I See by Your Outfit that You Are a Cowboy

I knew this day was coming. I've been waiting for a notice that one of the children has to dress up as something at school, something that would require me to make a costume. Something that would bring the day of reckoning to the non-crafty mother (me).

That day was today.

It's Career Day at Cubby and Charlie's school, and Charlie's teachers asked the kids to dress as what they want to be when they grow up. Charlie said he wants to be a cowboy.

Somehow I doubt that's a career often pursued by people in this northern outpost.

It is, however, a relatively easy outfit to come up with. Charlie already has Wrangler jeans and a plaid shirt (no pearl buttons, but good enough). I had a red bandana to tie around his neck. I even had a belt with a real buckle that shows a cowboy on a bucking bronco. The MiL bought it for Cubby when he was two, but Charlie is skinny enough that A. was able to punch another hole in it at the very end to make it fit*.

What I did not have, however, were the most iconic parts of the cowboy outfit: the hat and boots.

I didn't even try with the boots, just sending him in his winter boots and telling myself he's a northern cowboy.

I briefly considered taking advantage of Amazon's two-day shipping and actually buying a hat, but that seemed like a waste of money. So I found a YouTube tutorial on how to make a cowboy hat with paper.

I did actually manage to make a hat, though it doesn't look quite like the one that guy made. Or, um, at all. For one thing, my cutting was a little, ahem, rougher than his, because instead of using an Exacto knife to carefully cut little triangles, I just quickly snipped around to make the little sticky-out things on the crown part that I taped onto the brim part, so you could see where I had cut.

I figured I could just tape on another piece of paper all around the hat to hide it. I gave this piece to Charlie to decorate with crayons. He decided a cowboy would have red lollipops on his hat and proceeded to decorate accordingly.

Sure. It's a Willy Wonka cowboy hat, I guess.

Also, I only had letter-sized paper, which made a hat that was not at all big enough for Charlie's head, so he can't actually really wear it. I told him real cowboys never wear their hats indoors, anyway, so he could just hold it when he was at school.

I also told him that he was getting a cowboy omelet for breakfast, because cowboys love cheese omelets with salsa. He totally bought it. And then, when I offered him an orange, he asked if cowboys eat oranges.

Yes. And I bet they all make their beds and pick up without being asked, and never, ever punch their younger brothers**.

I should milk this one for all it's worth, right?

Anyway. Ridiculously small hat aside, the outfit ended up being pretty good. He was happy with it, in any case.

Cowboy Charlie, ready to ride.

* He stabbed himself in the process and bled a little on the belt, but I told Charlie that would just make it more authentic-looking.

** Ha. I actually knew a few cowboys when I worked at a dude ranch in Colorado during the summer in college, and they are very likely to be messy and prone to fistfights. They did all eat salsa, though.

North Country Spectacles

When we were at Blackrock for Thanksgiving, A. went hunting and shot a small doe. He hung it in the shed while we were there, but when it came time to go home . . .

Yeah. This is literally how we roll.

I kept forgetting we had a dead, gutted deer on top of our car, though I definitely remembered when we were in the big village closest to home and I saw a lady in the car next to us take a picture of it.

"I think someone just took a picture of our car," I said to A. incredulously.

"Great," he said. "We're going to be on someone's Instagram. I hope she got the four kids and enormous dog inside the car, too."

I guess it's nice to provide the local color for visitors to the north.

Then again, I was sorely tempted to take a picture myself of local color yesterday when I took Poppy to the pediatrician for a check-up and walked into the office's entry to be confronted with a big pile of firewood.

The kids' pediatrician has his office on the ground floor of an enormous old house, and lives on the top floor. Gotta have that firewood handy. It gets cold 'round these parts.

It's all about survival in the frozen north. Firewood and dead deer included.

Thankful?

How could I be otherwise?

Happy Thanksgiving, my lovelies. Let's eat.

A Tale of Two Weddings . . . and a Baptism

When A. and I got married--going on 15 years ago now--we, like all newlyweds, assumed it would be our only wedding.

I think it was reasonable to assume that. But you know what they say about the word "assume"!

"It makes an ass out of u and me," is what they say, which is incredibly lame, so let's move on.

Our first wedding was very nice. We were married in the MiL's little white country church, by the minister from A.'s childhood. I wore a white dress. My parents walked me down the aisle. (Yes, both of them. I figured they both raised me. Why should my dad be the only one to walk with me?) The reception was at Blackrock. There were about 60 people in attendance.

It was not, however, a Catholic wedding. And if it's not a Catholic wedding, the Catholic church straight-up does not recognize the marriage. So, basically, we had a civil ceremony, even though it was in a church.

But it recently became important to A. that we be married in the Catholic church*. So we did. On Saturday.

This time we were married in the chapel of a north country Catholic church, by a deacon. I wore black, because the only clothes that fit me at one month post partum and that I can nurse in are black. My parents were both there, as were our four children.

It's not a simple blessing or something; it's a full marriage ceremony. It was a little bit bizarre to be repeating wedding vows and exchanging rings with our four kids there (and Jack standing behind me wearing my mother's glasses, which I really wish I had a picture of), but touching, too.

My mother even bought us a wedding cake, with the top tier to be kept for our one-year anniversary and everything. The reception was at our house. And by "reception," I mean the cake and some balloons and bubbles for the kids, because that was pretty much the extent of it and even that was all courtesy of my mom as I had planned absolutely nothing. Thanks, Mom.

The next day, Poppy was baptized.

She wore the christening gown that I was baptized in, although I was smart enough not to put it on her until after Mass. Good thing, since she completely soiled herself during the service and required a full outfit change. This appears to be the Sunday tradition now, except this time she wasn't considerate enough to do it before Mass. Maybe she was protesting the (floral, and very cute) pajamas I had her in?

Anyway, all sacraments have now been completed satisfactorily. It was a very exciting weekend.

We leave tomorrow for Blackrock to continue the excitement with Thanksgiving and pie. A whirl of gaiety indeed.

* To the anonymous commenter who wondered: No, it was not a requirement for our children's baptisms. And we didn't have to do any marriage counseling except casually talk to the deacon who performed the sacrament. He rightly noted that newlywed marriage counseling at this stage would be a bit ridiculous.

And On That Note . . .

We did a lot of stuff this weekend. Cubby and Charlie received awards at a school assembly for their "Can Do Attitudes".* Poppy was baptized. And A. and I got married. Long, loooong story. I'll tell it soon.

Anyway. Lots of stuff happened. My parents were here for all of it, and my dad took pictures.

And then I didn't write about it. Again.

I'll try to do that this week when I get the pictures from my dad. But considering I found A. sitting in the living room drinking tea at 3:45 this morning because he came down with a nasty cold, and that Poppy is coughing and snuffling with what I must assume is the same cold, and that we're supposed to leave for Blackrock on Wednesday morning, it might be awhile.

Just cross your fingers for me that no one else gets sick, okay? Okay.

* I'm sure I'm not the only one with children who seem to be Dr. Jekylls at school but morph into Mr. Hydes at home. I'm always just glad that at least they can behave themselves in public. Usually.

We Do Stuff, I Take Pictures, Then . . .

Then the day we did the stuff is past and the pictures are old and somehow (somehow=newborn + other family members that still require care and feeding), I've just never written about it.

So here! Have a whirlwind update!

We went to the Adirondack Wild Center* on Saturday because it was free admission day. It's a little over three hours in the car to get there and back. I didn't really want to go with the baby, but I also didn't really want to leave A. to try to keep track of three crazy little boys in a public place. The baby slept almost the entire time, including in the car. The little boys were crazy in the car, but they got to see a live barred owl and get a bag of Cheetos from the center's cafe. Doesn't get much better than that.

In what is becoming a regular occurrence, Poppy soiled herself so thoroughly on Sunday morning that she required a full outfit change. Maybe she does it on purpose to ensure her lazy mother changes her out of her pajamas before church.

The first outfit choice was adorable, but not warm enough.

Much more neutral than last week's pink color palette.

So I had to put another layer over that:

A bit androgynous, but that's what happens when your hand-me-downs come from three older brothers. (One of whom is photobombing with his hand there on the baby's knee.)

Poppy did not sleep through the service this time, because she pooped again and woke up just before the opening hymn. Which is when I discovered that I only had one properly sized diaper in the diaper bag.

Rookie mistake.

I spent the next hour hoping she would stay clean and I wouldn't have to Macgyver a size 5 diaper into something that would fit a size 1 baby.

I didn't. Thanks, Poppy.

We finally got our half cow, which must have been the smallest cow ever, because the steaks are tiny. I did ask for a smaller cow, though, to make sure it fit in our freezer, and the boys love having their own individual steaks. A. just loves having steak at all, and I love having beef to change up our diet of constant lamb. Happiness all around.

Both Cubby and Charlie brought home pieces of paper with things to decorate for this week's open house at school--a turkey for Charlie and a tree for Cubby--with instructions to use "any media except food." I suggested they could use the designer duct tape sent by Aunt Tara. The reason she sent designer duct tape was because my niece used to use it to make headbands and so forth, so they had a lot on hand. Which is why we now have an entire shoebox filled with over a dozen different rolls of patterned duct tape.

Jack of course must also have some; he made an original creation.

We also used the duct tape to secure the packages of lamb we wrapped up. It's nice to have designer meat packages in the freezer.

And I think we'll end there with a mic drop. Thank you and good night.

Celebrating Our Veterans with Snow

Apparently, this year Veterans Day is the beginning of winter. When I got up at 5:47 this morning, it was 10 degrees with a strong wind, and when I went outside to let Mia out, this is what it looked like:

Mia was not amused.

Okay, so technically it didn't look exactly like that, because it isn't even light at 5:47 a.m. I waited until later to take the photo. Obviously.

The boys were very excited about the snow and were out the door like a shot as soon as they had some breakfast.

Well, a shot that was loaded by me first with winter boots, snow pants, hats, mittens, and coats.

Is it a bad sign that I'm already silently but vehemently cursing the winter apparel and it's only the first snowfall of the season? Yeah.

Anyway.

They stayed out for almost an hour, despite the wind and temperature. 

Meanwhile, Poppy was all, "Have fun, guys. I'll just stay here on the couch in my fleecy sleep sack."

Smart girl.

Incidentally, as you can see from the above photo, Poppy is in the baby acne stage of development. That's okay, though, because it gives me the opportunity to sing my own version of "Sixteen Going on Seventeen," from The Sound of Music. It goes like this, "You are three weeks going on thirteen, with pimples across your cheeks . . ." 

Catchy, no?

So that's where we are: playing in the snow and singing ridiculous songs to the baby. Cabin fever, here we come.