My daughter Hadley’s butterfly obsession began last summer when my parents bought her a butterfly net and book.

She was not quick enough to capture even one.

That’s why I wasn’t too surprised when she announced she wanted a butterfly kit for Christmas. It seemed like a brilliant strategy: if you can’t catch ‘em, why not grow your own?

My younger brother used to capture butterflies and watch them die, sending my sensitive heart into a tailspin at the thought of God’s beautiful creatures succumbing to my brother’s demonic Collection of Doom.

It is a long process to grow your own butterflies. The day after Christmas, we sent out our request for caterpillars and were promised they would be delivered in 2-6 weeks.

Then we waited…and waited…and waited.

When our larvae finally arrived in a plastic case it took them another 10 days to evolve into chrysalides. Add two weeks more to that formula as we waited for them to emerge.

Hadley was wonderfully patient. Every day, she would report on their progress. We read books, watched YouTube videos and she prophesied what colors they would be.

The night before we were supposed to leave for a trip to Snowmass, It happened: the first butterfly started its metamorphosis.

You know. Because they couldn’t have had worse timing.

We called in reinforcements: our 8-year-old neighbor Sadie became our cat-turned-butterfly-sitter. When we arrived home three days later, nine more butterflies had emerged. Hadley was ecstatic and became a fantastic caregiver.

Until she announced 48 hours later when that she wanted to release them.

Outside.

I patiently explained it was still winter and they would not survive the chilly temperatures. Our mother-daughter game of begging and refusing lasted all day. Exasperated, she finally blurted out,

“Mommy, you don’t understand!”
“What?”

And in that moment, something changed in her countenance.

“I’ve had my butterflies long enough. THEY MUST DIE TODAY.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

On Wednesday, I posted the following on Twitter:

Off to bang my head against the wall a.k.a. once again attempt to teach 5-yr-old Hadley to ride her bike.

I was only kind of joking. My husband Jamie and I tried to teach her last summer but to no avail. To be fair, it was a half-hearted attempt and we kept giving up out of frustration.

Last week, I decided this is The Summer of No Return.

All of her friends can ride on two wheels. In fact, many who are her same age have been doing it for a couple of years. I jokingly call one of our neighborhood families “athletic freaks of nature” because their boys were careening down the block at age 2.

Of course, they also couldn’t stop and could be heard howling “HELLLLLLLLP!”

With an emphasis on the first few letters.

I don’t remember learning to ride my bike. I guess I always assumed when I taught my children, it would be a bonding experience. In all my infinite bike wisdom, I would instruct them accordingly, then run along behind them as I guided their path. After a few failed attempts, I would release them and they would soar away as I sang out, “Fly little bird, fly!”

Instead, my experience has been “YOU’RE BEING ABSURD. YOU WON’T DIE!”

My daughter Hadley is athletic and normally fearless. She brazenly confronts most situations but learning to ride a bike is not one of them. Already at 5 years old, our relationship is a complicated one. We’re a lot alike–both the good and bad. She’s a spirited firecracker like me but also shares my lack of patience. It’s only a matter of time before one of us will eventually melt down.

With Bike Riding 101, we both did.

“I can’t do it. It’s too hard,” she blubbered.
I instantly snapped back at her, “Of course you can! Don’t ever say ‘can’t.’”

As I looked at her dejected, frustrated face, I realized I had to change my approach.

“If you don’t think you can do it, you won’t. But if you tell yourself you can, you will.” I lovingly proceeded to expound upon the intricacies of sports psychology. Most was lost on her except for my key message.

“Hadley, I want you to shout out, “‘I THINK I CAN!’”

The Little Engine That Could ain’t the only one who can do positive affirmation.

She was tentative at first but each time she bellowed it, she started believing. And the more she started believing it, the more she started doing it. She progressed from biking a few feet to 50 feet. I sprinted beside her the entire time.

When we arrived back to the car, I wheezed, “Now, I want you to shout in your loudest voice, “I DID IT!”

“I DID DO IT,” she jubilantly squealed.

At that very moment, her 3-year-old brother slowly hobbled up beside us on her old bike, lost his balance and smashed into the car like a mosquito on the windshield.

One out of two kids ain’t bad.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

It is important for me to teach my 5-year-old daughter Hadley how to cook. My mom was a top-notch chef and ran a popular restaurant for many years. Growing up, I wasn’t what you would call a gourmand.

Case in point: the infamous fiasco when I misread the gingerbread recipe and added 1 cup of ginger instead of 1 tablespoon.

A minor oversight.

My interest in cooking was not ignited until after college. These days, my attempts to tap into my mother’s fountain of knowledge are met with frustration as she tries to recall her from-scratch recipes, none of which are written down nor have actual measurements.

Because evidently good cooks do not use measuring cups.

I bought Hadley an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas. She has always enjoyed cooking with me and I figured this would be one more notch on our mother-daughter bonding belt.

How wrong I was.

I also bought her some astronomically-priced Easy-Bake cookie and cupcake packets. “Just add water,” they promised. What could be easier for an amateur epicurean?

Take it from me: Pan Roasted Wisconsin Pheasant Breast with Truffle Risotto, Carrot Ribbons and Cider Sauce would be MUCH easier.

We preheated the Easy-Bake Oven and pulled out our recipe packet. Really, our first indication that something would go awry should have been when we read that the cookie would bake in 10-12 minutes.

Not likely in an oven heated by a 0.5-watt bulb.

And yes, I did say cookie. As in singular.

The instructions said to add 1 1/2 teaspoons of water to the mix and to stir until it formed a dough. We did so accordingly and all that resulted were a few disjointed lumps. As the daughter of a from-scratch genius, I proclaimed, “No worries, Hadley! Mommy will work her magic.”

And I did. “Just add water” turned into adding flour, butter, milk, vanilla and some more flour. Finally, it was ready and she reverently placed it in her Easy-bake Oven.

Then we waited.

And waited some more.

Did I mention the waiting?

During this time, I manged to crank out three batches of cookies in my real oven as dejected Hadley waited patiently in front of hers. After 40 minutes, it was ready.

“It” as in one cookie.

As it cooled, the next step was the frosting. Again, the instructions guided us to just add water. The result was even worse. I came to the rescue again, creating a masterpiece that would make my Martha Mother proud.

By this time, Hadley was becoming unglued. This “easy” process of adding water and waiting endlessly had taken its toll. She asked me to bring her a bowl for the sprinkles. All of the bowls were in the dishwasher so I brought a plate.

That was the beginning of the end as she seethed, “I SAID I WANTED A BOWL.”

In only an hour, she had turned into Gordon Ramsay from Hell’s Kitchen.

Then again, give her a couple of years of supplementing her Easy-Bake recipes and the kid will put chefs everywhere to shame.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog