was very impressed with the home, and worked hard to make Rowan laugh (though unfortunately he failed--she was in no mood and we ended up skipping his speech when she announced, "It's bedtime. I'm tired. I want a nap!") He was a very nice man, quiet and reserved, but friendly and kind as well. It was nice to hear that he thought the work the students were doing was so valuable, and that he had chosen to visit them from a host of other requests. They were so proud to share their work with him. (PS: the new season of Living with Ed begins soon!)

So now, we're trying to figure things out. As head Team Mom, I've got quite a job keeping 25 people healthy and fed, though I won't be able to be in DC the whole time due to obligations here in Academicsburg. Luckily for me, the team decided to fend for themselves the first week. The other parents who are visiting will help out when they arrive, so it won't be just me cooking for 25+ people (some of whom are vegetarians), and now I'm rocking Google Docs and Survey Monkey to figure out how to best "get 'er done". My dad and his wife are coming for a week, so we will plan to be there then, but otherwise I'll be driving back and forth in order to maintain attendance at my rehearsals (I'm in 3 music groups in town) and to take care of our furry family member, too. We are staying in a rented home in the DC area, which should make it easier as I'll have a gourmet kitchen at my disposal. We're heading down over the weekend to drop off Dr. B and to give me an idea of the lay of the land.

So, I've got a question for you. Do you have a favorite meal that's easy and serves a LOT of people? If so, please commment or link in the comments! I need all the help I can get.

And if you know a grocery store that delivers in the DC area, please let me know.

Strange Conversation

"I smell like Mommy!" Sniff sniff.

I looked at her quizzically. "You smell like mommy (loud fake sniff) or you smell like Mommy?" (pretends to loudly sniff own armpit.)

"I smell like Mommy!", she says, sniffing her armpit and grinning.

"Really, what does Mommy smell like?"

"Rowan!!!" she squeals, and collapses on the couch in a burst of giggles.

"OK, then, what do we smell like?"

"A candle! A green candle!"

There you have it. Apparently, Eau de la Mère is "Green Candle". I'm thinking of selling the idea to Chanel.

Labor Day

Like Mrs. Chicken said recently, I've been feeling rather blogstipated. Not much going on, and what is bugging me I can't necessarily blog about because I don't know if those people read me, and I think you're probably getting rather tired of the "what I did with the random crazy veggies in my CSA basket this week!" posts. (I know I am.)

This weekend was Labor Day, and we had no plans. As a kid, I always dreaded Labor Day. We'd be at the lake, it would rain, we'd have to turn on the space heaters and light a fire, wearing jeans and tennies with our big, thick, hooded sweatshirts. It was so dark, we'd have to turn on lamps to read, Jerry Lewis would be on the little black-and-white TV, and the next day was always the beginning of school. I would wake up with an ooky feeling in the pit of my stomach, and honestly, I can feel it right now just remembering. It was the end. The end of the summer, the end of the good weather at the lake, the end of the freedom to pack up and just go whenever we wanted. We were back to responsibility and tests and deadlines, school and rehearsals. Mom always looked so sad on Labor Day.

Being an at-home mom, I figured it would be different. No schedules, no set in stone plans, no school tomorrow. Of course, it would be sunny and we'd go to the pool and grill burgers.

Our grill broke. It was cold. It rained. I had to put on socks and turn on the lamp.

But, I did have Dr. B home for the day. So I made a plan. And we had fun.

We took Rowan to her first in-theater movie. "Up!" was playing at our cheap theater, so even if she got "skeered", we'd only be out 3 bucks. But she did fine. She spent much of the movie hugging me facing the back, but by the end she was loving it, and only cried when I told her she couldn't lick the seat backs as the final credits rolled.

We came out of the theater, and she smiled up at us and said, "I loved my first movie!" We decided to make a night of it, and had dinner out at Damon's, followed by tag-team book browsing at Barnes and Noble while Rowan played trains at the Thomas the Tank Engine train table. We bought nothing, but got ideas for library requests, and enjoyed the smells of new paper and coffee, bright colors and fresh pages.

We made our stab at defeating the Labor Day Blues. Can't do anything about the weather, but a movie, buffalo chicken pizza, and some retail therapy did help lift our spirits a bit. Sometimes, that's all it takes.