A Birthday Cake Fit for a Princess!

(Cross-posted from Sexy Vegan Mama)

We're halfway through Vegan MoFo, and still going strong! Have you found something deliciously new this month?

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Princess came home for her birthday weekend. I couldn't be more proud of that young lady... She's anxiously waiting to hear back on her applications to vet school, working, finishing her senior year at university with a major in Wildlife Ecology. It's a marvel to me that I had a hand in producing this amazing human being!

Anyway, for her 22nd birthday, I asked her what kind of cake she wanted. "Chocolate!" she said, which wasn't a big surprise. That girl loves her chocolate. Who doesn't?! "And," she added, "could you make that peanut butter cream frosting you did that one time?"

Ah, yes... That one time. See, it was The Dude's birthday, and our family was spending the weekend at Birch Bay. Our hotel room had a kitchen, so I'd packed everything I'd need to make a fabulous cake and frosting -- with the exception of the vegan margarine, which I didn't want to hassle with chilling during the several-hours-long drive. I figured I'd just pick some up at the local grocery when we arrived.

Except... none of the local groceries HAD vegan margarine. How was I going to make a creamy vegan frosting, with no margarine? I scanned our grocery booty, and spotted the creamy peanut butter. Hey, I thought, margarine is basically just fat, and peanut butter is full of fat. I wonder... It didn't have the exact consistency I wanted, but it worked well enough to cover the cake.

This time, I solved the consistency problem by adding a bit of margarine to make it even creamier and "buttery."

I was all prepared to mix up two layers of chocolate cake when inspiration struck. What if... What if I put peanut butter IN the cake?!

The result was a zebra-striped peanut butter and chocolate cake, and it was divine. The technique to produce zebra stripes in the cake is easy-peasy, and you can find many, many tutorials online, if my photos and description leave anything to be desired.

Happy baking!

Peanut Butter Chocolate Zebra Cake with Peanut Butter Cream Frosting

Peanut Butter Cake Ingredients:


1 1/2 c. unbleached flour
1 c. cane juice crystals or natural sugar (I use Zulka)
1/2 t. baking soda
1/2 t. fine sea salt
1 c. cold water
1/2 c. creamy peanut butter
1 T. vanilla
2 T. lemon juice


Chocolate Cake Ingredients:

1 2/3 c. unbleached flour
1 c. cane juice crystals or natural sugar (I use Zulka)
1/4 c. cocoa powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. fine sea salt
1 c. cold strong coffee or espresso or water
1/3 c. canola or olive oil
1 t. apple cider vinegar
1/2 t. vanilla extract


Peanut Butter Cream Frosting


1/2 c. vegan stick margarine
2/3 c. creamy peanut butter
1 lb. vegan powdered sugar
1/8 - 1/4 c. vanilla soy milk


Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl or with your stand mixer, combine the following Peanut Butter Cake ingredients: flour, cane juice crystals, baking soda, and salt, stirring until well-combined.

Blend in cold water, peanut butter, vanilla and lemon juice. Beat until light, airy and creamy.

Set aside batter and begin Chocolate Cake:

In a large mixing bowl or with your stand mixer, combine the following Chocolate Cake Ingredients: flour, cane juice crystals, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt, stirring until well-combined.

Blend in coffee or water, oil, vinegar and vanilla. Beat until light, airy and creamy.

Grease and flour two 8-inch round cake pans.

Tip #1: Spray pans with non-stick cooking spray and use a paper towel to evenly disperse the spray over the pans' surfaces, then dust with flour.

Tip #2: Cut two waxed paper circles just smaller than the bottom of the pans, then insert into bottom of pans before pouring batter. Make sure to smooth out any air bubbles before filling. The waxed paper will ensure easy removal when the cakes are turned out.

Pour 1/4 cup Peanut Butter Cake batter into the center of the first pan, and 1/4 cup Chocolate Cake batter into the center of the second pan.

Pour 1/4 cup Chocolate Cake batter directly on top of Peanut Butter Cake batter in first pan, and 1/4 cup Peanut Butter Cake batter on top of Chocolate Cake batter in second pan.

Continue adding 1/4 cup of alternating batter into each pan until all batter is dispersed, and the batter has "smooshed" out to fill the edges of the pan.

On a flat surface, spin each cake pan to push the batter even farther out to the edges. The center of the cake tends to rise more than the edges, so this will help produce a more even cake top.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, or until cakes pull away from edges of pan and a toothpick inserted into the middle of each cake comes out clean.

Allow cakes to cool for 10-15 minutes before turning out onto a cooling rack.

While cakes are cooling, make your frosting:

With a hand mixer or stand mixer, cream together margarine and peanut butter until smooth and creamy.

Add powdered sugar, turning mixer down to low speed, and blend in. The mixture will be a bit dry and crumbly -- don't freak.

Add 1/8 cup soy milk and blend in. If you want your frosting softer and lighter, blend in soy milk, 1 tablespoon at a time, until frosting reaches desired consistency.

Return to cooled cakes. Remove wax paper (if used) from bottoms of cakes and flip one onto a serving plate or covered cake circle. Using a serrated knife, carefully level the cake.

Fill a decorator's bag with frosting and pipe a thick border around the top of the leveled cake. I use a Wilton #21 star tip for this.

Spoon out a generous amount of frosting into center of cake and spread a thick layer to the piped border. This will be your cake "filling."

Flip the second cake and place directly on top of first cake. Using your serrated knife, level off the second cake.

Cover the entire cake with a crumb coat and chill for 30-45 minutes.



To cover the cake, I used my Wilton #21 star tip and a decorator's bag to pipe random scrolls onto the top and sides of the cake.

Note: I actually ended up using one-and-a-half batches of Peanut Butter Cream frosting.

Princess picked out her own candles. I must say, I agree with her selection, as she's certainly a STAR!

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The Unhappiest Place on Earth and Other Vacation Tales

Curlytop is NOT down with Disney.

For children with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), Disneyland may not be the carefree wonderland promoters would have parents believe. In fact, for some SPD kids, it may be something closer to one giant house of horrors.

We weren’t thinking about that when we forked over a month’s worth of grocery money at the hallowed gates of the theme park. We were thinking about the memories we were creating with our children.

Memories, indeed.

I’ll never forget Curlytop and Snugglebug screaming in terror at the sweet face of the wooden puppet who came to life during a gently ambling journey through a darkened ride which featured a blissfully beautiful good fairy and a kindly old man. Snugglebug reviewed the Pinocchio ride with carefully-crafted restraint. “It was scary, and I hated it.”

Next up was a ride so sweet and mild, adults dread it and children adore it. After all, it really is a small, small world, and if the syrupy song doesn’t give you a toothache, the angelic faces of children from around the globe certainly will.

Unfortunately, our mid-November visit meant the ride was outfitted for Christmas, and played not only that most-dreaded song but a Christmas carol in alternating blasts—and sometimes in tandem. The usually charming children were all but hidden behind blinking, glimmering, aggressively-featured holiday decorations. Add all that visual and audio busyness to chilling blasts of air to simulate snowfall, and it’s the perfect recipe for SPD meltdowns.

Oh, yes. We were “that family” on the Small World ride. The family with the shrieking kid who just won’t shut up? That’s us.

I got Curlytop to agree to board a carousel—on the condition that we’d sit on a bench, not a moving horse—only to have her burst into tears as the music started, resulting in an emergency disembarkation.

The crowds, smells, larger-than-life cartoon characters, noise, lights and general chaos of Disneyland must have felt like the equivalent of a straight-to-video horror flick for my girls. I’m ashamed to say I drank the Disney kool-aid, and never considered my children would be anything but thrilled to see Mickey’s stomping grounds.

The next day of our vacation was exceptional, by comparison. We hit Knott’s Berry Farm, with its old-school, carnival-type rides and games. The park lacks the hologram-filled adventure rides of Disneyland, but Curlytop and Snugglebug loved “driving” race cars and semi-trucks around a tiny track without sensory assault, and were perfectly content to hang at Camp Snoopy for hours.

Plus? It’s half the price of Disneyland.

While the little girls played with Mr. Wright, the older girls and I embarked on a quest to ride every rollercoaster in the park. While Princess loves a good ‘coaster, she’s a bit more selective than the rest of us—no vertical drops, and no rocket launches.

That put her on snack patrol with Curlytop and Snugglebug, while Mr. Wright begrudgingly agreed to be my seatmate while Pepper rode with GirlWonder on the Xcelerator—a ‘coaster which starts like a pinball machine, pulling the car back, then launching it at 82 miles per hour in 2.3 seconds to a height of 205 feet, then drops essentially straight down before hitting two overbanked turns and gliding to a stop. To top it off, it’s pink. It looks for all the world like the Barbie Dream ‘Coaster—not an encouraging thought.

Xcelerator at dusk.

It was amazing, and no one soiled their pants.

The coup de grâce was the notorious GhostRider wooden rollercoaster, which my fellow junkies and I waited two hours in line to board, due to a sudden cloudburst. Apparently, the ride can’t be run in the rain and, while we love a good shot of adrenaline, we’re more than happy to leave such judgments to the professionals. We’d like to stay on the track, and make it to the end in one piece, thank you very much.

It was dark by the time we finally boarded our car. Riding the rails in the dark made the experience even more exhilarating, and sealed our status as Knott’s devotees.

The drive back home to Washington featured a near-brawl in a supermarket parking lot, a highway flooded with spilled port-a-potties, sing-a-longs to Fleetwood Mac, carsickness, drive-thrus, and 1,100 miles of memories I wouldn’t trade for a month of Disney.

Eat your heart out, Mickey… The happiest place on earth is where is my family is.

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“My Dog Ate It” and Other Weird Explanations

I made the earth-friendly choice, and qualified for a full-body search.

As you might imagine, seven kids, two adults, three dogs and two cats generate a lot of trips to the grocery store. In an effort to make my appointment to our city’s sustainability steering committee a slightly less laughable matter, I’ve been trying to “green up” my family’s shopping habits by reducing the number of plastic and paper bags we tote out of stores, and increasing the amount of items we buy in bulk in order to consume less packaging.

Last week I picked up a few baggies of dried culinary herbs and spices at our local natural foods store. At the register, I tossed the small bulk packages into my oversized purse instead of accepting a paper bag. When I got home, I refilled each and every spice jar in my pantry, except one. One of the herbs was missing.

Fortunately, the rogue baggie was located in a corner of my purse a few days later by a security guard at the county clerk’s office during my bag check. He was extremely interested in the cut green herb inside.

It was oregano. I swear!

It’s not the first time I’ve been mistakenly suspected of “holding.” A few years ago, I went through a period of passionate green tea consumption. While driving solo through another state in the wee hours of the morning, I accidentally floated slightly over the fog line and was pulled over on suspicion of driving under the influence. Knowing I hadn’t consumed any alcohol, I confidently rolled down my window to speak with the trooper.

He caught one whiff of my breath, called for backup, and asked me to step out of the car.

He confiscated my travel mug, took a hearty sniff of it, and requested permission to search my vehicle as three additional patrol cars pulled in behind me, and I stood, bawling and shivering, on the side of the highway while red and blue lights whirled around my head.

Green tea, my friends, has a very “grassy” smell.

I’m not the only one in my family who finds herself in uncomfortable situations with harmless or ironic explanations. Pepper recently found herself facing a library fine for a book she misplaced. “I don’t know what I did with it,” she said. “I put it… somewhere… and now I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere!”

The book’s title? “Airhead.”

When our black Lab, Perseus, was a puppy, he had a chewing habit. A big one. Our friend, Bullet Bob, kept Persey for a few days while we were out of town. A frantic cross-country telephone call from Bob informed us that the pup had chewed through a bag of grass seed and followed with a bag of concrete mix for dessert. Persey lived, but the week that followed caused me to view topiary yard ornaments in an entirely new way.

Not long afterward, Princess brought me a book, chewed to pieces. It was no mystery who the culprit was, and as Perseus slunk into the back yard, it was evident that even our budding veterinarian daughter was beginning to lose her patience with our canine’s insatiable appetite for non-food items.

That book’s subject, of course, was dog obedience training.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/axis/101184905/

All the Wright Moves

The homeschooling next-door neighbors with six kids and the homeschooling family across the street with six kids laid hands on the huge trailer attached to our Suburban. They prayed for our safety, and thanked the Lord that we were leaving.

Our northern Snohomish County community was nice enough, but we really were the freaks of the neighborhood. Back then, we only had five kids; all of our neighbors had six. We were irresponsible enough to send our kids to public school; our neighbors all homeschooled.

We were preparing to move to the Lake Chelan Valley, and I was protesting the entire plan. No one could understand my resistance, and many asked, “Isn’t your whole family there?” as if that weren’t enough reason for my unwillingness to return.

The truth was, I had a bad feeling about the move. When Murphy penned his famous law, I suspect he had our future move in mind.

Our new house didn’t close in time, but summer soccer practice started right on schedule. That meant getting up with Princess at 3:00 a.m. every weekday morning, making a pot of coffee and driving over Stevens Pass to get to practice in Chelan by 7:00 a.m. There were still a lot of things to be done at the old house before our renters arrived, so after practice we drove three hours home, where I boxed and scrubbed and wallpapered and painted until I fell unconscious.

Our renters couldn’t delay their move-in date, and we had to start moving things out of the house before we actually had a new home to move them into. Mr. Wright rented a storage unit in Chelan and borrowed a friend’s pickup truck to haul boxes and bins over during his inter-county trips between his new office and home.

During a late-night trip over the mountains, Mr. Wright was involved in an accident when another driver fell asleep at the wheel. He wasn’t terribly hurt, but I used the incident as further proof that we shouldn’t be moving.

I was frustrated at having to move everything twice; once into the storage unit, and again into our new house when – and if – it ever closed. Fortunately, someone broke the padlock on the unit and relieved us of many of our possessions, so there wasn’t quite so much to move in the end.

Two days before the renters were due I sat, teary-eyed, in the middle of the living room floor, a gallon of sand-colored paint spilled on the carpet in front of me. I’d only meant to touch up the window sills.

We loaded the last of the boxes into the huge trailer, only to realize there was too much weight, and the tires were beginning to flatten with the pressure. Mr. Wright pulled furniture and bins out, rearranging them, until the weight was more evenly distributed and not directly over the tires.

“The trailer’s too heavy,” I said. “We’re either going to wreck our transmission, bust a tire, or make it on sheer faith.” I called the homeschoolers. Everyone laid hands on the trailer and the Suburban, asking God to provide us with safe travels and mechanical miracles.

We cleared the top of Stevens Pass just after dark. It was all downhill from there, as they say. At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Wright glanced in his side mirror to see a wheel spinning down the road. It passed, crossed in front of us and came to a smashing halt against the guardrail.

“You don’t think…” I began, as Mr. Wright pulled over to the side of the road. I never did finish the sentence. I didn’t have to. We both knew where the wheel had come from.

As we approached the back of the trailer, it was clear that one of the center wheels had come off. We both broke into hysteric, unrestrained laughter that lasted far too long. (Think Tom Hanks in “The Money Pit,” when the bathtub falls through the floor.)

When he could manage words, Mr. Wright took my hand and said, “Let’s go find the lug nuts, Babe,” and we walked and walked up the highway, flashlights piercing the darkness.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rooreynolds/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Kind of Sexy, in that "I-Caught-a-Serial-Killer" Sort of Way

Somehow, Mr. Wright and I switched Palms today. To tell the truth, it's not a mysterious "somehow," but easily explained by a "someone" who raced out the door without actually looking at the device he plucked from the nightstand. Ahem.

I decided to make the best of it and swipe the drag queen video I promised you many days ago. Alas, the video is MIA.

It's not a total loss, though. Just look at the goodies I found on his MicroSD card:

Perhaps the most adorably goofy pic taken of Snugglebug, ever


Princess's graduation

The video of belly dancing on Earth Day: Watch as I lose my sense of direction and turn the wrong way; not once, but twice! I would be the peacock in the back. My beautiful 12 year-old daughter, Pepper, is in front of me. I made her choli (small cropped top worn in belly dance) the night before!


The Divine Miss Teri B and me, demonstrating the only thing our boobs turned out to be good for in a gay bar

In my search, I also located this dirty little secret:

Oh, I hear you. You're saying, "What's dirty about this picture? What's the secret?"

People, people... DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO THAT IS?!

Okay, on the left is Nathan Gorton. He's the Executive Officer of Snohomish County-Camano Association of REALTORS. You're right. His presence is, at a glance, neither secretive nor dirty. Actually, you can just forget Nathan is in the picture, for dirty secret purposes.

On the right is Mr. Wright. Again, not overtly dirty or secret-y.

In the middle... In the middle is Congressman Dave Reichert. He's the author of Chasing the Devil: My Twenty-Year Quest to Capture the Green River Killer.

He's my pretend boyfriend.

Some women have a thing for Sean Connery. Not me. My older-man crushing is all targeted at the Congressman. He is my only celebrity crush; kind of sexy in that "I-caught-a-serial-killer" kind of way.

A couple of years ago, I stalked him at the Capitol and introduced myself. When I saw him a year later at the Seattle First Citizen's Award banquet, he pretended to remember me, and I let him.

So here's the dirty secret: Mr. Wright went to Washington, D.C. to meet with Senator Cantwell this past week, and while he was there, he stopped in to see my pretend boyfriend, even though I wasn't with him!

Isn't that sort of like cheating on me with my pretend boyfriend?

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.

What Generation Gap?

Staying on the cutting edge of parental coolness is hard work, but I’m committed. In fact, I go out of my way to let my kids know how hip I am, and I’m dedicated to bridging the so-called Generation Gap. What is that, anyway?

Sure, there’s a world of difference between my parents’ generation and mine, but Princess and I shop together. Not only that, we borrow clothes from each other. I steal her t-shirts, she steals my gowns, and every once in a while I reflect on how cool it is that we have similar tastes in clothing. True, this shared style of dress has the public relations director of the Washington Association of REALTORS® muttering about how I need to “start dressing like a first lady,” since I am married to the president. Maybe so, but pillbox hats and Chanel suits aren’t for me, and layered skinny tees, Chuck Taylors and faded jeans are. What Generation Gap?

Mr. Wright had some hesitation about allowing our children to set up Myspace accounts online. After all, pedophiles and other predators are out there, just waiting to prey on trusting children. We discussed it and laid down the rules: the kids could have Myspace pages as long as they “friended” me so I could view their lists of friends. “YOU have a Myspace?” my kids cried in disbelief. Yeah, that’s right. I have a Myspace, and I’m so hip that I had one before my kids. I’m moving on to Facebook, and none of my kids have one of those yet, either. What Generation Gap?

I learned the latest hip-hop dance craze at B.B. King’s in Orlando. I enjoy a good punk concert, and even hang out in the mosh pit. The kids load my mp3 player with their favorite songs, and I can sing along with every one. Not one of my kids has ever told me that I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, and I consider that a great accomplishment. What Generation Gap?

The Dude told me once that I couldn’t possibly understand the younger generation. “I mean, a lot of kids are Emo now!” he reasoned. “Emo?” I challenged. “I was a Goth! I was Emo before Emo was cool.” He was impressed. What Generation Gap?

There is one thing that’s bothering me, though. During a recent trip, I attended a Lionel Richie concert. Like the hip, cutting-edge mom that I am, I crashed the VIP seating area with my husband and friends. People were going crazy for Lionel, pushing and shoving to get closer, and I ended up being manhandled and thrust forward until I was up against the stage, in the front row. Lionel grabbed my hand and smiled at me, winning me the envy of every woman within an arm’s length. Suddenly, without warning, I was lifted from behind and onto the stage. For a moment, I was simply stunned. Then, realizing that I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I danced a little with Lionel and his band before a security guard insisted that I get off the stage. Immediately.

I was so excited to tell my kids that their rebellious mama had rushed the stage at a concert and danced with a famous musician! “Oh, Mom, that’s SO rock and roll!” I imagined them saying. My bubble of exhilaration was rudely and immediately burst when the kids responded with blank looks and one question: “Who is Lionel Richie?”

Just like that, the Generation Gap appeared, and its broadening mouth threatened to swallow me whole.

Disappointed, I called my parents. I started to tell them about how I thought my kids would be excited that I danced onstage with Lionel Richie, and… “You danced onstage with Lionel Richie?” they interrupted. “That is SO rock and roll!”

Doesn’t it just figure?

Mommy Makeover

It will never happen, but sometimes I dream of signing up for one of those cosmetic surgery reality shows, and getting THE WORKS. I look way too old for my age… Motherhood years must be like dog years.

Being a mom is tough on the body, for sure. The stretch marks that cover my butt and go down to my knees don’t exactly imply, “bikini model.” No matter how many crunches or bellydance classes I agonize through, I will always have a layer of wrinkled, loose, jiggly skin over my abs, effectively proclaiming that I don’t exercise at all. Ever.

Motherhood and Gravity are great pals, and clever, too! They’ve deduced that they are much more effective in tandem. Once a woman gives birth, things start sagging at an accelerated rate.

A few years ago, I bought a short, flirty sundress. When I pulled it out last summer, I was astonished… “Honey!” I shouted to my husband. “I’ve grown, like, three inches… Look! My dress barely covers my butt now!” Mr. Wright surveyed the hem of the dress, then offered, “I don’t think you’re taller, Babe. Maybe your butt’s just a bit, um… lower.”

Certainly, genetics play a part. My crooked teeth are a gift from some European ancestor; my fine, limp hair comes from my father’s family; the puffy “perma-bags” under my eyes also grace the faces of most women in my family; my long, pointy nose comes from… Alan Alda? I never knew my mom was such a fan.

Perhaps part of the dissatisfaction with my appearance lies in the undeniable realization that I look nothing like my children. True, I did not give birth to six of the seven, but even my own son looks more like my husband’s brother than anyone in my family.

It’s not only vanity that fuels my fantasies of a makeover. (Although, to be honest, what mama doesn’t secretly desire a little “freshening up?”) The more complex truth is that I wish my outside matched my inside; the heart that knows and loves each of my children as if I had borne them all myself.

I know I’m looking in the wrong place. Scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror will never provide evidence that these children are mine, in spite of who gave birth to them. In truth, I need look no further than the kids, themselves. Princess has a compassionate heart and love for animals like me, and The Dude mirrors my reclusive nature. Pockets has my offbeat sense of humor, and Pepper is fiercely headstrong and outspoken, like her stubborn mama. GirlWonder’s developing writing skills make me proud. Dare I hope she, too, chooses to be a writer? Curlytop, like her quirky mother, sees exciting, obscure details in the mundane; and Snugglebug shares my ability to go from serious to giggling in 4.5 seconds.

I am exactly who I need to be, if I only stop looking so closely. For now, I’ll put my makeover fantasies away, along with my mirror, and be satisfied. Wait a minute – are those… crow’s feet?

Reality television, here I come!

A version of this story appears in Volume 1, Issue 3 of Gonzo Parenting. Order your copy today!

Part Time… No Problem!

Fall is always stupid-busy for the Wrights, and it’s not just the beginning of the school year… fall also means the beginning of Princess’s soccer season, Pockets’s football, and—for me—teaching journalism to fourth- and fifth-graders for six weeks.

Add to the usual chaos these new twists for 2008:

• Mr. Wright was elected President-Elect for the Washington REALTORS®. appointed to a presidential advisory group on climate change for the National Association of REALTORS® and appointed as a trustee for the Center for Real Estate Research and Development at WSU
• I decided, in all my wisdom, to begin publishing an independent parenting magazine
• Pepper started volleyball
• Curlytop started her preschool IEP at a public school in Douglas County
• Snugglebug started group therapy/preschool in south Chelan County

Naturally, the five oldest kids go to school in north Chelan County, so I’m driving all over the state every day. I openly laugh at whoever created the “10 Year/100,000 Mile Warranty.” Get real! I drove over a thousand miles this week alone.

What better time for me to take an additional job, right? I love my local librarian to the extreme—which must explain why I offered to sub for her while she was on maternity leave. Without much thought as to the impact, I became a part-time librarian. Why not? Part-time… no problem!

I knew things had changed for the kids and me when I found myself at work, stricken that I’d forgotten Pepper had a volleyball game. Mr. Wright was out of town and wouldn’t be able to attend. Someone had to go to her game! But, who?

In desperation, I sent a text message to Princess:

can u go to pepper’s game after practice? pls?

Her response?

um, i am @ my soccer game ... sorry!

Worst. Mother. Ever.

The Center for Disease… whatever.

I am pleased to inform you that my family has survived the wretched Flu Epidemic of 2008.

Hmm? What’s that? You say you didn’t hear there was an epidemic?

Did you miss it on CNN? I’ll recap:

• Monday AM – Two year-old, Snugglebug, begins projectile vomiting.
• Monday PM – Three year-old, Curlytop, joins her sister. They projectile vomit in assorted colors.
• Tuesday AM – Ten year-old, GirlWonder, repaints her bedroom in stylish “vomit” scheme. Doesn’t go to school. Babies are feeling much better and celebrate by opening front door and running down block in just diapers while Mom is in shower. Mom panics and runs through neighborhood in towel.
• Tuesday PM – Fourteen and fifteen year-old sons, Pockets and The Dude, return from school. They vomit. Twelve year-old daughter, Pepper, vomits. Mom posts sign on front door: “DANGER! High-Speed Vomit!”
• Wednesday AM - Mom takes babies to appointment, since they are “fine” now. Walks into doctor’s office and two year-old vomits on wall, floor and Mom. Mom apologizes profusely to receptionist, changes two year-old into clean clothes. Two and three year-old girls synchronize filling of their pants with diarrhea, which runs down their legs. Mom grabs a baby under each arm and runs, without rescheduling. Pepper and boys still puking.
• Wednesday PM - Dad pukes… and pukes. Babies puke. Mom says she can’t stand any more puking and is running away from home. Gets to driveway and pukes.
• Thursday AM – Eighteen year-old, Princess, says she feels like puking but isn’t going to, because she’s running for ASB President and doesn’t have time. Family disowns her.

Can we even count on the Center for Disease Control to publicize these large-scale outbreaks anymore?

Eight out of nine members of my household were afflicted with this horrible virus… That’s 88.9% of the population!

I’d call that an epidemic, wouldn’t you?