Summer Projects: The Front Door

See the first Summer Project here.


On Friday, Paddy got what must've been a startling text message from me while at work.

"I need you to stop and pick something up for me on the way home, please," said I.
"OK. What do you need?" asked he.
"Turpentine."

It all started with too many episodes of that show on HGTV where the crew completes a huge yard makeover for one family, and they do a couple of other smaller projects around the neighborhood, too. Since it's not likely that a magic crew will appear and fix the curb appeal of my house, I had to take matters into my own hands. On that show, someone is always getting their front door painted, and it makes the house really pop from the street.

And that's how I ended up painting my front door while home alone with two children under 3.

Before we really dive in, I should mention that this was my first experience with oil based paint, and for the most part, things went well. I even got to send another text message canceling my request for the turpentine after I googled "how to get oil paint off skin". The suggestion listed there-- using vegetable oil and salt to scrub it off-- worked like a dream on my hands and anywhere else I found a stray drop of paint.

Here is a picture of the door before I got started. Plain, boring ol' white and, like most things that don't get a lot of attention, dirtier than I realized.

The hardware and kickplate (is that what that's called?) were a terrible brass color, and were also faded, stained, and peeling off.

I began by removing the brass pieces and washing the door, first with warm water, and then wiping it down with rubbing alcohol. I'm not sure why I did that, it just seemed like a good idea to get the surface really clean.

I'm going to be honest; I was scared to death to paint the hardware pieces. I'm not a super practiced spray painter (read: goody two-shoes as a kid) and I wasn't sure how it would look. After staring at the brass pieces for a while, though, I decided things really couldn't look worse, and I dove right in. While I didn't want to pay for new door fixtures, I figured it was always an option to buy new ones if I really screwed things up. I used a silver pain that promised a metallic finish.

In what I humbly consider to be a stroke of pure genius, I also came up with a great way to paint the screws to reattach the pieces later.

While the hardward dried, I tackled the door. I decided on blue because I thought it would look good with our red brick home. I had originally envisioned a darker, midnight sort of blue, but ended up with this pre-mixed shade. In order to pick my own color, I would have had to purchase an entire gallon, which I certainly didn't need. This came in a smaller can, and in the end I love the color anyway.

My fear of painting the hardware was totally unnecessary, too. Look how beautiful it turned out!

As with any do-it-yourself project, it's not perfect. There are definitely flaws that I'm hoping only I will notice. Luckily, no one really spends all that much time inspecting the outside of my door, so I should be ok. I couldn't be happier with how it turned out!

Here's one more before and after, just for comparison:

What do you think?

Don't forget the lyrics!

In college, every girls apartment I was ever in had some version of a quote wall. Ours was an entire wall covered in butcher paper and scribbled on in crayon, but no matter the form, the function was the same-- document one-liners that seemed hilarious when they happened at 2 in the morning. Basically no one is interested in this except the girls who live there.

Anyway, the mommy blogger version of this is the "isms", the purpose of which is to document the funny things little kids say before they grow up and abandon words all together in favor of eye rolls and heavy sighs. I'm nearly positive that people are no more interested in this than they are the quote walls, but Bug's grandparents do read the blog and they probably care. Plus, it's my blog and I'll forget about it if I don't write it down.

Bug's been really into singing recently, which is basically the most adorable thing in the world. Her one hit wonder so far is Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed, which she totally rocks.

Five yittow monkeys jumpin' a bed! 
One fell off an' bumped his HEAD!
 Mama called da doctor-- said
NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPIN' A BED! 

She grows increasingly more excited about singing it as she goes along, so by the end she is hopping up and down in pure joy.

We're currently working on Popcorn Popping, which is a cultural staple around these parts (see and hear real version here), and I just had to document her current version of the lyrics:


I yooked out da winnow an' what I see? Popcorn popping my eyes! 
Spring has brought me a yittow present!

After that, she sort of trails off, remembering that somewhere in there is a something about "making a tweat" that "smells so sweeeeeeet" but that's about it.

She's also a champ at Happy Birthday, which is basically an endless series of shouting "Happy Birr-day to YOU!" until she starts incorporating random birthday items like cake and candles into the song.

Another one of my favorites is Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, which goes something like this:


Tweentow tweentow yittow star, 
How I wonder what you doing!
Up above da worl' so HIGH
Yike a diamon' in da SKY!
Tweentow tweentow yittow star, 
What you doing?

Which, if you think about it, is really not a bad question.

Things that smile didn't say

With your belly full of milk, the smiles are easy to coax out. I propped you up in my lap, tickling your chin and pulling silly faces until your grin lifted the weight of your round cheeks and crinkled your eyes. 

You didn't glance at the roundness of my hips, wishing them smaller. Your simple joy was not tempered by silent contempt for the softness of my stomach and fullness of my face.

That smile said things, but it didn't say this:  Hurry, Mama. I will love you more when you are smaller, so hurry and get that way and don't be happy until you are.

Here is what I have been thinking but unsure how to say because I believe in being honest and, to be honest, I'm not quite there yet. My smiling baby asks much of me, but he didn't ask me to stand on that scale every morning and base my happiness on the numbers that appear, and while I'm thinking about it, neither did my daughter or my husband. So maybe, just maybe, it's time to reevaluate that.

The thought of my beautiful daughter believing that she will be more lovely if the number on that scale is a smaller one nauseates me. (But she will believe it if I believe it.) I will not raise my son to believe that women are and should be focused on a tiny number printed on the tag of their jeans. (He will believe it if I am.)

They are numbers, for heavens sake. Three pathetic little digits that pop up on a tiny screen between my toes and then disappear. Numbers that hide just below my waist or between my shoulder blades on a faded little tag and know nothing about the way I snuggle my babies or kiss my husband goodnight.

I don't quite know exactly how to get There yet, where There is that place where numbers don't make me happy or sad or anything at all because they are nothing but numbers, but I promise I'm going to keep working on it until I do. I have a feeling that spending a little more time teasing out those baby smiles is a decent start.

Summer Projects: Bathroom floor

In case you were wondering, buying an older home equals a lot of work. Unless you have the time and money to renovate the entire project at once, it means years of slow progress with improvements. Probably largely due to the fact that I've been watching some serious HGTV recently, I went ahead and made a list of a few of the projects we need to tackle on our 1950s fixer-upper this summer. Since Paddy had to work late and I needed to stay busy, I got a jump start on the first little project yesterday. I know it's ridiculous to call something a summer project when there is snow on the ground, but I'm being hopeful.

Neither Schmoops nor I are terribly handy, but we are learning the best we can as we go. You can see prior remodel progress in the house here and the bathroom here. Slowly but surely, we're bringing this house up to speed. 

Yesterday, I decided to tackle a small task: recoloring the grout in the bathroom. The tiles on the bathroom floor are in great shape, and the grout was pretty sound, too, though despite my best cleaning efforts, it was stained and unsightly. (Sorry about the weird lighting in the pictures-- I didn't edit anything so that it would be pretty true to how ugly it is, but it makes for some fairly inconsistent shots since I'm a crappy photographer.)

(It turns out it looks pretty gross up close like this, and I'm a little embarrassed to post the picture. It's amazing how you get so used to seeing something that you don't recognize how bad it looks.)

For just a little over $10, I got a bottle of white grout refresher from the local hardware store. Application was easy. All I needed was a clean floor and a toothbrush to work the product into the seams. 

Here you can see the work mid-way through the process. It's pretty clear where I've applied the product versus the old grout. 

Application went really quickly; I did nearly the entire floor while Mr. Baggins napped and Bug ate her lunch. 

Clean up was the longest part of the process. After waiting 30-60 minutes, I misted the floor with water per the instructions and scrubbed the excess product off the tiles. This was not terribly difficult, but took quite a bit of time. 

The results are not perfect, though I'm sure my own inexperience contributed. In addition, I think it would have looked quite a bit better if I was working with a floor that wasn't solid white in every direction. Overall, I am thrilled with how it turned out.

I feel like the bathroom looks much more crisp and clean.  Project #1? Check!

A post that turned out longer than my baby is.

My most handsome Mr. Baggins,

You've made it through your first month, Son! Just as importantly, I've made it through your first month, which I value as a real accomplishment given the total disdain with which I regard the physical nature of those first few days post-birthing. Don't worry, it's not your fault. You are small and warm and needy in all the right ways, just like I had hoped. I love your little baby movements, all jerky and uncontrolled. I love the smell of you right after a bath and the way your neck looks so thin when it's all stretched out during a yawn. I even love the loud, snorty sort of way you breathe at night, full of hiccups and grunts and other-worldly sort of noises that I can't imagine your tiny throat accommodating.

It's my part of this whole game that I despise so much. I am lucky; my physical recovery from both your birth and your sister's was quick and mostly pain-free. It's just that it's so... unpleasant for those first few days. To be honest, I hate being that in tune with my body. (Those monks with the meditation don't know what the crap they're talking about as far as I'm concerned.) I'd much rather enjoy the blissful ignorance I normally exist in without being so acutely aware of every nook and cranny of my body. Each day for a week or so after you were born I'd put my forehead on the cool mirror of the bathroom, close my eyes, and say, "Buck up, kiddo! This is the worst this will feel because tomorrow will be better than today."

And guess what! It was. Every day was less of a hassle than the day before until blammo-- the worst of it is over and I can mostly ignore myself again. As Bug would say: Huh-vay!

Now that we're all pretty much back up to speed, we're working on getting into a routine that involves more sleeping at night (your part) and less tv watching (much to your sister's chagrin.) We are enjoying that absolutely gorgeous weather by taking long walks with you wrapped up tight to my chest in your sling and Bug pointing out every whee-ya and stick along the route. It is fantastic.

Learning to be a mommy to two little people at once is alternately harder and easier than I expected. Bug is mostly learning to be patient while I feed you, and there is generally enough time while you are resting to get her fed and the house straightened without any real issues. I've also remembered that a little crying never hurt anyone, so if Bug melts down because I can't get her any goldfish crackers while you're nursing or if you get upset in your bouncy seat while I read her a story before nap time, it's just not the end of the world. Before I know it, everyone's needs are met and we are back on our merry little way.

The more challenging scenarios are those that take us out of our normal routine. Daddy and I decided on a whim to take you two up the canyon to the outlets in Park City the other day because the weather was simply too nice to go back home. We parked, and Daddy set up the stroller and strapped Bug in while I tied  on my sling and snuggled you in nice and comfy. By the time all kids were accounted for with associated wubbys and sippy cups and the fully stocked diaper bag, we were nearly ready to pack up the car and head back home!

We are getting used to it, though, and certainly wouldn't have it any other way. The more I feel I'm getting the hang of this, the more I am amazed at the reality of it. I am a mother to two children. My high school sweetheart is now the father of my babies. Babies! Plural!

There was a moment a couple of days ago when I found myself marveling at it all. I bounced you gently in my arms to calm your little crying voice, and my little copper-haired princess came toddling over.  "Don't cry, Mr. Baggins," she said, in real life using the little nickname she has for you in her gentle little sing-song voice. "It's o-tay." And then, turning to me, "Mommy! He's so tooooot!" And I thought about carrying you, and her, and the beautiful birthing and the yuckiness that comes after it, and it was all so worth it. I cannot believe I am lucky enough to have you, both of you, to see what it has made of me.

That's why I imagine women are so eager to talk about those very first few moments, why the slightest hint of interest from a willing (and sometimes not-so-willing) audience opens a hidden floodgate and the details of pregnancy and birth or infertility or loss spill out  in a rush. That's why pregnant women find themselves drowning in advice and opinions and yes, even horror stories of carrying and birthing and recovering and raising. That's why blogs are full of intimate bodily details, and a careful listener at a baby shower is virtually guaranteed to hear 'cervix' and 'placenta' and 'episiotomy' sprinkled through the hum of oohs and ahhs at tiny sleepers.

We can't help it.

I can only speak for myself, Child, and my two lovely experiences, but this is what I think. No matter how it happens, be it planned or traumatic or painful or blissful, something happens in that moment. I am not sure it matters whether a midwife lifts an infant from a bathtub in the living room, or a doctor pulls a baby from a long incision in a surgical bay, or a social worker gently places a child in the arms of her new waiting family-- in the grand scheme of it all I'm not sure those details matter so much as what happens to that girl in that instant when she becomes a mother.

I can't be sure, of course, but I know that something happened to me in that moment, and I know that it mattered, maybe more than almost anything else.

And now I guess that's a lot to take in for such a small boy. I can see you sleeping, all wrapped up tight the way you like and breathing in your own little loud way, and I think maybe it's time to just tell you I love you, boy-child, and curl up with you for a little nap.

Because let's face it. Your sister will be awake soon, and then all this meditation on the wonder of new life flies right out the window because I know we are out of goldfish crackers.

Love you to the moon and back,
Mama

News on the potty front.

First of all, I took these pictures in the basement with my cell phone. No overhead lights were on, so the only light coming in was from the window behind me, which was probably partially obstructed by a large Labrador pressing her face against the glass wishing she could nibble on this chunk of peanut butter deliciousness. That's why everything looks so grainy.

Can't say as I blame the dog, actually. He's pretty munchable.

Here's the basic pattern of my days. Wake up to feed the Bug. Put her in her high chair with a bowl of Crunch Berries. She will eat the red and purple ones, but not the yellow ones, which must be inherent to childhood because I certainly didn't teach her that. Pressure her to eat more quickly so we can hurry to the basement where I can feed the baby, who is hungry by now. Turn on Disney Jr. to entertain the toddler, who will probably empty the toy bin all over the floor while I am tethered to the chair.

Change Mr. Baggins.
Change Bug.

Aaaaaaannnnddd--- rinse and repeat. Basically. I also straighten up, and Bug helps me. In this case, "helps" means "reach into the dishwasher a lot while repeatedly asking for fruit snacks" but hey, we take what we can get.

The other night, I put Mr. Baggins down after his late night feeding and, get this, he slept for over 4 hours before waking for the next one. I slept for more than 3 hours in a row for the first time in nearly one month. I don't know what it feels like to see the sun come up in Alaska after an entire winter of darkness, but I imagine it feels something like that stretch of sleep. I practically danced with joy.

But the real big news around our house is Bug-related. While we haven't been really focused on the issue, we have been talking about how exciting it is for big kids to use the potty rather than doing business in their diapers. Every now and again, Bug sits on the potty with no real success other than a slightly delayed nap time, which I'm sure she considers a victory.

Today, though! Today was different! And just to guarantee that social workers like me have clients and job security in the future, I'm going to tell the story of my daughter's first potty experience ON THE INTERNET! BRING ON THE THERAPY BILLS!

Lunch was completed, and the pre-nap diaper change had been initiated when Bug indicated she needed to use the potty. We ran to the bathroom, discarding the sleeper en route. (So she was still in her pajamas. Don't judge me.) She sat on her little seat, obviously lacking in any focus, and eventually we called it a good attempt and returned to her room. New diaper was secured and I was just zipping her up when a toot escaped her. Smiling, I encouraged her to say 'excuse me', but her return gaze wasn't so much playful as it was worried.

It was go time, and she knew it.

Off came the sleeper in record time, and we ran back into the bathroom. Not convinced we'd have much more success, I left her sitting there while I ran to the basement to grab her wubby for nap time. She seemed less scattered, though, and more intent on the job at hand.

As soon as I returned, though, she was calling out excitedly.

"Mama! I put poop an' pee in da potty!"

And guess what! She had.

And there was much rejoicing.

Happy St. Daddy's Day

The night before St. Patrick's Day, I headed to the wonderful land of Walmart to pick up a few fun things for Bug to open the next day. It was there that I encountered several of my retail pet peeves. 

#1- Holiday hopping. I get that I was a little late to the party with less than 24 hours notice, but come on. There was honestly one green cardboard display with 3 St. Patrick's Day pins (alcohol references, all-- not appropriate for the 2 year old) and a couple of large green felt top hats. Everything else in the store was Easter related.

I managed to find the very last package of shamrock Snoopy stickers hidden on an end cap, and wandered the aisles searching in vain for some gold coins chocolates. A rather bored looking employee asked me for the time, and, finding that her shift was not yet over, I ventured to ask her for help locating the candies, and bumped right into pet peeve numero dos.

#2 - Being forced to wander slowly behind an employee who does not know where the item is any more than I do. Walmart is a big store. I don't expect people to know where every last seasonal item is, particularly when it turns out said chocolate coins don't exist. What does bother me is having to pace the exact same aisles I've just spent 10 minutes in following behind a blue Walmart vest that keeps mumbling softly under her breath. Particularly when it was clear from the beginning that the vest not only did not know the location of the item, but didn't even know what it was I was asking for in the first place. 

(She initially asked if I was looking for Hanukkah coins. Good guess, but A- we're about 9 months early for that, and B- I hadn't really envisioned a menorah stamped on the front of the coins meant for a leprechaun scavenger hunt.)

Anyway, I tracked down some other green items I thought Bug might enjoy, and I was super excited to set them out for her in the morning.

I managed to scrounge up the last Mickey Mouse themed card, too. She was thrilled.

We had green French toast for breakfast.

That evening, we headed out on Mr. Baggins's first out of the house trip aside from doctor visits. The kiddos went to Nana and PopPop's house while Paddy and I did a little birthday shopping for the one million family members with March birthdays. Just before we left to head home, we decided to attempt to get a picture of the kids together. There were lots of funny candid shots, my favorite of which is displayed below.

With the little brother obviously finished with the picture taking portion of the evening, we settled on this one.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!