When someone sends you an invitation to eat cupcakes at Tavern on the Green, you just go. And that’s exactly what I did last week. But the event went way beyond some fancy, uptown baked goods.

Duncan Hines (ever heard of them?) has partnered with this amazing organization called CancerCare for Kids which offers free support and services to families effected by cancer. They have launched this Duncan Hines National Bake Sale, encouraging people to host bake sales, donate the proceeds to CancerCare and then enter to win prizes here.

Despite the fact that they gave us a parting gift of Duncan Hines carrot cake (Ick. Who eats carrot cake?), I thought the whole thing sounded very cool. So many families are affected by cancer and this is a great way to do something good. These cupcakes above were made by Long Island students. Pretty creative, right?

And this is actually a cupcake, despite how much it looks like a burger.

Even if your cupcaking skills are a little less sophisticated, don’t be shy about getting involved.

By Daphne Biener

“Mom, it’s raining.”

“Yes, it is.” Typically we don’t get much rain, but sure enough buckets of the cold heavy stuff arrived just in time to pound my newbie garden sprouts to a pulp.

“Mom, I need an umbrella to bring to school. What if we go out for recess?”

“You’re not going out for recess in the rain. And no, you can’t have your own umbrella.”

“Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”

Because it’s dangerous. Because you’ll poke out an eye. Because you’ll joust and stab each other. You’ll flip it upside down and race Katie and Nicky down a gutter engorged and raging in a springtime Minneapolis downpour. Oops, wait a second. Wrong generation. That was me and my brother and my mother’s (in retrospect) spot-on argument against umbrella-wielding children.

No wonder I’ve got a headache. I’ve slipped into hangover parenting.

Typically I’m a rational gal. I take this parenting stuff seriously, and for the most part I base my wildly unpopular decisions on a comprehensive analysis of all the facts before me.

Except when I don’t. It seems that some decisions come straight from a darker, more primeval place. One that doesn’t analyze or negotiate and that frankly doesn’t make much sense. Which is how it came to pass that my uber-responsible, dripping wet first-grader boarded her school bus sans-umbrella.

Speaking of dripping wet, tomorrow are try-outs for the town swim team. At the outdoor pool. May in Colorado, so we should expect pretty much anything from Mother Nature. Anything, that is, except for sunshiny warmth when we need it. Predictions call for a steady 50 degree drizzle. Should be lovely.

Tomorrow’s snow-sprints aside, there’s a decent (as in large, not as in good human being) part of me that’s looking forward to forcing my kids into frigid pools this summer. It’s crazy, I know. Irrational that after spending a large slice of life begging these kids into hats and gloves and warmer outfits, I’m now eagerly anticipating brisk mornings of peeling back their sweatsuits for swimsuits. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t buy into it that character-building nonsense; this is hangover parenting at its best.

You see, somehow the passage of years has transformed my own forced march from a cozy cabin into the icy waters of a slimy-bottomed camp lake into something kind of sweet. A universal right-of-passage. A frozen popsicle of idealized childhood. Something I now gaze fondly back upon and wish to share with my own precious children.

Like whipping up a batch of homemade cookies together and letting them lick sticky batter off the beaters. Now that I think of it, that’s the perfect thing for such a dreary day. We’re definitely making cookies.

As soon as they finish their laps and come in out of the rain, that is.

You can read more of Daphne’s work here on the mama bird diaries or visit her site, Sestina Queen.

Don’t you miss those days when you had an endless amount of time to leisurely linger over each and every page of the New York Times? Er, uh, I mean the New York Post. The other day, I was skimming the Post because I don’t want to miss one sensationalized, over-dramatized, gossipy beat in this city and I saw this…

A brother and sister, touring a South African safari park, crossed paths with this six-ton elephant. I showed the photo to my daughter Dylan.

“Honey, look at this huge elephant. He’s resting his… um… He put his…” I point to the picture. “What’s that called?” I ask.

“Trunk,” My 3 1/2 year-old responds.

“Oh, yeah. Now why couldn’t I think of that? He’s resting his trunk on their car. Isn’t that funny?!”

I am hoping that my inability to think of the word “trunk” is a symptom of my 6:30 am wakeup calls, rather than the slow deterioration of my brain. But there is something just a tad unsettling about your toddler reminding you of the name of something you’ve known since your toddler days.

By the way, that duo, with the elephant, is totally fine. The ginormous animal just kind of hung out there for about 6 tense minutes and then wondered off into the brush.

But seriously, couldn’t they just drive away? How fast could an elephant possibly run? He weighs 6 tons for gosh sakes. But what do I know? I couldn’t even come up with the word “trunk” so I’m obviously no elephant savant.

I don’t know how to segue from elephants to really anything else in my life, so – head’s up – we’re done with elephants. I mean, for now. They could totally make a come back. I like to keep things spicy and unpredictable around here.

So yesterday, that THING happened.

You know, when a complete stranger or maybe someone you know walks right on up to you and says those lovely, touching words, “When are you expecting?”

Umm… expecting what exactly? A baby? Oh you see, really super funny story, I’M NOT PREGNANT. But heck, LOOKING pregnant is just as fun. Maybe I’ll kill the afternoon registering for some layette.

So let’s just all agree that unless you see a delivery table, no need to ask a woman when she’s due. If you actually see the delivery table and a woman is laying on it and she looks reasonably uncomfortable and there are a lot of people in white coats and scrubs, then go ahead and ask. If not, skip it.

Jeesh… Way to make a girl feel like an elephant. Oh, there you go. I told you those animals would pop up again.

mama bird notes

We have a guest contributing mama today! Diane LeBleu’s husband has a knack for getting in fender benders and this mama is getting fed up. Click here to read more.

Last chance to enter the mama’s survival kit giveaway! It includes decadent, organic homemade chocolates from nunu chocolates, organic coffee from Grounds for Change, and some eco friendly, fabulous wine from Parducci. To enter to win, just leave a comment this week on the mama bird diaries.

By Diane LeBleu

This is not a man bashing piece – I know the mama birds don’t do that. You nurture and encourage your children and husbands but also have the courage to laugh at the goofy things we mamas and our broods manage to do in the course of missteps we call daily life. But I need to get something off my chest that will not be read by my husband in my usual outlets.

My husband Tom called me at work today – he backed into a car parked in our driveway as he was leaving to take two of our children to swim practice. I hit the roof. My co-workers in the Real Estate office I visit two times a week saw a normally cool, collected woman that usually keeps it together, lose it. He tells me the story and finishes with ‘I guess we need to call it in on our insurance’. ‘No,’ I said with clenched teeth, ‘YOU need to call it in on our insurance’ and I hung up on him.

You see – this is not the first time or the second or even the third time Tom has backed his vehicle into another. It is the EIGHTH time something like this has happened in the almost twenty years we have been together since meeting in college at Trinity University in San Antonio. Good grief, eight times!

We mamas have eyes in the back of our heads. Clearly, this daddy bird does not. Marriage experts tell us not to keep score against a spouse in order to have a happy marriage. I can’t help it. I have freakish recall of people, names, phone numbers, events, license plates, food eaten on occasions. There’s actually a medically diagnosed condition for this (isn’t there always!).

For you People magazine readers, last week’s issue told a story of a woman that can remember what she wore, ate, watched on tv, on Thursday, May 14, 2002. Or what happened on Monday, January 3, 1998. I’m not quite that bad (for example, I can’t remember jokes or card games to save my life) and I don’t keep track of all my husbands gaffes (lest he start keeping track of mine!) but come on! Running your car into another’s is probably something that ought to be tracked – I know our insurance company is keeping tabs.

Don’t we teach our children to learn from our mistakes? Do you continue to touch a hot stove, for crying out loud? Here is a scorecard of my dear husbands bumper busting escapades over the years.

1. November 18, 1992 – The night Tom and I got engaged, we dined at a charming hill country restaurant in Helotes, Texas called the Gray Moss Inn. Leaving the restaurant after 11PM in a torrential downpour, he backed my car (a white Nissan 240 SX) into a large oak tree that peppered the unpaved parking lot. His excuse then: Too much rain, no parking lot lights, giddy from engagement dinner, blind spot in car.

2. January 1993 – Starbucks parking lot, San Antonio Texas. During our DINK days (dual-income-no-kids), my husband drove a beautiful baby blue targa-top Porche Carrera. He backed into a Suburban parked behind him. His excuse then: Manual transmission, no cup holders, hot hot coffee, blind spot in car.

3. October 31, 1999 – Our driveway in San Antonio. Backed our blue Mercedes into Maggie’s (our nanny’s) white convertible mustang parked in the driveway. His excuse then: I didn’t see her parked there (Doh!).

4. October 31, 1999 – Our neighbor’s driveway in San Antonio. Backed our blue Mercedes into JR’s (our friend) car parked on the street leaving a Halloween party. His excuse then: too many cars on the street, no street lights, giddy about move to California on Monday, blind spot in car.

5. March 2003 – Our driveway in Austin, Texas. Backed into Maggie’s (our nanny’s) white Prius with his Isuzu Trooper. His excuse then: She didn’t pull her car up far enough for me to get out (like it’s her fault!).

6. June 2005 – Backed Trooper into “No Parking Sign” in restaurant parking lot. Blind spot. At least no other vehicles involved.

7. August 2007 – Lake Travis. Backed our minivan into a cement post leaving the parking area. According to our kids, it just jumped out of nowhere. Must be a blind spot in the Honda Odyssey.

8. May 13, 2008 – Backed Trooper into Maggie’s brand new red RAV4 in driveway at our house in Austin, Texas. His excuse this time – she didn’t pull her car up far enough for me to get out.

Ok, I know this story may not resonate much with the non-driving city folk. And for those of you living in cities like New York and San Francisco and Chicago where parking is practically non-existent, you know that God created bumpers for a reason. But eight times? And our dear friend Maggie has been tagged three of those eight. She’s due for some good fortune – maybe she should buy a lottery ticket.

I don’t want to misrepresent my husband – he is a wonderful father, good provider, and a lot of fun. We’ve been married now almost fifteen years, for better or worse (yesterday was one of those worse days) but I’m baffled as how to proceed with this. He has a degree in engineering, an MBA, and is a fantastic business consultant. Clients love him. But his mother rationalizes his battiness when it comes to details with ‘oh, he’s just an absent minded professor’. Maybe, but can be a little more diligent when he’s behind the wheel of a thousand-pound, seven-seat motorized bumper crushing machine? I hope so.

On the day after more than 10,000 men, women, and children have been killed and countless others injured and left homeless by a devastating earthquake in China, I need to appreciate what perspective is. But I am compelled to sharpie and duct tape a note on the steering wheel of my husband’s car that reads:

‘Don’t forget to look behind you CAREFULLY. The next thing you hit may be our child.’

Diane LeBleu is the mother of 4 children (Danielle, Travis, Sabrina and Caroline) and lives in Austin, Texas. When she’s not venting about her husband’s propensity to tap other cars, she writes at The Writing Mamas Salon of Austin and Divine Caroline.

A couple days ago, I was at a playground in Tribeca. Not the dicey, shady park I told you about (I can’t treat my kids to that EVERY day… com’on they would be so spoiled) but a good ol’ family park with glowing, pregnant woman, clean sand and tons of awesome playground equipment.

I was really getting a kick out of this one kid who was dressed in a full pirate’s get-up. A very strong costume for the month of May. This boy seriously did not miss a pirate accessory.

In full disclosure, my daughter Dylan was wearing a bathing cap that very same day. Not for a few minutes. Not for an hour. The entire day.

I can only guess that she is gearing up for the Beijing summer Olympics… in which case I am enormously relieved to see that she is getting plenty of fluids. And I’m sure you can easily imagine how many times I asked her ever so casually, like I really didn’t care at all, “Honey, shall we take off that swim cap now?”

But maybe she didn’t make the qualifying rounds because today, the swim cap was gone. Instead, Peter Pan’s gal pal, Tinkerbell, accompanied me to the grocery store.

But Dylan likes to keep her tulle edgy, so she added pants and camouflage rain boots. It’s sort of a mix of princess and street cool, which I dig.

Anyway, never mind about the pirates and the tinkerbells because I’m pretty, absolutely sure I saw Julia Roberts in the baby aisle at Whole Foods. I noticed a woman picking up Seventh Generation diapers and that’s when I thought, “Holy crap, I need diapers.” And then I immediately forgot all about Summer’s diapers and thought, “Holy mystic pizza, that’s Julia Roberts.”

Now I know I’ve been a bit of a celebrity slut lately with the whole Michael Kors snapshot, but Julia Roberts just seemed so incredibly beautiful and lovely, that I was kind of entranced. I just watched her gracefully maneuvering her cart, rolling it off towards the gourmet cheese section.

I told my husband about the 94% sure sighting and he said, “That Whole Foods is like the grocery store to the stars.”

“Really?! Who else have you seen there?” I asked.

“Samantha Bee from “The Daily Show.”

“Oh yes, I’ve seen her in the produce section. And?” I inquired. I couldn’t wait to hear more.

“Umm… I guess that’s it.”

“Oh.”

Samantha Bee from Jon Stewarts “Daily Show” is a smart, funny performer but I’m not sure she transforms our Whole Foods into the GROCERY STORE OF THE STARS.

But heck, I don’t care. I’ll start calling it that.

mama bird notes

Check out my latest piece, “Mommy, You’re Hurting Me” at NYC Moms Blog.

Don’t forget to enter the mama’s survival kit giveaway! It includes decadent, organic homemade chocolates from nunu chocolates, organic coffee from Grounds for Change, and some eco friendly, fabulous wine from Parducci. To enter to win, just leave a comment this week on the mama bird diaries.

One final note, if you believe in the power of prayer or even if you don’t, I would love you to say a prayer for my friend Kristin K. and her family. They really need a miracle and all of you out there are a pretty powerful, amazing group so please hold them in your hearts and keep them in your prayers. Thanks mamas and papas and everyone.