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I have long been avoiding a certain reality this summer. I knew the time would come, but deep down I fancied that if I ignored the problem it would fix itself. But it didn't and the time has come, August has arrived and with it so has my youngest son Devon. Or rather he just doesn't leave because his preschool has let out for the entire month of August. Sure, Devon only attends school for three half days per week. But those 12 hours are the sum of my productivity abilities. During those 12 golden hours I work, plan, organize and breathe in a way I simply cannot when an almost three year-old is pawing at my wrists and or reaching for the keys on my laptop.
Last week my initial thought process ran along the lines of: how could the staff be so selfish as to want four consecutive weeks away from these small people? Don't they know that I have a life to run? Then my resentment turned to fear. How am I to deal with Devon every day for 31 consecutive days? Sure, I love him to pieces, but those 12 hours without him make those pieces all the more lovable.
Now that I have had a week to stew over the matter, I am finding some peace with the next month. I have accepted that I will not be terribly productive. We will spend more time at the park and in the sandbox. We will read more books and build more block towers to knock down in a Godzilla-like manner. We will go out for more ice cream and we will have more tickle fests. I will stress out about it from time to time, okay daily, but I am vowing not to let it get in the way of our fun. It won't be a bad thing, just a change in routine. If Devon can do it, then so can I.
At least I think I can do it.
Does your preschool let out for the summer? If so, how do you cope?
When I discovered I was pregnant with my third child I was more than a bit flummoxed. I realized that I would have to go through all those early childhood milestones again. The teething, crawling, sleepless nights, I thought I was all done. More frighteningly I couldn't even remember how I got through them all in the first place.
We have weathered many of the baby milestones in the last 31 months, including some extra health scares for good measure, with few injuries to body or soul. The one biggie that looms right now is potty training. I haven't much memory of how or when I potty trained the older two of my kids, just that it went fairly smooth and with little trauma. However, my third child, Devon, is a much more obstinate creature than my other two. He is the sort who removes his clothing in the crib and tosses his diaper across the room just to see how far it will fly. With this image in mind, I have put off most potty training encouragements from my end. My thoughts have run along the lines of when he is ready he will tell me in one way or another. And tell me he has. Most days Devon vocally refuses to don a diaper. Some days he will wear cloth trainer pants, but more often than not he prefers the breeze whisking between his chubby legs as he lumbers about. His preferred locale for potty relief is not his cute potty chair or the big boy toilet, but rather the edge of the backyard deck. The first thing Devon does in the morning is run for the back door, same with the last thing at night. This is great when we are at home, but at weekend soccer games or in the park Devon simply drops his drawers and lets loose. Good thing he is cute and small, most people find this act endearing.
I am beyond the point where I plan to research this issue by ordering various books about how and where to pee. Right now it is warm outside and by relieving himself outdoors, Devon is conserving water and not creating more landfill problems with diaper use. So far we have avoided any unsightly bowel movement accidents in public, those have been at home or I have been able to predict them and convince Devon to wear a diaper for a short time. If he still has this pattern when the leaves turn and the snow flies, I might consider reading a book on the subject but until then my son is a free ranger.
For the last two days my toddler, Devon, has refused to obey the nap rules and sleep during his allotted 90 minutes of slumber. He is more than happy to sit through story time and then be plopped in his barred bed, but once he is tucked in he doesn't close his eyes. He begins to sing or recite dialog from Toy Story. I am not particularly bothered by this, he has yet to climb out of his crib and I figure any bit of time he spends happily by himself is good for both of us. What has taken me by surprise is his state when I go to fetch him after about an hour when he informs me he is ready by singing as loudly as possible, "Mai-Mai, where are you? I done my crib now!" I have discovered him completely naked for two days in a row now; happy as a clam, giving himself some self-love and naked as the day he was born.
Upon waking Devon has no desire to again don clothing. He prances about naked for the rest of the day, relieving his bodily needs outside and ducking under a blanket if he gets chilly. Luckily for my little guy our spring season has arrived and he can comfortably enjoy the outdoors his natural state. Since he is now 31 months and approaching potty training it also a great opportunity for him learn exactly what goes in his diapers. Fortunately for me we have yet to have a BM incident in the afternoons, a record I am hoping to maintain.
Personally I am tickled pink to see my son enjoying his nudity so much. He will soon grow up and become self conscious. For now his innocence is a joy to watch.
A couple of weeks ago I got my hair cut. Not just trimmed, mind you, but really chopped of and heavily highlighted. I was going for a more Carrie Bradshaw look, but my chatty hairdresser had other things in my mind and the end result is something more akin to a hardcore soccer mom look. However, I am a soccer mom and the response from everybody has been so overwhelmingly positive that I can overlook that detail. Everybody, that is, except my two sons. They absolutely hate this change.
The day after I got the new do, I picked up my daughter, Cassidy and her brother Devon, my 37 month-old, from their father's house. Cass could not stop exclaiming her delight with my new short, blondish look. Devon, on the other hand, took one look, poked out his bottom lip and looked away. Once in the car, Cassidy asked me questions at a rapid fire speed about how long the process took, could she touch it, did I like it, etc. I finally got a chance to pose a question to Devon about whether or not he liked my new hair, "No! I no like you new, little hairs, Mai-Mai. I no like you white hairs." That was that. Devon didn't want to look at my hair, talk about it or touch it.
Later that night I picked up my oldest son, Loren who is almost 14, from a sleepover. He took one look at my head, stopped cold in his tracks and shuddered. "Why did you do that to your hair, Mom? What was wrong with your other hair? And why did you put all those white, streaky things in it?" I explained that I have a serious gray root issue, I needed a change, it felt fun and that I liked it. Loren looked out the window, sighed and then replied with a certain sort of heaviness, "Well, I guess it will grow back and everything will be okay then."
The differences in the reactions of my kids got me to wondering about males and females. Typically men prefer long, flowing locks on their female counterparts. My ex liked long hair and most of the males I know feel this way. Many of my female friends who have long hair will occasionally bemoan this fact and wish they could freely whack off their hair for a new breezy, sassy look without all heck breaking loose in their homes. And so with my two boys I have to wonder if their reactions were born into them, have they taken cues from their paternal figure or is it a societal thing?
My kids have always had a few nicknames, none of them have been too horrible so they have stuck throughout the years. However, with the arrival of Devon and his grasp, or lack of it, on language. we have all acquired a new set of names. In honor of Teletubbies, Devon began calling his older brother Lo-Lo when he first began to string words together. It is such a catchy name that it has stuck with a vengeance; I now rarely call Loren by anything other than Lo-Lo.
For the most part Loren does not mind this name, his little brother gave it to him and I think he treasures it. But there are times when he puts his foot down. For instance, last week we picked up some members of the Canadian snowskate team from the airport. These boys are older by Loren by about five years and he looks up to them. Before we entered the airport, Loren stopped me and asked, "Mom, you don't usually do anything embarrassing, but would you please be sure to not call me Lo-Lo in front of these guys?" For a moment my heart hurt as I realized he is getting older and growing up just a little bit more each day. But then I understood that he needed feel confident in front of these young men, and so I replied, "Sure, honey. No worries. Not a Lo-Lo or cheek squeeze from me. " Loren breathed a sigh of relief and we went off to pick up his new friends.
On the way home, Devon finally tired of the long car ride and was demanding attention. When he didn't get it, he began to yell, "Lo-Lo! LO-LO! LOOOOO-LOOOOOO!" When Loren explained the name to them, the older boys began to laugh and then shared their nicknames with us, it wasn't so bad after all.
We are Catholic in our home. Part of that means that we offer a small prayer of thanks before our evening meals. At least that is what it used to mean before my nearly 2 1/2 year old, Devon, caught on to the concept of gratitude. Now whenever he sits down in his highchair, be it for a small snack, breakfast or dinner, he summons every living person in to the dining room by bellowing, "Hands! Hands! HANDS!"
Anybody who is in the near vicinity must then gather around the table, clasp their hands together and offer up a prayer. Devon squeezes his chubby fingers together and then squints his eyes shut while trying to peek out at the rest of us to make sure we are doing the same. When we are done, he throws his arms in the air, shouts, "OH-MAN!" and then whispers an exuberant, "YES!"
I have no idea whether or not the concept of giving thanks will stick with him, but I find his enthusiasm absolutely touching. It has also encouraged my older two kids to take a moment to reflect and give thanks; not a bad thing at all.
My youngest son, Devon, has entered the two year-old faze with a vengeance. He is highly opinionated and deeply displeased when those around him do not support his preferences. Currently his favored preference is for under shirts. He especially like the sleeveless white Hanes variety, sort of an a la K-Fed look. Fortunately it is cold here in the Rocky Mountains, so he wears at least two other layers over his Federline Specials. But whenever he is getting dressed, Devon runs about the house summoning anybody he can find with a screeching, "Look! Look my unda-shut! I soooooo han-some!" It is both touching and slightly scary at the same time.
I remember my other two children had favorite garments and would go to all lengths to express their happiness over them. My oldest son, Loren, was particularly fond of a pair of cowboy boots. He liked to wear them au natural with nary a stitch of clothing on. He even liked to sleep that way -always a struggle. Cassidy favored a tie-dye dress that we bought at a summer fair. She wore it everyday, with me peeling it off of her during the night hours for the occasional wash, until the seams disintegrated sometime around the winter holidays. I love to indulge the young fashion sense, but it sometimes scares me just what it is that grips these small beings.
A couple of days ago I did a post about diaper bag brands. I was surprised by the amount of responses until I thought about the whole diaper bag concept. This is something we have to lug around for a minimum of three years, we take it everywhere. It is so often our saving grace as we extract some sort of toy or snack to appease our kids.
So I recently took a long hard peek at my diaper bag, it is a black nylon number I ordered off of Amazon when I realized buying a fancy one would be beyond my budget. Although I have been trying to transition out of it and into a leather backpack, I often go back to it -sort of like a bad boyfriend- it is just too convenient with all of its pockets and zippers. I pawed through the extra clothes and packets of freeze dried fruit until I hit the bottom, this is where I found Devon's most favorite collection of stuff. On the bottom lurked four Hot Wheels cars, two tubes of Carmex, a half eaten granola bar, a box of apple juice, assorted change, crumbs and a small teddy bear. Over all, a rather gross, crusty collection, but one that Devon loves to grub about in.
What's in the bottom of your diaper bag? Does your little one fancy the dregs of the diaper bag?
My nearly two and half year old, Devon, cannot process cow's milk. It is something that we have known since he was about 12 months-old, and no surprise since his older two siblings could not drink cow's milk either when they were younger. We have had Devon on enriched vanilla soy milk for the last 18 months, but since he has other eating issues, he is inclined to consume the soy milk and nothing else for days on end. This singular approach to foods leaves him with a bad tummy and an even worse disposition.
To combat this problem, we have recently started mixing his soy milk with goat's milk in a 50/50 mixture. The result is a completely different child. His tantrums are almost gone and his tummy no longer rumbles in a frightening way, not to mention that diaper changing is a much more pleasant experience.
It turns out that goat's milk is packed with all sorts of benefits. I have not yet chugged a glass of it, but I might start today. What about your family, have you experienced the benefits of this elixir?
By the time I had three children there were a few things that I decided I would not battle with my children. Sure I would ensure that they had healthy meals, that they got read to at bedtime. But the hair? Nuh-huh. That fight is long gone. I make sure my kids bathe everyday and that they wash their hair; but if they choose not to brush it, that just isn't my problem.
This issue evolved when my daughter, Cassidy, was still a toddler. She loved to bathe, would even allow me to wash her hair, but absolutely NO brushing. I got tired of the fighting and, after time, decided that a happy, messy haired girl was better than a miserable, groomed one.
Some people have a hard time with this one, especially the grandmothers. Cassidy's paternal grandmother will plead with her and even take her to a salon for a styling, but more often than not, Cassidy has a head of red hair that sticks straight up to the heavens. Once I let go of the vision of beautifully groomed kids and accepted my mop haired trio, life got much smoother. I figure that at some point societal demands will get to them and they will reach for that brush. Until then, you'll always recognize us, we're the ones with our hair sticking straight up.
What about you? Is there a battle you just don't fight, even if it raises an eyebrow or two?
For the most part I truly love this mothering gig. Sure the pay is dismal and most of my three clients don't appreciate my efforts, but they love me and most days are extremely rewarding. But I have to draw the line at the terrible two's. How is it that i had forgotten just how terribly long the time between 18 months and three years-old can be? Why is it that these beings are so adorable to look at and yet so difficult?
My son Devon, now 29 months-old, has hit the two's with a fierceness I don't recall with my other two children. He argues. He refuses to eat. He throws tantrums. Thankfully he attends a wonderful preschool three half days per week. I mention this not because I am relieved of his absence, but rather it gives me a chance to observe his teachers interacting with the children in such a patient manner. These observations motivate me to be more level headed with him and enable me to model these behaviors for my older two children. Most days this way of dealing with the terrible two's works. But for those days when it doesn't, I am grateful that Devon goes to bed at 7 p.m. That is the time when I go to the bathroom, have a good cry and hope for a better tomorrow.
I am always surprised when I wake up every day to discover that I am a mother to three children. Having kids was never on my list of accomplishments, so the fact that I have accumulated three in the last 13 1/2 years still stuns me. When I had my first son, Loren, I was so paranoid about motherhood that his every action left me quivering with anxiety. Every day I wondered would he would nap, would he eat enough, would his bowel movements be regular, etc. Then Cassidy came along and she was so difficult that it was all I could do to survive every day with her temper and will. Then Devon arrived in our lives and I started anew on the baby adventure with him. Living with a third child, especially one who is significantly younger than his siblings, is a far different experience than living with the first or second child. Rules and regulations that applied to the first two just don't work with the third. A few differences are as follows:
One of the first things to go out the door is the diaper bag. A diaper bag is needed for about the first 30 months of a child's life. By the time Devon came along, I had spent approximately 60 months, or 5 years, toting a diaper bag on my weary shoulders. I tried it while he was a baby, but after that I was done with compartments and removable changing pads. If his things can't fit in my backpack purse, he is shucks out of luck. Or if he really wants to carry something, he has a wee sized baby back pack.
When Loren was a baby, I had a raised eyebrow whenever I spied other parents giving their children soda in a restaurant. But if we eat out and Devon sees his older siblings drinking a Sprite, he insists on having one, as well. Sure I could demand that the older kids drink milk, but at this point the arguing would be far too much for me.
I no longer lose sleep over the themes of birthdays. I once spent weeks planning out parties down to the matching napkins and cups. No longer. I figure that everyday is a party for Devon, he gets to go many places and do so many things with his older siblings that parties are just not an option yet.
The occasional diaper blow out is just another step in a very long day. When Devon sometimes loses an entire outfit to a gooey explosion, I don't shed any tears or even put down the phone. If we're out in public he might end up going home mostly naked, but poop smeared on the wall and over every inch of my toddler is no reason to put down the phone and have a fit; that's why I carry lots of baby wipes.
Speaking of baby wipes, although I don't carry a diaper bag, the bulk of my backpack is taken up by a bag of wipes. Wipes are good for children of all ages and are on my top list of things I need as a mother of three kids.
I think the main difference that having three kids has brought to my life is a certain sort of frenzied peace. At this point I have made it to puberty with one child, the other is on her way and the youngest in well into the terrible two's. They have all made it this far and are functional and amazing in every way. Yes, I am still surprised everyday to find us all in this crazy boat, but we have come this far and will make it the rest of the way. There is a comfort in that.
My two year-old son, Devon, is developing and growing by leaps and bounds every single day. Most of the time I welcome the growth, it is such an honor to witness. But one of the changes I have long dreaded is finally here: the disappearance of the nap. Sigh.
Devon's nap is often the time of day when I can catch my breath, get some work done, take a nap of my own or simply sit in the corner and rock back and forth as I dream of a happy place. For the past few weeks it has taken him longer and longer to fall asleep in the afternoons; and if I put him down beyond a certain time, he simply won't fall asleep. Needless to say, this change has brought my often disheveled life to a standstill. At first I was so stressed out about it that I would pace back and forth worrying what sort of damage I was inflicting upon him as he sat in his crib and alternately inquired, loudly, to my whereabouts or sang his songs. But then I realized his noise was not that of a child in pain or fear. It was just his everyday noise contained to the confines of his crib. It dawned on me that he was not hurt, wasn't hungry, not crying.
I am continuing to follow our nap routine of three books, several songs and the tuck-in ritual. I then leave the room. Sometimes he'll make noise for the better part of an hour while I putter about accomplishing my tasks. Other times he prattles on for about 30 minutes, at which point he'll nap for another 30 minutes. In either case, it is not the 90 minute respite I had before, but it is still a break. When did your little one toss aside the nap for other endeavors? How did you cope?
As I posted a couple of days ago, this year Thanksgiving in our house is vastly different than past holidays. This will be the first major holiday without my father and the first time I have spent such a day without my children. Over the weekend the younger two children, Cassidy and Devon, and I made pumpkin pies. I knew they would be gone for the holiday, but it didn't seem right that the end of November would pass without a pumpkin pie baking in the oven. On Monday afternoon my mother and Cassidy made a turkey breast, homemade gravy and mashed potatoes. We sat down to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, a few days early, said our Grace and then ate until we could eat no more. Loren was happy, Cassidy was proud of her cooking efforts and Devon set aside his need for vanilla yogurt to actually taste the potatoes and gravy, of course potatoes and gravy look suspiciously like vanilla yogurt. For dessert we ate the pie that the younger children and I had worked so hard to create. The crust was a bit tough, that happens when you have small hand wielding rolling pins and shaping it much like they would Play-Dough. It was a lovely dinner and a worthy celebration
Today has been an odd one in the house. My mother and I took a walk in the blustery pre-storm weather and talked about the many Thankgivings we have had in the past. We laughed and cried at the many memories. As I mentioned in a previous post, we will be heading out to a Cajun Boil later this afternoon. In the meantime I will make some eggnog ice cream for the fete and maybe even grab a nap. It is definitely a different sort of holiday, but it has been one filled with tranquility. I deeply miss my father. I miss my three children. But I am also grateful for the many things that grace our lives. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
A couple of months ago I wrote a post about boys who cannot pee straight. At the time my toddler, Devon, was exploring the world of urinating outside of his diaper. Since that time he has embraced the whole potty training concept with fervor. I would have let it wait for a few months, but since he seems to be interested and more than willing, we are going for it. I have bought the many pairs of thick cloth underwear and a few of the plastic covers. No, I don't do Pull-Ups. I think those are a waist of money and confusing to the child. We talk about peeing, we pretend we are peeing and we actually run to the bathroom as soon as we rise, before any food and after all foods to drop drawers and take aim.
The aim part is where I have an issue with the whole pee thing. I don't mind the accidents in the pants part. But the pee hitting the walls, seeping through the toilet lid and soaking into the base boards? That I do not quite enjoy. But how do I explain this to the little guy? I don't have male parts and since I am a single mom living with my mother, there are no grown men to help in this arena. Thus the duty has fallen to my older son, Loren. Whenever Loren is around and Devon has to pee, I ask him to take Devon to the bathroom and show him the ropes. It seems to have helped somewhat. In the last week Devon has started to hit the bowl more and more. He has even caught on to the concept of holding his penis to help with the aim. In my small world that's major progress.
I have long been avoiding a certain reality this summer. I knew the time would come, but deep down I fancied that if I ignored the problem it would fix itself. But it didn't and the time has come, August has arrived and with it so has my youngest son Devon. Or rather he just doesn't leave because his preschool has let out for the entire month of August. Sure, Devon only attends school for three half days per week. But those 12 hours are the sum of my productivity abilities. During those 12 golden hours I work, plan, organize and breathe in a way I simply cannot when an almost three year-old is pawing at my wrists and or reaching for the keys on my laptop.
When I discovered I was pregnant with my third child I was more than a bit flummoxed. I realized that I would have to go through all those early childhood milestones again. The teething, crawling, sleepless nights, I thought I was all done. More frighteningly I couldn't even remember how I got through them all in the first place.
For the last two days my toddler, Devon, has refused to obey the nap rules and sleep during his allotted 90 minutes of slumber. He is more than happy to sit through story time and then be plopped in his barred bed, but once he is tucked in he doesn't close his eyes. He begins to sing or recite dialog from Toy Story. I am not particularly bothered by this, he has yet to climb out of his crib and I figure any bit of time he spends happily by himself is good for both of us. What has taken me by surprise is his state when I go to fetch him after about an hour when he informs me he is ready by singing as loudly as possible, "Mai-Mai, where are you? I done my crib now!" I have discovered him completely naked for two days in a row now; happy as a clam, giving himself some self-love and naked as the day he was born.
A couple of weeks ago I got my hair cut. Not just trimmed, mind you, but really chopped of and heavily highlighted. I was going for a more Carrie Bradshaw look, but my chatty hairdresser had other things in my mind and the end result is something more akin to a hardcore soccer mom look. However, I am a soccer mom and the response from everybody has been so overwhelmingly positive that I can overlook that detail. Everybody, that is, except my two sons. They absolutely hate this change.
My kids have always had a few nicknames, none of them have been too horrible so they have stuck throughout the years. However, with the arrival of Devon and his grasp, or lack of it, on language. we have all acquired a new set of names. In honor of Teletubbies, Devon began calling his older brother Lo-Lo when he first began to string words together. It is such a catchy name that it has stuck with a vengeance; I now rarely call Loren by anything other than Lo-Lo.
We are Catholic in our home. Part of that means that we offer a small prayer of thanks before our evening meals. At least that is what it used to mean before my nearly 2 1/2 year old, Devon, caught on to the concept of gratitude. Now whenever he sits down in his highchair, be it for a small snack, breakfast or dinner, he summons every living person in to the dining room by bellowing, "Hands! Hands! HANDS!" 
My youngest son, Devon, has entered the two year-old faze with a vengeance. He is highly opinionated and deeply displeased when those around him do not support his preferences. Currently his favored preference is for under shirts. He especially like the sleeveless white Hanes variety, sort of an a la K-Fed look. Fortunately it is cold here in the Rocky Mountains, so he wears at least two other layers over his Federline Specials. But whenever he is getting dressed, Devon runs about the house summoning anybody he can find with a screeching, "Look! Look my unda-shut! I soooooo han-some!" It is both touching and slightly scary at the same time.
A couple of days ago I did 
My nearly two and half year old, Devon, cannot process cow's milk. It is something that we have known since he was about 12 months-old, and no surprise since his older two siblings could not drink cow's milk either when they were younger. We have had Devon on enriched vanilla soy milk for the last 18 months, but since he has other eating issues, he is inclined to consume the soy milk and nothing else for days on end. This singular approach to foods leaves him with a bad tummy and an even worse disposition.
By the time I had three children there were a few things that I decided I would not battle with my children. Sure I would ensure that they had healthy meals, that they got read to at bedtime. But the hair? Nuh-huh. That fight is long gone. I make sure my kids bathe everyday and that they wash their hair; but if they choose not to brush it, that just isn't my problem. 
For the most part I truly love this mothering gig. Sure the pay is dismal and most of my three clients don't appreciate my efforts, but they love me and most days are extremely rewarding. But I have to draw the line at the terrible two's. How is it that i had forgotten just how terribly long the time between 18 months and three years-old can be? Why is it that these beings are so adorable to look at and yet so difficult?
I am always surprised when I wake up every day to discover that I am a mother to three children. Having kids was never on my list of accomplishments, so the fact that I have accumulated three in the last 13 1/2 years still stuns me. When I had my first son, Loren, I was so paranoid about motherhood that his every action left me quivering with anxiety. Every day I wondered would he would nap, would he eat enough, would his bowel movements be regular, etc. Then Cassidy came along and she was so difficult that it was all I could do to survive every day with her temper and will. Then Devon arrived in our lives and I started anew on the baby adventure with him. Living with a third child, especially one who is significantly younger than his siblings, is a far different experience than living with the first or second child. Rules and regulations that applied to the first two just don't work with the third. A few differences are as follows:
My two year-old son, Devon, is developing and growing by leaps and bounds every single day. Most of the time I welcome the growth, it is such an honor to witness. But one of the changes I have long dreaded is finally here: the disappearance of the nap. Sigh. 
As I posted a couple of days ago, this year Thanksgiving in our house is vastly different than past holidays. This will be the first major holiday without my father and the first time I have spent such a day without my children. Over the weekend the younger two children, Cassidy and Devon, and I made pumpkin pies. I knew they would be gone for the holiday, but it didn't seem right that the end of November would pass without a pumpkin pie baking in the oven. On Monday afternoon my mother and Cassidy made a turkey breast, homemade gravy and mashed potatoes. We sat down to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, a few days early, said our Grace and then ate until we could eat no more. Loren was happy, Cassidy was proud of her cooking efforts and Devon set aside his need for vanilla yogurt to actually taste the potatoes and gravy, of course potatoes and gravy look suspiciously like vanilla yogurt. For dessert we ate the pie that the younger children and I had worked so hard to create. The crust was a bit tough, that happens when you have small hand wielding rolling pins and shaping it much like they would Play-Dough. It was a lovely dinner and a worthy celebration
A couple of months ago I wrote a post about 
