My Favorites

Okay, so I'm not Oprah Winfrey with the Favorites Show or anything, but since I'm here, and since I do have some favorite things, I thought I'd start sharing them with you....
Today I'll share with you my recipe for my favorite chocolate chip cookies. These are amazing. I must say, it took me a long time to create this recipe because I was trying to replicate my grandmother's chocolate chip cookies. I came as close as I could, and I'm satisfied. I hope you'll like 'em. But first you need to understand two rules:
1) Butter makes the world go 'round. I am not shy about using real butter, real sugar, and real vanilla. Who wants to eat stuff that they can't pronounce, anyhow? So buy yourself some bricks (yes, bricks, not sticks) of the real stuff and keep 'em on hand. Everything will suddenly taste better at your house. I use salted, but this is negotiable.
2) There are not enough chocolate chips in a standard-size bag for a batch of cookies. So get a couple bags. This recipe uses a bag and a half. What to do with the other half? Well...I'll leave it up to you, but they're great add-ins for pancakes, they're a great quick chocolate fix, and I personally recommend them for potty training rewards.
So let's get started...you will need:
-1/2 pound of butter. Cut a pound brick right down the middle. If you cut it unevenly, use the bigger half. The butter directly correlates to the golden crispiness on the outside of the cookie, so you don't wanna skimp.
-3/4 c. packed brown sugar
-3/4 c. granulated sugar
-1 tsp. vanilla
-2 eggs
-1 and 1/2 tsp. cinnamon (yep, cinnamon!)
-2 and 1/2 c. flour
-1 tsp baking soda
-1 tsp salt
-1 and 1/2 bag of chocolate chips. I prefer Nestle Tollhouse.

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. You need parchment paper, not cooking spray.
Place your half pound of butter in a large bowl for about 30 minutes. You want it to soften, but not too much. You'll know it's ready when you can mash it down easily with a spatula. Do not microwave your butter.
Add in the two sugars, and mix them till it's a soft, doughy consistency. I always mix my cookies with a spatula. One, because I'm not privileged enough to own a beautiful Kitchenaide Stand mixer, and two, because I think they turn out better when you hand mix 'em.
Then, in a smaller bowl, or a coffee mug, beat your eggs. Add in the vanilla and cinnamon to the eggs....it's like we're making french toast! But we're not...
Pour this mixture in with your butter/sugar mixture, and cream them all together. I've always wondered what "creaming" meant.
Then add in your baking soda and salt. You do not need to use a separate bowl to "sift" those ingredients together. I think that's hogwash. Or, it's because people who write cookbooks or are on cooking shows want you to think they have lots of bowls and lots of time to wash all these bowls.
Stir in the dry ingredients, and add the flour in bit by bit until it's all in there. At this point, you'll find the mixture hard to stir. Infact, you'll probably need to start "kneading" it with your spatula, pulling it away from the sides and into the middle and so forth.
Now add your chippers. Weird confession: I think this cookie dough looks pretty with the chips in there....and I own a sweater that reminds me of chocolate chip cookie dough. Mmm...
Okay, now we scoop it onto the parchment-lined sheet. The easiest way to do this is to grab a teaspoon out of your silverware drawer, and scoop out little heaping spoonfuls...and then put them into your hand and squish them into little "balls." Not perfect balls like you'd do for peanut-butter cookies or something, but just a little bit of uniformity. Your hands are a heck of a lot better at this than a fancy cookie scoop, too. I fit about 20 cookies on my big sheet, about an inch and a half apart. These cookies shouldn't spread too much, they're pretty thick.

Bake them about 10 minutes...or depending on your oven settings, till the tops of them are turning a golden brown color. Touch one in the oven, and if it "deflates," leave it in a little longer. You don't want them going flat on you when they cool. As you wait for the longest 10 minutes in life to expire, sample your dough a few times. I don't personally know anyone who has gotten salmonella poisoning from cookie dough, so I do this. If you know someone who has, you'll probably think twice about it.
Transfer baked cookies to a wire rack. Or, do like my Gram did and put them on a paper towel on the kitchen counter. It'll do.

Continue this process till you've got all your dough baked...you'll end up with somewhere around 45-50 cookies. Grab yourself a glass of milk and do some damage. Caution: do this damage after you've let the cookies cool a minute. I speak from experience here, it WILL take at least 24 hours for the roof of your mouth to regain sensation after putting a just-out-of-the-oven cookie in there, no matter how tempting it looked.

On Value

So, here's how it started: Our house was sound asleep. Then came the "stirring." The restless back and forth head movements of my baby girl, as she begins to wake. Then came the fussing that accompanies the stirring after a minute or two. I groaned and looked at the clock, which read 5:48 a.m. Not too bad. I laid there, mentally preparing myself to sit up and take Ella from her bassinet, when my husband popped up out of bed to go retrieve her. I couldn't believe it. I thought sure I was dreaming. Enveloped in the moment of great sleepy happiness, I rolled over and pulled my blankets up to my chin and closed my eyes. But the fussing didn't stop. And I didn't hear her bottle preparation in the works...so I rolled back over and peeked one eye open, to see Randy standing next to me, holding her, with a look of expectation on his face. Read: I do NOT like looks of expectation at 5:48 a.m.. He laid Ella down on the bed and handed me a diaper and the baby wipes. He then made her a bottle...and handed that to me too. I sat up in bed, completely defeated, and I changed and fed the now squirmy and very much awake baby...while she giggled and gurgled in her great "awake" happiness. And without a word, my husband slipped back under the covers and closed his eyes.
So that's when I said it.
"Does it ever occur to you that I'd like to sleep once in a while too? Does it occur to you that I'm actually not the ONLY one who knows how to change a diaper or make a bottle? Or that maybe once in a while, you could just handle this and let me rest?"
Silence...
Two minutes pass.
I clear my throat, purposely loud.
Finally he speaks: "Well, it's not like you have to work or anything."
So that's when I blew up. I'm quite sure I looked like a Looney Tunes character with bloodshot eyes bugging out of my head and steam coming out of my ears. I said lots of things. Things I shall not repeat here. But in conclusion, I said:
"I guess I'm going to have to go and get a REAL JOB in order to be considered valuable around here."
Value.
I think I'm a valuable person...my dogs think I'm pretty great. My cats like to know I'm here to feed them...and my kids, they'd surely miss me. But it's true, I technically don't have a real job. I did have a really good job. I made good money and I had opportunities to advance into future career endeavors... and then I quit it, to do this mommy thing. This mommy thing that is, by far, the most equally rewarding and gut-wrenchingly challenging position I've ever accepted in my life. And to be egotistical for a second, I'm smart, I'm a little funny, and I think I was an asset to the "real job world" at one point. Once, an aquaintance on my Facebook page posted as his status that something (I can't even remember what the something was) is "as useless as a mom's college degree." I got upset by that. Offended. And then I realized, it was just ignorance on his part. He has no idea what moms have to put up with on a daily basis. There are things we moms do that would be unthinkable in the outside work environment. Our job requires: heavy lifting, dealing with extremely insubordinate "employees," responsibility to feed and clothe said "employees" sometimes several times a day,dealing with hazardous materials (messy diapers, runny noses, stomach flu...need I say more?),no sick time, no vacation, overtime EVERY day with no extra pay, and come to think of it, no paycheck at all, actually. Teaching duties include: teaching one to read and write, one to fall asleep on her own and one to use the potty...Oh yeah, and secretarial duties include: making doctor appointments, dentist appointments and scheduling around Tae Kwon Do. A lot of this happens before I even get a shower in the morning. I could come up with one heck of a resume. This makes me chuckle, considering my official bachelor's degree title was "Organizational Management." I don't think this is what they meant.
A good cousin of mine invited me to become part of her network on Linkedin...cousin, if you're reading, I did accept the invite! But I struggled with the part where it asked me what my occupation is. I didn't see Mom on there anywhere. So I thought I'd just pick one off the list. Administrative Service Manager? Hmm...or maybe Chef/Head Cook? Barber would fit too...Captain?...Bus Driver(Gold Lame' is pretty bus-like)...Education Administrator, Labor Contractor, Healthcare Support Worker...this is getting tough. Even Animal Breeder might be considered appropriate, if you've met my children. So, I simply left the field blank. I couldn't choose just one.
Someday, maybe I'll rejoin Corporate America. But for now, I'm satisfied being the head of my own corporation here. And I greatly respect all of you individuals who work outside the home, I truly do. I don't think I'm better than any of you. It's a tough world out there. I didn't think twice about writing about this topic today, though, because I'll bet there are a lot of stay-at-home moms out there just like me, who may feel the same way. Those of us who've been asked "What do you do for a living?" and when we answer, we get "Oh, how nice for you"...or , "oh, I wish I had the luxury of staying at home too." You know my answer? "It is nice," and "I wish you could, too, because you'll learn more about yourself in 24 hours than you ever thought you could know." And, to end this painfully long post with my signature wit and charm (it' alright, you can roll your eyes here), I do challenge the Facebook aquaintance who made the Bozo claim that a mom's degree is useless to come and spend a day in my shoes. We'll see if he'd like to retract his statement.

The Greatest Gift

Christmas has become really complicated. It's become a race against time... There are those folks who start early, displaying their Christmas spirit even before Thanksgiving. One brave neighbor turns on their outside lights, then another, then another...until the final procrastinator in the neighborhood digs his lights out of the shed and haphazardly staples them to the house once again. Then you have those who have a certain affection for inflatable lawn decor. It must be the Christmas spirit that allows the Grinch to sit amicably alongside Winnie the Pooh in a Santa hat. I don't really get it.
There are those who dash around, last-minute shopping, a crazed look in their eyes as the Target cart gets filled with various toys and trinkets. These are the folks who will literally take it to blows if it's the last Zhu Zhu pet on the shelf. Watch out for that crazed look, I'm telling you. Then you have those who have a plan to scope out the sales at a number of stores before making a selection. A method, a purpose. Not a dollar spent without painstaking consideration.
Good driving habits tend to suffer neglect this time of year also...I've noticed a few people waving hello very strangely...using only one finger instead of the entire hand. Weird. I've also noticed a few people who must believe that someone's yard is merely an extension of Cleveland Avenue, for if you can't get there fast enough in the lanes provided, why not just create your own? I overheard a frazzled mom in Meijer the other day too, trying to talk to her husband over her screaming, punching children. He was standing next to the chocolate chips, and she was trying to think (which is impossible when you have screaming, punching children) of how many bags she needed for cookies. She finally barked at him: "I have no idea, just get 8 bags and LET'S GO!" Eight bags? Is she having a bake sale? Probably not. She, like me, is probably just overwhelmed with the expectation and anxiety that has replaced the warm fuzzy feelings of goodwill. I'm not kidding, people...the Christmas rush, in my opinion, has gotten downright ridiculous.
Why have we let this happen? We're all somewhat guilty. I love our pretty tree, and the look on my kids' faces when they open the "just what I wanted" gift.
I worked really hard, though, this year, to remind myself of the true meaning of Christmas.
The old familiar tale, in my opinion, is most beautifully summarized as Linus VanPelt quotes the book of Luke:
"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them,
Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Magi appeared from distant Persia, partly because of curiosity brewing over the rumored birth of a child who would be the Savior, and partly because they just couldn't take their eyes off of this unbelievably radiant star that led the way to the manger. The three magnificently dressed Kings bestowed Frankincense, Gold and Myrhh at the lowly manger of this newborn.
I consider this to be the first message to us, present day, that we are to continue to show our wonder and admiration for Christ by bestowing our gifts at His feet. When we consider all the hype and gift-giving and money spending and chaos, it sets ya back a little when you consider how simply Christmas all began... in a dirty cave that made shelter for a frightened mother who, with no medical assistance, drugs, or even sanitary conditions gave birth to a child who would save us all. So at this Christmastime, I hope we can all think of the greatest gift of all...the gift we received that night, when God gave us His son.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKk9rv2hUfA

Twas the Night Before Christmas

Everyone knows the poem " 'Twas the Night Before Christmas"....and oddly enough, no one really knows who wrote it. It first appeared in the Troy Sentinel in 1823, and while a biblical scholar named Clement Moore "allowed" his name to be attached to it in 1837, it is unclear as to whether or not he actually wrote it.

Either way, here's my own twist on the poem. I hope you enjoy.....

Twas the night before Christmas, and here in our hut

Are three noisy children and a couple of mutts.

One stocking is missing, somewhere in Isaac’s mess

He snuck off with it a week ago, to make the cat a dress.

If we can get to bed by midnight, it will be a blessing

‘Tho I doubt that it will happen, as I’ve been really stressing.

I plan to go to Christmas mass, and sing a carol or two

Then come home to wrap some gifts, and pop open a brew.

Who knows, I may see Mr. Claus; he’d surely be a sight

After waiting for him, as a child, peering into the skies at night

He’d slide onto my roof, in his sleigh with ease and grace

I can hardly imagine what I’d do if I really saw his face.

I’d hear him silence the trampling hooves of his eight glorious pets

I’d wonder who’d believe this sight? Not too many, I would bet.

He’d come down my chimney, and with his booming “Ho Ho Ho”

I’d be certain he’d wake the children, then everyone would know

Of my rendezvous with ‘Ol Saint Nick; they’d all believe me then

But I may just keep it to myself, our secret meeting in the den.

With lightening speed, he’d place the gifts beneath our white-lit tree

I’d feel just like a child again, all eager and full of glee.

He’d eat his milk and cookies, left with love from the boys

He’d pat his jolly belly, and leave a few more toys.

He’d notice the sleeping baby, all snuggled at my chest

Then he’d wink and say “Good work, Mama, now you go get some rest.”

With a warmth in my heart and a new feeling of peace

I’d feel my eyelids slowly close, and finally give in to sleep.

Somewhere in the depths of my dream, I’d hear him packing up to leave

And I’d know that all those years it was true, the stories I’d believed.

For if we believe with the hearts of our children, no matter how absurd

There really is a Santa Claus, and then there are those words…

‘Tho I was fast asleep, I know I heard him call:

“Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”…and then he exclaimed

As he flew out of sight “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

On Being Disciplined

"Ponked" is what I apparently did this morning when a car in front of me did not turn quickly enough as I was headed into a store parking lot. You only get the green arrow light for a couple seconds at this particular intersection. So I heard: "Mom, did you just ponk at him?" and I answered yes. I ponked because, as I recognize, I am rather impatient. I want to get where I'm going. I want to get there yesterday. I don't enjoy driving places that much, unless it's a cool roadtrip or something with some sort of nostalgic meaning. If it's a trip to the store, I just want to get there and get home. My impatience doesn't stop there. I don't like waiting for packages in the mail, waiting for projects to be finished...I don't like waiting, period. So, as I'm thinking of this today, I realize my other "disciplines" are also a little out-of-whack.
Perhaps this is because we've been discussing discipline at home. You see, Isaac began Tae Kwon Do school yesterday. And there was plenty of talk about the discipline that it requires to master this art form. Isaac's teacher told me that it's very important that I remind him of key disciplinary points. For example, when he's acting out a behavior that is less-than-desirable, I should remind him that I would like for him to stop the behavior. I should do this calmly, and explain why I'm making such a request. This is hard for me. My usual, impatient self would typically say, once, and admittedly with amplified volume, "Knock it off." If it then continued, my reaction would be to assist my child in a trip to the time-out step. I don't think Isaac's teacher is suggesting that we'll never have to do time-outs again, but I think the goal is to develop Isaac's self-discipline well enough that he can control these behaviors on his own. So, supposing this is what actually happens, does this mean I have to become a black belt to gain some self-discipline skills?
As I consider this, I realize faults in other aspects of my own self-discipline. Let's take eating, for example. I'm horribly weak around food. I love food. Most any kind. My love handles could tell you steamy tales of forbidden nights when we've stood over a pan of brownies on the stove, a fork in one hand and a glass of milk in the other...but those are forbidden tales...so I forbid myself from continuing...Ok, so I fail at that discipline.
Maybe exercise? That thing that I start with a vigorous burst of energy about three times a year, and then after a few weeks give up dramatically and depressingly, seeking comfort in a Paula Deen cookbook? (See above paragraph?) Again, fail.
How about my lady-like manners? More specifically, my ability to control the urge to say inappropriate words. Cussing, you might call it. If you were honest. I choose to dampen it a little, calling them inappropriate words. Considering one of my sons has been caught a number of times muttering "dammit" when he drops or breaks something, and the other is closely trailing with his exclamations of "holy capp!"....mmhmm, you can say it, I fail.
Oh, and here's one more: I have no discipline in stores like Sam's Club. In fact, that's what started this story, as that is the store we visited this morning. I have some mental disorder that leads me to believe, wholeheartedly, that I will need a six-pack of window cleaning foam. A barrel of apple juice that will nary fit in my fridge? Yes, put it in the cart. Toss in the king-size tub of pretzel sticks too. I don't care that I don't even really like pretzels, how can you resist it when there's four hundred of them together? I think part of this problem is that you have to display a little membership card, too, in order to purchase this stuff. It's like a secret, buy-much-more than you need society. And I'm a member. Epic, epic fail.
So, I wonder how challenging it will be to help my child learn the discipline it takes to be a Tae Kwon Do student when my own skills aren't squeaky clean. Honestly, I'm thinking it'll be a very challenging, but very rewarding process for both of us.
And to clarify, I'm not suggesting that I'm a completely lazy, barbaric, morbidly obese sailor-mouth. But let's be really clear: I'm not a size 4 Jillian Michaels with a charm school certificate, either. Although I do have that Sam's card.
One way or another, we'll get the hang of this Tae Kwon Do way of life. Who knows, maybe I'll even join my son on the mats...either that, or he can just go back to playing baseball. After all, I was a good "snack-mom." It's easy to be a hero when you show up with enough juice boxes and pretzel sticks to feed the lower half of Texas.
Hi Yah!

Writer's Block

I have writer's block. I haven't written in almost a week, and it's because I can't really think of a good topic. It's not that nothing has happened around here. It's not that my children haven't said or done funny things....it's just that I think about writing and I realize my life is perhaps not that interesting.
So, here's what I'm gonna do: I'm going to write some random thoughts that weren't necessarily grand enough alone to develop into a posting. Maybe if you think they are, you can help me out. You can let me know if you'd like to hear more about it:

• My sons were Joseph and a sheep for the church Christmas pageant on Sunday. I had nothing to do with this pageant, and was a little surprised to see Isaac emerging from the back room of the church looking more like a ninja than a poor, confused man who's virgin gal was about to give birth. I was admittedly less surprised when Gabe chose to be a barking and growling sheep. No shepherd could tame him.
• Today is my husband's birthday. He wanted (brace yourself) strawberry cake. No, let's just be honest. He wanted strawberry cupcakes. With "strawberry mist" icing. Not something manly...like a mincemeat pie. Or even a generic little yellow cake. Nope. Pink and fluffy. So, that's what I made. And there are little pink fluffs all over my kitchen counter as I type. He has eaten four of them thus far. The good news is, perhaps he will be an ideal guest for my daughter's tea parties.
• My baby girl, Ella, has chronic stomach issues. My son Gabe had the same issues. Gabe ended up hospitalized at seven months because of his problems. I pray this is not where I am headed with Ella. She just can't seem to digest food properly. She cries endlessly when a tummyache hits, which is increasingly frequent. Poor child.
• I think about my grandmother constantly. I wonder if it means I have issues. Besides the issues I already know I have. My grandmother died five years ago, and I can't let go.
• Speaking of my grandma, I'm having a big family Christmas party this coming Saturday. I am not sure why I took on such an event. There has already been so much controversy surrounding it; it will certainly provide me with resources for future blogs.
• Speaking of controversy, a major one occured in my household on Saturday. I suggested we pick up my stepson and bring him to our house for the night. This would be my husband's son. This child's mother has convinced him that I am pure evil. This boy spoke to me worse than I think I've been spoken to in a long, long time, and the sad reality is that the words from his mouth weren't even his own. They were the coached words of his mother. Why do people do this to their kids? I could write an entire post on the things I've done to better this child's life. Anyway, he didn't end up spending the night. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle being in the house with me. I should include that the cheif reason for the problem is the religion his mother practices. They are Jehovah's Witnesses. While I'm not one to persecute other religions, I must admit to you it is taking all the willpower in my little fingertips not to tell you how I really feel about this religion and the choices that have been made in this boy's home. I realize I'm divulging juicy details about my life that maybe I wouldn't normally be okay with sharing. But I'm just in a juicy detail sharing sort of mood, I suppose. And no, I've not been drinking.
• But (and yes, I realize that I sometimes begin sentences with conjunctions)...a glass of wine sounds mighty fine....after reading all the above, that is.

Cheers to you on this dreary night....

And please do stay tuned. I promise it'll get better.

Ode to DeDe

'Little over two weeks ago, my Isaac lost his very best friend. I've never seen this child so sad, so absolutely heartbroken and devastated. Before I lead you down the wrong path, I must clarify: his friend is not human. His friend is a little, grey terry cloth covered stuffed dog, with a big nose and a tiny head. It's tattered, missing a tail, and it's been loved so much that the fluff in it's neck is wearing thin so it's head flops a little. He's had this dog since birth. And let me get another thing straight. Although the dog's name is DeDe, it is not a girl. Isaac has corrected many a person who refers to DeDe as a 'she.' In fact, just to clear it up completely, "DeDe" wasn't really even a proper name, to begin with. It was how Isaac said "dog" when he was learning how to talk. So, naturally, DeDe carried on to become "dog's" name.
Anyhow, at several points in this child's life, I have feared this would happen. Once, we were in TJ Maxx, and I swear I wasn't buying another sweater or looking at shoes, but during the process of not looking, somehow DeDe fell out of the hands of my boy, and it wasn't till we were leaving the store that he asked the sweat-inducing question: "Where's my DeDe?" I remember racing up and down the aisles of that store, in and out of clothes racks, pilfering through boxes of shoes that I had, again, not been looking at. At last we spotted him, on the floor beneath a dress rack. Whew.
Another time, we were in a hurry to leave for someplace I don't recall. We got down to Auten Rd, the cross street we always turn on, and you guessed it, there was that question again. I tried to suggest that he had just left him at home, but this child was insistent that we stop the car and look. As I swerved onto the shoulder, horror struck me as I suddenly remembered that I put DeDe on the roof of the car while I was buckling the boys in. I was positive this stuffed animal was a goner. I unbuckled my belt and exited the car wincing, knowing I would look up at an empty roof. Sure enough. It was gone. I walked around to the back of the car and kicked the tire, cursing myself for doing this, and agonizing over how I'd tell Isaac. I rested my head on the back window staring at the road behind the car...and there he was. A little stuffed grey head poking out of the ditch. I ran to his rescue and delivered him to his faithful owner. That was a miracle, for sure.
Oh, and there were countless times that a store clerk would chase after us because Isaac had left DeDe by the register, or a waitress would catch us on the way out of a restaurant when he'd been left in the booth.
But this time was different. This time, no one chased us down, no one said "oh, I remember where I saw him..." I couldn't even remember the last place I saw DeDe with Isaac. He'd become such a fixture under my son's arm, it was hard to recall anything different. We searched his room, particularly his bed, which is a pit of toys (no Dr. Phil or Supernanny comments on how to raise my kids necessary here, people). We searched the basement, where the kids play. We looked high and low, but DeDe didn't reappear. I began to think he was probably in a grocery cart...considering all the Meijer trips we had made around Thanksgiving, I figured it the most probable case. I called Meijer, too. The clerk on the phone paused, and then a half-snottily, half-amusedly said "Noooo, we don't have any tailless little grey dogs in our lost and found." This child was beside himself. I thought it might pass, after a few days. No. For two weeks straight, he cried about it, drew pictures of DeDe, wrote letters to him, and theorized that DeDe was somewhere dark and cold and no one was loving him. I think, in reality, Isaac was the one feeling a dark and cold pit in his stomach, missing his dear grey friend. He confessed through tears that it was all his fault, he was sure he'd left him somewhere, and he told me (remember, he's five, not thirty-five) that this was the worst pain he's ever felt in his life.
My father promised to help look for it. My mother and sister were wrought with anxiety over this little dog. I prayed that God would help me find it. I even hoped, in some child-like way, that a Christmas miracle would bring him back to us. Maybe someone would find him. Heck, everyone who knows Isaac also knows DeDe...it was possible someone would see him somewhere.
Last night, Isaac had another breakdown. He sat down by the Christmas tree, on his knees, his head hanging. I asked what was wrong, and then I noticed big teardrops plopping down on his lap. He said he didn't care if any other presents came under that tree, he just wanted to see DeDe again. This prompted one last search. We tore apart the basement, including the mechanical room and the storage room. My husband went upstairs to Isaac's room, and I could hear him up there, literally moving furniture and ransacking the room. At one point, it was all quiet again. I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs, and braced myself for the shoulder shrug. The "well he's just not up there" shrug. I could tell by the look of hopelessness in my boy's eyes that he was expecting it too. I can't tell you how this next part is possible. I really don't know. I tell you I looked for hours, I begged for some sort of divine assistance, I cried for this child and his DeDe...but to no avail. So I don't know how, after two weeks, this floppy grey head came around the corner in my husband's arms. But I can tell you that tears of relief and joy and general "oh my Lord is this really happening" raced down my face and Isaac's too, as he held his tattered buddy. DeDe had somehow gotten lost in Isaac's closet....in hindsight, it was probably when I had Isaac clean out his closet....about two weeks prior. Either way, DeDe was 'home.'

I realize this is bittersweet. I realize it may have been a good opportunity to say "well, he's five now, and it's probably time he gave up his attachment, anyhow." I realize it could happen again. But I also realize a bond that meant something to my son. This little dog comforts him, makes him feel safe. It's his friend, his confidant. I realize he'll grow older and make "real" friends, and even experience real loss, but somehow, I hope he can hold on to DeDe, even if it just becomes a decoration on his bed. It means something very special to him. And even though this is already long, I have to share with you my justification for this relationship, for I have believed the Skin Horse's words for years and years, since my own childhood:
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real...It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."--The Velveteen Rabbit

Snowy Morning Recollections

Well, I'm glad this morning was snowy. My kids are glad too, for different reasons. Snow is white, and pure, and unscathed by nature. Let's try to pretend it's not acid snow for a second. Anyway...I needed this after a day of mayhem yesterday. I needed a pure, fresh start.
I had church in the morning...I sang. People liked it, or they said they did. I always wonder, if they didn't like it, would they tell me? If it was as good as they say, maybe I should pursue the whole singing thing. I had a scratchy throat, I think I have throat cancer, actually....and I wasn't altogether proud of my performance. That was step one.
Step two: I had to get my sister ready for her Madrigals performance, and then attend the performance/dinner with my five-year old. Note: there was to be china on the tables. (Shudder). Turns out the china wasn't my worst enemy...it was the large knife stuck in the loaf of medieval bread that my son found fascinating. He took it out and held it up as if to spear someone...for a second, before I carefully peeled his fingers from around it. Other highlight of madrigals: had to walk approximately 17 miles in heels to and from Gold Lame'. If you don't know Goldie, read previous posts.
Meanwhile, my husband is home with the two little ones, entering survival mode. You see, I did not prepare any lunch for them. Even with a full fridge and a full pantry, if a meal is not created out of the food item options, we will, theoretically, starve. And the earth may actually stop turning. According to my husband. So after my 17 mile hike, in heels, this is what I return home to. Did I mention I still had heels on?
Then step 3: Community Christmas service. Hundreds of people packed like sardines into a church, singing carols. It's pretty. It's also hot. And it's about 20 degrees hotter when you're stressing because your three very vocal children are also in the sanctuary. It's not that they were misbehaving...it is just that they only have one volume: loud. So I led my choir through their Jewish/Slovic/80's Dance Party number, while simply guessing and praying that our piano accompanist could see the white tip of my conductor's baton. I could only see her hair over the lid of the baby grand. It went well, I guess. I have trouble when the piano is on my left. I am deaf in my left ear. Everything sounded very distorted to me, but I'm told it sounded nice.
The stressful part here was just that I had to sit with my children through the rest of the service. They don't sit still for that long. Isaac kept saying (in his one volume) "Can we leave?!" and Gabe was chewing on prayer request forms in the pew. At least it wasn't a hymnal...or a Bible. Ella was a few rows back with my mother. My mother who did not remove the baby's coat, or her own coat for that matter, for the entire service. I imagine they were both roasting. I'm sure of it, actually.
So, this morning's snow is refreshing. A new day. A clean slate. I've thus far had a cup of lovely coffee, made French Breakfast Puffs (mmmm), and studied each of the puffy, beautiful just-woke-up faces of my children. I have not showered yet. Actually, I haven't even changed out of my pajamas. And I am absolutely, definitely, without-a-doubt not wearing heels today.

A Little Christmas Spirit

I took my kids to McDonald's this morning for breakfast. I do this for two, and only two reasons: there is a Play Place where my boys can run freely and hoot and holler like the apes that they are, and my husband happens to run this particular store with the Play Place. Which means that my kids can do the aforementioned and most of the workers and several of the customers know who they are and don't complain. They actually tell me these boys are cute. They don't live with us.
A customer approached me while we were waiting in line (yes, we wait, like all the rest of the people despite our celebrity status). And I'm kidding about the celebrity status thing. Anyway, this customer was an older woman who promptly told me I am brave for taking my three children to a restaurant by myself. I did my usual half-smile, half-giggle thing that I do to try to make people think it's no big deal when really I'm thinking "I KNOW! This is crazy!" This lady says she had three girls, then three boys, and then two more girls. They are all grown now. My eyes widened and I swallowed hard and told her she was the one who was brave. So, she proceeds to order and pay, and then turns to me and shoves a fistful of cash at my free hand (the other one is holding the infant seat). I was shocked, flooded with thoughts "do I look really poor and awful?" "Does she think I can't pay to feed these kids?" I didn't know what to say, other than to try and politely decline the money. I tried and she said that she really just wanted me to take it and buy the kids breakfast. I didn't know whether to feel humiliated or just to accept it and smile. I chose a little bit of both. Bev, the cashier at the time, just kind of stood there and smiled, observing the whole scenario...and she didn't charge me for my food anyway, which is pretty typical when we go to my husband's store. So I told myself I'd "pay it forward." Suddenly everyone around me became a potential "victim." A scrawny old man in a much-too-thin sweater buying a senior citizen's coffee, I thought, would be the first one I helped. I gave the cashier a couple dollars and told her to give him a breakfast sandwich too. He got his coffee and was handed the sandwich, and he looked confused. The cashier looked at me nervously and then back at him, and a smile broke out over her face and she told him "must be elves that made this for you." He chuckled and took his hot coffee and sandwich to his little table alone. This felt good. As we walked with our tray to the Play Place, my son Isaac asked me if he could have some of the money. I started to tell him no, but then I thought "what the hey"and gave him $3. We were going to Walmart next, he could buy some candy for himself and his brother.
As we sat down to eat, he said "Mom, I saw that you bought that man's sandwich. He looked really happy." I told him I thought so too. He then said "I know there's lots of people everywhere that would be happy to have someone buy them stuff." Again, I agreed with the child. He then suggested that we buy a little toy at Walmart and put it in one of the Toys for Tots boxes on the way out, and I thought it would be a wonderful idea. I was very proud of him...considering he is usually belly-aching about getting something for himself before we even leave for the store.
We did just as he suggested. The boys decided on a Transformer toy and we took it to the checkout with our groceries. As I pulled the rest of the money out of my wallet, I decided to see just how far my son's charity stretched today, and I said "Do you want to use the money I gave you, too?" He looked at me, perplexed. He scrunched his eyebrow, just one of them, and said "No, mom, but I am gonna do something good with it, just wait." I scrunched my eyebrow back at him and nodded my head.
As we walked out of the store, we dropped our toy in the box. Isaac started digging in his pocket. "No, buddy," I said, "you don't put money in the box."
"I'm not, Mom, hold on."
He ran ahead of me, and just as I started to scream at him for taking off without me, I saw what he was doing. He headed straight for the Salvation Army Bell Ringer, a big bearded man. I hurried forward and heard this child's words spoken softly but crystal clear: "I have $3 to put in your bucket to help someone who needs it. Have a Merry Christmas. God bless you." I couldn't believe my ears. It was the single-most precious moment I've ever experienced with this child, who is normally boisterous and loud, and has an ongoing, year round list of things he wants for himself. But today, I'd like to think he was moved by the Christmas spirit...and I'm sure I'll never forget it.

Gettin' Done Up

I hadn't gotten a haircut since 2 weeks before Ella was born, so that puts us somewhere in the begining of September. As a former salon junkie, I know this is an unacceptable amount of time. Well, that's relative, I guess. When I was a junkie, I could justify 2 or 3 or 5 trips a month for root touch-ups (I was highlighted), nail repairs, bang trims or an eyebrow hair gone awry. Then kid number one came....and the addiction slowed a bit. Once a month would have to do. It's expensive. Kid two came. Holy moly, did they raise their prices?! $45 for a haircut and 2 hours in a chair...while my kids are probably killing the babysitter....every six weeks would have to do. Now, kid number 3. Sorry, I mean children. I'm not raising billy goats. Although some days it would be debatable. Anyway, Ella arrived, and like I said, I had just gotten my salon fix a few weeks prior. I noticed just the other day, and she's over 2 months old, mind you, that my ends were a little fuzzy and some greys were poking through my dark brown. Upon closer examination, I also noticed my eyebrows were moving in together and my hair that was once called "shimmering mocha" was more of a dull cardboard brown. Well, and I noticed the crows feet and lines on my forehead when I contorted my face different ways, and the fleeting thought of Botox entered my head. But notice I said fleeting. Let's be real, here. So, I called my salon and signed myself up for the "Glam Shape Up Package." What could remedy my situation better than that?

So I headed in to the beauty parlor this morning, after painstakingly choosing an outfit that did not involve fleece or elastic waistbands. And then, the process of plucking, waxing, "glazing" (a new hair term I learned), texturizing and general self-confidence building procedures commenced. My dear gay friend, affectionately, my "Will" showed up too, and got highlights alongside me, while we discussed the things that are making us feel old and ugly. I confessed I want lipo for Christmas. He confessed he is thinking of going to Chicago for hair transplants. I watched people come in and out....the "regulars" who didn't need 2 plus hours to get beautified. Just a touch up here or there, like I used to be. I watched a woman next to me tell her stylist all about her daughter needing braces. I studied her mouth as she said the word "braces"...she stretched her lips out all dramatically. I forced myself not to imitate her, although I pictured how I'd do it in my head. I listened to another stylist as she told her client all about how Christmas wasn't her holiday to have her kids, so she and her live-in boyfriend would be going to Cabo for a week. I looked hard to see if she looked bothered by the fact that she wouldn't have her kids...but she didn't.

I pulled out my pocketbook and grimaced when the stylist finally delivered the news of my bill. And I went home, not out to some posh lunch spot for a $9 half-sandwich and a sparkling water. I went home to my kids, where no one really noticed that my eyebrows broke up and my hair was shinier than a Christmas bulb.

And I put on my sweatpants.

Some of those "Darndest Things"

Art Linkletter made good money from his ability to chat with children on early television, amusing audiences everywhere with the hilarity that comes from "the mouths of babes." Bill Cosby made a few bucks on it too. I outta be a gosh-darn millionaire. If NBC or any of its affiliates want to put on some good TV, I'll gladly provide my address, you can show up at my door and start filming.
My oldest son has a new saying, "If you make me go to my room, I'll get in your jewelry box and TAKE SOMETHING!!" ...and that's in all caps because he screams the last part. Where's the funny part, you say? This kid actually thinks I have valuable stuff in my jewelry box....
Other notable quotes from the oldest:
"I'm five now, and soon I get to pee in a cup"....(to his Sunday school teacher)
"Is this a Diego backpack? Is this a boob? It smells like stankin' cheese"....when handling a maternity strap-on "see how this shirt'll fit when you're huge" belly pillow thing in the Motherhood dressing room. After I told him not to touch anything.
Better yet are some of the things I say that I would have never imagined saying. Seriously, without batting an eyelash, the following phrases come out of my mouth....regularly.
"You cannot pull his arms off."
"Get your finger out of your nose, it's gonna bleed."
"Did you flush? No. I didn't hear it. Go flush. And then wipe the seat."
"The cat does not like to be put in a stocking."
"If you keep talking, I'm going to stop listening."
"Don't touch the walls, don't touch your brother, don't touch the dog or he'll bite you. Don't touch anything. Put your hands in your pockets."
"No, you can't drive."
"Yogurt will not keep in your room."
I'm a church going woman...but even in the house of the Lord, I can be pushed to my limits. Tonight, while putting up the church Christmas tree, this poured from my lips:
"You know what? This is God's house. And He doesn't want His house messed up either. So if you don't pick that up, sit down and quit acting like a wild animal, you're gonna have to sit in God's time-out chair, and He will tell Santa Claus because He knows him!!!"

Kickoff to Insanity

Thanksgiving went off without a hitch. My turkey browned nicely, thanks to a cheesecloth and more butter than a Sunday dinner at Paula Deen's. Our renovations in the house were finally completed and I have to say, it all looked beautiful, the table settings, the golden pies and the ample casseroles. After dinner, reality hits that someone has to clean this stuff up, and then resolve the age old challenge of leftovers. My husband is the world's worst leftover-eater, so he's no help. I'll make another "Thanksgiving plate" the day after, or maybe a turkey sandwich and maybe even the day after that, but then I'm officially sick of it all and I start digging through cookbooks to find interesting recipes to use up the leftover bird. Tonight's turkey tetrazzini.

Our friends were up from Tennessee and my best friend Tracey and I braved the stampede and forged a trail to Toys R' Us at dark and cold o'clock in the morning on Black Friday. I know why they call it "Black" Friday, and it has nothing to do with the economy. It's because the whole time you're gone shopping, the sky is still black, reminding me that the appropriate place to be is tucked warmly inside my bed, not waiting in a line amongst foul-mouthed teenagers who are bound to get sick, wearing next-to-nothing clothing in negative temperatures. All this just to get into a store that I could go to any other day of the year in the daylight, no lines. Hmm....perhaps I should shed light on the positive, the fact that there were really excellent deals, because I'm beginning to suggest I'm an idiot here. I'm trying to buy gifts that I think my children would really like. I find it all too easy to buy things just to fill a quantity, you know, like "I bought 3 things for Gabe so I've gotta have 3 things for Isaac." So I pre-planned, and I pretty well stuck to my list. I know it's silly to buy anything for a two month old, so Ella is getting 2 things that are significant, in my opinion: a Cabbage Patch newborn doll, and a 2009 Holiday Collector's Edition Barbie. I had one when I was little, and I just sold it a few months ago for a nice chunk of change. I figure she can do the same.
We arrived home from our excursion, a few coffees later, money spent and bodies tired. Too bad the kids were on full tilt, turning the house upside down and killing eachother, meaning we'd have to jump in as referrees when we really wanted to nap. I've learned that as soon as you become a mom, you're supposed to be able to sleep and wake on demand. It's not just when your kids are infants, it's forever. If they're awake, so am I, and if they sleep...well there's probably laundry to do.
So, friends, here we go, kicking off another holiday season. The decorations are out, the cookie cookbooks are pulled out and the carols are making way into my mental soundtrack. I've cursed about a strand of lights that never work, broken two ornaments, I've begun to start the annual nagging for my husband to get the outside decorations done, and threatened numerous tmes that "Santa sees everything, even when you try to pull your brother's arms off."
Here's to a cup of cheer.

Fish Miracles

Last night, my son Isaac ran down to my bedroom, alarmed that his dresser was "all wet and the water was stank!" Stifling my laughter for the use of the word "stank," I asked him why he thought the water smelled bad. He claimed it was water from his fishbowl, which triggered several thoughts. My first thought was that Charlie, our little cat, had been fishing. It's happened before, and although he is terribly unsuccessful, he continues to try. As I walked down the hall, I braced myself for a mess. I have this way of thinking myself through the worst situations so that when I'm actually in them, I don't panic and get overly upset. If the fishbowl is spilled over, it's okay, I'll get some towels and clean it all up. If it's broken, we'll have to get a replacement, and then the fish..." Oh no, the fish! I hadn't even thought about them. Two bettas, a red one named Marlin and a blue one named Ryan (random names, I don't question a five-year old's logic while naming fish), were housed comfortably in this two-sided bowl, with a little opaque shield that could be lifted to reveal a window between the sides whenever Isaac wanted to see them "puff up their muscles and get mad at eachother." Do bettas have muscles? Do they really get mad? Anyway, I hadn't thought about what must have happened to the fish. Did the cat finally eat them? Suddenly, panic struck me. Nothing in Isaac's life has ever really died before. I haven't prepared this talk yet. What would I say? Sure, he's seen me squish bugs, he's seen roadkill and asked questions out of curiosity, but nothing of his had ever died. So, I got to the fishbowl, and to confirm suspicion, it was dry, and water soaked the dresser and floor. "See mommy, see?! I promise you I did NOT do this!!! " he exclaimed, and with the look on his face, I truly believed him. Actually, when I picked it up, I found that the drain cap on the bottom was somewhat loose, and water was leaking from underneath it. Either way, I looked inside the bowl, and all of the rocks and the little fake trees were still in it, and beneath the trees, on either side, lay Ryan and Marlin. Isaac stared at me with hopeful eyes, and said "Are they in there, mommy?" I nodded my head, staring hard at the two fish, hoping to see any possible sign of life, but there was none. "Are they going to swim again, mommy?"
"Um, I don't think so, buddy. I think they are gone." At that, Isaac's eyes flooded with tears and he threw himself on his bed. Although he's normally a tough kid who rolls with the punches, this was a very raw reaction for him, feeling loss, and feeling anger because he didn't know how it happened. "I'll never have fish AGAIN!" he screamed. You see, Ryan and Marlin were "practice fish." Isaac always wants to go down the fish aisle at Meijer and pick out the fish he will one day have. He likes to look at the pirate ships and treasure chest tank accessories, and we told him late summer that if he took care of Ryan and Marlin for a while, we would get a big tank for him to fill. I could see not only the hurt of losing his fish, but the frustration, knowing what this might mean for his future fish tank. As I carried the fishbowl into the bathroom, I started talking about how we could go to Meijer the next day and see about getting some more, and he followed on my heels, still crying.
I pulled the fake trees out, and was leaning over the toilet bowl, trying to come up with a quick eulogy for the bettas, when Isaac proclaimed, "Well mom, of course they're not swimming, because they don't have any water!" I told him it was too late, they'd probably been without water for a long time, and proceeded to slide their lifeless bodies to the edge of the fishbowl to dump them down. "MOM, give them WATER!" He just wasn't getting it, and I didn't really want to add water to this bowl so he could see them float. But, because he was so adamant, and because I didn't really know how else to explain that they were gone, I flipped on the faucet and began filling the bowl up again. Sure enough, Ryan and Marlin floated up to the top. I set the bowl down and said "There now, see? They can't swim, bud. They're going to have to go to fishy heaven. We'll still go pick out some new....." "MOM!" he interrupted. I looked at the bowl, and my jaw dropped open as the words fell out of my mouth "My God they're alive." Red fish and blue fish, Marlin and Ryan, were suddenly darting around the bowl once again. Friends, I tell you, this was nothing short of a five-year old's miracle. I have no idea how this could even be possible. I quickly grabbed two glass jars and transferred them, noticing the bowl was still leaking, and they stayed as perky as ever, exploring their new surroundings.
"Heh...I told ya they needed water, mom. Don'tcha know that fish need water for swimming? I even knew that."
No, I apparently never heard that one, Isaac.
Obviously, I realize this must have been some fluke occurrence. Or maybe it was a miracle. Who knows, maybe God knew this little boy wasn't ready to handle death yet. Or maybe He knew I wasn't prepared to talk about it.
Either way, what I learned is that our children will all face tragedy at some point, and unfortunately, it probably won't always be something as small as a fish. The moral of this story is that I've got to figure out what to say, for next time. That, and I'd probably better get rolling on that fish tank. Perhaps then, when Ryan and Marlin do go to fishy heaven, it'll be a little more tolerable?

Thoughts that drive us

I rarely listen to the radio. I mean, I rarely even turn it on in my car. Who am I kidding, I mean in my minivan. My Gold Lame' minivan with the stow-away seats, at that. Anyhow, I pretty much listen to one of two things: one is the hollering banter of my children (including crying, whining, begging to stop at a drive-thru, and rollicking laughter if someone happens to pass gas), and the other thing I listen to is the thoughts in my head. No, I'm not schizophrenic. Or maybe I am, but the point is, as soon as my eyes are fixated on the road ahead, I begin to sink deep into thought. I think about all the things I have to do, I plan out events such as Thanksgiving dinner, I wonder about my childrens' future, I even have pre-rehearsal choir rehearsals in my head, running through what I need to cover with my crew next time I see them. I realize that I do this because it is the only time in my life that I have a moment to spare; my kids are all strapped in and nothing else is taking my attention (well besides traffic, I know). I get a couple seconds in the bathroom once in awhile, but it's not the same, because I'm usually listening for screams or the doors opening and children escaping, dogs barking, etc. Driving lends itself to a bit more peace, thought-wise.
The peace is abruptly halted, however, when a destination is reached. Single, childless girls, take a moment to celebrate your single childless-ness. Love it. Embrace it. 'Cuz once you've got to pre-plan the stop based on how you're going to maneuver your children in and out of the car, traveling anywhere requires serious consideration. When I was single, I remember saying I was going to "run" here or there. "Gonna run to Walgreens and buy some deodorant..." or something. In the car, outta the car, so on and so forth. Now, I don't run. I haul. I don't mean haul as in haul tail, either, I mean haul like a donkey hauls oversized people down the Grand Canyon. Now I start to feel twitchy when I pull into the Meijer parking lot. It's imperative to get a spot next to the cart corral. I like to grab a cart and then go unload the kids, and I can't do that if the cart corral is four spaces down from my parking space. So I circle the lot, and get more twitchy, because one child is asking if we can look at toys, one is asking to take his pillow in with us, and one is still sleeping and I'm praying she stays that way till we get back home...and I keep circling till I find the spot by the cart corral. Then it's still not "in the car, outta the car" kind of stuff, it's a calculated mission...take out the baby in her carseat, load her into the cart. Circle around the van, yell at the boys to stay inside and do not open the door and jump out...get to the other side of the van, open it up, load Gabe into the front part with the leg holes and then argue with Isaac about why I don't like him to stand on the little bar on the end of the cart because I can't steer. I always end up caving on that one, though.
The bottom line is, ladies, we've all got to take a little time to chill, and if it's driving that gives you that time, so be it. Our husbands don't understand this, and will never understand this because they are wired differently. For lack of time to make my explanation to this, I'll just say this: in their heads, they're "chilling" all the time.
So, you may be asking, is it the childless, single life I'm lusting after? Am I suggesting that I regret the lifestyle I have? Well, yesterday, to change things up, I clicked on the radio, and a song I liked back in highschool was playing, "Closing Time" by Semi-Sonic. I was on a rare trip out of the house without my children, so I cranked it up and immediately my head flooded with thoughts of other times I'd heard that song. I was taken back to late night drives home from my highschool boyfriend's house, the windows of my little red Paseo down, the smell of campfires and beachy air filtering in as I curved along Red Arrow Highway. I must have been seriously reminiscing, because I didn't even notice the ease of getting out of the car, or the convenience of how casual and stress-free my walk into Target was. However, to answer the above question about regret, I'd have to say no. You see, my nostalgic thoughts faded quickly as I found my body moving on auto-pilot to the diaper aisle. I realized that I have not only reached a new chapter in life, when diaper purchases replace the late night runs for deodorant or lipgloss, (usually a quick purchase on the way downtown to party for the night). Also, the company of my children, their neverending methods of entertaining me, and the reality that one day, I'll be back in a smaller sedan and no little faces will be in the rearview mirror looking back at me trumps any wistful thoughts of single girlhood I've ever tried to hold on to.

The Name Game

We're remodeling our house. I have mixed emotions. I am elated to have my walls torn down and a fireplace put in...not to mention we get to let the sunshine in, literally, but I am sickened by the fact that the main floor of my house is in complete shambles at the moment. However, this too shall pass. The major problem with a remodel is children. What do you do with them when construction workers are present? Loud noises startle Ella, Gabe wants to play in drywall dust and Isaac....well, Isaac may as well be renamed Dennis, as in "the menace." Our contractor's last name is Zebell, and Isaac keeps saying "Hey, Mr. Zebra..."(fill in the blank)...sorta like Dennis would say "Hey, Mr. Wilson!"
Anyway, I thought I'd do the contractors a favor and win brownie points with my kids by taking them to the park today. So, off we went, to a very nice local park with a great playground, and as usual, there were very few people there. I tucked Miss Ella into her sling, and released the hounds from the van, watching them hoot and holler as they ran toward the play-equipment. Only two other little boys, one about Isaac's age, and one about Gabe's age were playing there, with their parents eagerly helping them race down the firepole and through the tunnels. My thought: What nice, dedicated parents they have....I'm going to go sit on that bench. Only a few minutes into playtime, I've heard Isaac say "Hey you!" to the older boy about ten times, so I say "Isaac, why don't you ask him his name so you don't have to say 'Hey you?' " There, a good mom suggestion. Isaac asks him, and the boy responds that his name is Alesandro. Well kid, he won't call you Alesandro, but it'll be a version of that, still better than "Hey you." Isaac nods, and a few minutes later I hear shreiks of "Hey Bondo, let's do this slide!" Oh, well. Moving on.

Gabe, who repeats everything his brother says, begins with "Hey you!" to the younger boy, and I try the same suggestion with him. Gabe asks the little boy what his name is, and the boy stares at him, obviously not much of a talker yet. His very proud mama says, "This is Franco!" At that, Gabe gives his classically indifferent "Oh." I figured Gabe either didn't hear the name or didn't care, because he seemed to move along, playing by himself. That is, for about five minutes he did. Then, to my horror, I see him glance toward the swings, and then flash a smile to Franco and proclaim, ( I say proclaim because he did this at the top of his lungs), "Hey F--ko!! Let's swing!!"
I did my best shrug-it-off, nervous giggle as his mother looked at me like my kid was the Anti-Christ, and mumbled "outta the mouths of babes, right?!" She was less than amused.
We promptly said our goodbyes and headed home, to our banging, clanging mess of a house. But at least everybody knows everybody's name here...right, Mr. Zebra?

"Vacation" Day

Today I went to the Notre Dame vs. Navy game. I woke up at ten minutes till 7 this morning, so I could appropriately shower and get myself into presentable fashion, get my boys up and dressed, and get the baby fed and dressed also. After a sleepless night, this day was not starting off with the ambition I had planned on, but, nonetheless, I made this committment to go to this game. Lacking the time I originally planned for breakfast, the boys got a Quaker Oat Chewy tossed at them in the car and we were on our way to my mother's. She agreed to watch the baby, and my aunt agreed to keep the boys. Split em' up. Good idea. So by 9:30 a.m., we had already driven 45+ miles, but, hey, we were pretty excited to be kid free and headed off to a beautiful day of football watching. Or people watching, in my case, because that's pretty much what I do. Arrived at the tailgate drenched in the unseasonably warm November sunshine, ate a heaping plate of all things not good for me, drank a pink concoction that reminded me of some bar-hopping nights in Savannah, and then drank another one. Jello shots? Check. Had three of them, infact, like I just turned 21. Except without the awkwardness of having to look around at my peers and try, nonchalantly, to see how they got it out of the little cups before I attempted my own. Nope, I did it like a pro. The game was an awful go for the home team, but still an entertaining time for me, who, as aforementioned, doesn't really care so much about what's happening on the field, but was thoroughly amused by a long-haired man with nose piercing and his purple haired lover who had fingernails like Elvira. Note: Halloween was last weekend.
One thing was very consistent throughout the day, though, and staying true to my blog's purpose, I must tie in this very important point: I thought about my kids just about the entire time I was gone. I mean, when I wasn't wondering how bad it hurt to get your nose pierced like a bull. So, I'm not even ashamed to admit, I was more excited about the 45+ mile drive back to retrieve the kids than I was leaving them. I brought them home, bathed them without even caring that they were splashing me and getting water on the floor, and didn't fight them when they asked to come back downstairs with me for a while to watch TV. I even ordered a pizza, because they decided they were still hungry, and suddenly, so was I. No matter how long my day was, or how much every parent needs to be away from their kids every once in a while (you know, for that reminder of something called sanity), there's really no better vacation in life than the one I can take on my very own couch, surrounded by the squeaky clean faces of my very own little babies. And from the looks of it, they're pretty happy to be here too.

Pigs and Viruses

H1 and N1 came to my door for candy this Halloween. It was funny, in some sick and twisted way...and, as if they were cursed, I made sure I didn't touch them when I put their Reese's in their buckets. It's all you see on the news, and most of the big news websites have some sort of updated blurb about Swine Flu on the front page every day. It may very well be a government conspiracy, but I'm not jumping off the politcal bandwagon to join the John Birch society just yet.
Yesterday, at my doctor visit, I asked about the vaccine. This was my first year to get the seasonal flu vaccine, so what the hey, let's get the pig one too...I explained that I knew I could go to the health department, but the thought of dragging my kids in with me to wait in line among other people who probably have Swine Flu, or headlice at the very least (Lord, forgive me) was a less than pleasant and darn-near impossible feat. My doctor's response was almost comical, if it weren't so creepy. She said "well, we're only giving it to pregnant moms...we don't want to end up on the news for giving it out incorrectly, like that Walgreen's did. You have to be in a high-risk category...but (and here's the creepy part)...if you walk around the back of the office here with me, I'll get the lab lady to give you one so you don't have to go to the health department." The lab lady didn't talk much, I think she knew she was doing wrong...she handed me some paperwork to sign, pretty sure I read something about my last will and testament...and then she stabbed me in the arm. She then proceeded to walk me out to a side door, and no joke, said "this leads out to the main parking lot." Indeed, it was a covert operation. Top secret, till I blogged it here....and I'm usually so trustworthy with classified information. But I tell you, friends, I was dosed with the swine flu, and it felt dangerous.

Skinny Deep

Let's face it, I've never had a great body. That being said, it's been greater than it is today, for sure. I realized in complete mortification that I had a uni-butt when I saw the pictures my sister took of our walk through Warren Woods, although she assured me it was just the mistake of wearing jeans with no back pockets.
Reality is, I've had three children, and things just aren't the same. Things have migrated to new locations...and notice I didn't say "new and improved" locations. After child number 2, I had gallb ladder surgery and while my doctor was explaining the operation, I felt inclined to bring up my flab. He grinned and shrugged and said, "that's why plastic surgeons drive nice cars, dear."
When you're up late at night, nursing a newborn (which, sidebar, isn't that supposed be burning off some calories?)...you see a multitude of these rapid weight loss programs...some of my favorites are the Ab-Circle, which will give you that sexy "v shape" you've always wanted, the 10 minute trainer which has transformed many a blobby mama into a hot babe, and Insanity...which speaks for itself. Also, I must give special recognition to the frequent Extenze infomercial...no, it's obviously not for weight loss, but it sure makes it look like fun to wear supertight racecar hot pants....and have it relate somehow to male enhancement...but I regress...
Yesterday, a dear friend and I walked my neighborhood in our Halloween garb while our kids ran door to door trick-or-treating. A strong wind picked up, blowing my black "witch dress" snugly across my middle, causing me to apologetically call attention to the baby lump (not bump, that's the cute pre-baby term) that has made a home there. My friend merely sighed, nodded toward her son and said..."I've had mine for 11 years, good luck with that." So, I resign to be comfortable with mine...maybe even embrace it. After all, I've got pretty amazing kids to show for it. It's not like it was just too many Hostess cupcakes, though I can't completely eliminate that source of blame. I made a little home for three little blessings in that so-called lump...so maybe I should just make peace with it. Or at least be patient with it. You know, till I can afford the tummy-tuck. And in the meantime, I s'pose I should get this Ab-Circle outta the box and give it a whirl.

Not for the Faint of Heart...

I have so many thoughts during the day, of things I will tell my children when they grow up...things my mother probably told me and I swore I'd never pass on to my children...but here I am, and here they are, and I have plenty to say.
When I quit my job last June, I thought it'd be a great time to finish my bachelor's degree in business, you know, have it tucked under my belt for a rainy day sorta thing. I figured I'd leisurely finish baking the bun I had in the oven (yep, that phrase is like nails on a chalkboard to me too!) and get my diploma right about the time the baby was born. What I soon realized is that I could learn a plethora of things by just being a stay-at-home mom. Turns out, the knowledge I gained is a heckuva lot more useful than a lot of textbooks have to offer, too. For instance: if you get Vaseline in your hair, or in this case, a blonde 4 year old's hair, it takes exactly 5 days of repetitive (think 3-4 times a day) washings with Dawn dishsoap to remove. I was determined not to buzz his hair off. Word to the wise though: be flexible, literally. 4 year old boys will kick the tar out of you when you're leaning their heads over the sink and washing them for the 26th time.
Or, you know how scientists are always saying we've evolved from primates...(or something like that?) Well I believe it entirely now that I know that the very top shelves of closets and pantries, and all that you hide up there including chips, candy, money jars, etc. are not beyond the climbing abilties of a 2 year old who normally announces dramatically that he can't climb the stairs for bed at night and tragically can't get in his seat to eat lunch. It's amazing, those primal instincts.
What about that moment in the store, when you're at your wit's end, the sweat beading on your forehead as you avoid eye-contact with everyone because, yes, it's your kid screaming for marshmallows in the cart, and yep, your kid who has just thrown a box of mac n' cheese at an elderly lady and you could swear people are looking at your belly bump thinking "and you're doing this again?"...and you're threatening through your teeth that you'll take away every toy in the toybox if somebody doesn't straighten up right now when, yep, your kid screeches "DON'T HIT ME!!!"
....and I could keep going. But, if you're a mom, you probably could too....
oh and good news, I still got the diploma.