Three Kid Circus : 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Public Service Announcement

A ton of you are here looking for Sportacus costumes. Nick Jr. has instructions on how to make Lazy Town outfits for your kids, which leads me to believe that they are not available to purchase (or they would be selling them and making bank.)

Also, Spartan Cheerleader costumes: good luck!

If you are actually looking for current happenings at Three Kid Circus - head on over:

http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Jenny has LEFT THE BUILDING

Thankyuhverramuch!

Seriously, come on over to the new Three Kid Circus!

http://threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus


Sunday, October 10, 2004


banner for blog explosion

Friday, October 08, 2004

Come Over To The Dark Side

The Hits just keep on comin'...

Hi! If you're reading this, you really should head over to http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus, where new and exciting things are being posted, sometimes twice in a day!


Go on, git! (And thanks for reading :)

Monday, October 04, 2004

Circus Migration, Part Deux

Okay, got the comments working, but am still working on all sorts of goodies over there.

Also: the topic is up for this month's Blogging For Books! Get over to The Zero Boss and check it out. The theme is (totally paraphrasing here) How I Pulled Myself Back From The Brink Of Insanity, And The Events That Drove Me There In The First Place.

I have no chance, beings that I'm still a loon.

Don't forget to update your blogrolls and bookmarks - I'm crazy, and I can't be held responsible for what I might do if nobody follows me over to http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus





Sunday, October 03, 2004

I'm Heading Out

I'm moving the Circus! I'm still in the process of constructing and rearranging, so I'll continue to blog here for a short while longer, but my new home is at:

http://www.threekidcircus.com/threekidcircus

change your bookmarks, tell your friends :)



Saturday, October 02, 2004

The Mullet Incident

Scrapbooking just burns my butt. Despite my creative urges, I have no time or patience to spend hours pouring over my photos, writing clever captions and embellishing expensive papers with doodads more precious than 99% of my jewelry. I can barely get my photos in an album.

Sure, I tried it. I made a layout or two. I coveted the squiggly scissors and roll on, archival quality, acid free, super-duper glue and the multi-tip, no bleed, get right out of town pens. My inner Martha loved the whole concept. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could be a scrapper.

Then came the day that ruined all my scrapbooking aspirations forever. My oldest was 3 1/2., her brother, barely two. I was pregnant with my youngest. We had recently returned from our first and only vacation to Disneyland. This, this was my golden opportunity to begin. I would scrapbook our vacation. I undertook a harrowing visit to the scrapbooking store, where I assembled an impressive collection of Disney-licensed papers and related stickers, at the cost of an additional day at the park. No matter. I was excited, and delusional.

I put my son down for his nap, and gathered my daughter to me. “Honey, let’s make a scrapbook!” I whispered. I envisioned a mother and daughter collaboration that would stand the test of time. We would always look back fondly at this formative event.

My daughter seized a pair of decorative scissors. With lightning precision, she proceeded to maim one of the papers I had selected for my background. “Oh, uh, that’s a nice idea, sweetie, but maybe you can work on this instead.” I asked her to select which photo she wanted to use first. She grabbed a great shot of herself with Minnie Mouse, and whack! She sliced that baby right in half. It became crucial that I regain control of the scissors. I offered a sheet of princess stickers. No dice.

“Honey, let Mommy help you.”

“I’m cutting this,” she declared, head bent to her work.

“I know, sweetheart, and you’re doing a great job, but can I just show you how to…” I wheedled.

She cut me off. “No. I’m doing it MYSELF. I’m a big girl,” she crowed as whack! She removed an ear from Mickey.

I was getting a little frantic at this point. With clenched teeth, I steeled myself for conflict and began to pry her white knuckled fingers off the Fiskars. “Oh, honey, it’s my turn now. I need the scissors. Let go, please.” She threw back her head and delivered an epic chorus of tragedy and woe to the heavens.

A howl from my son’s room spelled the end of naptime. I had not scrapped a single item. I had, however, created a burning desire in the heart of my daughter. She was born to chop things up. I quickly redirected her with a video, rescued my son from the clink and returned to the scene of the crime. I swept everything off the table, into the box of scrapping supplies, and put it up on top of the fridge.

The next morning, I plopped the kids in front of an educational television show and grabbed some coffee. All was quiet, for a little bit too long. My misbehavior warning system sent up an alert, and I moved in stealth mode to the living room. The kids were hiding behind the recliner, giggling. What’s that on the floor? It’s a six-inch ringlet.

I exploded “What have you done! Whose hair is this?” I quickly extricate the kids from behind the chair and find that my daughter’s long curly hair has been drastically and unevenly chopped. My eyes started swimming and I sat down to catch my breath. “Where are the scissors?” I demand. She hands me the “deckle” scissors. How did this happen? This pair of shears often fails to cut through a single piece of paper. A quick inspection of my son’s head reveals bald patches, where the hair is cut level with the scalp. Nice.

I gingerly grab a comb and start to assess the damage to my daughter’s head. Waist length hair with no bangs had been transformed into some sort of mullet. As the initial anger and shock wore off, I had to fight the urge to laugh. I scolded her like crazy and collected all the cut hair into a gallon zip lock baggie. I made an appointment for both kids at a children’s hair salon. Then I lined her up in front of the wall for a series of mug shot style photos.

In the middle of all this, my mother called. I took my lumps with a stiff upper lip. “How did she get the scissors? How bad is it? What were you doing? Why did you take your eyes off of her?” It was really pretty indefensible. I was relying on the Teletubbies to keep them occupied so I could drink a cup of coffee in peace. Learn from my mistake. Do not rely on the Teletubbies. They are babies themselves, and you can’t understand anything they say. They will not rat out your kids.

Arriving at the salon was an ordeal. I had to explain over and over what had happened. My daughter beamed cherubically at the other clients. Another mother said, “I would have cried.” The stylist said, “You’re taking this so well.” I said, “It’s hair. It grows. She didn’t amputate a finger.” That was quite a showstopper. Clearly, my lax attitude was the reason for my daughter’s new ‘do, judging from the looks of horror and disapproval I received. The hair stylist was fabulous, and gave her a darling chin length bob that suited her. My son got a buzz cut, and we all left happy.

When I got the film back from the hair debacle, I was in hysterics. The mug shot series is classic. For a moment there, I got the urge to write up a little journal entry and crop some paper. The fear of what could go wrong the next time the box of scrapbooking supplies came down held me back. It’s like Pandora’s Box. You just don’t want to unleash it.

See below for the photo evidence - This happened in 2002.

Frontview of my unrepentant Mulletgirl

Sideview of the Hair Carnage

Fixed.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Sportacus

If I had half a minute to myself (besides the minutes I've dedicated to blogging) I would be rolling in dough because I would be selling Sportacus Halloween Costumes. Judging from the number of hits I get daily looking for said item, I can only assume that Magnus has not signed off on official LazyTown duds for the good people of America.

However, in Iceland, you can score all kinds of scary/bizarre items from Magnus and the gang.

Gonna Fly Now

The height of humor: "Gonna Fly Now" from Rocky to wake me this morning. There is nothing better than rising triumphantly from bed, throwing a few roundhouse punches and then pretending you are running up the stairs while your children laugh hysterically. AND having a cup of coffee already waiting. Sometimes, the hubs just has all the right answers.

Sleep was better last night. I tried the forehead trick, and it worked! Of course, I sort of jabbed as opposed to rubbed, because she dropped immediately, like the proverbial sack of potatoes, and she slept from 10 pm to 5 am, which was a major improvement. (Kidding! I would never jab at my baby. Unless she wakes me up at 2 AM. Kidding!)

I left the big girl and baby at home, and took my son grocery shopping last night. We had a really good time. It's been a while since it's been just the two of us, and he spent the whole time singing, making up songs about cantaloupes and paper towels. I'm a middle kid too, and I know how frustrating it can be to always share. He absolutely glowed under the constant attention, and I returned home refreshed instead of gripped by my usual on-the-verge-after-grocery-shopping mania.

We did the high speed jaunt to school this morning. Despite my peppy wake-up call, I had left lunch packing and clothing selection to be accomplished this morning. Lucky for me the kids weren't picky this morning. Still, it took me every last second to get everyone dressed, fed, gather all the scattered necessary goodies and get out.

The walk to school was wonderful. Our morning fog is back, and it was fabulous to feel the sting of damp air on my face. My big girl was pirouetting and leaping all the way (her bike has a flat and I was running too late to fix it) and my son was oohing and ahing about all the flowers and rocks and trees along the way. That boy loves him some nature. The baby sat quietly in the stroller and did her suck-thumb-pull-ear comfort routine. Even the dog was mellow.

Back at home, I decided to make chocolate cupcakes. We have officially entered what I like to call "My Birthday Month" and technically, it's my dad's birthday today, so cake is in order. My son helped me measure out the ingredients and for fun, we set them out in little ramekins. Ooh, that just rocks my world. It makes me want to extend my arms stiffly down my sides and then swing them up to clap in front of my chest while chanting "Ready, O-KAY!" like the cheerleaders I secretly watch on ESPN2 at odd hours of the day. I really like how they emphatically nod their heads while they chant, and really really enjoy the alternating overhead arm thrusts, which invariably ends with a "Woo!"

I was never a cheerleader. I have no regrets, because I couldn't have kept a straight face. Or I would have gone the way of the SNL Cheerleaders:
Craig: Are you a Spartan?
Arianna: I think so
Craig: Are you a Spartan?
Arianna: I think so
(Arianna jumps into Craig's arms then he holds her upside down)
Craig: Hey! Who's that Spartan hangin' upside down ?
Arianna: It's me! It's me!
Craig: I said who's that Spartan hangin' upside down?
Arianna: It's me! It's me!
Together: Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh! Whooo Spartans!

Where was I? Oh, yes, making cupcakes for the Birthday Month Kickoff Celebration. With the help of my son, we dumped ingredients from the ramekins into the Kitchenaid and quickly had some batter. I refused to allow my son to lick the beater because of the raw eggs. I gave him some toast with Nutella on it instead and shooed him out of the kitchen so that I could hide in the corner and bury my head up to my neck in the mixer bowl, allowing my tongue to get every last drop of batter. With the cupcakes in the oven, I'm kicking back with a cup of coffee, waiting for Salmonella to strike me down.

Why not make a regular cake, you ask? Well, for one, cupcakes are tiny. Practically calorie-free, and therefore guilt-free. I mean, you can't put all that much frosting on your average cupcake. You can just pop the whole thing in your mouth. Well, practically. And if you eat one that happens to be deformed and therefore difficult to frost, it's natural selection. Also? It doesn't count towards the total number eaten. I figure that three cupcakes is equal to one slice of cake. No, no. Sssh. Do NOT burst my bubble. It's BIRTHDAY MONTH and I willna allow it.

The beauty of making cupcakes on my Dad's actual birthday is that he is also on a plane for Hawaii with my Mom, right this minute. So I can say "Dad, I made you cupcakes! Dad? Dad? Oh, that's right. You're in a posh resort on Lanai, so I guess I'LL have to eat your share. Happy Birthday!"

So - let's get out there and eat some cake. And do some cheers. And relive some Rocky Balboa moments. Because it's Friday, people.