MrsMouthy Has Some Work Done

I sent the boys to my parents’ house on Wednesday night because Thursday was a big day for me.  I had a 9:15 appointment to get prepped for my implants.

When I told my girlfriends I was getting implants the day before, they broke out into applause.  I was a little less enthusiastic, being the one that was going under the knife and all, but I was looking forward to being put to sleep for a couple hours.

My surgeon is actually a very close friend of the family and one of the best surgeons probably in the world.  I know because I have seen his silverware drawer.  If you ever saw his silverware drawer, you’d know he’s the guy you would want operating on you, too.  We had him over for dinner a week before the surgery and Kevin finally got to ask the question he had been wanting to ask:

“So, how big are my wife’s implants going to be?” 

He laughed and said, “48 millimeters.”

Oh—did I forget to mention that these are dental implants?  If you’re anything like my friends, you have stopped applauding now and are looking at me with empathy and disappointment.  Sorry guys.  I didn’t realize how much everyone wanted to see me with a giant pair of knockers.

The reason I needed two new teeth is long and boring.  All you need to know is that it started 20 years ago with a root canal, me holding off for insurance to start up, a piece of bread chewed on the wrong side of my mouth, a dental bridge, 20 years, and a second rotten tooth.

Thursday was honestly one of the best days I’ve had this summer.  Kevin and I woke up to an otherwise empty house and, not having any fights to break up, breakfasts to make, or butts to wipe, we watched a movie while refraining from eating or drinking anything before my surgery.  At the doctor’s office I was given a pink drink that made my worries go away, then nitrous oxide that made me sleepier than usual, and then I vaguely heard someone say, “Here comes the IV.”  It felt like a gentle hug with so many drugs in my system.  From another planet I heard Dr. Reed asked if I know what a bear without teeth is called.  I told him I didn’t.  He said, “A gummy bear!”  And with that, I was out.*

I have no memories of a tooth being pulled out of my mouth, or of two screws being drilled into my jaw or of the stitches that were sewn through my gums afterward.  I am happy to go through life having no recollection of that particular hour of my life.

After the surgery I was moved to a room to sleep off the rest of the meds, and when the nurse came to tell me it was time to go home I said, “Can I have just five more minutes please?”  At least, that’s what I’m told I said.  I really don’t remember much of the afternoon, except asking Kevin if he knows what a bear without teeth is called and then telling him I didn’t know either. 

Then I had the rest of the day off to watch a movie that I have no recollection of watching, take pills when Kevin handed them to me, and sleep whenever I wanted.  In the evening I felt myself again so I went out for an early girls’ night and then a late date night with Kevin afterwards.  We woke up early the next morning because we have forgotten how to sleep in, so we walked down to the local coffee shop (i.e. Starbucks), walked home on the trail, and then Kevin went to work while I spent the morning catching up on housework and paperwork.  It all felt like a a dream—a slow and lovely dream, and that’s only partly the drugs talking. 

In conclusion, I highly recommend oral surgery for anyone who is in need of a good night’s sleep or who really needs a break from the kids or who is too cheap to rent movies and wants to save money by watching the same one over and over again.  It’s really the perfect solution.

Just take my advice and go to the guy with the best silverware drawer.

Baked halibut with chimichurri
Green beans with dill
Purple potatoes with bacon and caramelized onion
Fresh blueberry pie

*Actually, I wasn’t.  I believe I asked back, “What is a chima character’s favorite lunch?”  Dr. Reed didn’t know, so I answered, “Mac ‘n chi!”  Then I was out.

Boat Birthday Party

Here’s the pretty version of yesterday’s post because screw the fluorescent lighting, I’ve got Photoshop!  (And also, I set up the whole party buffet at my house the weekend before the party to take pictures because, like I mentioned yesterday, there’s no stopping the crazy when I’ve got a party coming up.)


Rocco has decided he wants to be a boat builder when he grows up so I made boarding passes for his party at trampoline jumpy place. 

The invitations:


Get it?  Jump aboard?  On the trampolines?!  I just kill me.

The place we were at didn’t allow food, so things are a little minimal, but I found a loophole: you can bring all the cake and candy you want.  Bwahahaha!


Rocco’s cake (orange chocolate chip snack cake):


Mrs. Mouthy’s cake (strawberry poppyseed with Swiss meringue buttercream frosting):



The candy:



The illegal non-sugary consumables I snuck in:


The also illegal non-sugary beverages I brought:


And the favors—each child got a wooden paddle boat to take home.


And that’s all there was to it!  I’m not forgetting anything, am I?  Slap a few anchors on water bottles, tie some life savers to packages, decorate a couple cakes, and you have a party.

Oh wait—there’s one more thing.

The birthday boy!



Rocco’s 7th Bday

So Rocco, the little stinker, went and turned 7 on me.  He did it in his sleep, like it was no big deal—just woke up and blamo, he was seven.

Kevin disallowed me to have an at-home birthday—something about our marriage not strong enough to survive another one—so I booked Rocco’s seventh birthday at a trampoline place.  The good part is that the planning was very miniscule compared to an at-home party.  The bad part is that for each of my kids’ birthdays I get a certain amount of party planning energy, and this time the energy had nowhere to go so I was a crazy lady anyway for the month leading up to Rocco’s birthday. 

But maybe a shade less crazy as I usually get.

The other bad part of having it at a trampoline warehousey type place: pictures.  I mean, you try your best but…


Anyone who’s been on Pinterest for more than 5 minutes knows this is totally unacceptable—the too-small background, the fluorescent lighting, the lack of giant glass jars full of color-coordinated candy.

That’s not the worst of the pictures, though.  There’s also this…




and this.


Sigh.  I’m learning the hard way that a party shouldn’t be judged by its photos, because despite the crappy quality of these pictures, the kids had an incredibly non-crappy time.  You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Rocco had picked out this cake to make from the Internet.


Simple and beautiful.  We can manage that!  I decided to let Rocco do all the decorating, even though it felt like giving my favorite doll over to the kid in the sandbox who is hitting things with a shovel with one hand while cramming sand into his mouth with the other.  But turns out I had nothing to fear.  Check out the skill!


Doh!  Spoke too soon.


I did stop Rocco when he started unwrapping a whole Snickers bar to stick on there.  I told him we didn’t want it to look like someone had squatted down and laid a fresh one on the cake.

At the party, there was bouncing (see above pictures.)

There was pegging.


There were party blowers.


There were many kids lost forever in here.


I’ll post some pretty pictures of the party tomorrow, followed by a sappy post about my baby growing up sometime after that.  Until then, enjoy this picture of a seven-year-old who, at least when he’s blowing out candles on his cake, can still bring back those kiss-me-squeeze-me squish-me big baby cheeks.


Mango salsa and chips
Sticky-finger ribs
Salmon in orange tamarind sauce
Green and yellow beans with dill
Potato and corn salad
Blackberry peach tart with oatmeal streusel

One Summer Day

Pardon my crassness, dear readers, but summer has got me by the balls! I think I write a post around this time each summer saying what a messy, fast-paced, exhausting, hectic, whirlwind summer we’re having and summarize by saying how I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t think I’ve ever written about all the things that go on behind the scenes, though—all the prep and cleaning it takes to make the messy magic of summer happen. So I picked a random day this week, which was Wednesday, to write down not only what we officially did that day but also what it took to get us doing it. The prep for Wednesday began on Tuesday, so that’s where we’re starting.


8PM: Baked a batch of lemon shortbread bars to share with some friends on Wednesday; baked the tart base for the White Balsamic Fruit Tart for tomorrow (we’re having friends over for dinner)

9PM: Cleaned up the kitchen, started the dishwasher, threw the boys’ wet clothes from their squirt gun fight into the dryer, and went to bed.


6:30AM: Woke up, unloaded dryer and dishwasher, started packing up for our day. Watered pots on deck. Made sandwiches for the 5 boys for later (V’s friend spent the night and Fruit Bat is spending his days with us this week), cut up fruit, loaded water bottles and cups.

7:30AM: Vincenzo woke up. Helped him make waffles for the crew, who ate breakfast whenever they stumbled into the kitchen. Packed a set of dry clothes for each of the boys, made sure we had towels, goggles, sunblock, and all the beachy things in the car.

8AM: Fruit Bat arrived. The boys played while I put together a potato salad for the evening (did I mention we’re having friends over?)

9AM: Had the kids get into their swim stuff and lined them up for sunblock. Got Leo’s speech therapy binder, packed snacks for the boys to have at speech, packed lemon shortbread for the staff and my waiting room friend, and had the boys all get a book or activity to do in the waiting room.

9:30AM: Loaded everyone into the car and went to the beach with some good friends.

9:31AM: Made the mistake of asking the boys to count off. Tried to maintain sanity the whole carride as the boys yelled out random numbers. “NINE! NINE! NINE! INFINITY! INFINITY! ONE THOUSAND! TEN KAJILLION! INFINITY! ONE THOUSAND! ONE THOUSAND! FIVE! TEN KAJILLION! FIVE! FIVE!” (Imagine all those words written on top of each other though, and repeated 200-300 times.)

9:35: Arrived at the beach and spent a glorious two hours chatting with my friend while our kids dug holes and swam.

11:30AM: Ate sandy sandwiches, bought ice cream from the shop there, then cleaned up the boys as much as they cleaned up at that point.

12:30PM: Dropped V’s friend off at his house and took the remaining 4 boys to Leo’s speech appointment.

2PM: Headed back home.

2:30PM: Got Leo down for a nap. The other boys played with clay on the deck while I began the process of gathering up sandy clothes/towels and throwing them in the wash, unpacking coolers, unloading and putting away uneaten food from the beach picnic, etc.

3:30PM: Did a little party prep for Rocco’s birthday (it’s on Sunday!)

4:15PM: Delivered cookies to neighbor

4:30PM: Finished the fruit tart, cooked bacon, made crispy fried onions for the burgers

5:00PM: McStreamy picked up Fruit Bat

5:05PM: Double checked my text messages and realized I never actually sent the text to invite our friends to dinner. Cursed myself up and down, then called them and breathed a sigh of relief that they could come after all

5:15PM: Kevin came home and made hamburger patties. I set up a fruit platter and set the table, cleaned, started up dishwasher, etc.

5:30PM: Wrapped Rocco’s birthday present, finished up the favors for his party

6PM: Friends arrived for dinner. Party was on again!

8PM: Unloaded dishwasher, loaded it up again and started it, then hand washed the big dishes. Unloaded dryer and reloaded the swimming bags for the next day.

8:30PM: Put the boys to bed,

9PM: Watched TV with Kevin

9:30 PM: Went to bed myself.

I know so much of that sound mundane—the cooking, the cleaning, the packing, the loading, then doing all of that in reverse—eating, making messes, unpacking, reloading—but those happen to be some of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I still feel like I’m just playing house, only unlike my childhood, I get to be the mom instead of the baby. (I was always very small for my size.) And I really, really love being the mom.

That was one day out of the summer, and not a particularly busy one at that. And what a day it was, stuffed with friends and family, rife with with sticky hands and faces, with wet towels, sandy feet and bottoms, dirty dishes, overflowing with life and laughter, and interspersed with just enough quiet moments stuck in between the loud ones to make it all okay.

Only it was better than okay—it was perfect. Messes and all.


Nothing!  Going out with the boys after their swim lessons.

Wild Ponies

I took the boys to Remlinger Farms yesterday, which is more amusement park than farm, but kids these days don’t really know the difference, do they?

See?  Farm.


No wait—amusement park.


It was an overcast day and the “farm” wasn’t too crowded, so there were essentially no lines and Vincenzo got to ride the canoes as many times in a row as he wanted.  (Yes, he exceeds the weight limit by a significant amount.)


Except there was this one ride that had a ginormous line, so of course Rocco wanted to ride that one.  It was the pony ride. 

We waited a full hour in line and then, then, after waiting an hour in line, we saw this sign.


Death?  By pony?  Couldn’t they have warned us before the hour wait?

Anyway, death by pony sounded pretty cool, so I texted Kevin that I have a new favorite way I want to die.  Then I texted, Baby, I’m scared!  Things got even worse when I saw this sign.


The INHERENT RISK LAW, surprise surprise, mentions death in several places.

I did my best to fight off the “flight” response I was having and I stayed put, dangerously spectating as my son was set upon this four-legged equine machine of death and terror.  Its name was Pumpkin.


I continued to spectate, my own life hanging in the balance, while Rocco and Pumpkin were led away.  They returned 60 seconds later, one looking just as defeated and the other looking just as serious as when they began their treacherous journey.

Rocco dismounted, we left the dangerous lands of Pony Riding, and Rocco talked nonstop about how awesome that 60 seconds of his life had been for the rest of the afternoon.

I was left with a lot of questions after the pony ride warnings.  Questions like How?  and Has anyone ever…?  and Seriously?  But there was one thing I had no question about.  There is no question that I desperately need this sign for my front door.


After putting my life on the line the way I did at the pony rides, don’t you think I earned it?

Croque monsieurs
Spinach salad with tomatoes and shaved parmesan
Raspberry Jell-o pie

13 “Beautiful” Years

Just in case you didn’t get your fill of pictures of Mrs. Mouthy the other day, here’s another post full of ‘em.  I just thought it would be fun to do a Mr. and Mrs. Mouthy, Then & Now post, since yesterday was our anniversary and all.

Our house then…


and now:


Our hair then…

Leavenworth 04a

…and now:


Our fashion sense then:


…and now:


Our threshold pose then:


…and now:


Our Christmas then:


…and now:


Our selfies then:


…and now:


Date night then…

xmas party 08

…and now:


Our family then:


…and now:


On one hand I am so embarrassed about how I used to dress and what I thought it meant to look goooooood, and on the other hand, I’m glad I have those pictures of myself to laugh at, and to share with you so that you can laugh at me, too.

Now stop laughing at me!

Beef enchiladas
Veggies & hummus

Lucky Number 13

Kevin and I celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary this week.  “Lucky number 13!” he kept telling everyone, then he’d start crying a little. 

At dinner with the boys last week he prayed, “Lord, thank you for giving me the strength to stay married to this woman for 13 years.”  I balked for only a second before adding, “Yes, and God, please give me the patience and courage it will take to stay married to this man for another 13.”  Our boys are growing up with a very warped idea of how to express their love to someone.

We celebrated our big one-three by heading one city over to the place we got married—it’s our fallback plan when we haven’t planned anything elaborate, and I have to say it’s not bad for a fallback plan.  We stayed at Willows Lodge, in western Washington’s “wine country.”  (Yes, that’s a real thing.)

I always like to make a scrapbook page of our anniversary, so we dressed up and headed out around the premises, hoping that if we looked like we were trying to get a picture of ourselves, someone would offer to take it.  Unfortunately, no one did so we are stuck with a bunch of selfies.

Here we are in front of this really cool tree root:


Here we are in front of a stunning patch of lavendar:


Here we are in a lovely hidden garden on the side of the lodge:


Oh, this was a cool one—a small Zen garden’s stone house in the middle of a pond:


And here we are in the herb garden.  Behind us you can see one post of the gazebo where we got married.


Seriously!  We even stopped a few times to offer to take other couples’ pictures along the way when they were struggling with selfies, but no one offered to take ours and, well, we’re just too shy to ask someone to take our picture.  (Written tongue in cheek.)

Then I found a spot where we could set the camera down and use the self-timer:


Whatever.  So instead I decided to just get a nice shot of Kevin.  How about over there, in front of that garden with the cute little wheelbarrow?



After 13 years, I should have expected that.

Before we left for home after our grueling 24 hour selfie-marathon, I wanted to take a picture of the view from our room, to remember it by.


Beautiful.  But we felt that it needed a little something…


That’s it.  Perfect!

Yogurt parfaits
(i.e. I’m still too stuffed from a weekend eating things like salmon with pea pistou and parmesan cream, paprika grits, egg yolk ravioli, crème brulee, candied pecan brioche french toast, eggs benedict over crab, etc. to even think much more about food!)