Zoomars

A few weeks ago my friend Andrea (another Andrea) invited me and my kidlets to join her on an outing to a petting zoo by our house and I said "heck yeah" because I cannot (CAN. NOT.) resist any opportunity to get up close and personal with animals of all shapes and sizes.

She mentioned that this particular petting zoo, Zoomars, had a sweet Groupon going on, and that sealed the deal.

Zoomars, Zoomars.... I vaguely remembered a last-minute, hair-brained trek out to a place called Zoomars late one night last October, in search of a picture-perfect pumpkin patch. Zoomars was closed, but we did end up finding a pumpkin patch in the parking lot of a local Sears that came preettttyyyy close to perfect.

Moral of that digression: stop chasing what you think of as perfect, and perfect will come to you where you least expect it. Possibly in the parking lot of a Sears.

ANYway.

ZOOMARS




I think this guinea pig has a cleft palate. It only makes me love him more...

This place was incredible. I was kind of embarrassed that we've lived in South Orange County for 5 years and had never stumbled across it (at least not in the light of day..)



I hadn't seen my beautiful friend or her beautiful son G in much too long, and it was a very happy reunion indeed.
My kids love G -- I think they're secretly hoping that Andrea will let us adopt him someday.




Two cowfolk, passing each other in the night...




Zoomars is in San Juan Capistrano, by the mission, and it's surrounded by lush gardens and paths, the sweetest coffee shops and restaurants, and some pretty awesome parks. They have horses, llamas, goats, sheep, guinea pigs, regular pigs, and rabbits. The website says they also have tortoises, but we didn't see any wandering around.

They also had this cornbox that we had to drag the kids out of, by the ankles.


Corn... who knew??

It's a gem people.

If you have a free Saturday or Sunday, kids or no kids, you should visit.





Happy Thursday!!

Forever Young

It started last Christmas.

As I was wrapping presents late on Christmas Eve, carefully cutting, taping, and writing "from: Santa" on every single one, it suddenly dawned on me that this might be the last year the power of Santa held my son in its magical grasp.

He might not believe in Santa next year.

I felt a ball of emotion form inside of me -- it started in my heart, then hung a right and sat in my chest for a moment or two. Then it slowly ascended, until it got stuck in my throat and my mouth opened a little because I was choking -- choking -- on the aching sadness. I blinked the tears away, and somewhere a voice of reason shouting at me to pull it together was being drowned out by one thought, flashing like a marquee.

He's growing up.

A few weeks ago, it came back.

I had bought Rise of the Guardians -- a decent movie, but certainly not the sob-inducing shitshow that, say, Toy Story 3 was -- and settled down on our couch with my kids one night to watch it.

Toward the end of the movie, during a scene in which a little boy was deciding whether or not he believed in childhood fairytales such as Santa, the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, etc., I melted down.

Except I had no idea it was happening until Noah touched my hand -- "It's okay mom," he said. "I'm going to tell you how it ends -- he still believes."

I realized then that tears were streaming down my face, and they had nothing to do with the movie.

"Thanks babe," I told him as I wiped my face on my sleeve. "I was getting pretty worried for a minute."

He still believes.

My little boy is 8 years old today.

Last weekend my husband and I took the booster seats out of our cars for good.

This summer, we will likely watch as our son gets a set of braces on his front teeth, the first step in what is sure to be a long and arduous orthodontic journey.

Braces.

And in the midst of all this growing up, I've somehow managed to believe that time will surely stand still for this sentimental mother -- that the line between growing up and still believing shan't be crossed until I'm good and ready.

But the tears that involuntarily fill up my eyes tell a different story.

I can't slow down this journey, much as I'd like to.

Last night, my husband and I peeked over the edge of Noah's loft bed and told him that when he woke up, he would be 8.
"You changed a lot this year," I told him, and then he asked how.

So we started down the list:

This is the year Noah learned...

to tie his shoes
to skateboard
to swing
to multiply

This is the year when he started showering instead of bathing, and the year when he requested we knock on his bedroom door before entering.

This is the year his big teeth grew in, and the year that he finally, finally, reached, and then passed, 48 inches in height (roller coasters. Hello...)

This is the year he graduated to the big kid section at clothing and shoe stores (we started the year in 5T, and are ending it in 7-8. Big growth spurt)

This is the year of reading chapter books on his own, and treating his parents like lepers in front of his friends.

And yet...

I know he's still straddling that line, still playing tug o' war with the instinct to be cool, dude. Be cool..

Last night, when we had run down the list of change and growth and big-kid-ness, Noah sat up suddenly, reached out his arms, and pulled his mom and dad in for a hug.

"Thanks you guys," he said. "I'm excited that I'm going to be 8"



Me, too, kid.
Me, too.

Tie Dye Your Life

A couple Fridays ago a Tie Dye Volkswagen Bus pulled up outside my work.

It was sent by a little (big) company called I Love to Create, and the challenge presented to my coworkers and I was simple: tie dye your hearts out.

So we did.


Photo Credit:Johanna Love

But let's back up for a second -- in the frantic get-the-kids-to-school-and-the-dog-fed scramble that Friday morning, I forgot that the tie-dye bus was coming. So I rushed home and grabbed the first white thing I saw -- a pair of Converse sneakers that Eva had stained with a cherry popsicle a few months ago (tip: the only store I've found that consistently sells white Converse is Nordstrom, but Target also has some cheaper canvas shoe options).

When I returned and showed them to the event organizers, they looked a little skeptical, but they were willing to try this experiment -- and it worked!

I'm so happy with the results that I thought I'd share the process here.
It seriously could not be easier to make these shoes.



Here's how to make your own:

Step 1

Remove the shoelaces from your shoes, and soak them for a minute or two in water. Then, squeeze as much water out of them as possible -- there are a few ways to do this; you can squeeze and squeeze the fabric (which I did) or go outside and slap the shoes together over and over (which I also did).

Don't rush this part, because the more water you squeeze out of each shoe, the more vibrant the colors will ultimately be.

Step 2

Tape off the rubber parts of the shoe, and stuff them with plastic bags.



The dye doesn't really stick to the rubber unless you let it sit there for a long time. Still, I didn't want to take any chances because I think the color looks great against a crisp, bright white background.

Step 3

Mix your colors.



I bought the Tulip One Step Tie Dye kit. You can find it at Michaels, and with a coupon I paid $10. The kit comes with bottles for every color with powder dye already in them (as well as one extra packet of dye for every color and plastic gloves). You add water, shake them up, and you're good to go.

**TIPS**
-Wear the gloves! This dye will stain your hands, and it will not come off for days.

-Be careful when you are shaking the bottles. A few drops can escape, and the dye is virtually impossible to get out of fabric.

Step 4

Apply dye to your shoes in a "stripe" pattern. Here is my color order, from the front of the shoe to the back: pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple.


Photo Credit:Johanna Love

**TIPS**
-Hold the shoes inside of a plastic or stainless steel container, and make sure you have a source of water nearby (sink?) This project can get very messy, very fast.

-Place the tip of each bottled color directly on the fabric when applying, for more control.

-Squeeze the bottles very gently! The dye doesn't come pouring out of the bottles when you turn them upside down, so make sure you go slow.

-Use one hand to hold the shoe up so you can turn it as you go, for better coverage. The dye will run if you turn the shoe too far backward or forward, so try to keep it fairly level.

-The kit doesn't come with a purple color, so what I did was apply blue to all the way to the back of the shoe, and then I applied a little pink just to the back of the shoe to make a purple color.

Step 5

Place the shoes somewhere momentarily that won't be damaged by the dye (I used a plastic bag) and rinse your gloved hands with water, to get rid of any extra drops of dye.

Then, gently remove the tape from the shoes, and wipe any dye that got onto the rubber with a paper towel.

When the shoes are all cleaned up, place them in a gallon-sized plastic bag and let them sit for a day or two.



After at least one day of letting the dye set, rinse the shoes with water until the water runs clear. Set them in the sun to dry, or put them in your dryer with a couple of towels (make sure you only use towels that you don't mind being stained).

Re-lace the shoes, and enjoy!

04/15/13

You know when tragedies like the Newton school shootings or the Boston Marathon bombings happen, I tend to retreat, to turn into myself a bit, and to refrain from sharing anything on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

I want to immediately post that my thoughts are with those affected, I want to rage at the monsters who caused so much pain, and I want to tell all of you how brokenhearted I am.

But I can't.

Because it never seems like enough. My words don't seem like enough, so instead I sit at my work desk and I cry.
And then I find a hidden corner somewhere, and I call my mom, and I cry some more.
And then I call my husband, and I tell him what's going on, because 9 times out of 10, he doesn't know. And more tears.

And when that's all done with, I go back to my desk, and I click refresh over and over... I force myself to look at the pictures, not because I'm curious, but because I NEED to understand exactly how bad it was.
So that when I send up my silent prayer for everyone who is suffering, I know exactly what I'm asking for.

The man in the gray shirt.

The overturned jogging stroller.

The girl whose dark hair is fanned out across a sidewalk covered in blood.

And then, the hardest part, for me... when a headline pops up in HuffPo's live feed that says a little boy was killed. And I send up another silent prayer, hoping and hoping that it's not true. That maybe an overzealous reporter somewhere got it wrong, because in the chaos they get SO much wrong.

But, within a few hours, the headlines get louder -- An 8-Year-Old Boy.
And then, around dinnertime, a picture goes up, and there he is -- a gorgeous little boy with Chiclet teeth and a baseball cap that is a couple sizes too big.

This is the moment I let my mind go there. That could be us.

That could be my little boy.

We stood on a street corner not so long ago, 100 yards from a marathon finish line. We cheered our hearts out for someone we loved, and we never, for one second, thought to look down at the ground, in search of a "suspicious package."

I can't stop thinking about that little boy.

I can't stop wondering how his morning started out, if his mom had to remind him four times to brush his teeth.

I wonder if he was obsessed with Super Mario Brothers, and I wonder if his favorite song was Thrift Shop by Macklemore.

I wonder if he still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

Yesterday morning I went into my son's room to wake him up for school, and before I threw open the curtains to let in the bright morning sun, when the air was still hazy, and cool, and quiet, I climbed into his bed and whispered to him: I have to tell you something.

And I told him.

When I got to the hardest part -- the part that still makes my voice catch -- I saw his eyes get bigger.

Mom ... That's terrible.
Why would anyone do that?

I hadn't planned on what my answer would be to the "why?" question and, truth be told, I think this is probably the toughest question kids can ask. How do you explain things like mental illness to your kids without planting a fear of the world inside their innocent hearts? I don't want my kids to be afraid of living.

I didn't know what to say, so I drew on Patton Oswalt's battle cry for inspiration. If you haven't read it, you should.

Babe..., I started. Most people in this world are good people who would never hurt you. NEVER. But there is a smaller number of people who have sick minds and hearts, and they WILL try to hurt others, because they want us to be afraid. It's important that we never let them make us spend our lives afraid. It's important that, even when scary things happen, we stick together and tell bad people that they can't win, and that we're not scared.

My son's eyes went back to normal size, and he threw back his bedcovers.

Okay, he said firmly. I'm not scared.





My heart is SO broken.

I'm angry that the person who did this is hiding somewhere, like a coward, and I want nothing more than for them to be caught.

I am praying hard, for the victims and their families.