And here is the birthday boy with the finished pinata:

Now, how we did it. Note that you’ll want to start this at least 3 days before your party. (Click on any photo to see it larger).

You will need:

2 twelve-inch diameter balloons

Old newspapers

A paper towel roll

2 paper plates

4 cups of flour (2 cups for the first layer, 2 cups for the second)

Masking tape

Acrylic paint

Tissue or crepe paper

Elmer’s Glue

Heavy String

Scissors, serrated knife, stapler, paintbrush

First, cover your work area with newspaper or an old tablecloth. (I save plastic tablecloths from the kids’ parties to use later to protect my table from art projects, as you can see from the camo one in these pics!)

Cut old newspaper into strips about 1 to 2 inches wide and about a foot long.

Using a wire whisk, mix 2 cups flour with about 1 and 1/4 cups water until a smooth paste forms. It should be the consistency of pancake batter, maybe a little thinner.

Blow up two balloons, one larger than the other. It doesn’t matter what color you use, as it will not be seen. In this design, the mouse’s head was bigger than his body. But for most creatures, it would be the other way around. Tape them together with masking tape.

Using a serrated knife, cut a paper towel roll in half, then in half again to make four legs. Angle the tops of the legs so they’ll attach better to the balloon. As you can see, the cuts don’t have to be neat.

Tape the legs to the bottom of the smaller balloon.

Working with one strip at a time, dip a newspaper strip into the paste, then run the strip between two fingers to remove excess paste. Lay the wet paper strip in one layer onto the pinata form, and smooth out.

Repeat until the entire form is covered in newspaper strips. Note the handy-dandy whipped topping bowl elevating the legs of our pinata. You can also just rest the head on an old plastic bag, because it will peel right off when it dries.

This is the first layer. Let it dry overnight, turning it over about halfway through the drying process. I set ours under the ceiling fan, which helped speed the process.

(Donnie says it looks like a crazy, mummified animal. Or an alien, perhaps.)

The next day, or whenever it is fully dry, make another batch of paste and add another layer of newspaper strips over the entire thing, placing them in the opposite direction as the first layer.

Repeat the overnight drying process, being sure to turn it over so both sides dry equally.

(I should tell you that some people use three layers of paper, but we found two sufficient — and this was a heavy pinata!)

When it’s totally dry, it should look like this and feel remarkably strong:

Poke a pin into each balloon and wiggle it a bit til you hear/feel the balloon inside pop. You’ll hear it peeling off the inside walls.

Paint the entire pinata in a shade of acrylic paint close to the color of the finished piece. This way, if there are gaps in your tissue paper application, they won’t be as noticeable.

Let dry, which should only take a few minutes.

(I forgot to take pictures of making the ears, but as you can tell from the picture of the finished pinata, I just traced around a paper plate onto purple wrapping paper, then cut out the circles and stapled them to the 2 paper plates. Then I cut a wedge into the paper plate to provide a flap to tape them to the head. In retrospect — and if I’d had more time — I’d have used crayons to color the patterns on the Mousemallow’s ears before stapling to the plates…there was no way to do that after I stapled without risking tearing them, and it bothered me that he didn’t have the cute patterns on his ears. I also would’ve covered the backs of the ears with tissue fringe. Oh well! I don’t think Eli even noticed!)

Cut strips of tissue paper about 2 inches wide, then cut the bottom 2/3rds into fringe as shown:

I did the same with a darker purple wrapping paper, as the Mousemallow had two shades of purple.

Use regular Elmer’s glue to glue the strips of the tissue onto the pinata, overlapping them.

I had to tear my strips of tissue fringe into 4 or 5 inch-wide sections to make it around all the curves. Note that the body and the bottom part of the mouse’s face has the fringe pointing down; the top part of his head has it pointing up. I don’t know any real reason for doing it this way except that is how the reference picture looked (see first photo.)

Before you put tissue paper on the back, use the serrated knife to cut flaps, then fill with goodies.

I didn’t get a photo of this next step (hey, it’s my first tutorial — give me a break!) but you can see it at the top of the previous picture. You should also cut two small holes in the top, about two inches apart, to hold the string that the pinata will hang from. (We used an old boot shoelace for the string.)

Finish gluing on the tissue paper until the whole thing is covered. Then draw two eyes onto cardstock and let your child try them out.

Glue them and a small nose onto the pinata, and voila! Mousemallow Lives!

We propped him up in a weighted box for support while the glue dried. (I also whited out the messy tabletop background because with it there, you barely notice the pinata! LOL)

Pass the bat, cover their eyes and have some fun!

“Who, me?”

It hardly seems possible that my little monkey is a year and a half old already. It’s so fun watching his little personality emerge. He loves music and must dance when he hears it, loves grabbing everything he shouldn’t, and fooling around with every gadget in the house. I joke with our older boys that Jonah’s a tiny dictator who wants to take over the world, because he’ll climb up into the computer chair, move the mouse and act like he’s typing, looking intently at the screen as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s saying so many words now, and just started participating in the family prayer at dinnertime. His little “Amen” at the end is so sweet.

He also says “DOWN!” very clearly when he’s full and wants out of his high chair. As he says it, he rips off his bib and will start unlatching his tray himself if you don’t move fast enough to set him free.

One of his favorite things to snatch is my iPhone. I let him watch Elmo videos on it once, on You Tube, and ever since I did that, he’ll bring me the phone while demanding his favorite red monster, “EHHHHH-mo!”

Tonight he started watching his favorite song about Elmo and some ducks, then climbed up on my lap and asked to nurse. I guess like most men, he thought his little TV show would be more enjoyable with a snack.

All I can say is that someone is more than a little spoiled, because what did I do? Picked him up, latched him on and then held the iPhone up so he could still see it. And then Donnie and I laughed at how tightly wrapped this kid has us around his little finger.

Later, after drinking his bedtime bottle, he hopped down and let out an enormous burp. After which, he smiled and said, “AMEN!”

Parenting a toddler can be exhausting, but few ages are this much fun!

My big nine-year-old, having cake with the family the night of his birthday.

Note to my friends: if you don’t hear from me this week, it’s because I’m trying to get the house ready for the second installment of Apted Party Palooza 2011. The first episode was in January, when Zach turned 13. Now it’s time for round two, as my dear middle child, Eli, turned nine this week. And despite a promise I made to myself years ago to cut off all big birthday party celebrations at age eight, we’re letting him have some friends over anyway.

So at 2:00 Saturday, my house should be spotless. By 4:00, it’s guaranteed to be a sticky, frosting-smudged, dirt-tracked, balloon-popped, streamer-strung disaster zone. But there will be one happy nine-year-old glowing in the aftermath as I shovel the mess out the door.

Years ago, I wrote about how I was half tempted to start a group called the Tired-Mom Party-Haters Club. I still feel that way around midnight the evening before any big events we host. That club’s mission would be to conduct only the most minimalist of birthday parties for children. Events would be held at home, no more than five kids would be invited, and the only presents we’d allow would be small donations to the birthday child’s college fund.

Better yet, moms would get gifts for having survived another year of parenthood. Refreshments would consist of store-bought cupcakes and juice boxes, and the whole thing would be over in fifteen minutes flat. We would boycott any child’s party that included goody bags, paid performers, or giant blow-up jumping things, and we would never consider attending an event with a long guest list.

I haven’t gone to that extreme of simplicity—or eliminated celebrations altogether—because I’m a total pushover when it comes to my boys and their birthdays. They’re just so precious to me—how can I say no? So even though I’ve never rented any giant blow-up jumping things, I realize that I’m guilty of perpetuating the “kids must have a party” myth.

I’m trying to keep things simple because the practical part of me feels that many of us have totally fallen overboard with how we celebrate our children’s birthdays. There’s even a new reality show on TV called “Outrageous Kid Parties.” I only saw one episode, but that little girl’s shindig made what I’d call a “big” event look like nap time in comparison.

The ironic thing about kids’ parties is that nearly every mom I know privately echoes back to me a desire for simpler times. But these same women continue to host birthday extravaganzas for their offspring. And some of the ones we’ve attended have been really huge.

I know one reason why we do it: everyone else is doing it. Listen carefully and you’ll hear our mothers’ generation of voices asking, “If everyone else was jumping off a bridge, would you do it, too?”

I hate to say it, but yes, I might—if the bridge isn’t too high. I don’t want my kids to feel left out. I want them to enjoy a fun social life. I want them to know that they are deeply loved, and that the day they became a part of our family is worthy of celebration. But in this economy especially, there’s nothing wrong with simplifying that message.

So this Saturday’s guest list isn’t a mile long. At the time I’m writing this, we’re only expecting five kids to show up. We’re simply serving cake and a few snacks, and playing old-fashioned outdoor party games.

No massive inflatable jumping thing. No clown or traveling mad scientist. No expensive hours wasted in an earsplitting, overcrowded arcade enveloped in pizza-scented chaos with that rodent whose name rhymes with Buck E. Sneeze.

I hope my kids and our guests will have fun anyway, and that my children will retain happy memories of their birthdays. Even if they don’t remember much about their parties, I feel confident they won’t be in therapy as adults because mom didn’t go into debt every year to celebrate their birthdays.

I’m sure they’ll end up in therapy for other things I’ve done, but that is another subject entirely.

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve officially joined the Moms of Teenagers Club. I wasn’t ready for this membership, but is anyone ever ready for something so major?

It isn’t like we get to choose whether we join. I had to sign up when the moment arrived, which was exactly 4:22 p.m. on January 30th. That’s when my son Zachary turned 13, a number I can scarcely believe represents his years on this earth.

Because it honestly feels like not long ago that I cradled his teensy body in my exhausted arms, marveled over his tiny fingers and toes, and fully understood why the nurses laughed when I announced I’d take my labor induction without an epidural, thank you very much.

My mom says I’ll wish there was a mental epidural for the next five years, and I think I’ve already tasted a small portion of the angst that would make me welcome such a medication. I keep telling my son and myself that the teenage years don’t have to be horrid; there are good teenagers on this planet and puberty doesn’t have to be a constant battle like the media portrays it.

Or anything like the way I tore through my adolescence. But I was stubborn, sarcastic and rebellious. Toss in wildly raging hormones, and let me tell you – I was just a little ray of sunshine to my parents – a pure delight to be around.

Luckily, I married a man who actually did delight his mother with his behavior as a teenager. Donnie never got into trouble, never felt the need to party, did as he was told and got along with everyone. I can’t express how much I hope my sons turn out like their father.

Because the thing is, if you had to choose which of us, based on our home life, would’ve been the problem child, it shouldn’t have been me. Donnie’s parents divorced when he was five and his father was absent most of his life. His mother worked full-time, and as a struggling single parent, was often unavailable both physically and emotionally. His mom hardly ever knew where he was, what he was doing or with whom, yet from somewhere he mustered the integrity to stay on the straight and narrow.

I had the classic businessman father and stay-at-home mother, who will celebrate their 46th wedding anniversary this spring. They took us to church and kept close tabs on who I was with, and where. My grandparents lived around the corner and were actively involved in my life. But I was the one who made multiple wrong choices as a teen, following the pack into trouble. Go figure.

I’m encouraged by the caliber of friends Zach invited to his sleepover Saturday night. These boys were pretty awesome, and I want to send a shout out to Will, Tyler and Ryan, to thank them for being such great houseguests. I hope I can always feel so favorably toward my sons’ friends.

I’d also like to thank everyone who contributed to the special scrapbook I made for Zach’s birthday. I asked friendsand family to offer words of advice and encouragement to help Zach navigate his way through the next 13 years, and I was completely overwhelmed and blessed by the notes people wrote.

Most contained advice to listen to his parents, work hard and trust God with everything. But more importantly, this collection shows my new teenager that he’s surrounded by a crowd of people who’ve got his back, who only want what’s best for him and are cheering him on to become the man he was created to be.

I know we’re entering the stage of life where my husband and I become the least-cool, dumbest people on the planet. So I hope that if Zach ever needs to talk to someone other than his parents, he’ll choose someone from that scrapbook to help him along the way.

This new stage of life feels so slippery and perilous, like that moment of trying to wedge into an inner-tube atop a steep waterslide. But there’s only one way to reach the bottom, so I’m going to hang on tight and try to enjoy the ride!

If you’ve never seen it, Supernanny’s name is Jo Frost. She’s a charming but strict British woman who goes into people’s homes to teach them how to overcome their biggest parenting obstacles. Most of the time, the answer is putting the child on one of the above-mentioned naughty places for a quite orderly time-out.

And it usually works, not so much because of any magic attached to time-out, but because Jo makes sure the parents define, and then follow through with consequences for bad behavior. Obviously, as kids get older, time-outs are replaced with the loss of privileges.

I love that show, probably for the same reasons that people can’t help rubbernecking at a car accident along the highway. It’s just crazy to witness the wreckage that some families live with on a daily basis. And it’s scary to see how many parents raise their kids without enforcing consequences for bad behavior –and I’m always astounded by how many parents are clueless that they should discipline their kids at all.

Watching “Supernanny” reassures me that there actually are worse parents than me and my husband. And that my children aren’t that horribly behaved after all.

Anyway, on last week’s episode, she had an “Ask Supernanny” feature where the question was, “How do I get my preteens or teenagers to spend more time with the family?”

If I remember correctly, the answer choices were:

A. Take the TV and computer out of their bedrooms.

B. Tell them they can’t spend time with their friends without spending time with the family first.

C. Schedule family time at least twice a week, and stick to it.

I chose all of the above. Zach chose option C. 8-year-old Eli initially chose B, but changed his answer to match mine – smart kid.

Or maybe not so smart. Zach chose the correct answer, C, and I found that profound for two reasons.

One, he turns 13 this Sunday, prompting a whole other column next week about that big milestone. So he truly was best person in this house to answer that question.

Two – and I am beyond embarrassed to admit this – he pretty regularly asks that we spend family time together. And we pretty regularly say no, or let other tasks interfere with making that family time happen.

My husband I owe each other a good, swift kick in the rear end for brushing him off like that. It’s hard to always give the older boys the attention they need now that we also have a toddler into everything, but they grow up so fast. If I want Zach to continue to request time with his family, I have to make it a non-negotiable priority now.

So, Sunday night, when he asked us to play Monopoly, our automatic reaction was to say no. There is always so much on the to-do list – no time for games. But then I remembered Supernanny’s advice and realized I’d have to rearrange my priorities to make sure we don’t let the urgent items choke out the important things to do.

Because what’s really more important than parents spending quality time with their kids?

So we sat down to play Monopoly, intending to stop at one hour, calculate our assets and declare a winner. But we ended up playing for three hours – a miracle, considering that little Jonah was in and out of mischief the entire time. We played until my transportation mogul, Eli, stockpiled most of the cash and left the other three of us with about twenty bucks apiece and stacks of mortgaged properties, with no hope of recovering.

But it was so much fun. The hours just flew by. It reminded me of my childhood, when we didn’t have 300 cable channels, video games and the Internet to keep us busy. We had a hall closet overflowing with board games and played them all the time.

I wasn’t great at Monopoly then, and obviously, that hasn’t changed. But I’m happy to be a game loser forever if it might help me win at motherhood.

I’ve put off writing this column for a couple of months. I haven’t wanted to tackle it because it was too big, too emotional and felt nearly impossible to write. How do you explain in just 700 words mourning over someone who loved you wholly, purely your entire life? I still don’t know how. But since today is her birthday—her first one in heaven—I’ll try.

Had my sweet grandmother, Honey lived to see today, she would’ve been 88 years old. She passed away on August 4th, in her bed at home, just as she wanted, after her failing heart stopped beating and finally released her soul.

She was ready to go, had been ready for a long time. She was so uncomfortable and hated being frail and needy. It was always her pleasure to serve others—she hated being served. It made it difficult to care for her at times; the strong will that made her such a hoot to be around when she was healthy tested everyone’s patience near the end.

And I hated that because that wasn’t my Honey. As hard as she fought us, I knew she fought herself even more inside, wanting to be the independent soul she’d always been, distraught that our lives had been shaken up and rearranged to take care of her.

Mere moments after she died, I stroked my fingers along her thin, wrinkled arm. It was still warm. But I felt strangely, unexpectedly disassociated from her body. What lay there before me was no longer her. It was like holding an empty seashell.

My beloved Honey was free. She was back to who she was before she got sick, only better. And I didn’t cry until I thought about her and my grandfather together again, in a cozy corner of heaven, with Benny Goodman playing as they danced. And those tears were happy ones.

Sadness ebbed and flowed in the days following her death. But my overwhelming sensation of joy that she wasn’t suffering anymore softened the edges of grief. Can you feel true joy when someone you love dies? I didn’t think it was possible, but now I believe it is. It had been beyond difficult to witness her pain. I could only celebrate that she didn’t hurt anymore.

But now some time has passed, and I find myself trudging through the harder part of grief. That’s the part where I’m reminded on a pretty consistent basis that the rest of my days on this planet will be lived without this very special person in my life. And it’s hard.

Honey was my soft place, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t until after she passed that I realized my only childhood memory of being held was in her arms. I know other people held me, and often—parents, relatives, friends. But I distinctly remember one afternoon with Honey, at their old brick house in Atlanta.

I was about three, and she wanted me to take a nap. I didn’t want to take a nap. Now, as an adult, I realize how exhausting small children can be, and poor Honey probably needed a nap considerably more than I did. She scooped me up into her arms and reclined back on the sofa. I stretched out on top of her, belly to belly, my cheek nestled in the center of her chest. She was pudgy then, soft and warm. I remember the sound of her heartbeat thudding quietly in my ear. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I’m sure she didn’t move until I did. I do remember feeling safe, and comfortable, and of course had no way of knowing that she would always be those things to me.

For 41 years, I knew I had a soft, welcoming place to land, no matter what. But now, it’s gone. I can’t quite get used to that.

I thank God a thousandth time for sending our baby Jonah, because my intense grief over facing the next few months without Honey is softened by the joy of anticipating his first real holiday season. Last year, he was still a tiny little bundle, but this year he’s going to trick-or-treat, eat Thanksgiving turkey, open Christmas presents, and giggle and play with his brothers. It’s going to be so delightful, experiencing anew the wonder of the holidays as seen through a toddler’s eyes.

But, oh how I wish my Honey was here to see it, too.

Sigh. They grow up too darn fast!

For more Wordless Wednesday posts, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.

My husband Donnie called it the “21st anniversary of my 21st birthday.” I had to laugh at that!

It was a nice day, minus poor Jonah falling and busting open his lip. (Poor kiddo—but raising his brothers taught me it’s just the first of many such incidents.) I got to sleep in, way late, then Donnie made orange danish rolls for brunch. I relaxed at home, took my time getting ready, then my folks watched the kids while Donnie and I went on a dinner date. The steakhouse we first tried to go to was too crowded, so we went for Chinese instead, which was wonderful. After that, we picked up my favorite key lime pie in lieu of a birthday cake, and came home to have it with my parents, sisters and kids. I got a few nice gifts from my family and the sweetest handmade cards from my precious boys. OH, and my big present from Donnie and his mom came a bit earlier in the week: I now have an iPhone 3GS. Niiiiiiiice!

Anyway, Donnie’s quip about this being my “21 x 2″ birthday made me start thinking about myself at 21. I found a couple of pics and scanned them.

Here’s me, 21 years old, 21 years ago, taken by my old friend, Larry:

I don’t think I look THAT different.

Then again, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. My skin isn’t as dewy now, I’m significantly heavier, my hair’s a little thinner and in this shot, it had never been colored before. That almost-black is my natural hair color, something that I haven’t seen in a decade or more, ever since the grays starting popping up and Clairol became my new best friend.

And oh my stars, I just realized that in this picture, there are NO LINES on my neck. Holy cow.

I also found this picture of me and the Donald, a couple of weeks before I turned 21, happily washing dishes together.

Happily washing dishes. Together. Boy, has 21 years dampened that particular brand of enthusiasm.

And isn’t it amazing that Donnie’s glasses were ever in style? But they were. Dude was HOT.

Man, how time flies. I think back to myself at 21 and though I miss the physical body I had then (and the energy that accompanied it—OH my stars, the ENERGY I had compared to now!) I still wouldn’t go back to that time even if I could.

Because back then, I didn’t know….

-That God could, and would, carry me through the darkest of trials and make me stronger after every one.

-The heartbreak of a longing unfulfilled and later, the immense joy of it finally coming to pass.

-The kind of love that makes my eyes tear up and my heart nearly burst, all because three amazing boys call me “Mama.”

-The truth that it’s better to share simple food in a happy home than the most lavish of banquets served with strife.

-That I could say what I think, and write what I believe, and if someone doesn’t agree with me, I don’t have to let it crush my spirit.

-That saying “No” is not only possible, but often preferable, and the world doesn’t end if I do so.

-The comfort of being with the same husband for almost twenty years, and how precious that love becomes when we’ve truly been through all the things we vowed to endure together: poverty and plenty, sickness and health, good times and bad, sorrow and joy.

-To seriously not sweat the small stuff. I can now see the wisdom in just letting some things go.

There are more, of course, more things that I’ve learned the past two decades, that are more valuable to me than youth. So I don’t know why a part of me still cringes over hearing “42″ and knowing, that’s me. I really am that old.

I am middle-aged and I don’t know how I got here.

But I tell you what. I like the me that I’ve become. And I really believe that like fine wine, when I reach my 21 x3, I’m going to be even better!

In February, they said she had maybe two months left. Several weeks ago, we were told it would be a week, maybe two, until she died.

She is still here, still suffering, still stubbornly clinging to life. She can barely hold up her head, but insists on being put in her chair in the living room each day so she can see the hummingbirds visit the feeder outside her window.

We don’t know why she is still hanging on. It sounds just terrible, but we want her to pass on. We’re ready for her to go because it’s so heartbreaking to see her suffer. None of us understand why she is still here, why God has seen fit to let her pass in such a slowly agonizing manner.

The only sense I can make of it is that she is so precious to all of us, the only way we can let go of her willingly is if we know that we know, beyond any doubt, that she is better off leaving us.

My visits with her have been heartbreaking and beautiful, sad and meaningful. When I saw Honey tonight, she was laying in her recliner,  so thin and frail, her head fallen to the side, her face nothing more than a skull stretched over with papery thin wrinkles. Her eye sockets were dark, sunken and her eyelids closed.

I rubbed her arm and talked to her to wake her, and her eyes cracked open into a blank stare. After a moment, it registered that it was me, and she smiled and greeted me. Then her head fell back to the side. She lifted it again then said how happy she was to see me, and how beautiful I looked.

Every time I’ve seen her in the past month, she has gone on and on about my beauty, about how much I look like her. I jokingly told my sister that if Honey had to get stuck on repeating one thing to me, at least that was a nice thing to hear so often.

My visit was short; I had to get home to feed the baby and put him to bed. As I nursed him, I thought about Honey, about how she asked for two hugs when I left tonight, and how every time I’ve hugged her goodbye in recent months, I’ve wondered if it was the last time I’d ever do that.

Years ago, Honey told me that she hated looking in the mirror. She said that she wasn’t pretty anymore, and she hated seeing herself look that way. I guess in a way, I understand. I kinda miss how I looked 20 years ago, too.

When my babies were born, I stared at their faces for hours. And because of that, in those early days postpartum, whenever I saw myself in the mirror, I always felt a brief sense of surprise, an odd sense of recognition as I saw them again in my reflection.

I wonder if something similar is what Honey feels now when she sees me. I favor her—and her mother—more than my sisters or my own mother. I wonder if when she sees me, she feels that same sense of recognition of herself so many decades ago.

I am certain that 40 years ago, she held me sleeping as I held my little Jonah tonight, gazing at that sweet little face and drinking it in. And I bet that after she laid me down, when she saw herself in a mirror, she also saw the melding of our faces.

Past, present and future—all in one reflection.

Today, were eating some pizza for lunch, when Jonah grabbed my hand and started sucking on my pizza crust.

That boy loves him some pizza crust!

Third baby syndrome strikes again—I’d have never let the other two do this at six months old for fear of choking. But I was right there, and he was seriously having a blast gumming that crust. He even swallowed a few tiny bits.

Methinks this one’s not going to be happy with baby food for long! But he did enjoy his first taste of sweet potatoes last night (even if he doesn’t look thrilled in this shot):

(You know, it’s really hard to not edit those before posting! LOL)