Being that I am the parent of two little girls, and I am recently obsessed with gardening, I perused their online catalog, which is astonishing in the breadth and depth of fairy products. I imagine some little old cat lady out there, dodging hanging crystals in her one-room cottage, doddering out to her full fairy village, complete with cottages, churches (I didn’t know Pan had a church!),  outdoor stairs, fences, bridges, and, oh, hell, why not the 50-Piece Fairy Garden Set for only $1580?

And don’t get me started on the accessories, which run the gamut of post office boxes to teeny weeny galoshes for placing outside the fairy door. It’s like a feminine version of an HO train set, only the conductors have wings and the streetlamps are shaped like mushrooms.

I began to give up hope that I’d find anything at which my husband would not roll his eyes, when I landed upon this guy, the Old Cave Fairy Home (fairy not included).

It’s sweet, small, simple, and would fit in well with the hillside in our yard; in fact, it would fit perfectly into our newly built faux retaining wall. I could add some shade-loving ground cover, and presto! We have a sweet surprise for our more observant guests. With shipping, it cost about $35–not too bad for something that would surely bring the girls great delight.

It arrived last Friday, when we were in the backyard, and languished on our porch for hours, until I checked my email and read that it had been delivered. And yes, I, adult parent of two, got out of bed at midnight to run to the front door and tear open my package of fairy magic.

The next morning, before the girls got up, I removed one of the stones from the wall, replaced it with the fairy cave, and planted a little flowering ground cover over it.

Everyone say it with me: AWW.

I decided to let the girls discover it for themselves, but then after eight hours, couldn’t wait anymore, and pointed it out to Eliza.

“Look! What’s that?”

“A fairy house! How did that get there?”

“Maybe the fairies built it.”

“I think you builded it.”

“Maybe. Do you like it?”

“No. It’s weird.”

“Why do you say it’s weird?”

“Because I don’t love you anymore.”

She followed up that last bit with a big grin to show me she was just teasing, and I found the whole conversation far too adult for an almost four-year-old. How is it that I plant a damned fairy house for a kid, and I’m so transparent that she guesses that 1) I built it, not fairies; and 2) my feelings could be hurt if she didn’t like it; and 3) she could tease me about my feelings being hurt?

Yes, folks: since I planted the fairy house, there’s a little less magic in my world. Well, to hell with her. I think it’s super-cute and kind of magical. I’m tempted to make a little blue worm to put out front. At least he’ll invite me in for some tea and not poke fun at my craving for gratitude.

You may remember how, last year, I spent some time cutting down ivy (both nontoxic and poison) from our fence and trees. I continued my search-and-destroy mission during the one nice day we had in February, cutting the vines from our few remaining ivy-ed trees, and after the requisite shower of leaves cleared, we’ve been rewarded with a much clearer river view than we had last year. As a bonus, the trees themselves seem to be gasping in gratitude: one has leaves growing up its trunk, something I’ve never seen before, and must be the result of its release.

There's a river down there, in the sun's glare.

As the days grow longer, I spend my evenings engaging in various lawn projects: clearing leaves from our “back nine” (the other side of the fence); killing poison ivy in its tracks; planting new flowers and stopping new ivy from growing up trees. Weekends, though: that’s where it’s at. Last weekend I spray-painted my index finger into numbness (I’m serious; it barely has feeling back now) and freshened our craigslist-purchased 9-piece patio set from rusted, tan dinginess into white, glossy glory.

Even the old cushions look happier.

But the real fun came yesterday, when I decided to clean up a mess leftover since we cut off some very leggy forsythia last year. Over the years, the shrubs had grown gangly, shading the soil beneath and keeping anything from growing, and over the time the dirt from the hillside made its way, inexorably, onto our patio. Plus, big bare dirt patch didn’t look very nice.

The forsythias lived under the juniper tree, and were very, very big.

During last year’s Chainsaw Day, my dad took out the shrubs, and cut them back to more manageable stumps. But the dirt was not growing any grass–it was too dry and dead, and the shade didn’t help–so I figured I’d get some mulch and ground cover and maybe dig out some of the dirt.

Following three days of rain, yesterday was the perfect digging day: 60 degrees, and damp. So I started digging. Inside of twenty minutes, I found eight stepping stones that once led a path out the side gate; the deepest one was buried about two inches. So I dug more into the hillside. And more. And found a sprinkler head–six inches underground. The hillside’s slip into our patio had apparently been happening a very long time; makes me wonder what else is in there. Bodies? A pirate ship?

Being my father’s daughter, I rummaged around behind our shed until I found a long, discarded 2×12 board, and several large slate-like stones. I’d bought river rock and mulch at Lowe’s already, so I set about building a mini-retaining wall.

I’d also bought topsoil, thinking I’d need it to fill in the dead spots, but it turns out I had all the topsoil I needed; it just happened to be five feet out of place. I laid down the river rock, propped the board and the stones, filled in the soil, and five hours after I started, I had this. Like our kitchen island, this is a prototype: some day, maybe we’ll have a real retaining wall, built with stuff that’s not from our junk pile.

Here’s another view.

The paving stones are still dirty, but what do you want after being buried for 15 years?

Turns out, on this Mother’s Day, I don’t need Calgon to take me away. Just a shovel and some dirt.

Post #1: Changing the Conversation: The Rape of Betty Childs , in which Revenge of the Nerds isn’t all fun and montages.

Post #2: Don’t Listen to the Devil On Your Shoulder, in which Animal House, of all movies, offers an excellent example of how NOT to take advantage of a girl.

Donate to Pittsburgh Action Against Rape.

Except that it was summertime, and while summer in San Francisco is pretty much the ideal time for a kid to don some BabyLegs, summer in Pittsburgh is an ideal time for a kid to don their birthday suit. Fast forward through moving, distractions and general not-getting-to-around-to-itness on my part, and I’m looking out the window at the cruel joke that has become Winter, 2013: It’s March 25, and the snow is pouring in.

Given that it seems we’re still in the clutches of a Seven Kingdoms-worthy winter, I think it’s the perfect time to (finally!) make good on my promise and review BabyLegs. Springtime is great BabyLegs weather!

What are BabyLegs?

Legwarmers. For your baby. It’s so simple. And they’re so adorable you’ll want a pair for yourself.

Why BabyLegs?

Because they’re cute. And also, they’re brilliant. Ready for why? Hmm? Wait for it… you don’t have to take off the pants to change the diapers. This may not seem like a great concept, but trust me: when you’ve got the squirming two-year-old pinned to the pizza place’s bathroom floor, one elbow in the stomach and the other fighting against the weave-and-bob of the eternally kicking legs, you will be so glad you won’t have to pull down the pants that you’ll send me a thank-you note.

Baby legwarmers are my favorite gift for parents of newborns. After Eliza, we’ve got a good… oh…. 25 pairs? Maybe more? And Gillian’s so little that she’s still going strong. I’ve made them from knee socks, bought them from Etsy, and worn them all over and over, and I can say that there’s a reason BabyLegs are a bit pricier than other brands: they’re better-quality. They haven’t pilled, they haven’t stretched or begun unraveling; they’re strong and can stand up to many trips through the washing machine.

Plus, they’re really, really cute. They have a “neutral” collection that’s not gender-specific, but be sure to look at all three collections, because they pretty well cross gender lines in a lot of cases. Take the first two below–I love me some rockets! And they have a great assortment of varsity-style striped legwarmers… may I suggest red and gold, for the Gryffindors in your life? Or perhaps some silver-and-blue, for us Ravenclaws?

Exhibit A:

Rockets! Rocket City!

Exhibit B:

Say it with me: I am a robot.

And most important, Exhibit C:

Kitties on her dress and rainbows on her legs!

Rather than building outfits around a dress, I find myself building outfits around the BabyLegs. Which is probably why the rainbows are my favorite–they match it all! As Gillian grows (slow as she goes) we’re using them less often, as she’s inclined to pull them, and in fact, all of her clothes, off. But I can’t recommend these enough for newborns and infants. They protect the knees during crawling, keep the little chubs warm without overheating, and like I said: no pants to fight.

Like BabyLegs on Facebook here!

I joked for years that Pittsburgh’s not safe until after St. Patrick’s Day. That is: it is not springtime until the big St. Patrick’s Day Parade, after which, the snows will stay at bay and spring will finally arrive. No one listens to local boy Punxsutawney Phil. It’s St. Patrick you trust.

Until this year, of course. It’s been a long, long winter. Cold and gray, and when I woke up this past Monday morning to see more snow on the ground, I nearly cried. Granted, part of the reason I moved back here was because I missed the seasons. But even the long-timers have admitted this has been an unusually long, gray winter, and a few weeks ago, we decided to celebrate the dawn of spring by skipping town.

We could’ve hit the Laurel Highlands, our ski region; only 45 minutes away and in the heart of the Laurel Mountains, the Appalachians’ kid sister. But it’s still ski season, so we figured we’d save some dough by heading up to North East, an aptly named little town on Lake Erie. After all, water is water and a beach is a beach. Even in late March, if the weather’s 45 degrees, it’s still marginally sunny, and you still have a view, right? Plus: Pennsylvania grape country. Which means Welch’s, and also wine!

So we booked our house, packed up the kids, and headed north. That’s right: north. From Pittsburgh. In March. We’re our own worst enemies.

Here was the view somewhere past Edinboro:

Balmy, no?

The snow kept falling for twelve or so hours. Sometime around 6 PM, as the snow continued accumulating outside our beach house window, I decided to pour some bourbon in my tea and pretend it was December. Snow’s glorious in December, after all. Happy New Year!

Two days later, and I’m accepting, again, that with small people in tow, a vacation won’t be a vacation for a long time. Eliza couldn’t sleep the first night; Gillian ended up in bed with us last night. They haven’t yet hidden in the hallway, waiting to ask me to come play with them, but it’s in the mail.

Gillian's the one on the right.

I know, I know: we can afford to take two days off work and go on a mini-vacation, so who am I to complain? But the thing is that paying money to go away from home raises one’s expectation of fun and relaxation… but being out of your comfort zone is just a little more challenging in every way. So you while you’re relishing the change of scenery, you’re eyeballing the definitely-not-child-safe glass media center and wondering if your toddler will split open her forehead or poke her eye out on it. In one moment, you’re drinking mimosas on a Friday morning; in the next, running to the wide-open front door because the locks are well-oiled, and reachable. Which brings me to our original logic in choosing an off-season location: we didn’t want to shell out big dollars and still have to deal with the toddler factor.

Now is the winter of her discontent.

On the upside, the town of North East is lovely, if deserted this time of year. We visited a storefront wine seller, had an excellent sandwich at Rizzo’s (which, in Pennsylvania, is like saying “I had especially good french fries” in Belgium), and we’ll be hitting the Erie Children’s Museum a bit later. It’s the kind of town that peppers the California coast: small, tourist-driven economy, with coffee shops and toy stores and a well-appointed grocery store. And even the locals were caught unawares by the early spring storm, so we’re not complete idiots.

We had pancakes and bacon for breakfast, and watched “Clifford” on premium cable. Things are looking up.

So we’ve decided we’re coming back this summer. Preferably to the house we’re renting now, actually, which is well-appointed and only five homes from the beach. I’m looking forward to seeing it green.

So close. So cold.

Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing anything green, as long as it’s not a shamrock. Damn you, St. Patrick. Damn you.

A pic from the original real estate listing.

We liked the concept of the bar–mainly, that the space was open between the two rooms–but since we weren’t using the dining room as a dining room, the bar had become just a flat space. Which, in house parlance, is akin to a space vacuum: nature abhors it. It fills it. And before you know it, you can’t actually see the bar underneath all of the bills and loose screws and sundries scattered over it. In addition, the bar itself was only about 8 inches wide: not really enough, and slightly too high, for a proper breakfast bar.

David being David, he began thinking about ways to prototype a new vision for the bar and kitchen: specifically, an island, with ample counterspace on the kitchen side, and a real eat-in area on the bar side. Our list of demands was pretty basic:

• Easy trash management
• Compost hole
• Large cutting board area
• More storage underneath

First stop: the ReStore. David found a jankity old kitchen cabinet for $9, a damned good price point for testing the waters. We moved some things around, cut a hole out of some old plywood, got a spare shelf from the basement, and came up with a general idea of what we’d eventually have.

See the compost hole? I heartily recommend it!

The use of the bar transformed instantly. We actually began sitting on our awesome craigslist-bought starburst barstools to eat breakfast at the wider table; even the cabinet missing a few doors and drawers increased our storage space. But adding the breakfast bar and the cabinet confirmed what we’d already suspected: The bar was too high, and did nothing but form a barrier between two spaces that should be united.

A few weeks later, when my parents came to visit, my dad brought his Sawsall and a hammer, and this happened.

PAPPY SMASH.

By the way, demo is very dusty. Cover everything up, no matter how much your dad tells you it won’t be that bad.

Then they whacked the top eight inches off the bar.

He bent the blade. It's OK, it happens all the time, he says.

Off they went to Lowe’s, leaving me with the cleanup. They returned with a lovely sheet of birch plywood, and within minutes, had rounded and sanded down the corners, shimmed up the supports (currently still Metro shelving) and before you can say “Please don’t cut off a finger,” we had a working prototype of a kitchen island.

Note how the recessed lighting actually bounces off the whole thing and makes it glow. Glow, I tell you!

Of course, we still need to head to IKEA and get some real kitchen cabinets. And we need to clean up the cutoff of the bar itself, what with the exposed supports and all.

$9 cabinetry! Beautiful!

We plan to move the whole shebang about six inches further into the kitchen, so as to move the prep space closer to the stove–I still believe it’s insane to take more than two steps with a handful of raw chicken. And we’re still debating what kind of material we should use for the countertop. Butcher block is a great idea because it’s so useful, but we don’t want it on the eat-in side; Formica would look great, but we’ve gotten used to putting hot pans down on the granite countertops. Lately I’ve been thinking about a white quartz, one that would match the granite but still reflect light.

Generally speaking, the prototype has been a complete success. We use the eat-in side every day, and the extra counter space has been invaluable. Sitting there eating breakfast the other morning, I reflected that the island alone is roughly the size of our old kitchen in San Francisco, an observation that feels simultaneously luxurious and really, really gauche. But I’ll take it.

1. You make a trip to Goodwill, and bring one or more of the following:

• Changing station
• High chair
• Stepstools
• Carseat
• Bib
• Diaper bag
• Pack’n'Play
• Stroller
• Baby gates
• Doorknob covers
• Cabinet locks

The white one is to the bedroom. The wooden one's just in case.

2. Any one of these things can be placed within two feet of the floor or chair, and left there:
   • Toilet paper
   • Trash can
   • Glass of liquid
   • Electrical plug
   • Nightlight
   • Coins
   • Mobile device
   • Remote control
   • Shampoo
   • Anything with knobs
   • Anything that fits in a film canister

Trash can: high. Stepstool: low. Not pictured: Shampoo, on windowsill.

3. You hear one of these phrases, and know it to be true:
   • “I can wipe myself.”
   • “I can use the remote control.”
   • “I don’t need a lid.”
   • “I can buckle myself in.”
   • “I can use a fork.”
   • “I can dress myself.”
   • “I can read.”

Someday, this will not seem like the greatest bathroom ever designed.

4. You can say one of these phrases with some confidence:
   • “Take a bath.”
   • “Go to bed.”
   • “Brush your teeth.”
   • “Clean up your room.”
   • “Go outside and play.”
   • “Watch your sister.”
   • “I’ll wait here.”
   • “Get it yourself.”

Don’t go telling me about how each age has a trade-off, and some of these things can never be said with real confidence. And how, once they can say “I can read,” they’ll likely stop saying things like, “I love you, Mommy. You’re my best friend.”

A girl can dream.

I’ve found a few choice items there: a yellow, low kitchen cabinet for $15, which we’re currently using as a little extra storage and a play place for the girls in the kitchen. We scored a knockoff laminate round end table and matching two-tiered coffee table ($30 for the set), and a set of beautiful dining room chairs in desperate need of re-upholstering ($12 each). That last set had been re-upholstered with slightly diseased-looking rust fake fur sometime around 1974, and the original grass-like fabric, while stained, is much more attractive. We plan to fix them when the girls are out of sippy cups.

For several months, though, I’ve had a mission: find a bar unit with an open back that we can put in our bar area. We’ve been dealing with planks of wood on bookcases for far too long, and seeing the cluttered mess had long since begun giving me eyestrain. We found the perfect unit a month ago, but alas! Sold. Then, this weekend, we found this beauty.

The groovy lamp is from my brother's mother-in-law's sometime-open vintage store.

She’s not perfect. You can see the chips on the veneer in front, and the wood is scratched in a dozen places. But at $65, that means we feel free to zazz her up a bit–maybe paint the doors, for instance. Our other china cabinet, bought for $200 at an antique mall, is in perfect condition and I wouldn’t dare lay a finger on her. But Our Lady of the Cocktail? She could use a little spiffing up.

The biggest selling point was the drawer pulls, which have lovely starburst designs. When we’re ready for a full rehab we’ll get them shining.

Here’s another view. It originally had a back on it, which we removed easily, so you can see the wallpaper through. The fact that it’s so perfectly centered between the flowerpots leads me to believe the mural was painted to accommodate just such a piece.

The box on top is a travelling bar--also purchased at the ReStore.

A few close ups of the cubbies, where you’ll find some of other ReStore wins.

That's Jackie Gleason's Music for Lovers Only. He'll take you to the moon. Both pieces from the ReStore.

Senor Paco, our Hull duck planter, was bought in Cape May. The Mantovani album: ReStore score.

But, Oh! There’s More!

I’ve saved the best for last. David had called me over to the chair section to check out a Navy chair, and before I could say “Do we really need another chair?” I spotted this beauty from 40 feet away. (The ReStore is very big.) I ran to her. I sat down and felt the light, graceful give of a perfectly calibrated porch bouncer. My heart swelled. Before David joined me, an employee told me it had arrived just that day and had been checked out by several shoppers; by the time I got up to see her $10 pricetag, another shopper said, “That’s the best thing in the store.”

I didn’t need any more encouragement. I hauled her up to the counter so I could buy her right then, claim her with a SOLD sticker, and finish my shopping in peace. While I waited in line, every person behind me–four or five, I think–eyeballed her. While I waited for my husband to pull the car around outside, a woman on the sidewalk stopped and said, “Oooooh! Now that is a NICE chair!” I felt like David will likely feel when our daughters hit their teen years. Stay away from my baby, people. Look but don’t touch.

So what if it's technically porch furniture?

One of my favorite features is the back of the cushion, which is a gorgeous bouquet of roses, and the nice detail on the tag. See if you can find it.

That's right, people. Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

I’ve been thinking we’ll need to re-do our porch furniture, which we bought used. I’m thinking we’ll do it in white, with red cushions. Because as far as I’m concerned, from here on out, everything in the house will be built around our beautiful new porch bouncer.

P.S. Why do I call her Our Lady of the Cocktail? Because in the middle top drawer, we found a Diamond Jubilee Blessed Mother card, the kind churches give when their priests celebrate an anniversary. In this case, it was the Society of Mary’s Rev. Julius A. Falk, who celebrated his first mass on March 29, 1925. The card was issued in 1970. At the ReStore, when I found her in the drawer, an employee (Glen) was there, helping to stake my claim. “You’re not going to take her out, are you?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t dare!” I replied, and put her back in the drawer, where she will live as long as we own the cabinet.

A quote on the back reads “All good things came to me together with Mary.” Works for me.

Every city has its Christmas traditions, and I’ve only lived in three cities, but let’s face it: New York and San Francisco don’t do up the yard decor. Firstly, few people have yards. The City of New York plans the holiday decor so beautifully that stringing lights up the stoop balustrade would be, at best, a minor homage to the likes of Rockefeller Center. (If you’ve never been to NYC, go now. The song “Silver Bells” was written about Midtown Manhattan in December, I’m convinced of it. Aside from the tourists walking six across on Sixth Avenue, this is a time of year when even the most hardened New Yorker can be seen smiling into the evening.)

Who would dare compete with this?

San Francisco, on the other hand–they do up some serious Halloween action. It’s bigger than Christmas, really. And being a native East Coaster, I could never really muster up a good hunk’o Christmas spirit in the unchanging mild weather of the Pacific Northwest. Deep down in my bones–my crazybone, I suspect–I always longed for snow, or at least the promise of it.

But Pittsburgh? Oh, Pittsburgh. Maybe it’s the way light reflects off the three rivers, or the fact that our economy was built on fossil fuels, but Pittsburghers do love a good light show. Fireworks get set off for every occasion from a Pirates win (not often enough) to Saturday night in September (Kennywood’s Fall Fantasy) to just, it seems, random weekends when someone got him a handful of rockets and a lighter.

Electric lights are no exception. Oglebay’s Festival of Lights is only 60 miles away. (My parents, killing time while I took a test for college in Bethany, once drove to see the lights during the day in February.) We have the beautiful Phipps Conservatory, with an evening light show and winter garden. We have Kennywood, the classic amusement park who recently began reopening its gates for the season, decking the halls in grand Pittsburghian style.

The Holiday Lights, reflected off the Kennywood lagoon.

We even have Light-Up Night, the official kick-off of the holiday season, when retailers keep the doors open late, we have (you guessed it) fireworks, AND the downtown businesses keep their lights on ALL NIGHT LONG.

And oh, how the meter spins.

Light-Up Night: Electricity AND fireworks!

Where I grew up, about 60 miles south of the city, in the middle of rural nowhere, I lived over the hill from The House. You know The House. In Rogersville, it belonged to Mrs. Eddy. If memory serves, her full name was Mrs. Nancy Lee Lot Moore Lot Phillips Eddy. Note the second Lot, who happened to be the same as the first Lot.

She was a high school math teacher and our own Elizabeth Taylor, always impeccably dressed, with coiffed hair that put 60s glamour girls to shame. And she had a second electric line run to her house, specifically to power her Christmas displays. As a kid, I was blown away, agog; magic poured forth from her lawn along Ten Mile Creek, reflecting green and red and white on the muddied waters, surely visible from space. As a teenager, I laughed and rolled my eyes at it.

Now, of course, I’m a parent, and I totally want my kids to see it. They should drive along Creek Road and see blown-mold plastic Nativity scene, then the blown-mold Santa, hopelessly out of proportion to the white wire reindeer pulling his sleigh. The giant tree, the stars and the lights, and oh! Such eye-watering, Vegas beauty in our little town of Rogersville. My parents once went to a Christmas party inside her house, and reported back that she has a full-size Christmas tree in every room, each with a different theme–red bows, white crystals, homemade ornaments, gold glitter. No word on whether the bathrooms had their own trees, but I’ll bet they at least had knitted toilet paper cozies.

And now, I live here, with my own house to decorate, and realize how very little I understand about the science and magic of yard decoration.

Here’s what I learned yesterday: Christmas lights, one by one, are not expensive, but when you start shelling out enough to decorate a yard, the Lowe’s receipts start piling up. I found that, like any household project, if you don’t buy too much at the start, you’re bound to run out and need to make a second trip at the height of productivity.

Also, I learned than plum trees have thorns. I learned this because my particular plum tree hates Christmas, and protested every attempt to hang a light strand by reaching out a skinny finger and slashing a hash mark in my hands. So I also learned to wear gardening gloves, or pay in blood to the gods of the Winter Solstice.

I learned that taking an unseasonably warm December Sunday to hang lights runs one the risk of hanging electric lights in rain, which, by the way? Totally not as dangerous as it sounds. What’s dangerous is having the ladder out with an adventurous toddler roaming around. She would’ve made it to three steps if I’d kept my back turned a moment longer.

I also found that strings of lights on a large scale–well, larger than a 700-SF apartment, anyway–are Chinese-puzzle like. One must gauge how much string will cover how much of the tree, and still leave room to plug it in–or plug in an additional strand–and one must also decide whether extending a string of lights between trees is desirable, since it will break up the profile of the wrapped tree trunk with a single line of–Christ, it was a long day.

And then there’s the two-pronged and three-pronged extension cords, and timers, and remote control switches–remote control!–and holy crap, was it always this complicated? Maybe there’s something to the adage that in an attempt to make our lives easier, technology has just given us more baffling choices to make wrongly. In any case, I only had to make one extra trip to Lowe’s, and the magic of Liquid Band-Aid has reduced the stinging in my hands and arms to a low throb.

The house is not finished, mind you. I bought a 33-inch tall vintage Frosty the Snowman, along with a 13-inch Santa and Frosty, but they’ve yet to arrive from their ebay sellers. And the darkness over the driveway is just screaming for a giant lighted wreath to hang against the house. But we’re finished with Phase One, and that’s something.

At the end of it all, night fell, and we trucked the kids out to see the lights.

We totally need a wreath, don't you think?

David gave me my due, and Eliza unknowingly quoted “Christmas Vacation” to me by complaining it was too cold. In that moment, I decided the universe was telling me I had achieved at least some of the reflected C9 glory that is Clark Griswold, and I couldn’t ask for much more than that.

But it is Halloween again, and that means it’s time for costuming! Last year I made Eliza a fabulous green skirt as Puck, and she refused to wear it; a few months ago, we rented the first Tinkerbell movie, and she’s over the whole itchy-skirt thing. For those of you who aren’t aware of the Fairy Industrial Complex, there’s a whole series of DVDs about Tinkerbell’s creation myth, and her backstory (before she became a jealous, petulant slave of Peter Pan’s), and after much resisting, I finally gave in and was charmed by the movies, much against my will. Mostly I love Tinkerbell because she’s part of the Tinker guild of fairies. They build and fix things so the more glamorous fairies–the animal, flower, wind, and water fairies–can make the world beautiful. As I do software development for the corporate office of a global architecture firm, I felt an immediate kinship with the Tinker fairies of the world. They’re essentially unsung Fairy geeks.

So Eliza’s a Tinker fairy this year, with the costume I made last year–surprisingly, it still fits!–and I made a stone hammer, which is like a wand for tinker fairies. It’s constructed of a painted styrofoam egg, a dowel, and kitchen twine, so, you know, way complicated. Her crown–not pictured here–is plastic leaf vine from Michael’s. I almost made her wings, and then decided that was addlepated. Done and done.

Gillian was more of a puzzle. What’s a pint-sized accompaniment to a fairy, that’s not also a fairy? A friend of mine, whose 10-year-old is a big fairy fan, suggested pixie dust. As Gillian, with her diminutive height, tiny face and impish grin,  is pretty much the picture of a pixie, I thought that fit perfectly. So how does one make a toddler into a burlap sack?

With a fitted crib sheet and turtleneck, dyed brown in the sink, of course. Cut out leg holes and holes for the drawstring, stuff her full of gold mesh, and fashion a little felt Peter Pan hat (trimmed in white ricrac, of course), and presto: the cutest little bag of pixie dust this side of Neverland.

SHAZAM!

A paci-less pixie.