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I don't know how Mud Pie got me to agree to it. Sure, both her brothers had big birthday parties around age 10 (I think Fish's was his 11th, but whatevs). Sure ,poor Pie has spent her whole life with a dumb mid-summer birthday so she's missed out on things like bringing treats to class or handing out invitations (July 3, which is actually pretty awesome but again, whatevs). Sure, my sanity is always questionable. But somehow she talked me into it. I may have even suggested it myself. A tenth birthday shindig with none other than a Murder Mystery theme.
We'd actually planned it a week or so away from her actual birthday, but when only one-ish little girls RSVPd "Yes" we decided to postpone. My sneaky self wanted to postpone anyway since I knew we were starting a new homeschool co-op and I expected Pie to make friends quickly, which she did, so we had an abundance of invitations to hand out. She did so at the beginning of October, and last weekend, Halloween, was the chosen date. Now I will share what we did and how it went, in case someone else somewhere someday wants to make themselves crazy for a week have the pleasure of planning and executing such an event. Many ideas were outright stolen from this website, and other ideas were swiped from other websites or emerged from the remnants of my brain at some point during that pre-party week. So what did we do?
The invitations:
Murder Mystery Party Invitations
A little something I whipped together in Pages. We printed them on card stock (three to a page) and cut them out. I also sent an Evite since keeping track of responses would be so much easier online. Once I had confirmation, they were sent their character, but more on that in a moment! Each was asked to dress appropriately and was given one special line or instruction. Things like, "I hate feathers!" Or "Someone stole my ring!" Moms were also invited. Why not? We had as much fun as the girls!
Next for the big event, I decided I would write the mystery myself. My thought process: I'm a writer, this should be easy, I ought to be able to whip this out, no problem at all. Yes, I am this moronic. After several hours I wished I'd gone and bought a mystery kit online. After several more hours I really, really, really wished I'd bought one online. Eventually, I had some semblance of mystery hashed out, complete with a spreadsheet and about twenty sheets of scrap paper. Here's where I made characters and assigned them to each girl/guy and mom who was able to attend.
Finally the big day! When each girl arrived (and one guy, since Fish was attending and was allowed one friend), she received a bag with her "Mystery Item" which was a prop that would be used at some point during the game. Then we gathered at the dining table for tea (apple cider punch - yum) and crumpets (donuts and scones. Yeah, I went all out. Like all the way out to the grocery store). First task: match each attendee with the "profession" on their suspect sheet.
So many streamers! All over the house!
Our mystery began with the Countess (Mud Pie) and her Royal Chicken who lays golden eggs. The Countess suspected someone was out to steal her chicken, so invited all the suspects to tea. They did not know this yet, of course, but they would soon find out! Because the Countess slipped off to the upstairs nursery (her and Rowdy's room) and screamed.
Imagine ten kids and five moms thundering up the stairs to find Mud Pie unresponsive (but very giggly) on the floor! The Coroner declared the Countess dead and together the kids marked out her body.
Oh the fun of masking tape!
What fun. Rowdy, little sister, cried and asked Pie to "Get up!" Which she eventually did because she was actually just knocked unconscious. Sadly, the blow wiped her memory so she had no idea who attacked her and who ... stole her chicken! Another character's ring had also been stolen.
The butler, Fish, was supposed to lead everyone downstairs to watch a video the Countess left for such an occasion, but brothers are not always the most helpful. Thankfully Mom-Housekeeper had that spreadsheet handy! Down we went to watch the recording:
Poison! The tea was poisoned?! We had to be sure! So upstairs we raced to test. Except again Fish had misplaced his Mystery Item, so Mom-Keeper to the rescue with some baking soda to toss in the cup of colored vinegar. Poison confirmed, the Coroner placed everyone under arrest. We followed a thread to the dungeon (basement) where a "Web of Intrigue" had been crafted, painstakingly by Mom and Pie earlier in the day. Which we had to fix about a hundred times because Fish's bedroom lay on the other side. Anyway, it was like a laser maze, but with thread.
We navigated the maze in the dark with glow sticks. Not the best idea for the longevity of the maze.
Inside Fish's room we took mug shots and fingerprints. I made use of a handy iPhone app. Fun! And while waiting for our photo shoot (which didn't take long), we solved Halloween Riddles. Like What did the skeleton order at the bar? Two cokes and a mop! Groan.
Next we returned upstairs because someone spotted the chicken (me - I hadn't quite figured out how to get everyone upstairs). Interestingly, colored eggs were all over the living room. Inside the eggs, puzzle pieces (and candy because you have to have candy in colored eggs!). Next task, put the puzzle together!
Mystery puzzle in progress...
I'd been worried about having enough time, and had pushed things along a little quickly. So at this point we were, oh, like fifteen minutes into the mystery part of the party. It was going a little too quickly. The puzzle took longer than expected. Pfew! I made the puzzle, yes I did and I made it from this picture:
Yes, that's a chicken and a ring.
Our next clue! The chicken had the missing ring, and was last seen where this photo was taken. Down to the family room where a mess of feathers had suddenly appeared. And the poison was taking its toll. We had to pick up the feathers using cooking utensils because our fingers were no longer working!
I detest feathers! That was the maid's "line."
Beneath the feathers, one of which was a paintbrush, lay a message written in chicken language (pig pen code that St. Nick helpfully wrote out). One of the girls had a cypher as her Mystery Item. Of course Mom-Keeper had to remind her, but it worked out fine.
Sticky fingers?
The message told us that the suspect had sticky fingers. So up to the kitchen we went, only to discover a fingerprint on the stove. Who'd have thought our suspect sheets had fingerprints on them! Match up the fingerprints and ... The Artist stole the chicken to save it from the cook, who wanted to cook it! And the chicken laid an egg with the missing ring inside. The Princess (who had lost the ring) paid a reward (fake money, which was her Mystery Item - see how clever I am?) to everyone.
Mystery solved, Mom-Keeper wanted to collapse. But it was only a bit after 3pm and the party didn't end until 4. Plus the Ambassador had not yet arrived (a girl who was planning to come late), and she knew where the antidote to the poison was. Right as I was about to give it up and serve the cake, the Ambassador's mom pulled up in the driveway! Saved!
The Ambassador had a riddle, the solution to which provided us with the location of the antidote. It was inside a pumpkin, mixed in with pumpkin guts. Yuck. But oh so fun!
Digging through pumpkin guts for the antidote
Finally, cake and presents and one last game. An auction of wrapped dollar store treasures, opened in White Elephant fashion. The girls were too polite to steal one another's gifts, however, so most everyone ended up keeping what they got. All good.
Store bought cake. I have my limits.
We wrapped up at exactly 4pm! Except that many of the moms and girls stuck around for a while to chat, eat more cake, and generally enjoy the afternoon, which I must admit was the highlight of the whole event for me. And what did I do the next day? Sleep? Nonono. I vacuumed feathers out of the family room.
My favorite picture: Pie and Rowdy getting ready for the party!
We are waiting for you. Not patiently, even though you were due just a few days ago. Your grandparents come from out of town to take your big brothers out for malts and to the park, and to meet you. You have other plans.
Daddy and Grandpa install new air conditioners while I sit poolside at the hotel and watch your brothers swim. You kick and roll. You are swimming, too.
Our midwife at a home visit
June 27
"Girls bake longer," the midwife says and smiles.
Daddy and I exchange a glance. We have no pink in your layette, not after two boys, but deep in some secret place, I know we should.
June 29
Thunderstorm and we lose power. The temperature indoors soars with the blessed air conditioner stagnant. "Can we birth with no power?" We worry. Will you pick tonight to come, in the dark?
We call the midwife, fluttery, impatient. "A birth by candlelight! How lovely - I do it all the time."
At ease, we wait. Soon?
No, not yet, you say. Power restores at midnight.
Watch out!
July 2
Too hot to sit, too sore to stand.
Achey, testy.
When will we meet you?
4:00pm ~ What is this? A dull ache, hardly unusual, but intermittent and regular.
"Is it time?" Daddy asks.
"I don't know," I say. "I don't think so."
6:00pm ~ We go out for dinner, Russ' Restaurant and I eat something - I don't remember now. Eight minutes between trips to the restroom. "Bladder the size of a pea," I joke and think nothing more.
"Are you in labor?" your grandmother asks.
I laugh. You are nearly two weeks late - I have resigned myself to being expectant forever.
8:00pm ~ Your brothers are tucked in their beds. "Should we call the midwife?" Daddy asks. I shrug. I feel a gentle tightening, not at all like your brothers. "Maybe."
10:00pm ~ "I think this is the night," I tell the midwife. "I'm not sure, though."
She ignores my hesitation. "Shall I come now? You know you labor fast."
I pause, a contraction. "No, these are so slight."
"Well ..."
11:00pm ~ "Shouldn't the midwife come soon?" Daddy asks.
I laugh at him. "Am I even in labor?"
11:30pm ~ Something changes. Subtle, like a gentle shift from a major to a minor key. "You should call the midwife," I say. "No great rush."
11:45pm ~ "Could you ... gasp ... call ... and tell her ... to get here ... NOW?"
July 3, 12:00am
Your midwife arrives at the door and takes one look at me. She sends Daddy out for the stool. Your brothers sleep soundly upstairs. "Let's have this baby!" she whispers.
12:42am ~ We meet you - tiny, pink and only blue to dress you in.
Your brothers sleep through it all, but I will never forget later that morning; Daddy brings them downstairs and whispers in their ears, "You have a baby sister!"
Never before and never since have I seen their eyes light with such wonder. And even now, two years from that day, you are still filling us with wonder. For God's abundant grace which sustained you those floating months, for each smile, each word, each step, we are grateful.
Happy birthday to you!
Sweet perfection
I first wrote this post when you were two. And now you are ten. I'm even more grateful for you today, my beautiful intelligent kind thoughtful amazing and in every way a part of my heart, Mud Pie. I love you.
Mud Pie is a doll girl. She has Barbies and an American Girl Doll, but I've cringed every time we've seen any sort of made-up-to-absurdity doll, like Bratz. This woman has a brilliant fix! I happen to know from experience that doll faces can and do come off with nail polish remover. I had a creepy faceless Barbie for years (she wore a veil). I remember trying to draw her face back on, but it never looked right. Maybe it's time to try again. I'll be sure to post if I do.
Flashback to 1985-or-so. More than anything else in the universe a certain little girl wanted a dollhouse. A real dollhouse made of wood, with real wallpaper and tiny furnishings with drawers that opened and teeny tiny plates and cups and pillows. Imagine her delight when the gift she opened one Christmas (or maybe birthday - her memory is a little spotty sometimes) was a real, true dollhouse kit! Oh the joy and delight!
Flash forward several long weeks of, "when can we build my dollhouse? When when when?" Until her parents were so annoyed they finally cleared the dining table, put down newspaper, and opened the box. "Yay! My dollhouse!" quickly became, "What do you mean we have to paint the pieces first?"
Flash forward more weeks of dust collecting on the yet-unpainted dollhouse pieces. "I can paint it myself, really really I can!" So she painted (some) pieces. She may have made a mess. She may have been told No More Painting!
Flash forward again. Dinnner guests! Pack up the dollhouse pieces, let's set the table!
Flash forward an undetermined amount of time with much, "WHEN ARE WE GONNA MAKE MY DOLLHOUSE DAMMIT!" to finally unpacking the box of partially painted pieces. Add in the little girl deciding to build it her own damn self but giving up after reading one page of instructions, then changing to, "I CAN PAINT IT WHEN IT'S ASSEMBLED JUST BUILD IT ALREADY!!!" Soon the little girl's dollhouse had a foundation and three exterior walls. Yay! At last!
Flash really far forward. The dollhouse with no paint, no siding, no trim, no interior walls or second floor sitting on the floor of the little girl's bedroom, atop the box of largely unpainted pieces. Can you see it? Imagine years going by, and the little girl's best friend accidentally sitting on the dollhouse, breaking the foundation.
At some point it was fixed, some interior walls were added (or at least the second floor), and she painted the damn thing without any damn siding because she was so damn sick of looking at bare wood. She then donated it to her church because she was now a teenager and was too old to give a crap about dollhouses.
Would you believe me if I said that I was that little girl? What a sad, sad story, and ever-so sadly typical of my youth. Just like the fake Cabbage Patch Kid I received and cried my eyes out over because it was the uggliest doll ever made.
Flash forward to today. My little girl (who received a Cabbage Patch that she didn't especially want several years ago) opened her much-longed-for Christmas package. The worktable is set up in the basement, and once we pick paint colors, we'll be ready to rock and roll. I will not let my daughter relive my childhood. In fact, this will be the Great Childhood Reclamation Project! Come back and check on our progress!
Mud Pie's Flat Stanley returned not long ago, so while the kiddos were asleep with flu and fevers, I took the photos Stan collected and made a little video.
Here's how my week (first week of vacay for the kiddos) has looked:
Monday: in tears (me) by 8am.
Tuesday: in tears (me again) by 11am.
Wednesday: so far so good (me) and it's 3pm! St. Nick and Mud Pie, however, have both shed a few tears. And Rowdy, well, you know babies.
The definition of Inelegant. Of tacky. Of rude. Of crass. Of immoral. Of just plain wrong. That would be: Credit Jumping. Which, for those who might not know, is leveraging an author (extorting? intimidating? coercing?) into hiring an "editor/writer" who then gains a credit for the work via shared byline or outright stolen byline - for very little work.
Keep back. The ginger is breathing fire today.
On a happy note. Proud Mama's little Mud Pie performed her first ever ballet recital. She loved every minute.
Unlike this dear creature (the girl on the left). Poor thing, but hooray for her for walking on the stage at all.
Ok, I'm kidding. Mostly. But I'm so fed up with Oscar Wild. I just put him in the kennel outside and he's staying there for a nice, long doggie time-out.
Why?
Yesterday Mud Pie spent all evening lovingly hand-making her valentines. So pretty, and each little heart had a sweet Hershey's chocolate inside. Note the use of past tense.
I came home from running an errand with Penny to this ...
Kylie Jean: Rodeo Queen by Marci Peschke (illus. by Tuesday Mourning). Picture Window Books, 2011.
I'll admit I was a bit skeptical when Pie pulled this off the shelf. It's very pink. But Pie Had to Have it, so into the Library Bag it went.
Somehow it was tossed in with my books by mistake and ended up in my office, amidst books on palmistry and auras (research! for a MG I have going. Even I have my limits.).
The voice of Kylie Jean captured me immediately. A first person, sweet as can be that rings with Texas Twang.
"The sky is as baby blue as a robin's egg, and there is a cool breeze jiggling the new green leaves on the trees. Bright yellow flowers that look like tiny stars are popping up everywhere. Yup, it's springtime all right!"(11)
Who could resist that voice?
Plus, the plotting is tight. Kylie wants something, to become a beauty queen, but she'll settle for Rodeo Queen this time. She faces challenges, and with support from those around her, she succeeds. Three cheers for Kylie Jean!
This book is perfect for little girls; it reinforces a try and try again attitude, practice and persistence, positive everything. Plus the characters are all warm, safe - a reader would feel nurtured and loved in Kylie's community. Not to mention the to-die-for-cute illustrations.
Pie started reading it over breakfast. A few minutes into it she started laughing.
"You like it?" I asked.
"Mom! Ugly Brother is a DOG!" and she proceeded to read the next few pages aloud to me.
Now if that's not sign of a fabulous book, I don't know what is.
What is up with me? I hate sewing - loathe it - despise it. But here I am, sewing like I'm, uh, I don't even know. Martha Stewart (does she sew? Did they allow sewing machines in prison?).
Here's dress for Pie #2:
The top skirt matches the sleeve and bottom ruffle, the bottom skirt matches the bodice, etc. Not as complicated as it looks. But what really makes it are the little trimmings Pie picked out. A bit more sparkly than my choices, but they're 100% sweet, so 100% Mud Pie.
Dragonflies on the bodice:
Crystal button to set off the rushing on the bottom skirt:
And to think, I only pricked my finger hard enough to bleed once!
Here it is! The insane sewing frenzy yielded much cuteness.
A Pink Fig design with an assortment of fabric from an old skirt to some on-sale Joanne buys. A little large, but Pie will grow. I have another dress with wildly different colors and prints cut and ready to sew, just going to put on the finishing touches first!
Bedtime rolled around with the usual mix of exhaustion (parents) and bickering (Pie and Fish). This time the argument was over who brushed teeth first. Everyone ended up frustrated, so we spent some time in Pie's room sitting together and talking about Family and how much we love one another. Little hearts softened, siblings made up and said Good Nights and I Love Yous. All was well.
But then Pie started to cry.
"What's wrong?"
"I miss St. Nick!"
See, big brother has been with Grandma in Ohio for the past week. "We all miss him," I said, and Fish started to cry too. Soon Dr. D and I were joining in. Our family hasn't felt complete to me for the past seven days, but I hadn't known the little ones felt it too.
So to soothe our hearts, we called Grandma and said Good Night to St. Nick, then Fish and Mag each put a picture of their big brother in their room. We pick St. Nick up on Tuesday, which isn't soon enough for any of us.
Mud Pie just took off into the front yard singing a funny little song only she can sing. She runs back so excited she can hardly get the words out. "Mommy I found a BIG yellow flower!" We talk about it for a minute, then she plays chase with Oscar for a minute, and now he's resting on the deck and Pie is standing, simply standing in the yard listening. It's a noisy place, the forest.
We never had this in the city, and not just because Pie wasn't walking well yet. We had two or three doors, sets of stairs, cracked porch to navigate just to touch anything green. The fragrance of lilacs was tinged with the neighbors' stale cigarettes, their leftover beers toppled in the grass, rotting things in trash bags.
We had a small maple in our backyard. Only one branch had leaves. Every time I looked at it, I felt sad. It was dying, as trees do, but it was our tree, our only glimpse of heaven amidst cracked concrete and urban blight. I felt like that tree, strangled by the city, by its dangers and mess and stench and constant closeness to humanity in all their unpredictability. I seldom fought the doors and cracked porch and uneven sidewalks.
There is a dying tree in the forest out back, but I won't let Dr. D cut it down as he would love to do. I love the tree's stark symmetry, its leafless tallness against the lush green of the woods. Here dead things are not blight, they point the way to life. In the city our maple would be cut down, hauled away or chipped. Here, if left to nature and not Dr. D's chainsaw, it will fuel generations of life of all different sorts. Bugs, birds, moss. Even if felled by Dr. D, it would fuel our stove all winter.
Here my brokenness is not death. My soul-darkness does not make me useless, fit only for the flames (or wood chipper). I may feel stripped to nothing, gangly and lifeless, but I can still grow.
And maybe, just maybe Mud Pie, Fish, St. Nick can flourish too.
Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban. HarperCollins, 1964.
Engaging the child within everyday family life. The lyrical text is sweet and gentle, reminding me of Rosemary Wells, and with it, Russell uncovers everyday details to engage the world of a child. The sorts of details that may drive a parent batty, but get at how closely children observe aspects of the world that appeal to or interest them. There is a deep understanding of a child’s inner workings: making foods come out even, “How do you know what I’ll like if you won’t even try me?” Through some smart reverse psychology, mother ends the bread and jam fixation, proving that suddenly removing options make those options all the more appealing. Smart, sweet, funny all at once.
I remember seeing an interview (on PBS perhaps?) with Russell Hoban when I was a girl. He talked about how many times he rewrote a book before he was "done" with it - something like one hundred? It shocked and horrified me. Though now that I'm working on picture books in this MFA, I'd say he's about right. Goodness, how many times will I have to rewrite my Appalachian dialect book? Until it's right.
Oh, and right now Mud Pie is on a peanut butter and pepperoni kick. I think I could stomach bread and jam a little better.
St. Nick usually does little with Maggie beyond coo at her (in the same voice he uses for the cat), but here's a rare moment captured. He's setting aside his anti-girl biases and is acting as ... drum roll ... hairdresser!
St. Nick usually does little with Maggie beyond coo at her (in the same voice he uses for the cat), but here's a rare moment captured. He's setting aside his anti-girl biases and is acting as ... drum roll ... hairdresser!
Here's a fellow we met this morning, him and three companions. That stretch of asphalt is our driveway.
Fish and St. Nick hurried to the window, but poor Mud Pie was getting dressed. She did catch a final glimpse, so excited she rushed down in the buff, and then had to hurry upstairs to put some clothes on!
Or Mental Health Day or sick day (more mental illness than anything, though the kids do have colds). Whatever you want to call it, school just isn't happening today.
And here's why:
The morning started typically. We had breakfast, I nuked my coffee about fifteen times because it kept getting cold, St. Nick wanted to try tea, didn't like it, so it got dumped and he got coffee instead, I took a shower and the little ones decided a bath would be nice.
And then ...
Well, let me backtrack. As I was getting St. Nick's tea, I noticed the door under the sink open. Huh? Had I left it dangling? Maybe. I shrugged, closed it, went on with tea making. A few minutes later I had to run into another room, and when I came back the door was hanging open again. Fish or Pie throwing something in the trash, I assumed. Why else would it be open?
Now fast forward. Bath is drawn, Mud Pie is in the water, I'm in the midst of getting my own tea and I'm chatting with St. Nick about his friend's birthday the following day. Fish heads up to jump in the bath and asks if he can bring his Noah's Ark. Sure, sure, whatever. Just get in there so I can start school with your brother!
Splish, splash, the little two are taking a bath and I realize, Oh! The water! It's still on, and this tub fills up faster than our old house's tub, so I go up and wonder what the nice smell is. Did they already get into the soap?
Well, no. And yes.
The water is blue and flecked with dark navy things. And there's something icky, sort of slimy in the water. I pick one slimy blue glob up, stare at it a moment. Then it hits me.
The dishwasher soap! We'd had a coupon for Electrasol gel packs and there was a brand new, month's-worth box ... under the kitchen sink.
The open door, Fish and Pie's squirrelly eagerness to get in that water. It's all coming together as I scoop partially-dissolved gel packs out of the bath. I scoop the kids out too, drain, wash the tub, rinse the toys, draw a new bath and scrub the thick film of dishwasher soap off their little hides (which were in danger of being tanned at that point, I was so upset with them). I took their drippy little selves, wrapped in towels, down to the scene of the crime and told them to never, ever, EVER!!!!!! get into the cupboard again.
We started the day with 31 gel packs, and since not all would fit in the ark and some I found on the family room floor, we now have 12.
And school didn't happen. We made Autumn placemats out of last year's dried leaves and clear contact paper instead.
Mud Pie just took off into the front yard singing a funny little song only she can sing. She ran back so excited she could hardly get the words out. "Mommy I found a BIG yellow flower!" We talked about it for a minute, then she played chase with Oscar, and now he's resting on the deck and Pie is standing, simply standing in the yard listening. It's a noisy place, the forest.
We never had this in the city, and not just because Pie wasn't walking well yet. We had two or three doors, sets of stairs, cracked porch to navigate just to touch anything green. The fragrance of lilacs was tinged with the neighbors' stale cigarettes, their leftover beers toppled in the grass, rotting things in trash bags.
We had a small maple in our backyard. Only one branch had leaves. Every time I looked at it, I felt sad. It was dying, as trees do, but it was our tree, our only glimpse of Eternal amidst cracked concrete and urban blight. I felt like that tree, strangled by the city, by its dangers and mess and stench and constant closeness to humanity in all their unpredictability. I seldom fought the doors and cracked porch and uneven sidewalks.
There is a dying tree in the forest out back, but I won't let Dr. D cut it down as he would love to do. I love the tree's stark symmetry, its leafless tallness against the lush green of the woods. Here dead things are not blight, they point the way to life. In the city our maple would be cut down, hauled away or chipped. Here, if left to nature and not Dr. D's chainsaw, it will fuel generations of life of all different sorts. Bugs, birds, moss. Even if felled by Dr. D, it would fuel our stove all winter.
Here my brokenness is not death. My soul-darkness does not make me useless, fit only for the flames (or wood chipper). I may feel stripped to nothing, gangly and lifeless, but I can still grow.
And maybe, just maybe Mud Pie, Fish, St. Nick can flourish too.
