Here's the cake I made for Colt's 3rd birthday. Unlike all of the other housewife bloggers out there, I did not bake this cake from scratch. I did not pluck the Valencia oranges from my modest back yard orchard, or the eggs from my grass-fed hens. I did not shave the zest from the rind of the organic lemons I picked up from Whole Foods. I bought the orange-flavored Duncan Hines cake mix on sale. And the dark chocolate icing in the can. My mother said it tasted like Baby Tylenol. She was about right. But like I always say, it matters more what's on the outside than on the inside. And It looks awesome, right!?
When I had Colt, my nose evolved into a super pooper sniffer.
A finely tuned machine capable of distinguishing between BMs of all kinds. Healthy. Solid. Runny. Viral.
Like a German Shepard to a bag of coke.
My mom has the same skill, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her.
We come from a long line of Poop Snoops.
Over the last three years, we have spent approximately $107,499.99 on crap… with which Colt never plays.
Cars, trucks, balls, trains…
Springy-flashy-bouncy-things that vibrate and roar and come with 2,000 tiny parts.
And then we have spent another $25,499.99 on storage bins and lids and labels and baskets to compartmentalize the crap, so that my mother doesn’t call the fire inspector.
And despite all this excess,
Colt has this adorable little friend, Landon, and today was his 4th birthday party.
The party was pirate-themed, so I expected the usual plastic flags, metallic beads, head scarfs.
And sure, there was all that…
Oh, and A LIFE-SIZE-WOODEN-CUSTOM-MADE-PIRATE SHIP [insert choir of angels].
Do you know what we had at Colt’s pirate birthday party?