How to grow lollipops for Valentine’s Day

It’s that time of year again:

 

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Time for the annual planting (or thinking about planting) of the Lollipop Plants. And since I think this is just about the best idea ever (many thanks to Robin and Marc for this one), I am going to republish this until my kids are too old to do it anymore.

And, this year, I am ALL ABOUT WIN. Yes, I will not need the procrastinator version. But, you? I’m not so sure about you. . .

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When Belly was a toddler, an online friend posted a Valentine’s tradition that was so easy and flexible that I knew I had to try it out. We are now in our eighth year, and now the kids expect it. You’d think I’d be better prepared for it each year.

It does involve a bit of deceit, so if you are someone who thinks Santa and his ilk are terrible lies for children to believe, you may want to stop reading now.

OK, here is what you do to make your very own Valentine’s Day Lollipop Plant:

1. A few days before Valentine’s Day, give you child a small empty flower pot.

Procrastinator version*: the night before, take your saddest looking house plant and, without letting the kids see, pull it out of the soil and throw it out into the backyard to serve as compost. Or just use a cup.

2. Let the kids decorate the outside of the pot with stickers, markers, glitter glue.

Procrastinator version*: skip this step; it is almost bedtime!

3. Once the decorations have dried, carefully fill the pot with several inches of fresh potting soil.

Procrastinator version*: search garage, basement and shed for potting soil, to no avail. Either reuse the soil that was once the life force of the dead plant now lying in your backyard, OR, go into the yard with a spoon and chip off a half-inch of hard dry dirt from the frozen ground.

4. Give your child some tiny cinnamon hearts and have him push some into the dirt. Blow a kiss and water them a little bit.

Procrastinator version*: Oops! No cinnamon hearts? Use anything sprinkly or red and hope your kid is too young to notice the difference.

5. If you have started your plant a few days before Valentine’s Day, you can make the plant start to grow over several days. The first night, cut up a few lollipop sticks into various heights. The first night, put the smallest sticks in the dirt so that the plant seems to be ‘sprouting’. The next night, replace those sticks with slightly longer sticks. . .keep this up for a few days.

Procrastinator version*: You did not start your plant a few days before Valentine’s Day.

6. The night before Valentine’s Day (Valentine’s Eve?), replace the sticks with several beautiful lollipops. Go to bed and know that you will be woken to the delighted shrieks of “it grew! it grew!”

Procrastinator version*: The night before, sneak out to the local CVS after the kids have fallen to sleep and buy the last sad bag of lollipops (which are not red, heart shaped or have anything to do with Valentine’s Day, but beggars can’t be choosers). Fall asleep but wake with a jolt at 6am and realize you forgot all about the damn plant. Tiptoe down the stairs, and carefully jam some pops into the dirt. If necessary, shield the plant from view with your body as you do this so your child does not see his mother’s lame attempt at creating “magic”.
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7. Let your beloved eat lollipops before 8am. They will love you for it.

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(and no cracks about that bottle of wine sitting there–that’s mama’s gift from Cupid).

Never forgotten



I only met Susan IRL (in real life) once. It was at BlogHer 2010 when she was a keynote speaker, reading this powerful post about living with breast cancer. Before she had left for the conference, she tweeted that she’d be wearing sparkly shoes during her speech so people would know it was her.


After she spoke, I walked into the lobby and saw her walking arm-in-arm with a friend. Though her voice was strong and her smile bright, it was clear that the day had worn her out as she leaned on her companion a bit, her arms covered in the compression sleeves she had to wear after losing lymph nodes to cancer. 


I almost didn’t say anything. But it was the shoes.


I stepped out, introduced myself and told her how much I loved her reading, and her shoes. Her smile never dimmed—she had one of those 1000-watt smiles—and we talked for a moment.


And then we hugged.


Susan’s battle with cancer ended yesterday, leaving behind a husband and two little boys. Though it’s the “mom” part of her life that brings the quick tears to my eyes, I know the women’s scientific community is also mourning the loss of one of their own. 


Last night, the moon was huge and full and bright. I’m not a terribly spiritual person, but I couldn’t help but think it might be Susan and her megawatt smile, and those sparkly shoes.




I saw an excerpt of this posted on Susan’s Facebook page and had to borrow it. 


The Ship 


I am standing upon the foreshore, 
A ship at my side spreads her white sails in the morning breeze 
And starts for the open sea. 
She is an object of great beauty and strength, 


And I stand watching her sail, 
Till at last she fades on the horizon and someone at my side says: 
“She is gone.” 
Gone! Where? 


Gone from my sight- that is all. 
She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when she left my side, 
And just as able to bear her load of living freight to its fullest, 
Her diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her. 


And just at the moment when someone at my side says: 
“There! She is gone”, 
There are other eyes watching for her coming, 
And other voices ready to take up the glad shout: 
“There she comes!” 


-and this is dying.


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Please see this post if you are moved to make a donation in Susan’s name. And read her words about Inflammatory Breast Cancer—her message is an important one.

If the shoe fits. . .



A little while back, I was in an exceptionally snarky mood and posted the following statement on Facebook and Twitter:

No one over the age of ten should be caught dead wearing Crocs or Uggs. 

Look, I realize they are comfortable, but so are Pajama Jeans–at least that is what the infomercial says–and I’d never be caught dead in those either.

So, it was interesting to me that I looked down at my feet as I returned from walking the dog and saw this:

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Why, hello there! You look suspiciously like Uggs. On my feet.

Well, a clarification: Fake Uggs (F’Uggs, if you will).

And, yes, they are on my feet. Pot, meet kettle.

How these homely, shapeless boots ended up on my feet is an easy story: My mom gave them to me. And instead of putting them in the back of my closet, I put them on my feet. 

Oh my cushiony goodness. Oh warm toes. Oh toasty ankles.

I get it now.

Sort of. 

But I still couldn’t bring myself to spend $100 on boots that make me walk like a linebacker. 

And don’t try to get me into Crocs. I have to draw the line somewhere.