Cornucopian

Oops -- Day 8-13

2011-07-23T17:44:00.002-10:00

So, sometimes, you have so much fun that you don't have time to post...not really...but some fun has been had...

Day 8: County Fair -- HOT! Conrad didn't love his life there...BUT...there were tractors/livestock which Conrad does LOVE, and Pineapple Whip -- which is a fair favorite for Ella and I.

Day 9: Got a lot DONE! I realize this totally makes me my father's daughter, but sometimes a productive day is "fun" in its own right.

Day 10-12 -- Went with Ella to church camp for 2.5 days. Initially I dreaded going, only going because she asked me to. Then I realized that, at camp, there is lots of time to sit and watch kids have fun (rather than have to plan/participate in it yourself), no meals to cook, and no laundry to be done. Also, I'm kind of a sucker for a water slide, which this camp has 2 of.

Day 13: Local catholic church festival-- only place you can say "I'm going to drink beer and have the opportunity to gamble...AT CHURCH."

Day 7

2011-07-17T17:07:00.002-10:00

This might sound borderline morbid or insensitive, but, today, my grandpa underwent emergency surgery that they were not sure he would live through. That was NOT fun. Seeing my grandma in a total state of panic; not fun. Watching my grandpa moan in pain after the surgery (which he came through much better than anticipated); also not fun. The silver lining? An unexpected short road trip with just my siblings to be with my mom and extended family while they waited on the outcome of the surgery, and reminiscing about our favorite childhood memories of our grandparents all day long. When my sister was 12, she accomplished a life long goal...she finally beat my grandpa at checkers. My grandpa's response? He wouldn't talk to her the rest of the day.

One Christmas we got a karaoke machine. My grandpa sang "Blueberry Hill" and "Good night Irene", and my grandma sang "Ordinary Average Guy". I would give just about anything to find that cassette.

Day 6

2011-07-17T17:05:00.001-10:00

This one is pretty straight forward but fun none the less -- joint birthday party for my now 4 year old nephew and I. Pizza, cake, and a swimming pool.

Day 5

2011-07-16T04:33:00.002-10:00

Pat fell in love with these girls on NPR. We saw them live in a little bar downtown last night. SUPER FUN! This song is my new anthem. :)

Day 4

2011-07-14T16:44:00.002-10:00

Sometimes its the little things...

Grocery shopped by myself. Ran three miles on a new trail -- I love new scenery. Snapped green beans on the porch with Conrad while he told me about his day.

Day 3

2011-07-13T14:18:00.001-10:00

In honor of 33 years of life (mine), I talked my husband into taking the day off, dropping the kids off at the sitters, and just wandering around downtown with me all day. We stopped for the best sandwiches in town, and feasted on them in their basement with beers and dukkah. Nothing feels more indulgent than beer at lunch on a Wednesday.

Day 2

2011-07-13T14:08:00.005-10:00

(This is a day late because the internet was not cooperating last night. Rural internet options = not fun!)

Day 2; a day with good intentions. We set out for renting a bike to ride along the canal downtown. Due to the heat, they opted not to open the bike rental place without warning or even as much as a sign. I just happened to run into the park director who tried to call the bike rental manager who was not answering his phone. Not cool. Then it got HOT, the kids got cranky, and even my "Tour de the Fountains of the Canal" didn't really amuse them because it involved a lot of walking, in the heat.

But we managed a bit of fun...

...and finished off the tour with lunch with Pat at a well air-conditioned restaurant along the canal.

Not A Blog Post

2011-07-11T15:32:00.007-10:00

I long ago abandoned blogging, without regret. But today, and, hopefully, for the next 30 days -- this space can be a place to archive my attempts at mimicking this project. I don't necessarily need anyone to read about it, but I want a place to write it all down to make sure I do it. I'm not much to post stuff on Facebook and something about just writing it all down in a Word document or a journal seems a little lack luster. I guess the internet has ruined me.

I see long term "projects" all over the internet all the time. I typically think "Hmm...good idea." then quickly click exit. This particular project caught my eye because, really, who doesn't like to have fun -- particularly 30 days worth of it? It also coincided perfectly with my miniature panic attack I had this morning when I realized I only had 30 days left before my students return to school. Which also means only 30 more days until Ella and Conrad return to school as well.
For me, that's 30 days to finish moving out of my old classroom, set-up my new classroom, not to mention all of the things I intend to complete here at this new house we moved into 6 or 7 weeks ago. These kinds of things tend to weigh on my mind until they are completed, but, meanwhile, I don't want my "work" to rob me of my favorite days of the year-- summer break -- the days I get to be at home, mostly schedule free, hanging out with the kids and venturing to our favorite summer time spots.

It also helped that I had a fair amount of "fun" today before I even read about the project, so I can retroactively count Day 1 a success. Plus, I have a few more fun things already planned for the rest of the week, so its kind of like I have a head start. I know, I know...cheaters never win. But, really, they often do.

So...Day 1....
My nephew was with us today, which isn't typical. I knew I wanted to get everyone up and out before the heat really set in (Hello 100 degree weather!), so I jumped at Ella's suggestion of the Zoo. A relatively easy place to take three kids, plus the spray park at the end would be a bonus considering the weather. I, myself, am not a huge zoo person, but I don't mind going with the kids. Plus there is always the off chance the bears will be wrestling, a male lion will be trying to flirt with an unyielding female, or the baboons will be fighting; I do love some good animal humor. The real "fun" was that Conrad, my son for whom almost every public place can be a behavioral challenge was reasonably pleasant. He sat through the dolphin show with relative ease, asked me to carry him hardly at all, and for part of the time I didn't even have to hold his hand to keep him close. For him, this is progress. Conrad enjoying himself is always "fun" in my book.

(Apparently smiling for pictures isn't cool when you're nearly 4 year old boys...)

Add to that a quick trip to the super nice, clean indoor playground at a local church so the kids could play while Pat and I read this evening -- just started this book tonight and I really like it so far. Then I made these crackers when we got home to go with cheese, berries, and "red beers" ( a lager, bloody mary mix, hot sauce) -- the only late evening dinner that sounded good on such a hot night. Super delicious.

So there -- happy kids, a good book, and a new recipe -- this project should be easy if that's all it takes to warrant a "fun day".

SATURDAY NIGHT!

2009-04-25T16:38:00.000-10:00

The little girl spends the night with her grandparents and the little boy goes to bed early on an unseasonably warm spring night. How do we celebrate? Indvidual laptops on the back porch! Oh yeah, baby! Nerds unite!

2009-03-26T16:43:00.003-10:00

The house should be clean. It's not. The papers should be graded. They're not. The plans should be written. Not even close. The children should be healthy and well groomed. I settle for kids that aren't screaming. Not done -- none of it. Yet I work my ass off. Every day. All day. Except for tonight, I turned on the TV and sat there, with nary a thing on my lap to do, and watched TV for an hour. Can not remember the last time I watched TV. (Minus watching an episode of Two and Half Men in syndication with my head on Pat's shoulder this week or last even though I think that show is absurd, but that's not TV -- that's couples therapy.)

And there are two daffodils blooming, randomly, in the trees behind our house. And I ate a plate of tortilla chips with melted cheese, jalapeno peppers, adobe salsa, and spicy ranch dressing for dinner...at 10 pm...with a glass of cheap wine. And my son, he was a little sick today, will be fine tomorrow. But, today, he wanted to be held, with his head on my shoulder, with his cheek pressed as close to my head as possible for extra kisses. I love extra kisses. And my daughter, my eternally clumsy daughter, can suddenly stand on her head, do a forward roll, and complete a flip on the bar hanging from the swing set. She is so proud. Maybe the torture of keeping her brother entertained during her 30 minute dance/tumbling class each week, started in hopes of improving her agility, is actually paying off. And tomorrow is the last day before spring break. And I've already decided, I'm not going to scold them for talking too much, not completing their work quickly enough, or being too silly. Tomorrow should be silly. And Sunday we'll board a plane. Destination sunshine, where the old people, two in particular, love our kids as much as we do and don't even mind getting up at 6 am to feed them bananas and soy milk.

Spring -- the eternal remedy.

A Day in the Life

2009-03-14T16:35:00.005-10:00

Get up at 7 am. Celebrate because this is an hour to an hour and a half later than his usual start time. THANK YOU Daylight Savings Time!

Try to get him to lay with you for a minute, but the moment you sit down he throws his blanket on the floor and starts chanting "Moooore! Moore! MORE!" And when you don't get up fast enough, he shoves his chubby fingers in your face and starts making the sign for "More" as if to say "Hey woman! Don't you understand English? Get me some BREAKFAST!"

As I set about compiling his breakfast, he keeps pointing at the fruit bowl where his morning banana is usually perched. When I show him the bowl, indicating that we're out of banana, he lets out a disgruntled sigh. "Woman! How many times do I have to tell you -- don't let those bananas run out!" He settles for a waffle.

He now has full reign of the main living area -- Saturdays are for getting out as many toys as you want while your mother sips coffee and waits for the sun to rise. He gets out a few, but then goes searching for something. Its clear he has something specific in mind. Ah yes, the remote control. The formula is always the same: Throw it as hard as you can at the hardwood floors in order to get the back to pop off so you can inspect the batteries and reload them. If you're lucky, you can repeat the same process with a telephone or cell phone that someone was dumb enough to leaving laying low the night before. But you can't throw it before you call your grandma. "Mamaw? Mamaw? Hiiiiii! Byeee!" Throw the phone on the floor, really hard.

Oh look, these idiots never learn. They've left the bathroom door open. Time to play in the toilet. He reaches for his pacifier from his mouth, realizes its not there, so literally fakes throwing the pacifier in the toilet. (Earlier this week, when he actually had a pacifier to throw, his dad really regretted having not flushed. ha!) The fake throw isn't satisfying, so he finds a hair band and a string of beads to throw to bottom. Ahh much better. My work here is done.

On to the kitchen. I've yet to meet my goal of actually denting the stainless steel mixing bowls by banging them hard enough together. Oh, but wait. I seem to remember my mom throwing away an empty cereal box earlier.There I find him, up to his arm pits in a cereal box I had previously placed in the trash can, cinnamon smeared all over his face from the remaining bits of Chex that he's found in the nether regions of the bag.

The next 2 hours are a series of repeated events. Trying to interest him in a toy or activity, while distracting him from emptying cabinets, climbing furniture, beating on my laptop, perusing the trash can, tormenting the cats, climbing into the bathtub, and fishing in the toilet. And brushing his teeth. He stands under where his toothbrush hangs and begs for it several times a day.

Its brutal and physical. There are many times that throwing him over my shoulder like the proverbial sack of potatoes is the best means to remove him from the scene of his crimes. Sometimes he giggles with delight at having foiled us again, while other times he screams in anguish. Oh the injustice! Parents just don't understand.

The clock strikes 10 am, and I feel that I've bestowed all of the kindness I can on his slumbering father. Up with you -- the boy, he's back to bed. (Yes, at 19 months he still takes 2 naps a day. Its really our saving grace.) For 2 solid hours he slumbers and order is restored. Conversations are completed, meals eaten without the pint-sized tyrant demanding his share, and the living room is returned to its normal state -- no longer a mine field of Legos, cars, and toddler debris.

Then he returns, rested, with a vengeance. He requires another round of food -- dare you not tease him with mere snacks or toddler food if real food is in sight. You've never seen a child more angry when he saw us cooking spicy chili on the stove while we fed him grilled cheese and quartered grapes. (He threw a toy in the chili too, as he passed by perched on my hip. Apparently "Will it Float?" is his favorite game too.)

The afternoon has a similar formula to the morning. We often try to think of a place to take him to let him run around, preferably a soft, padded place where screaming is welcomed and nothing can be broken. If only the mental hospitals allowed visitors. Today we visited a few homes for potential purchase. Thankfully, 2 of the 3 were empty so he literally ran from room to room as fast has his wobbly legs would take him. When I barred him from the bathrooms after finding him IN the bathtub trying to get the water turned on, he found a closet, shut himself in there, and then just sat quietly -- even when I called his name. When I finally found him, he just giggled mischievously and moved on. The 3rd house, full of someone else's belongings, was a novelty. Will her candles break if throw them? Will she mind if I climb in her bed and drool on her pillow? Does she have snacks in the cabinets?

Back home, for another nap. This time an uncharacteristic THREE HOURS. Silence! The silver lining to him having been up coughing half the night prior with a late winter cold. He wakes up, and immediately toddles to the back door. They've left the deadbolt unlocked again. Will they ever learn? He opens the doors, flips down on to his belly, and begins to lower himself down the back steps to the porch. He's headed outside. Why not? I retrieve him and secure him into his high chair -- the one place, other than his crib, that you can count on him not to climb out of. After dinner, I suggest we play outside for a bit. Last week, he ONLY wanted to play in the street. Literally had to take him inside because the moment you let go of him, he ran down our reasonably long drive way, straight for the open road. Tonight, the road was of no interest. Because he discovered the WOODS! A thicket really -- a small but dense collection of trees behind our house. His sister, in 4.5 year of life, has never ventured back into these trees without me. I don't think its ever even crossed her mind. Yet, as I picked up sticks in the yard tonight, he did not look back even once as he climbed through the brush, vines, and piles of leaves into the grove of trees. I watched, assuming he'd realize he was in too deep, and return. Instead, I all but saw his little hooded head disappear before I sprinted into grab him, and pulled him out, kicking and screaming.

Each day demands every fiber of my physical and mental capacity. His energy coupled with all of the curious things about his health has likely stunted my life span. It seems as if not one thing about raising his sister thus far has prepared us for raising him. He's rough. He's defiant. He's fearless. Yet I love him with a different intensity than I have ever loved another person before. I'm pretty sure its that little laugh. It gets me every time.

Via Amelie

2009-03-09T15:49:00.003-10:00

Raphael Poulin dislikes peeing next to someone else. He also dislikes catching scornful glances at his sandles, and clingy wet swimming trunks. Raphael Poulin likes peeling large strips of wallpaper, lining up and shining his shoes, emptying out his tool box, cleaning it out, and putting everything back.

I dislike lettuce that crunches. I also dislike when people don't phrase things in the form of a polite question, and when people insist on making everything, anything, into a percussion instrument. I like walking in the dark, peeling dried glue off my fingers, putting on clothes still hot from the dryer, and clean sheets, especially when dried outdoors.

Old Friends

2009-03-08T15:18:00.003-10:00

We all look for the comfort of old friends from time to time. For some its noodles and powdered cheese from a box, a well-worn t-shirt, a song you know by heart, or drive down a very familiar road. This week, for me, it was: Jesse and Celine, as well as Amelie, and next I might re-visit Lola. Heck, I even downloaded Mario (the original) for old time's sake. I am not one for repeats. I don't re-read books, not much for leftovers, and I rarely re-watch movies. Yet these aren't just movies, they're friends, that remind of a different time. Jesse and Celine fell in love shortly before I did, Amelie reminds me of simpler times, and Lola...well...I just like that movie. And Mario? We brought him home on the last day of 5th Grade, as a reward for each of my siblings and I receiving Straight A's on our report cards. That summer, it wasn't my siblings and I that discovered video games, as much as it was my parents. I think my dad and his friends played as much as we did, and my mom, resisted at first, but sat down with us one day, thinking she'd try her hand at Duck Hunt, the other game on the system. She shot the first duck, and then proceeded to shoot EVERY SINGLE DUCK until the score register started back at zero because it wasn't programmed to go any higher. And then she quit, and never played again.

On The Town

2009-03-05T16:58:00.002-10:00

Out with friends...gossip about those not present...no talk of babies, stretch marks, or potty training. Libations flow, bread broken. Say what you want, curse if you will. Shake your ta-ta's...let your hair down. You're an independent, an adult, a WOMAN. Is he looking at me? He might be. Good. Let'em look. Nervously, reflexively...reach into your coat pocket. There you feel it...the single small sock, shriveled raisin, and small toy car. Oh motherhood, you bitch, can I not just have one night?

The Men in My Life

2009-02-24T17:07:00.002-10:00

I am a very connected woman. Just tonight, I was text messaging while instant messaging with two different men. (Yes, my husband knows!)

My 13 year old nephew messaged me "totally LOL links" while my mulleted 40 year old neighbor texted about where to move the toilet in the driveway so as to most successfully ward off potential buyers for our home because he doesn't relish the idea of new neighbors. (Toilet? Yeah, the one on his back porch! Naturally.)

Last night I texted another man, about how gay he was, as he ate an expensive offal dinner with my husband.

Oh yeah, mama's still got it!

Pickles?

2009-02-20T19:12:00.004-10:00

You're anxiously awaiting a post about pickles, right? Isn't that what I promised at the end of the last post nearly 6 months ago? Well, then slice up a cucumber and pack it in a sugary vinegar liquid with lots of salt. Maybe there's a bit more than that to it, but seriously -- those are some ridiculously good pickles. Too bad cucumbers don't get good for another 6 months.

Apparently, nothing has gotten good for 6 months. Oh, how now? Why no blogging? There's the Internet savvy 5th graders who might find that Mrs. Teacher has a life outside of them, the inherent narcissism of this act, and just plain old lack of time. The days are absolutely packed with things I have to do, with plenty of things I want to do in que. But just as soon as I get over this nasty bathing and feeding my kids habit, I'm totally going to be a more diligent blogger. E would totally be down with that. She couldn't care less about either of those acts. On the other hand, her brother DEMANDS food every few hours (will flat chase you around the house with a snack sized cup repeating "MORE" if you don't respond quickly enough), and after a long day, lays outside the bathroom door and cries until we open it and let him climb into the bath tub. Whether or not there is water in it is negotiable. He just loves that tub.

The days, they are full. Full of stuff I love most -- literature, discussion, interaction. Full of affection and child-like wonderment. Sometimes, between my students and my own family, I feel like I experience more connectedness in a day than most people do in a year. I love it. We're crying, laughing, sharing, and learning. And that can all be in the span of one math class or dinner time, depending on the day. Seriously. Yet the days are full of crap too. Just this week, its been insinuated that my very vivacious and vibrant son could have cerebral palsy or autism. (No reason to believe that he has either.) There have also been allusions to the idea that my mom might have M.S. even though they ruled it out months ago. Yet she still can't walk a straight line because her balance is so inexplicably bad. My sweet little abode suddenly appeared on the Internet and a For Sale appeared in my yard-- someone, with the right amount of money, could actually take my mini-palace away from me. I willfully signed the papers to make this happen, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. And just crap -- crap is crappy.

When the crap is crappy, we find ourselves in a mental space that we're not used to occupying. A space that feels like the breathing room is minimal and the sanity a hot commodity. This is not my usual dwelling. Yet, like it usually is, there is not one thing I can do to control, alter, or liquidate any of the current dilemmas. So if you can't change the situation, you must change how you deal with the situation. I always deal better, with anything, when I'm writing, eating, and exercising.

So I eat food...good food. For energy and clarity of mind. And I exercise, sometimes, because I do feel better when I move and exert myself. And now, I write. When Pat asked why, if I'm kind of uncomfortable with blogging, do I not just scribble it all down in a diary or journal, the journal he gave me for Christmas no less. The answer: Blogging has spoiled me. Albeit it a small audience knowing someone reads your words has its own high. And something about this medium is more satisfying and accessible. Not to mention that I can type a helluva a lot faster than I can write. All of that couples to make me a blogger when in need of a place to write. Write about what? Anything. Sometimes the very act of words to "paper" is all I need.

So, Blogger, my free web based therapist, I return to thee. Maybe.

Perhaps you'd like a tomato with that?

2008-08-30T16:13:00.003-10:00

As of late, everything comes with a side of tomatoes. In the past two weeks, there is constantly a literal mound of tomatoes on the counter, just staring at me...daring me to come up with something else to do with them before they self-destruct. Some well meaning new friends who live a couple of blocks away, left a bag of tomatoes from their own garden on our door knob one evening. They left a message on the answering machine that went something like "Thought you might like some tomatoes..." I yelled back at the machine "Friends don't give friends MORE tomatoes!" (Can you tell I feel a little guilty about unused produce?) They laughed out loud when they walked into our kitchen a few nights later, realizing that they'd probably done us no favors with their generosity.

After burning out on BLT's and tomato salads, I've turned to tomato sauce -- an easy way to utilize a lot of tomatoes in a hurry. (My grandma cans her tomatoes and always gives us plenty for winter soups and chilis, so canning them isn't practical for us.) Lately, throwing a pan of tomatoes into the oven to be roasted is as common place as throwing in a load of laundry. The following recipe is probably not the perfect sauce recipe, but its an easy recipe -- which, in my book, is perfect.

Roasted Tomato Sauce

Fill a roasting pan or dutch oven (with the right rack arrangement I can squeeze both into our oven at once, with even a little room left over for a small pan of cherry tomatoes or bell peppers.) with quartered tomatoes. We like Romas best for sauce, but any smallish, meatier tomato works. Add some coarsely chopped onion and garlic, add generous amount of kosher salt and pepper, then douse it all with olive oil. Stir and roast at 425 degrees for 30-45 minutes...until tomato skins look a little crispy or even slightly burnt.

Let cool, drain juices, pick tomato skins off (the fall right off at this point), and throw tomatoes into food processor. One roasting pan usually makes about 3 cups of thin sauce. I pour the concoction into freezer bags and lay flat in freezer until frozen.

When ready to eat later, I add some herbs, some tomato paste, and usually a bit of sugar to cut the tanginess while its heating in a sauce pan on the stove. We always freeze leftover tomato paste in ice cube trays, then keep the cubes in freezer bags. Two "cubes" of tomato paste is good for one cup of sauce. Probably about 2 tablespoons-ish.

Up next -- my new love and reason I have no room left in my freezer -- PICKLES!

Jitters

2008-08-19T17:01:00.002-10:00

I've scoured the class list, looking for familiar names. I have covered and recovered my list of necessary supplies, insuring I have just what I need. I've anticipated what I'll wear, and have given careful consideration to the just right footwear. I wonder what the other kids will think of me. Will they like me? Who will I eat lunch with? What if they don't like me? What if I forget to get dressed and show up in just my underwear!????

Tomorrow is the first day. This time I'm the 5th grade teacher rather than the student, but it still feels just like the first day felt...gasp...NINETEEN years ago!

Not to Make a Big Deal

2008-08-08T07:01:00.003-10:00

He said he was glad that today is my mom's 50th Birthday. Maybe people would just forget that it was his birthday too. That it could just slip quietly by with maybe a small gift and a phone call from his mother. He doesn't really like his birthday. Doesn't care about birthdays in general. Is just too damn cool to give a shit, you know?

But, for real, who really wants people to ignore their birthday? He's just saying that, right? So I started thinking about how to celebrate, how to recognize his special day. He's a great guy, right? Well, he's ridiculously smart, and that's so annoying because he's so very often right and, worst of all, he knows it. He just knows stuff. Go ahead, pick a topic, any topic. He knows about it. He's read about it. He's on the verge of being an expert. But he's still pretty cool, minus the part where he's absurdly artistic and creative and can just make crap, crap that looks totally good, effortlessly. One of those "More talent in his pinky than I have sum total" types, but that's easy to overlook, I suppose. I mean, he's just really super. The kids adore him, and rightfully so, he's a fantastic father. They both kind of start hyperventilating when he walks in the door every night, just totally overwhelmed by their excitement to see him. I'm pretty much chopped liver when he's around, but really, its fine. More time to myself, right? He looks pretty good too. You know, one those types who look better with age, even if he puts on a few pounds or starts to get a splash of grey hair. He's all with the 5 minute shower, swipe of deodarant, and a clean shirt and looking good for the town. And I'm all "Oh, well, I'm going to need another hour to look that good." And sometimes he cooks or cleans or just says random things like "No, seriously, go ahead, sleep in this morning. I'll get up with the kids." or "Why don't you go take a nap?" Or "No, no, I'll do my own laundry." My friends say, "Oh, what a nice husband. You're so lucky..." Yeah, sure, lucky!

So...Happy 33 Birthday Pat! You're the love of my life. And I hate you!

2008-08-07T15:30:00.003-10:00

The week leading up to Ella's first birthday was a decidedly emotional week. Not so much because she was leaving the realm of babyhood, that's actually something I sort of welcomed. (Not knowing that the next 6 months would be among her grouchiest.) I just felt like I was kind of reliving the dramatic events surrounding her birth 1 year prior, and it kind of made me shudder, thinking about what might've been.

Last week, the week of our son's birth was equally as emotional. The highlight being when Pat came home from work Friday evening, I had been home all day with particularly demanding kids and a spinning plate of neighbor kids/repair men/phone calls,/birthday preparations, so when Pat had the audacity to ask if Conrad had any dry clothes to wear to his birthday party at my mom's, I burst into tears. Sheesh, I hate when I'm that girl!

And I find myself in a familiar place, the words of doctors and nurses echoing in my head from a year ago. The middle of the night knock on the door from the nervous if not frantic nurse..."I'm not sure what happened. I just got here. She wanted me to come get you. He was blue. But he's okay now. I think. But you need to come down there. He choked. I just got here. I'm just not sure.

By the time we got down to the nurses station, they were starting an IV, ordering chest x-rays, and paging doctors from their slumber. The next eight days went something like:

"What's wrong with him?"
"We don't know...maybe nothing..."
"So we can take him home?"
"NO!"

Eight days later, we brought home a little boy who probably did NOT have a hole in his heart but probably DID hold his breath in his sleep. That'll buy you an expensive monitor and lots of wires hooked to your kid for a few months. Unlike his sister who gave us no cause for concern after her first week of birth, he's only made the more story more complex, adding to the list "floppy trachea", "asthmatic symptoms", developmental delays, and a lot of sleepless nights, chest x-rays, and rounds of medicines that I'd rather not even take myself...let alone give to my infant son. And now his physical therapist is quietly muttering, "His feet don't...we might have to...orthotics...special shoes 8 hours a day...blah, blah, blah..." and the pediatrician is muttering "More steroids...tubes....blah, blah, blah" and the pulminologist is muttering "Sleep study...adenoids out...blah, blah, blah"...La, la ,la...I can't hear you!!

I joked with his pediatrician this week that he's spent more time with her this year than our he has with most of relatives. She chuckled, then paused, and then sincerely offered "Maybe this year will be a little better."

Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. Much of what I read and hear from others says to expect more of the same this year. But next year? Next year could be a little better. Apparently 2 years old is often a magic number in cases like these.

The other day I walked into the bathroom and found a small yellow block peeking out from the bottom of the toilet. I smiled, in spite of knowing that I'd have to fish it out because it felt like a sign from a little boy not yet old enough to tell me himself (because he's too busy saying "dada" and "Ella" all damn day, but never "Mama") that said "I'm just a little boy. A little boy who likes to unravel the toilet paper and throw blocks into the toilet, just like any other little boy. I'm okay." Yeah, maybe I'm reading a little too much into the Lego at the bottom of the toilet, but we take what we can get, right?

Happy Birthday Conrad!

Cheers

2008-07-27T18:27:00.004-10:00

In honor of our 30th summers of being, A. Crozier and I took to the streets of downtown Chicago to remind ourselves that a decade that included bibles, boys, and babies has only proved to make us twice the women that we were 10 years ago. To demonstrate just how serious I was about being a woman with no regrets, I did the crossword in PEN on Saturday's bus ride to the Windy City!

I will pause to shamelessly plug the midwest's best travel bargain, the Megabus. I can't say enough about how affordable, easy, relaxing, and so very "un-Greyhound" the Megabus was. Take it somewhere -- to my house maybe!?

From the Megabus to The Conrad Hilton -- my dad's birthday present to us thanks to all of his travel points. Four Star Accomodations -- which means soft robes, fluffy pillows, and $14 toast/coffee for breakfast.

We covered most of the downtown map, a lot of it by foot, much of it in totally inappropriate footwear that left us combing the clearance rack at a neighborhood Walgreens for hot pink flip flops to get us through the night.

Being in a city is such a contact high for me. It's energy gives me energy. I felt young and fancy free, at least until I saw a chubby baby in a stroller or a little girl with her favorite doll tucked under her arm. My heart would kind of do a tiny flip, I couldn't keep myself from smiling at them, and I'd remember that while its good to be an adult...a woman...being a mom is so very much a valued part of my identity now.

Cheers to that girl in the Audio Adrenaline t-shirt at freshman orientation 12 years ago next month. I remember thinking, "Oh, I hope she wants to be my friend!" Cheers to 10 years of catching up and keeping up. Cheers to being the type of women our mothers warned us about. Cheers to being 30 and loving it.

Trying to be a Little Less Redneck

2008-07-10T15:26:00.001-10:00

Our son is happiest in just his diaper. We pretty much just let him live in this state, even outdoors, whenever possible. Our neighborhood is just eclectic enough for this to be totally acceptable, although when we carry him two doors down to talk to the man building his pricey dream home in our old neighborhood of modest homes built 70+ years ago, he might be wondering what he's gotten himself into.

(Random note: When they were tearing down the small falling down home that previously occupied the land that this man is building on, they found part of a train car as an integral part of the structure. The lady that lived there prior to her passing about 1.5 years ago frequently told me the story of how her husband literally carried some of the lumber for the house in on his back when he built it nearly 80 years ago when our neighborhood was not much more than a corn field besides her house and ours, but she failed to mention that the aforementioned lumber was framing an abandoned train car that was used as the majority of her living space. Fantastic!)

We also have a bug problem, our neighbor (with the mullet) still has a toilet on his back porch, and the currency of gratitude on our block, when someone does you a favor, is a 6 pack of Coors Light. We're probably just one couch on the porch short of a son named "Ricky Bobby" -- who wears only a diaper all summer long.

So to stave off our impending induction to the Redneck Club, I made Chard and crispy chick peas for dinner. Uncertain about how these two would pair together, I served them separately but they definitely tasted good together. The chard was kind of hard to get right, but still tasty. Pat wasn't 100% sold on the crispy chick peas, but Conrad and I are pretty certain we could've eaten those all night long. We didn't have the ancho chili powder the recipe called for, but regular chili powder sufficed. (Ella and her friend that was here for dinner agreed that one was enough for them. Thankfully I'd made ravioli with pesto too.) I think I'll add just the crispy chick peas to my mental list of quick dinners to make when Conrad and I are dining alone (while his sister continues to subsist on nuts, dairy, and fruit). A bowl of those and a beer (or cup of milk for the under aged one) would make for a great light dinner or late night snack.

Our neighbor must've sensed that I was trying to add a bit more class to the joint tonight because as a Thank You Gift for loaning out our garage for his big party over the weekend/early birthday gift -- he brought over a 6 pack of specialty beer instead of the standard domestics that we barter with in these parts. I'm movin' on up.

Note: I make jabs at the hillbilly nature of our neighborhood, yet we are currently fielding calls from multiple contractors and banks trying to work out the logistics to add on a second story to this house so we can take the 'For Sale' sign out of the front yard and settle in for at least another 5 years. I kid because I care. We love living here in this little neighborhood, so much so that we'd rather let them tear holes in our roof and mortgage us up to our eyeballs just so we don't have to live somewhere other than here.

A Little Something Special

2008-06-20T02:18:00.006-10:00

We are working on the "Guests First" concept with our daughter. So when she had a friend over the other night, I suggested she let her guest choose which one of Ella's menagerie of pillows she wanted to sleep on. Of course, her friend unknowingly selects the only pillow that Ella really cares about -- her small Batman pillow that she sleeps with every night. Ella's gasped and looked at me with panic in her eyes. I quickly decided that while its important to treat your guests with the best, its also okay to have a few things that are just your own. I offered that maybe Ella could politely say "This pillow is really special to me. Could you please pick a different one?" She did, and her friend easily obliged. But because every 3.95 year old can take a good thing and ruin it in 3.95 seconds, just moments later, when her friend reaches for a toy, I hear Ella say, "Molly, that <random piece of plastic crap> is really special to me!"

It seems that there is nothing truly special anymore. A friend and I were recently discussing how truly unspecial even produce is anymore. Remember when you looked forward all summer to corn on the cob being in season. Every August, my family would gorge themselves on hot buttery ears of sweet corn from my grandma's garden until the thought of corn became appalling. Now you can get corn on the cob practically year round.

While planning a pending trip to Chicago, a friend asked me about Michigan Avenue, the historic Magnificent Mile which was once every shoppers dream. Now, its hardly better than any other outdoor mall that is popping up all over the Midwest, complete with Pottery Barn, the Gap, and probably the god forsaken Disney Store. Remember when Macy's or Nordstrom was a shopping privilege only for those who traveled to the major city's of the world? Even here in the middle of the corn fields, I could get to either of those stores in about 30 minutes.

In this age of the Internet, gone is the mystery of the secret sauce, secret recipe, or secret to how to save the princess. Its all just a quick Google search away. Everything is now globalized. Every brand is at your disposal, most likely at your local Target. Pornography is no longer just for those brave enough to ask for it at the counter or visit elicit locations. The global dress code is now business casual at best, so our suit jackets and Dry Clean Only finery sits in the backs of the closets untouched and unnecessary.

And if you'll excuse me, I need to go fluff my hair net and drive slow in the fast lane, because I'm pretty much sure this post has aged me. I've always wondered how I'd look with blue hair.

June 4th

2008-06-04T14:52:00.002-10:00

I wrote the date down on a check earlier today and wondered if I had forgotten someone's birthday. The date looked familiar to me. As I was putting Ella into the tub tonight, she asked how many more days until her birthday..."Let's see...its June 4th...June 4th?..."

Oh yeah, today would've been my parents' 31st wedding anniversary. They've been divorced for 15 years now, so its obviously no longer a holiday. While I doubt either of them would ever use the word "regret" to describe the years they spent growing up together as young adults, raising kids, and learning to get by, I know that they are now both with people who better suit the people they ultimately wanted to become.

Couples whom we've counted among our favorites for years have sited their differences as irreconcilable in the past year. It could be for the best, and I'm certain great things are in store for each of their futures.

I have no arrogance about my own marriage. While I truly love waking up next to Pat every morning more now than I ever have, I also concede that marriage is fragile and prone to our humanity at any point. Pat's dad said it best over lunch on Saturday when he said, "He's an idiot! He's always been an idiot!" (In response to Pat accidentally causing our daughter to bust into tears because of some poorly timed sarcasm.) And if Pat doesn't do something to screw it up, I'm just as likely. If you've ever met my compulsive father, you probably marvel that he or any of his offspring are capable of healthy relationships.

Some say its unrealistic to think that any relationship is for a life time. That you need the mate to grow up with, and perhaps a different one to grow old with. I don't think this statement lacks logic.

A few years ago, we got an early morning call saying my Great Grandfather had passed away in his sleep at his assisted living facility. One of my first questions was, has anyone told his wife, my Great Grandmother, his wife of over 60 years. She was in a nursing home, several miles away from her husband's facility, almost comatose with little memory of her life at all due to Alzheimer's. She'd been in that state for at least 2 years. After my Great Grandfather's funeral we went to visit my Great Grandma. We told her of his death, of what people had said about him at the funeral, and who all had been there to pay their respects. She made no indication that she knew we were even in the room, let alone respond to the fact that we'd just told her of her husband's death. She passed away 2 days later. I realize it might sound trite or quaint, but I will always treasure the idea that she might have somehow been willing herself to carry-on for the sake of her husband, in spite of their physical separation, so that he never had to live without her. That once she knew he was gone, she could let go and let her own life expire.

This too may sound trite and quaint, but I hope everyone else is wrong, that the odds don't include me, and that I too can die as an old woman knowing that my husband, that I not only grew up with but also grew old with, no longer needs me.

Theories

2008-05-27T15:46:00.004-10:00

I have heard other parents say, "Your kid will either sleep or they'll eat. You won't get a kid who does both well." I know there are several exceptions out there, you with your flawless children who eat their vegetables, ask for more, then politely request to be put to bed, early! Yeah, I hate you.

Our first kid took 2 naps a day until she was 16 months old, and she always ready for bed promptly at 8 pm. Often she would tell us she was ready for bed. But she also consisted on a diet of dairy, fruit, and whole grain. Oh wait, thats pretty much her diet now. If she eats a few green beans at someone's house, she thinks she's done the whole world a favor, suggesting "Wasn't that nice of me to eat one green bean at her house?" Yeah, you're practically a saint.

Enter Kid #2 and his ferocious appetite. I realize that there is still plenty of time for this kid to get picky, but, as it stands, we're still trying to figure out what he WON'T eat, and he doesn't even have his first tooth. In a time saving effort over the weekend, I decided to mix the vegetable/dairy/protein all into one bowl for his dinner. He ate a very Indian looking medley of cottage cheese, hummus, and pureed green beans...and CRIED when I ran out. But he took two fairly brief naps today (and got to sleep in a bit because school is out now), and refused to go to sleep before 9:45 pm. And, chances are, he'll be up several more times through the night.

For all of you genetic engineers out there, show me a kid who eats AND sleeps and I'll consider a 3rd. Otherwise, I'm DONE!

Beer Theory...

Friday night we had dinner out with friends. I consumed two pints of one of their in-house microbrews, and was ready to dance on the tables. Sort of. Sunday night we went to a cook-out at my sister's house where the beer was of the bottled domestic variety. That evening I ate less for dinner, consumed more beer, and felt not even the slightest twinge that would've indicated that I had been consuming beverages labeled for adults. So, I'm pretty sure that, over time, these domestic beer bottlers (you know who I'm talking about) have been slowly reducing the alcohol content to the point where its practically non-existent. Those of you who get all giddy and handsy after 6 of these have just made yourselves believe you're drunk as an excuse to be ridiculous. Now...don't you feel silly?

Husband Theory...

I got married when I was about month shy of being 22 years old. I had just finished college 2 weeks before. I hadn't even dated the guy for a full year. Our entire courtship was long distance, with 8 hours separating us. He moved home a week before we got married. We had spent limited time with each other's families. We didn't have any money. Seriously...NO money! I had never spent a night, naked, in his bed. The guy who did our hurried marriage counseling told him he shouldn't marry me because girls from divorced parents are more likely to get divorced themselves. A friend had told me that this guy was trouble...I should stay away from him. We got married anyway. Eight years ago today! Happy Anniversary Pat!

Buttered Up

2008-05-02T15:48:00.004-10:00

The kitchen has been fairly silent lately due to the whole working full time thing, not to mention that its been really nice outside so the kids and I usually end up in the yard after work rather than at the stove. But this week, in an effort to use up some various produce items that were on the brink, I threw 3 parsnips, a sweet potato, and some carrots in a skillet with an undisclosed amount of butter (read: a few tablespoons!). Sprinkle on a generous amount of nutmeg, salt, and a little cayenne, saute to desired tenderness, and you end up with a pretty tasty dish. 3/4 of our family loved it, although after Conrad tired of feeding bits of it to himself we had to throw the rest into the food processor and feed him by spoon. Kids these days...so lazy! The 4th member choked down a few carrots and, with a pinched face, said "It's good but I don't want anymore." Sigh! Pat and I also ate an entire bag of spinach at that meal. Will I ever get over the fact that spinach just wilts down to NOTHING when cooked? Probably not!

While sleeping Conrad and I waited for the 50% of our clan to get off the carousel, an older gentleman, after guessing Conrad's age precisely, remarked that about our son's "healthy" size. After agreeing, he added that his own granddaughter, who had just turned a year old, was going to be very short. I remarked that our own daughter had been a pretty petite baby, to which he replied, "Yes, my granddaughter just started wearing 3-6 month clothing." With a bit of shock I said, "Oh, she is VERY tiny." His response was, "Yeah, she's a real dwarf." Not understanding his implication, I continued remarking about what a little girl she must be, when he interrupted and, with more emphasis, said "NO...she's a REAL DWARF." Oooh!

We here in Indiana are in a unique position. Our primary votes actually COUNT! For a democrat no less! Its so very strange to receive fliers in the mail each day, see presidential ads on the TV, and to even receive personal phone calls from volunteers working for their candidate of choice. Here in the county we live in, the democratic party is basically non-existent. In our last local parade, a pick-up truck pulling a flat-bed trailer with a few old ladies sitting in lawn chairs rolled down the street amidst the various trampy dance troops and Little League teams. These ladies --the Democratic Party of Hendricks County. Pat almost jumped aboard their float as it passed to show that there was at least one male, under 50 who valued their views. It's really hard to say how the vote will go in this backwards state. My grandpa, a life long Democrat, is a racist, misogynistic farmer. (In the most lovable sort of way!) I have not asked him who he'll vote for, but I'm guessing it would be something like, "Well, he's black but its not like we can put a woman in charge." And for this mama....OBAMA!

Tagged

2008-04-15T15:26:00.002-10:00

A few posts back, Caress tagged me to post 6 random things about myself...

#1 -- When I'm on the phone for anything length of time, which is rare, I usually end up in front of a mirror while I'm talking. In my defense, I don't consciously walk to the mirror and I don't really "look" at myself. Perhaps I just like to have the image of another person in front of me while I chat, so it seems more "real"! I don't know. Its weird and I've always done it.

#2 -- In the middle of the night, if I get up to use restroom, I sometimes have to open the shower curtain first to assure myself that no one is in there. If there actually was someone in there, I'm not certain what I would do.

#3 -- Even though I'm a reasonably conversational person, I really hate to call people on the phone, possibly excluding my mother and mother-in-law, who I usually just talk to about the kids. Hence why you're more likely to get an email rather than a phone call from me. Ask one of my closest friends of the past decade, whom I've probably called less than 20x since we parted ways in college. Thankfully, she doesn't do any better on the phone than I do, but we have collectively logged an average of 3-4 emails a week over this past decade.

#4-- I wish I was writing this post about my husband who is waaaaaay more random than I could ever aspire to be. He just gave me a big speech about how he's glad that I'll drink wine out of a juice glass because its difficult to clean and put wine glasses away. RANDOM! He once went on at length to his father about how I was the right woman for him based on the fact that I don't overconsume toilet paper.

#5 -- I shave my legs every day, all year long. Even when I decide that I am NOT going to shave my legs, I usually find myself, absentmindedly, shaving my legs anyway.

#6 -- When I sit down to pee, I never know if I'm going to poop or not.

Maybe Caress is sorry she asked....

Warp Speed

2008-03-31T15:01:00.002-10:00

Tick, tick, tick...life is moving too fast for me to blog.

Pat just bought me a new laptop, due to arrive in 3-5 days. A purchase we've contemplated for at least 6 months.

Today, Pat also purchased a For Sale sign for our front yard. Its not actually in our front yard yet, but it will get there. Our neighbor, who is strongly opposed to us moving, buried his sister this morning. We figured we'd not add insult to injury, at least not while he and his brothers are still getting drunk on the back porch. It has only taken us well over a year to purchase this sign, so if it gets in the yard within the next 6 months, it will still be progress. We have developed a strong kinship with this little house, and, even just a few days ago, we were still seriously contemplating how we could expand it enough in order to make it last a few more years. But when Pat said "Yeah, the contractor said he could get two 7' x 15' bedrooms in the attic (yes SEVEN' x 15')" I realized that we had probably exceeded all this little bungalow had to offer our growing family. Not to mention the fact that the next evening, when out trying to teach our daughter how to ride a bike, the other neighbor's chihuahua did not stop barking, not even once. Where will we move next? Not even a clue other than we're not moving away. Well, not unless YOU happen to have an extra 3 bedrooms and a kick-ass beer and cheese fridge.

And, I have job. A full time, real pay-check, our kids go to a babysitter, J-O-B! A decision that I've been contemplating, well, since when I quit my last real job I suppose. Of course, for now, its only a 9 week job, teaching first grade at the elementary that our street dead ends into while another teacher is out on maternity leave. (Its a crying shame that its totally inappropriate to blog about your first graders, because my eclectic bunch are totally bloggable.) Three weeks in, already a week off for spring vacation, I can definitively say that working, particularly teaching, suits me. This is not a surprise to me. Also not a surprise to me, I really miss my kids when I'm not with them. Oh the dilemma of every mother I suppose.

Last week, I filled my brother's trunk full of no longer needed baby gear. No more swing, bathtub, bouncy, or Bumbo. Tonight I washed and folded all of my maternity clothes, to pass on to a friend just growing out of her regular jeans. Conrad is practically a man on the move these days, and, more notably, a man who finally likes some sleep. Occasionally the question of "A third?" passes our lips (more often his than mine), but its not likely. Even our own mothers, who love our babies more than they could have possibly loved us, insist that we not push our luck with a 3rd. (What? You don't like an extra week in the hospital with each grandchild? But the nurses, they're so nice!)

It seems like everything happens at once, yet, because we rarely move quick on any decision, it all seems like the inevitable because we've talked about it for so long.

This summer, I'll turn 30. When I was 20, I talked about this elusive idea of marriage, kids, a house, and a career. Nearly ten years later I'm shocked to be able to check each one of those off the list, a couple of them two times over. The next 10 years have big shoes to fill.

On Having a Big Baby

2008-02-11T04:26:00.001-10:00

My mother-in-law called the other morning, before I had even finished my coffee, to discuss the children. Specifically I could hear her say through the phone, even though she was talking to Pat, "That is the BIGGEST BABY I'VE EVER SEEN!"

Really? You too? This early, on Saturday morning!? Granted she's also the same person who called me on multiple occasions through my reasonably miserable pregnancy to tell me that I was the only person she had ever met that did not like being pregnant. Apparently she just has not known a lot of pregnant women or fat babies.

This is not a rant about my mother-in-law. I could actually write an entire post about just how much she loves her grandchildren and, at least by association, loves me. As in, in spite of being a very good housekeeper, she doesn't wash her sliding glass door after we leave because she can't bare to wash away our daughter's finger prints. It only gets worse from there. And by calling my baby boy "chubby", "big", or just plain "fat" she's not saying anything that complete strangers have not stopped to tell me just because...well, I don't know why. Because I didn't realize that he's a big baby? Because they think he needs to go on a diet?

He is a big kid. I've got nicely toned arms to prove it. I guess, in some ways, I should take it as compliment to me. The bulk of his girth came from the fruit of my own body, with no shortage of effort. See his hammy thighs, do you know how many hours I had to spend on a damn breast pump to get those?

This chubby kid, who loves to eat, is certainly an alternate experience from what we had with his sister who we begged to eat, gain weight, and just get to 20 pounds. It was a similar experience getting her to 30 pounds, where her weight continues to hover. Food, of any kind, is of little interest to her. A necessary evil that slows her down in her quest to be the Boss of Everything.

In spite of the wise cracks, everyone has high hopes for Conrad's penchant for eating. After his sister has continued in the family tradition of grandchildren who eat hardly anything, their grandmother hopes Conrad will be the first of 4 who sits down to her meals with gusto and doesn't ask for yogurt instead. I even overheard his father saying to him the other day, "I can't wait until you're old enough to make runs down to the German meat market on Saturday mornings and stop at White Castle on the way home. " I'll be glad that Conrad is a good eater as well, if he saves me from that.

There is no reason to believe that this squishy little boy will be topping the charts forever, but, as for his current status, his sister summed it up like this...

"Mom, I'm "sniggly" and I think that Bucky is "piggly"!"

Even his own sister!

Bacon: An Honorary Vegetable

2008-02-08T17:47:00.001-10:00

We are a mostly meatless household. Its something that evolved over time. It started with experimenting with turkey substitute products to cut some of the fat out of our menus, and through that realizing that, with a little ingenuity, you don't really need the meat at all. As I've learned more about how animals that are used for consumption are typically raised, slaughtered, and packaged I am all the more convinced that our diets are better off without it most of the time. I rarely refuse meat when its served to me at someone else's table (including when Pat cooks), but, generally, I don't cook with it and/or order it at restaurants with only a few exceptions.

With that said, I must confess that because our cuisine is almost always vegetarian and typically pretty healthy, I don't feel terribly guilty about the fact that on any given day there is almost always a package of bacon in my refrigerator. To me, bacon is an honorary vegetable. The fatty, greasy distant cousin to the carrots I keep in the crisper. We don't even cook with it weekly, but, on occasion, a recipe just demands that a few slices of bacon be thrown into the skillet before anything else takes place. I'm actually not even huge on bacon by itself other than a few late summer BLT's with tomatoes still warm from the late afternoon sun, but something about the fat that bacon renders in a pan gives other food a flavor that is not easy to duplicate. The following recipe fits into that category.

When Pat cooked this up for the first time, I was skeptical at best. Just beans, in a pan, with some bacon, onion and garlic. And Parmesan cheese...on beans?? Really? REALLY! Tonight I threw in some carrot and celery because we had some, so it took a bit longer to cook. But, without them, this dinner, even with kids under foot, takes less than 10 minutes.

Bodega Beans!

The Flattery of Imitation

2008-02-08T06:32:00.000-10:00

When people heard that Pat was going to be a father for the first time, there was a lot of speculation about what that child's first words would be. I think most people were betting on an innocent "shit" but a few others were less optimistic, assuming she'd go straight for f*ck.

The reality is, outside of the mysterious period of time when she referred to french fries as "f*ckies", I'm pretty sure she's never uttered any word from the uncensored pages of her father's personal lexicon. This is not to say that her father didn't have any influence on her early speech though. Her first word was "kitty"!

No, I am actually the one at whom the finger should be pointed for any premature "adult language" that has come from our daughter's mouth. Thankfully, my own word bank of expletives is much more benign, so you're only likely to hear an occasional "What the heck?" or frustrated "Dang It!" from our 3 year old's mouth. She is also quick to parrot a lot of the phrases we utter at her when frustrated with her behavior. Last night, when her doll repeatedly fell from the spot in the car where Ella was trying to perch her, she growled in frustration then bellowed "Now that's ENOUGH!" Even I could immediately recognize her words and the tone as my own.

Ella pretty much wants to do everything I do, just like me. She asks me several times a day if I'll teach her how to be a teacher because she wants to teach in the classroom right next to mine. She says she has dibs on teaching all of the "fun" stuff, you know, like cooking, riding a bike, and taking care of cats. With a curriculum like that, we're obviously destined for Montessori. She even tells me which items of my clothing she's going to borrow to wear to work when she's big enough. If she wasn't my daughter, I'd think she's my stalker. In, fact some days, the difference between daughter and stalker is blurry.

We've been having a lot of trouble getting her to stay asleep at night lately. This leads to a great amount of frustration, particularly because that child has slept, by herself, in the darkest room possible, without fail, since she was about 4 months old. On the few occasions that we've wanted her to sleep with us, prior to now, she simply couldn't do it. She'd usually end up curling up at the end of the bed in an effort to get away from us. But now, she's up every few hours requiring someone to put her back to bed, or, worse, someone to sleep with her. This, as you may guess, has terrible timing considering the health and related sleep issues her infant brother has had over the past few months. Yes, I'm sure its all related -- perhaps her jealousy manifesting itself in the dark hours of the night, but it certainly does not make it any easier to deal with.

We have been trying to creatively solve this problem with a myriad of techniques. We've been firm and persistent. We've been gentle and understanding. We've scolded. We've yelled. We've cuddled. We've begged. We've questioned and reasoned ourselves to death. Nothing has worked. While we're quite certain that this is something she'll just have to out grow, simply a phase (a cruel untimely phase), it does not keep us from persisting in our efforts. This week we've resorted to every parent's last stand...bribery. The deal being that if she can stay in bed enough nights consecutively, earning a sticker on a chart hanging next to her bed each time, she can earn the reward of her choosing. She seemed rather excited by the notion. After I hung her sticker chart by her bed, she immediately ran to her art box and set to work on some undisclosed creation. I, just happy that she was self entertained, thought nothing of it. But I was more than amused when I was summoned to my bedroom door a bit later in the afternoon to see her final product...

Maybe its not that she wants to be just like me as much as it is that she wants me to be just like her!

As for her selected reward, should she reach her objective, she informed that she thought only a pet snail would be a suitable reward for such a feat. Ah yes, a snail, of course! Specifically, she'd like the algae eating "snail" that she saw in the aquarium on the desk of a receptionist recently. This particular snail was no longer in the aquarium when we returned a few days later. The receptionist politely offered that the snail had to "move out" due to the fact that the fish in the aquarium did not get along with the snail. When Ella asked where the snail had moved to, the receptionist politely suggested somewhere far away as she privately gestured to me towards the train tracks, where I assume she had tossed the snail. If Ella can't have that snail, she says she'll take a lesser substitute from the pet store. But either way, she'll name him "Sniggly!" (Should you actually know anything about having a pet snail, please email me!)

As for my own sticker chart hanging on my bedroom door, this morning it was adorned with 3 stickers before I even got out of bed. One for each of the occupants of my bedroom. Ella asked what reward I would like when I fill up my chart for staying in my bed all night. Perhaps a fish, gerbil, or even a skunk!? It did not take long to decide...for staying in my bed all night I would simply like more time in my bed!

Aromatic Memories

2008-02-05T04:28:00.000-10:00

The night before our daughter's birth, Pat and I ate dinner at a vegetarian Indian buffet. Everything about this place was the antithesis of what I prefer in my dining out experience. The restaurant is in a sketchy part of town, in a run down strip mall next to a Value City Furniture and an ethnic hair supply shop with bars on the windows. To get the restaurant, you have to walk back a long, dimly lit hallway that is littered with grocery carts from the Indian grocery store, also back the same mysterious hall. As I mentioned, its a buffet. Buffets make me think of those chain restaurants that use words like "corral" in their name, referring to you as herded cattle before you even start over indulging. Besides, I hate the notion of "eating my money's worth." Yet everything about every bite I took that night was SO right! The food was delicious, and I would've savored each bite all the more had I known it was our last night of our frivolous child-free existence.

Late yesterday evening, I came in the back door and the aroma of this soup, still lingering from dinner a few hours before, somehow instantly transplanted me back to that night. I breathed it in deep but didn't savor it long before Pat greeted me with a fussy, gassy baby. Sigh!

Morrocan Lentil Soup

Notes:
*I cut this recipe in half-ish. (Less lentils and liquid) -- it makes a lot!
*I used vegetable broth in place of most of the water
*Garam Masala can probably be imitated with enough cumin, cinnamon, ginger, etc...
(Although the real stuff, given to us by one of Pat's coworkers, is worth tracking down.)
*I skipped the puree part.

Gigantic!

2008-02-04T06:15:00.000-10:00

Even as she went to bed last night, at the beginning of the 3rd Quarter, she still assured me that the team with the shiny blue helmets, the Giants, would be the winners. Since the Colt's defeat several weeks ago, she's has been confident of a Giant's victory, in spite of how disappointed she was that were no actual GIANTS on the field. I kissed her on the forehead, smiling at her optimism, and told her that Eli appreciated her confidence in him, no matter how misguided. Sweet girl, the Patriots don't let anyone score in the 4th quarter. Keeping the first half close is just for show, so their opponents feel that much more humiliated when they're beat into submission in the final minutes of the game.

But, hot damn, apparently Ella, Eli, and Plaxico knew of an alternate ending. Too bad fantasy football is over. I had Eli and Plaxico this season. Last night's touchdown in the final seconds made up for their lack luster showing in the first half of the season when I really could've used the points. When Plaxico was reduced to a pile of hot, melty tears at the end of the game, I'm sure what he was trying to say "Julia, this one was for YOU! After letting you down the first half of the season." Or maybe not! But it was certainly some exciting football. I haven't been that kind of excited since, well, probably since the other Manning kissed the Lombardi trophy this time last year. I'm not okay with all of our presidents coming from the some families , but I'm definitely in support of back to back Superbowl QB's being kin.

You Can Call me "Fancy" if You'd Like

2008-02-01T05:18:00.000-10:00

When its too cold to go out and the baby starts sleeping for more than 45 minute stretches (You know you're sleep deprived when 4-5 hours at a time makes you feel giddy!), you actually start looking around your house and thinking "Maybe I should do something productive!" So now the toilets are shiny, the floors slippery from lack of dirt, and the kitchen has been working over time.

Last night, Ella and I really kicked it up a notch, venturing into a land of cooking that is multi-stepped and requires dirtying more than one pan. Yeah, yeah...that's my definition of gourmet!

Vegetable Wellington (Kind of a Vegetable Pie)

Preheat oven to 425.

Saute vegetables of choice in a little olive oil. (We used chopped asparagus, red pepper, and onion. The recipe also called for spinach to be tossed in towards the end of cooking the veggies, but we were out. I think you could use a large variety of vegetables.) Once they're soft, set them aside to cool.

Combine goat cheese with some prepared pesto. I didn't have any prepared pesto, so I just threw about 2-3 ounces of goat cheese into mini-food processor with some basil, pine nuts, olive oil, parmesan cheese, and garlic.

Lay out puff pastry sheet. (Might need a little flour) Cut into rectangles. One sheet of puff pastry made three medium sized pies. (The box I bought had 2 sheets) Brush rectangle edges with egg.

Lay a rectangle on a greased cookie sheet. Pile on some of the vegetables, then top with a bit of the goat cheese mixture. Stretch another rectangle of pastry over the top and seal edges with finger or a fork.

Chill for 10 minutes, then bake for 18-20 minutes.

Serve with tomato sauce. (I forgot this part, but I think it would've been good.)

These were good, but I'm wondering if I could've rolled the puff pastry sheets out a bit thinner. I'd never used puff pastry before, so I didn't realize how much that thin sheet "puffed". We'd probably add some red pepper flakes to either the cheese or vegetables next time, but that may only be because we both have colds right now therefore can't get enough spice. I also think making these smaller as appetizers for a party would be good.

In addition to two new recipes for dinner two nights in a row, I even tried making my own Girl Scout Samoa's. I'm out of control and likely destined for my jeans not to fit by the weekend. These are really good but not perfect. I could pretty much just eat the toasted coconut mixed with melted carmel and just skip the rest of the steps. Maybe with a little dark chocolate drizzled on top. :)

SAGE fried in BUTTER!

2008-01-30T14:23:00.001-10:00

Its been so uncreative in the kitchen around here lately that even I, the cook, get nauseated at the thought of another bowl of black bean chili or potato soup. When the highlight of the meals in your week are the frozen black bean taquitos from Trader Joe's with some Mexican rice from a box, you know its time to spice things up.

I stumbled upon this recipe via Not Martha who got it via Splatgirl who got it from Epicurious.com.

I stuck pretty close to the recipe. I bought beef broth just for the recipe. (I've never even seen veal broth. I bet people make it themselves.) I did not add in any chicken broth. Although, I think the vegetable broth that we usually use would've worked just fine. We did add some red pepper flakes to add a little heat to the taste, and Pat speculated that a smashed clove of garlic cooked in with the butter and sage but removed before serving might have infused in even more flavor. I think we'll try that next time. The fried sage leaves are outstanding. Oh yeah, and we used plain cheap mostaccoli instead of any sort of fancy linguine because I forgot to buy linguine. Linguine would've been good but certainly not essential.

This might be my new favorite comfort food. We were fighting over the last bits of butter and melted cheese stuck to the cast iron skillet as we cleaned up the kitchen afterwards.

Overly Invested

2008-01-30T04:11:00.000-10:00

I've watched a lot of NFL football this year. I feel a void in my life where the NFL was, and I'm sad about this Sunday's game, more than anything, because its the season's last. I've tried to get a little more involved in the presidential campaign as the football season draws to a close for a new kind of play by play drama, but, frankly, I can't even bring myself to hate Mit or John nearly as much as I've come to hate Bill and Tom. And, apparently, its the hatred that fuels me.

I have surely complained enough by now about how precious few hours of sleep we get each night. Last night was particularly bad, yet, in the few hours of sleep I managed to scrape together between the episodes of crying and swearing (Yeah, that Conrad..he has a potty mouth!), I managed to have TWO dreams about the Patriot's coach, Bill Belichick. The most memorable being when he came out with the cut-off sleeves of his signature grubby hooded sweatshirt gathered and hemmed around his elbow. He looked at me, and in the same menacing face that he saves only for snubbing Tony Dungy grunted "There! Are you happy?"

Maybe in the off season, I need to find a less consuming past time...perhaps sewing....sweatshirts!

Go Giants!

Buttoning Down the Hatches

2008-01-23T17:27:00.000-10:00

Every night, we try something new.

I wish I was referring to our dinner or romance, but, in reality, we just try something, anything to get the baby to sleep...at least for a couple of hours. I think of those days, when he was not even 2 month old, when I'd say to my mother "Don't tell Maria, but he's sleeping 7 hours at night." Maria, my sister, was still up several times with her own infant son back then.

Now his sleep is restless and fitful. He cries out, often without even opening his eyes. Sometimes we both lay as still as the dead, hoping the other will take pity and be the one to get up to comfort him. Other times, we both jump up, trying to spare the other, pleading with the other to just go back to bed and get a little bit more sleep.

After a quick camera down the nose, the doctor assures us that its nothing of grave concern and not even a surgery is required. We breath a sigh of relief. He continues. But his breathing, that labored rattling and wheezing, that's just his way, at least for now. Expect him to outgrow in another 6 months. He's going to probably keep getting sick and continue to sleep poorly, at least through the winter. Continue the medications and do what you can to make him comfortable. This prognosis is good, we know that. But as we laid in bed last night, our son cuddled up next to us, seeking comfort as he struggled to get a good breath, it was easy to say "Really, this is the best you can do for him? Six more months of this?" The doctor's only advice was, "When people look at your kid funny because he sounds like he's dieing, just tell them to mind their own business. He'll be fine."

The actual diagnosis is tracheomalasia, a floppy trachea. It explains not only the loud, Darth Vader-esque breathing, but also the reflux, developmental delays, possibly the weird Echocardiograms at birth, and even his issues with nursing. Having a definition rather than a bunch of "it could be's" offers its own measure of comfort.

So, at least for now, we'll button down the hatches in hopes of keeping our little flock as healthy as we can. Ella asked yesterday why we don't hibernate like the bears. This winter, we might give it a shot. Minus the part where you get to sleep a lot.

Hair and Muffins (Not to be confused with Hairy Muffins)

2008-01-18T04:17:00.000-10:00

*She had me at muffin! This recipe for a vegan full meal muffin is easy and good. Ella thought it was pretty darn exciting to be able to have a muffin as her main course for lunch yesterday. Pat, on the other hand, politely suggested they were "light on taste" but he may have been expecting something a bit more dessert-like when he opened the box usually reserved for sweet baked goods sitting on the counter.

*I got my hair cut by someone new last night. I had to wait 30 minutes after my scheduled appointment time. She came out flustered and apologetic, and whisked me back to her chair. She seemed quite dismayed with the current state of my hair cut, which was okay because I was too. Hence why I was coming to her instead of the lady I have gone to for the past 3 years. As she frantically scrubbed my hair she asked "Do you use box color?". (Insult of all insults from a hair stylist!!) When I assured her that I didn't, she said "Are you sure?" Yeah, I think I'd remember coloring my own hair. Besides, my not so very authoritarian husband established that as the only rule when we were first married..."No home hair color." He said he couldn't handle the drama.

After waxing on at length about the how depraved and dry my hair was because of the inferior coloring product that had been used, in spite of explaining that I thought that breastfeeding was the cause, she hurried me back to her chair to go to work with the scissors. As she wacked and chopped away, she continued to decry how bad it looked. After cutting the back she offered, "I took care of the tail you had back here!" The tail!? It was a bit longer in back than in the front, but hardly a TAIL. Yeah lady, win me over by suggesting I have reformed mullet. She even said "Its awful! Its just awful to walk around with a bad hair cut. It ruins everything!" Gee lady, I thought the layers were little heavy, I didn't realize I was ruining my life with my offensive hair cut. She asked me the obligatory "What products do you use?" question. When I offered that I do, in fact, use salon products (bought by my mother-in-law at wholesale price, of course!), she consented "Well, I guess I can't be mad at you. You are using salon products!" What a mercenary!

As she turned on the blow dryer and was practically running around my head to get it dry, I realized that the women sitting next to me was waiting to get her own hair cut by the same lady. She had been done with the dryer hood for at least 10 minutes. The stylist spritzed my hair with some foreign substance from a 3 foot distance then shuttled me towards the door as she called from behind "Come back in 6 weeks or less because its going to take at least 2 cuts to make it look decent!" The whole experience took about 20 minutes.

To add insult to injury, just that very day, this stylist had been promoted to "Master Stylist" meaning her price was now $15 higher than it had been the day before, when I had made the appointment.

My hair looks pretty good but I don't know that my ego could withstand a repeat visit.

Getting A Grip

2008-01-09T17:41:00.000-10:00

"They're absolutely right, but when its your baby, perspective on how much worse it could be is sometimes hard to grip on."

When I typed that sentence in a recent post, I grimaced. Its the truth, but I feared that someone would read that who had a kid that was truly, gravely ill would consider me inconsiderate or self-absorbed. I was well aware that children live each day with their mortality as their only reality. And its their parents and their family's reality as well. A son with some respiratory distress really pales in comparison, no matter how much I fret about it.

Before today, I understood this but maybe I didn't "get" it. We spent four hours this morning riding elevators with a naked baby swaddled in a fluffy blanket, visiting various medical professionals, hoping that at least one of them could give us the picture into our son's reality. A couple of electrodes and x-rays later, we left that hospital with a fist full of new prescriptions and and, perhaps, at least a clue about what might be going on. Unfortunately, its going to take at least another invasive scope, maybe an overnight sleep study and, possibly, even a surgery to truly get to the bottom of all of this. But we left that children's hospital with something that not every parent has the privilege of. More or less, a guarantee from a medical expert that, ultimately, our son would be okay.

Sitting in the various waiting rooms, patiently waiting our turn, thankful the little girl was not in tow, we witnessed parents wheeling their children into offices with exhaustion etched on their faces. Teenaged boys wearing masks to protect their immunity to any and all infections. Kids that were "embarassing"...making rude noises, awkward shouts, and, just generally, making a scene wherever they went. These parents live with this every day. They've had to make peace with the stares, the questioning glances, and the blatant disrespect for the child whom they love.

Today, we got a few more pieces to our son's "puzzle", and they confirmed, as we've always known, he's still a scrumptious bowling ball of a boy for whom we need not worry long term. He's still likely to be on a first name basis with our pharmacist and a regular in the pediatrician's office, at least for the time being. But, tonight, when I recount the day's blessings, his life and longevity will be at the top of list, and I'm likely to add a rare request. Tonight I'll pray for peace and comfort for those families whom we encountered whose prognosis could not be as favorable.

Fooood!

2008-01-01T09:01:00.000-10:00

My subconscious must be trying to sabotage any whim I might get about eating better in the new year. Most of my dreams last night revolved around food.

The highlight? Dreaming of Queso de Cabra al Horno (Goat Cheese baked in Tomato Sauce). We had this dish spread on garlic bread at a new Spanish tapas bar in town over the weekend. Pat promises to try his hand at making it sometime in the near future.

After a week of eating other people's generous cooking, yesterday we were eager to feed ourselves from our own kitchen. We'd both been salivating over a dish of roasted vegetables and garlic we'd read about in a magazine, so we scrounged through the produce aisle and our own fridge to come up with a cornucopia of mostly root vegetables for roasting. This recipe called for Brussels sprouts (saute before roasting), cauliflower, parsnips, fingerling potatoes, butternut squash, as many cloves of garlic peeled and cut and half as you can stand (we used 14), leeks, sage, rosemary, and after roasting all of this in olive oil, salt, and pepper for 25 minutes at 450, add bell peppers and minced garlic for 15 more minutes (or until everything is browned and fork tender). The magazine suggested that you serve this over their recipe for apple chestnut stuffing, but we just used Pat's favorite -- Cornbread Stovetop Stuffing.

We give this recipe 2 thumbs up. We did not add the Brussels sprouts, nor did we use fresh herbs. Next time I'd probably skip the leeks in lieu of red onion, and I think I would add sweet potato.

Today I pulsed the leftover veggies in the food processor, spread it on some french bread, topped it with some cheese, and broiled it until melty and hot. With a dash of hot sauce and a beer leftover from last night...Mmmm!

Tonight's food agenda is supposed to bring us a year of prosperity -- Pat's cooking Hoppin' John (Black Eyed Peas and Brown Rice) and I think I'm making spinach with basil and pine nuts in lieu of cabbage or collards. This certainly beats the spoonful of sauerkraut my grandma used to make us choke down on January 1 every year. (My cousin taught me to hide it in the mashed potatoes) Anyone else have New Year's Day food traditions?

I Resolve to Be More Superstitous

2007-12-29T11:01:00.000-10:00

My step-brother asked us last night if we had made any resolutions for the year upcoming. Yes, we, as a family, resolve to see less medical professionals in the new year. In 2007, I believe members of our family have seen or consulted with at least 2 gastroenterologists, an obstetrician, 2 cardiologists, 1 neonatologist, a host of radiologists, an x-ray tech, a dentist, and 3 pediatricians. It probably goes without saying that the pharmacist likely knows us by name. At this rate, I feel like I should watch an episode of Dr. Phil before the year's end just to have someone else to add to the list.

Oddly enough, our daughter has not been to the doctor even once this year, minus having her teeth cleaned twice.

Next year should be better because, if for no other reason, I do not plan to add any new children to our numbers. And with Pat's new magic food pills, I think he should be able to steer clear of any doctor's waiting rooms, as he had been successful at doing for nearly a decade prior to last year.

Unfortunately, our son is apparently not a team player. He already has appointments with a pulminologist, opthamalogist, physical therapist, and his regular pediatrician all before anyone is even dolling out red hearts studded with paper doilies in mid-February 2008. Its a bit difficult to believe that this nearly EIGHTEEN pound ball of chatter and laughs could possibly have anything wrong with him other than a voracious appetite that is going to be the death of his mother, but each visit back to the pediatrician seems to reveal that things aren't quite adding up. When I took in him, yet again, yesterday, for continued loud and rattly breathing, the doctor gave me a furrowed brow, a definitive "Hmfph?", and suggested it was time to take the kid's growing bag of "tricks" to a specialist.

Perhaps for reasons related to all of this, he's also a bit slow developmentally, and we're gearing up to have a physical therapist in our home once a week, at least through the winter. This is program through the state, and we're just barely "poor" enough to get these services for free. You've got to know by now that that is practically my favorite word, second only to "cookie", "sleep", or "Can-I-please-babysit-your-children?"

This all adds up to me fretting about 10x more than I have fretted about anything for years, with the possible exception of when I was in knots over what I would do when the Gilmore Girls finally came to an end. Sometimes people point out that it could all be a lot worse, and that I don't really know if there is anything to truly worry about at this point. They're absolutely right, but when its your baby, perspective on how much worse it could be is sometimes hard to grip on.

Last night, we toured the Roman Art exhibit on loan from the Louvre at our local art museum. When I spotted the small child-like sculpture with the pointy hat, I paused to read the description of this arresting character. It was a sculpture of Telesphorus, a young boy who is associated with health and recovery, particularly in children. I have never given heed to any sort of superstition or mythology, but, last night, I wanted to put this little sculpted boy in my bag. (If only I had been carrying a bag that was 3 feet deep.) I wanted to tattoo his name on my children's bottoms, grind him up to sprinkle on their oatmeal, and wear his likeness on a medallion around my neck. I am learning, concern for children's well being has no parallel.

Someone asked if I was this worried when our daughter was born 7 weeks prematurely. I truly was not. From day one, that girl was stronger than she should've been, and its been that way ever since. Her brother on the other hand, has had no reason but to be as healthy as an ox, but has lived contrary to that since his 3rd day of life. Of course if being fat and jolly are any indicators for future wellness, I should not worry for even a minute about this little boy. As for his sister, I also made a special connection at the Roman Art exhibit. As I was reading the description of a sculpture of an unnamed Barbarian, I learned that a Barbarian was simply a person who did not speak Greek or Latin. Since "barbaric" is sometimes the only way to describe her behavior some days, I'm thinking of reading to her from my Lexicon in lieu of her bedtime story each night. Its worth a shot!

Cheaper than Overdue Library Fines

2007-12-19T03:21:00.000-10:00

I doubt I'll ever evolve into a "Deals for Parents" blogger, but I have found this particular book deal to be extraordinarily good. Too good not to pass along to our friends with young kids who might be thinking "If I have to read that Bearnstein Bears book one more time..."

We got 14 very nice hardback books, all with titles you've heard of. Then, each book comes with a read a-long CD. We gave some as gifts, and the rest are under the tree for you-know-who. (No, not Pat!)

He's Got Problems

2007-12-16T10:51:00.000-10:00

I would wager that anyone who has spent any significant amount with my husband would easily identify him as quirky, eccentric, or, at the very least, unique.

Sometimes his eccentricities take a turn for the pathologically insane. His major hang-up? Why doesn't EVERYONE ELSE see things EXACTLY the way he does? Do they not understand that they are all DEAD WRONG?

This type of singular thinking is understandable in some cases. I'm sure we all have topics that we feel strongly about, unwilling to suggest that an alternate view could possibly be correct. But, do you often feel that strongly about OATMEAL?

I have journaled here on multiple occasions about my love for a dollar saved. This affinity often leads me to experiment with generic brands of many products. Like most people, I have some items on my grocery list for which I only purchase the name brand. As a rule, I prefer a specific brand of peanut butter, store brand yogurts are generally inferior, and I will pay extra for a good loaf of bread. Yet, a large portion of the items I purchase on a regular basis, I can not really justify the cost difference between the store brand versus the nationally recognized product. My husband, on the other hand, would purchase a name brand for every product if the grocery list was solely his to execute. It should be noted that he has made progress in this area over the past 7.5 years. Gone are the days of heated debates over canned tomatoes in the vegetable aisle. Of course, this is mostly due to the fact that he hasn't helped with the grocery shopping in over half a decade, but we celebrate progress however we can get it.

For quite some time, Pat has been a proponent of eating a bowl of oatmeal every morning . True to form, it confuses him why EVERYONE wouldn't want a bowl of oatmeal every single morning. Furthermore, he thinks those who prefer to sweeten their oatmeal are complete idiots. A pat of salted butter, kosher salt, and cracked pepper are the only acceptable toppings in his mind.

Because I do the grocery shopping, his oatmeal has been almost exclusively limited to the store brand since the beginning of his love affair with this hot breakfast staple. He has accepted this with minimal argument. But when I came home with a canister of the most readily recognized brand of oatmeal (because it was cheaper than the store brand that week), he seemed nigh gleeful. He insisted that this brand name oatmeal was visibly superior to the store brand that I usually subject him to.

He pleaded that the name brand had bigger oats, the color more rich, and even the smell was "oatier"! The more I suggested that oatmeal looks like oatmeal, the more he'd shove these seemingly identical spoonfuls of dry oats in my face, demanding that I face the facts. The man with the big hat makes it BETTER!

The sleep around this house is hit and miss at best. Our son continues to perplex and vex us with health issues. Our daughter, we have yet to impress upon her that she, in fact, is not the boss of everything! And this is what it has come to. We've become hysterical...about oatmeal!

Sling

2007-12-11T16:48:00.000-10:00

Both of our kids have really loved being carried in a simple fabric sling. We discovered this for E by necessity because we had to keep her skin close to ours for the first several weeks after her premature birth in order to help keep her body temperature up. She was so small in it at first that people would assume that I had a broken arm cradled inside.

When carrying a baby in a sling, at least here in the midwest, I am always surprised by the amount of times people stop me to ask about its use. Most commonly, people either want to know if I like using it or how they can get one, either for themselves or a pregnant friend or family member. I am sometimes startled by the small percentage of people who take the liberty to grab the side of the sling and peer inside at it's contents. The most memorable being when a woman asked, as she was pulling on the fabric, "Is he nursing in there?"

Sometimes people surprise me with some pretty unique inquiries or statements...

"Does he ever fall out?"
"I bet he hates being in there."
"Do they make things like that to carry babies in?" (???)
"I wish I could get in there!"
"When I first saw you, I thought you were pregnant."
"I thought you might have had your dog in there."

Today, a man gingerly approached me in Trader Joe's, asking how the sling worked out for me. He asked if I thought his wife might like one. I quickly rattled off my standard speech of how its nice for shopping and cavorting, as well as getting stuff done around the house when the baby wants nothing to do with sleeping without you near. He smiled pleasantly at me, then said, "Yeah she just had quintuplets. Maybe I should get her one!"

One!??

Free Time

2007-12-01T17:53:00.000-10:00

Today I finished my last bit of homework for the last two classes I'm in of this program. Outside of writing a lesson plan for my last student teaching day on Tuesday, I am officially done. When I made this jubliant announcement to Pat today as I clicked "Send" to submit my last paper, his first response was, "Oh good...now come take this baby."

With homework no longer being the perpetual albatross around my neck, I will have more free time to pursue other things that are important to me. You know like sleep and using online software to make stuff like this.

Thanksgiving

2007-11-21T15:41:00.000-10:00

We are in survival mode here in the heartland.
On two solid legs we hardly can stand.
The once sound sleeping infant now every 3 hours must eat.
And the semester ending papers and projects are mine to complete.
The little girl wants to play games, read books, and be fed.
Her parents want sleep or at least time in their bed.

Many blog posts across my mind have flitted.
But to more pressing tasks my time's been committed.
Today I think of things for which I am grateful.
Certainly not excluding a family that's not hateful.

_____________________

When you're not getting enough sleep and your day is full of demands you can barely muster the energy to meet, you find yourself thankful for the small things that make the day more enjoyable. When my feet hit the floor each morning, a couple of hours earlier than they would like to, the thought of hot coffee rallies me. A hot shower is a momentary oasis. The crack of the back door at 6pm and the sound of her feet scuttling to greet him are the most soothing of sounds. His gurgles and chatters as he drifts off to sleep. A slow sip of red wine near the close of the day. His arm across my back after all is quiet at last. It reminds me of why I will do it all again...tomorrow.

Startling Realization

2007-11-11T12:08:00.000-10:00

Pat's mom was here this weekend. We were casually discussing holiday plans as if we have all of the time in the world before the holiday season is upon us. But a quick check of the calendar revealed that we only have 1.5 weeks until Thanksgiving. How can this be?

This has me thinking about holiday treats. I do not usually bake a lot in conjunction with the holidays, but the youngest female in this house is really eager to be of assistance in the kitchen these days. It seems like borderline abuse to not let her indulge in some Christmas cookie baking/decorating.

Last year, I did experiment with a few different sugar cookie doughs. I had never been satisfied with others that I had made. Alton Brown's recipe is my favorite to date.

Even harder to come by is a good recipe for icing. I usually just skip this step, but last year, I really wanted some bright, festive cookies. This recipe was the one I liked best. It looked great on the cookie (a gel or paste food coloring worked better than the liquid varieties), but the taste could use some improvement.

Anyone have the perfect sugar cookie recipe? Or perhaps one for the icing/frosting?

Briefly

2007-11-11T10:07:00.000-10:00

Seriously, its not even that cold today, but I'm already thinking "How will I survive this!?" Its as if I haven't already lived through 28 winters prior to now. I'm a sad, miserable excuse for a midwestern woman.

Just Another Manic Monday...Whoa Whoa!

2007-11-05T16:43:00.001-10:00

It's just another Manic Monday, but after the Colt's defeat, I certainly don't wish it were Sunday!

In spite of having put the mattress warmer on the bed and dusting off the space heaters today, I, apparently, have yet to embrace the fact that the weather is now, more or less, cold. When I went to the cupboard tonight, there was not a bit of vegetable stock (nor chicken or beef) to be found. In the winter, a box of stock and a can of beans are staples on the grocery list, as imperative as bread and milk.

The lack of stock prevented me from making the soup planned for tonight's dinner, but E and I did concoct this tasty alternative....

We sauted garlic and onion in the soup pot, seasoning them with dried oregano, basil, chili powder, salt, and pepper. Then we added a jar of my grandma's tomatoes with the liquid. (I'm guessing one of her jars is pretty close to two cans of tomatoes.) Then we dumped in about a jar of water. E dropped in a bay leaf, and was totally perplexed by why we'd want leaves in our food. We brought this to a boil, then dumped in some dried mini-ravioli from Trader Joe's. (Dried tortellini would be just as good.) We added some more seasoning to add flavor since we weren't using any broth. Once the pasta was pretty well cooked, I scooped out a small bowl full for the picky toddler, then dumped in some chopped spinach, a bit of fresh basil, and sprinkled in some red pepper flakes. Serve once the spinach wilts. Sprinkle on Parmesan cheese before eating.

(This made enough for the 3 of us, plus enough leftovers to pack a lunch tomorrow.)

And for anyone thinking, what the hell do you do with a parsnip, try this recipe my husband treated us to on Thursday night.

Dirt Cheap

2007-11-02T15:33:00.000-10:00

Last night, I got seriously, righteously angry in the grocery store about how healthy food costs more than the crap. I wanted to raise my mighty fist of indignation as I grabbed my $3 loaf of whole grain/non-high fructose corn syrup laden bread next to the $.69 loaf of white bread. Yeah, yeah, I know why its cheaper, but it still pisses me off. Eating well conflicts with my genetic programming to get it as cheap as possible.

Today, I went to Goodwill to get my daughter some pants. I won't lie. I buy things 2nd hand because I'm fundamentally cheap, but a nice bi-product of buying things 2nd hand is not overtaxing natural resources unnecessarily. There is no need to buy a brand new pair of pants when a perfectly good pair of existing pants is available, especially for a kid who could not care less about what she's wearing and will likely outgrow them before she's able to hand out those Valentine cards that she started making yesterday. (Weird kid!) But when those 2nd hand pants at the Goodwill hardly cost less than purchasing them brand new (on clearance, naturally), minus the stains and worn knees, my ire is raised again.I guess you know you're really cheap when you walk into Goodwill and think "I'm not going to pay these prices."

I know winter is coming because the thermostat wars have already begun in our household. It will likely come as no surprise that I'm the one turning down the thermostat, suggesting everyone put on some slippers, add a sweater, or grab a blanket. I just attach a mug of tea to my palm in November, and it keeps me warm until April. Pat on the other hand thinks that houses should be warm in the winter, warm enough for bare feet and shorts. He's already fighting dirty this year, suggesting that he only wants to turn the heat up to a balmy 72 degrees because of the children and their cold little fingers. Put on some mittens, you ingrates. We consider it a treat when Pat's parents come to visit in the winter. Not just because they buy us dinner and watch our children, but because his dad darts directly to thermostat upon arrival and insures that everyone will not need to sleep with a blanket until his departure.

My name is Julia, and, like the corn in your grocer's freezer, I'm genetically modified for cheapness.

I'll Never Cook Again

2007-10-29T12:42:00.000-10:00

Pat took a "Mental Health Day" today, needing a break from the usual routine. The original intention was to come back from Louisville last night in order to do something as a family today, but after a long weekend of 3 year old antics and an infant with worsening reflux symptoms...we opted to stay one more night to take advantage of his mother's love to take care of us and our children. So instead of shuttling the kids around to a museum or park today, we took ourselves out to dinner while grandmother spoiled the babies last night.

I had: ROASTED VEGETABLE AND KENNY'S KENTUCKY GOUDA CHIMICHANGA
Roasted butternut squash-serrano chile sauce, toasted pumpkin seed rice and tomato butter.

And because of that, I'll never cook again. This was one of the best seasonal meals I've had in a long time.

But, it is Monday. In honor of my husband who not only took me out last night but also took the bull by the horns and got Conrad a doctor's appointment and new reflux meds today, I'll post one of the few meat dishes I make even when we're not having company. Considering that he's currently out with the 3 year old, leaving me with just the sleeping baby, I should probably plan to make this for him this week.

From The Sopranos Cookbook of all places...

Coarsely chop red potatoes, bell peppers, red onion, and smash a few cloves of garlic. Place in a large roasting pan and drizzle generously with olive oil and kosher salt. Roast in 425 degree oven for 40-50 minutes. While vegetables are roasting, brown links of fresh sausage in a skillet. Pierce sausage with a fork a few times, then place on top of roasting vegetables for the last 20-30 minutes. Its done when the sausage is cooked through and the vegetables are slightly brown and crispy.

We generally use 2-3 red potatoes, 1/4 a red onion, and about half a bell pepper per person. One link of sausage per person who will eat the stuff.

Tis the Season

2007-10-22T04:02:00.000-10:00

Oooh, its not even Tuesday, and I'm remembering to post a recipe. I've also written a class profile, read an education journal article, and wrote a review of the article this morning. Of course, this also means that I have yet to shower, my daughter is dressed in a pink tank, orange shorts, green socks, and red sandals of her own choosing (and its not even 65 degrees out), and our son has spent most of his waking hours this morning in the swing. I can do it all, just not at the same time.

There is a chill in the air which always make me think of my favorite fall flavors. I love the sweet, nutty flavors that you find in pumpkins, butternut squash, and sweet potatoes this time of year. Because these flavors are not high on my husband's list of favorites, we'll be having this fennel soup for dinner tonight -- only the 2nd or 3rd pot of soup this season. But it won't be long until I make my annual pot of this pumpkin soup. I generally eat most of it myself, but its good and easy if you like the taste of pumpkin. And these quick pumpkin muffins also pack a big pumpkin taste.

Now to see about getting something done today that does not involve my laptop.

Double the Pleasure, Double the Fun

2007-10-19T09:05:00.000-10:00

Yesterday, my niece wanted to watch a re-run of Full House. We discussed the Olsen Twin transformation from little bits to whatever they are now. The episode involved a twin contest, and poor old Stephanie Tanner who tried to fake being a twin in order to score with the cute boy twins who said they "only hang out with other twins." It was riveting.

My mom called me last night to say that a friend of mine from high school is expecting twins several months from now. This is not a person that you can imagine having two babies at once, but I'm sure she'll manage.

My mom is a twin. She's 5'1 ...her twin brother is 6'2". She's a bit resentful.

My my mom's mom is an identical twin. She and her sister still dressed in matching outfits until they got married in their late teens. Her twin sister died from pancreatic cancer this spring. My grandma took it harder than anyone else, including her sister's husband and 5 children.

On my mom's side of the family, if you travel back far enough, there are 19 sets of twins. If you are a female, the odds of having twins if your mother is a twin are quite great. I was more than relieved both pregnancies to see only one baby on the ultrasound screen. I might consider having a third child if I was not quite certain that I'd only be tempting Mother Nature to give me twins on the 3rd try. I really think I am one baby at a time kind of woman.

And in news related to all of this...my brother called today to tell me that his wife is having two babies herself. Twins not due to genetics -- they are the work of modern medicine. The idea of my little brother up at night walking a baby in each arm is a bit much to fathom. But we could not be more excited. A year ago at this time, I was anxiously counting the days until I could bed the mister again in hopes of conceiving a sibling for our daughter. At the same time I prayed that it would not just be two pink lines for me, but also my sister and sister-in-law, who both were battling infertility. My sister told me she was pregnant the same day I learned of the future Conrad. And now, not even a year later, we gleefully count the months and days until our family baby count is doubled.

Because we are our father's children, after expressing our excitement, my brother and I agreed that twins are great for several reasons, not excluding the fact that its practically like Buy One Get One Free. We do love a bargain.

Tuesday's Monday Recipe -- the Basil Edition

2007-10-16T11:23:00.000-10:00

What happened to Monday?

This post is in memory of my beloved basil plant that I either depleted or killed sometime in the past few weeks. You served me well, faithful basil plant.

Sauteed Spinach with Basil

Saute 2-4 cloves of garlic (sliced thin) in olive oil. Add 1/3 c. of pinenuts and saute until lightly golden. Add a bag of spinach, salt, pepper, and 2 Tbs.of water. Cover, cook, stir occasionally, until spinach wilts. Remove from heat. Add basil (1-2 cups) and toss until it wilts.

Basil Beer Bread

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Oil a baking sheet. Combine 3 1/4 c. flour, 1 package of yeast, salt, pepper, and 3/4 c. of parmesan. Add the beer and mix just until they dough comes together. Turn the dough on to a floured surface. Sprinkle with 1 cup of chopped basil and knead gently until its incorporated. Shape dough into a loaf and transfer to baking sheet. Bake until loaf is lightly browned and a toothpick comes out clean -- approx. 40-45 minutes.

First my basil plant, then the USB ports on my laptop died...they say they go in 3's? What's next?

As The Story Goes

2007-10-12T03:04:00.000-10:00

E has been spinning a similar story each day for several weeks now. The details vary but the formula is always the same. She's the mom (specifically ME) and I'm the kid (specifically HER) and we venture back in time when she was in charge and I am the subordinate. The story always starts like this...

"When you was a little girl, and I was big, I used to..."

...drive the car and you had to ride in the car seat."
...read you two stories for bed, then you would ask for more stories."
...make cookies, and you would stick your hand in the dough even though I told you not to."
...take care of Bucky and you wouldn't take a nap."
...I went to a restaurant, and you asked for chocolate milk...but I said NO!"

In her stories, I (as the little girl) read the same books, wear the same clothes, and play the same games as she does currently. I'm sure a psychologist could have a field day with this, but, for us, its mostly just entertaining.

Most recently in her tales, as the little girl, I had to go to the daycare my friend runs out of her home that I've left her at a hand full of times. While I was there, she went to school to be the teacher, and there all of the kids loved her and drew her pictures. "All of them drew me pictures mama, not just one like you got from that boy." Apparently her life is just like mine, only she's a little better at it. Figures!

My favorite part of each story might possibly be that, regardless of the details of each these stories, almost inevitably, at some point, she's going to mention that she (the mom) and me (the little girl) played croquet!

Recipe Monday

2007-10-08T16:25:00.000-10:00

My friend Jamie is trying to post a new recipe every Monday. With October feeling more like August and a son who inevitably wants to eat precisely when I want to start cooking, I've not necessarily been bringing my "A" game to the dinner table lately. Trader Joe's freezer section has been a friend to me in recent months. But here are a few links to some online recipes that have made the cut at our dinner table.

Bean Flautas
(You'll have to read the post to find the recipe. And since we're not vegans, we recommend some cheese in these.)

Eggplant Parmesan
(Pat always requests to have this dish only one layer deep so the eggplant and cheese get kind of crispy.)

Spicy Roasted Edamame
(I've probably posted this one before, but its worth repeating. Pat also did something similar with fresh green beans a couple of weeks ago that was really good.)

Roasted Cherry Tomatoes
(Again, you'll have to read the post to glean the recipe. Mix it with pesto, spread it on french bread, top it with feta, and broil it a bit. Tonight, I used it in lieu of pizza sauce. Thanks to the hottest October ever, we're still getting cherry tomatoes out of the garden.)

Wit for Wit

2007-10-06T13:13:00.000-10:00

"Eat your dinner or there will be no dessert."
"Well, I don't really need dessert. I might get cavities."

"Eat your (damn) dinner or you'll have to sit in time out"
(Threatening your kid so she'll eat, the hallmark of great parenting!)
"Okay, I'll sit in time out."

"If you don't put those toys away, I'm just going to throw them away."
"It's okay, I don't play with them anymore. Just throw them away."

Its really irritating when a three year old can call your bluff.

To everyone thinking "Well, she's not posting because she just had a baby." ...its far from the truth. I'm sure I'll take this back soon enough, but I swear, he's the easy one. Trying to outwit a verbally proficient three year old is what makes me crawl into bed each night just hoping that tomorrow doesn't come too quickly. She's delightful, polite, and reasonably well behaved. She's truly everything I could have considered I'd want my own daughter to be. (Minus the part where she views food as her mortal enemy.) But keeping a step ahead of her is the most demanding job I've ever had. Regular posting might resume...as soon as she starts kindergarten.

Reading...

2007-09-25T14:58:00.000-10:00

I've been tearing through books at an unprecedented speed lately. I guess I attribute it to the extra sedentary time I have each day due to lactation. Perhaps this means I've sharpened my maternal skills, because I remember being able to get through little more than a magazine article when E was this age. And also because there is not a darn thing on TV these days. I don't even have a new season of Gilmore Girls to look forward to this year.

I actually have a terrible memory when it comes to stuff I've read. Its a feat for me to remember titles, let alone authors. There might have been more than this, but if you're looking for something to read...

I recommend...

Cane River by Lalita Tademy I realize that anyone who was going to read this read this years ago, so I'm definitely late to the party. But this book is as good as Oprah said it would be.

In Her Shoes by Jennifer Weiner and Sweetwater Creek by Anne Rivers Siddons -- Skip these if you don't like your fiction on the fluffy side. I didn't really love either of these (recommendations from people with whom I don't normally share literary commonality), but when you're feeding a baby at 3 am, you'll read just about anything in order to keep your eyes open.

Garden of Earthly Delights by Joyce Carol Oates -- She has a ton of books, but I tend to save them for one I'm feeling a bit uninspired in the library. Her writing style usually suits me, even if her stories sometimes fall flat for me. This book met and even exceeded my expectations. Kind of depressing, but I seem to have a hard time steering away from fiction of any other sort.

A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson -- My husband lays in bed and laughs uproariously every time he reads a Bryson book. At his urging, I read this one, and did not regret it.

The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards -- The dialogue in this one is kind of forced, but the story was reasonably interesting.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy -- We've had this on the shelf since Father's Day, but it had not crossed my mind to read it. Pat had read it, but made little mention of it. Caress plugged it on her BRAND NEW BLOG (shameless plug) just as I was finishing up the previous book. Too late to make the 1/4 mile trek to the library, I grabbed this at whim. I had no idea what this book was about. Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! This was the most grim book I've ever read. It gripped me...like death. The characters haunted me everywhere I went. Perusing the aisles of Trader Joe's I thought about the man and the boy's hunger. Shopping at the consignment shop for winter clothes for the kids I thought of the clothing they lacked. Holding my son, I considered their isolation. I had to finish this book last night just so I could move on with my life. With that said, this book is beautiful and poignant. I loved it.

You know what they say, to get over one you get under another...or, in this case, open another...

Nickel and Dimed by Bárbara Ehrenreich -- Not a bit more uplifting but, perhaps, a bit less haunting as its the account of a woman trying to make it on minimum wage in various cities. At least she didn't have to eat another human to survive.

Outside of the Bryson book, none of these books are going to make you feel one bit better about humanity at large, but it might keep you from getting hooked on the latest round of Tyra and her minions.

What Goes Around, Comes Around

2007-09-22T16:10:00.001-10:00

It's sort of entertaining to see the toys of the 80's, the decade of my childhood, coming back into vogue. Our daughter has a Care Bear, Strawberry Shortcake books on her shelf, envies her best friend's light up Hello Kitty shirt, and was, just tonight, crying because she could not find her My Little Pony underwear. I'm sure they archived all of these characters when my generation out grew them 20 years ago, with the intention of resurrecting them now, when we're old enough to want to buy the same toys we had for our own kids. Luckily I'm too cheap to buy most of it, but they've wooed my mom with their marketing to the nostalgic. Although, if malls ever started reopening Sanrio stores, my sister and I would likely be their first customers. We thought they had the best candy and the coolest pens. Hello Kitty doesn't quite seem the same when you can get her at Target or even McDonalds.

Just as 80's toys are making a come back, it seems that some of the 90's icons are back in the lime light as well. With the news full of Hillary and OJ, it kind of feels like we've slid right back to 1995. We even still have a George Bush led war in Iraq. It all feels so familiar.

Any 80's toys that you're still hoping they disentomb? It would not surprise me to see He-Man or Rainbow Brite, but, really, wouldn't you rather see Jem or perhaps the highly under-rated Monchichis?

And what about 90's icons? I can't say that I miss Beavis, Butthead, or even Tupac. And, while I certainly don't miss grunge music, the associated flannel shirt will always hold a special place in my heart.

I didn't live long enough in the 70's to have any memories, but I'm quite certain that my mom is convinced that they're going to get over this "Back to Sleep" business and start putting babies back on their stomachs in bed any day now. Convincing evidence of less cases of SIDs be damned.

Maternity Leave

2007-09-14T15:39:00.000-10:00

Six weeks have passed, which means, with this country's abysmal maternity/paternity policies, its time to go back to work. Minus the part where I no longer have any employment to return to. I haven't worked for at least 10 weeks now, and I won't likely work again until next August. Just these 10 weeks are the longest I've gone without some sort of job since I was a freshman in high school. If I lived in Canada, a nice mounty would deliver me a check (or "cheque" in their case) for the next 35 weeks, just to show their gratitude for adding such a fine young lad to their population. Yeah, nationalized health care...what a bitch! According to this article, its not just Canada we lag behind in matters of maternity leaves. Our policies are comparable only to those of Lesotho, Papua New Guinea and Swaziland. In matters like this, I often question if the feminist movement took a wrong turn somewhere.

Although I'm taking a break from employment, my classes are still in session for one last semester. I start back tomorrow. So in the absence of paychecks, I guess I'll just have to get by like any other self-respecting college student. I hope my family doesn't mind Ramen and canned beer.

Party Tricks

2007-09-07T03:38:00.000-10:00

Pat often reminds me of an alleged account of some friend of a friend who dated a girl who can produce milk from her nipples, without ever having had a baby. Weird!

A couple of weeks ago, we noticed a lump under one of the baby's nipples. Yes, this is our second child, but we truly know nothing. We didn't know that these types of lumps are common in breastfed babies due to the mother's hormones. I maintain that people tell expectant or new mothers nothing of value. When I was pregnant, all the local ladies and even husbands flocked to tell me horrific birth stories and tales of how many pounds they gained. After the baby is born, its woeful epics of sleepless nights and just how many days they went without a shower. They don't tell you that the important stuff about the commitment it takes to breastfeed a baby, ailments that are common among newborns, and how sometimes you just do what you do to get through those first couple of months. And NO ONE told me that an old European wives tale suggests that drinking a dark beer increases your milk supply. Guinness anyone?

At the pediatrician's office this week, I showed her the aforementioned lumps, asking her to confirm what I had been told about these hormone induced boobs on my son. As she examined them, she let out an unexpected squeal and exclaimed, "Oh, he got me!"

Confused, I asked if perhaps his diaper was leaking, to which she replied, "No, he just squirted me with milk. Look!" And she proceeded to squeeze the lump under his nipple and squirt milk out of his nipple. Our pediatrician, a woman with a sense of humor, suggested that he had to keep a little nip of milk in the equivalent of his breast pocket in case he needed a little something to get him by. Awful young to carry a "flask", don't you think?

There is a woman somewhere in northern Illinois who shares a strange party trick with my 5 week old son. They can both lactate on command!

And You'll Wonder Why I'm Crazy

2007-08-30T15:56:00.000-10:00

Pat and I are wading through some of our most difficult parenting issues to date. Our daughter, a generally sweet and amiable child, is trying out some new behaviors that leave us a bit befuddled. We, as young parents are prone to do, turn to our own mothers for advice and support. Their response?

A. "I just don't believe that sweet little cherub could act that way. She never acts that way for me.
B. "I don't know what to tell you -- You certainly never acted that way as a child. You were perfect."

Of course, to that, we cry "Bullshit" -- we know how ornery and deviant we are as adults. Jerks like us have always been jerks. We were not well behaved 3 years olds, we threw fits, and we embarrassed our mothers in public. This what we tell ourselves, or otherwise succumb to the notion that our parents were better at this than we are. Perish the thought!

________________

And tonight at the library, someone took the books I had picked out while I was in the bathroom. Good fiction is all I have to get me through those 3 am feedings. Why must you take that from me?

Local News

2007-08-21T16:01:00.000-10:00

1. Our house feels a bit smaller each day, causing us to take to the streets pining for various houses in our neighborhood that we wish would go up for sale. This is the only neighborhood in this town that we really want to live in because of its big trees and walking access to the essentials; library, grocery, beer, and ice cream. (And the gym for when I used to actually go.) Some ferocious straight line winds that ripped through our neighborhood on Sunday night makes me wonder if I could now get a discount on this house, one block north of here, that I've been hoping would go up for sale.

As the kids and I were walking the neighborhood to survey the damage on Monday morning, the buzzing of chainsaws and flurry of activity reminded me of a more severe storm that produced a tornado several years ago when we still lived on the south side. The tornado missed our house by a narrow margin, but some of the other locals did not fair as well. We went to help some of them dig out from the debris, and Brad, in from the UK for a wedding and a stay at Casa de la Rocks, joined us. Everyone certainly did their fair share of heavy lifting that day, and Brad made sure he maintained his energy level by visiting other work sites in the neighborhood to see who had the best food offerings. I will never forget him trotting back up the drive of the house at which we were working with a donut, Coke, and boxed lunch. I must've given him a questioning look because his quick response was "What? They were just giving them away!" as if it would've been rude not to accept. That Brad -- he's mannerly.

2. I wasn't going to do this, but he's driven me to it. I took the kids across the state with me yesterday to visit my grandpa in the hospital, to a viewing for a distant relative, and to visit my other grandparents who were anxious to see the baby. When I returned home from this whirlwind tour and asked if he had enjoyed having the whole house to himself all evening (when I could've easily left both children with him), his only response was to remind me of how I had spent the previous evening nagging him. It's true, I did nag him. I nagged him to stop taking items out of my kitchen. Items like my 1/3 dry measuring cup (to work for making oatmeal), pot holders (to the garage), and my small kitchen FIRE EXTINGUISHER. That's right, more concerned about fires involving just him in the garage, he took my fire extinguisher, without telling me, from my kitchen, where I cook...with children present. (I only noticed it was gone when I went to check on its location before putting cauliflower under the broiler -- a broiler with which I've not always got along.) Then said I should quit nagging him about it. Sigh! I think he was nicer when he had all of that hair.

3. If 40 is the new 30 then I guess that 3 years of age can be the new "Terrible Two's" right? I know some will quickly jump to her defense that having a new sibling can be pretty life altering, but that would not explain why our daughter has been acting as one periodically possessed by a demon for a couple of month now (when her brother is not even 4 weeks old yet). How a girl who frequently walks around the house saying, "Dad, I like your shirt." or "Mom, thank you so much for brushing my hair so gently" can, in a matter of minutes, set about the house on a tirade of screams and demands is beyond me. Our pediatrician is fond of saying "However you interact with your child now is how you'll still be interacting with them when they're teenagers." This makes me wonder if I shouldn't just go ahead and preemptively ground her from everything for all of 2020, to save me the hassle of doing it when she's 16.

4. In spite of she and her father's efforts to make me crazy long before my 30th birthday, these past 2 weeks have brought me an unexpected measure of joy. In spite of the years that both Ella and her father have taken off my life just from the sheer insanity of dealing with the 2 of them each day, I can say that they have both taught me a lot about taking life a bit slower and enjoying it as it comes. Conrad is getting a better mother because of their efforts. (Which he should cherish because he's a lot less likely to get a decent baby book or nearly as many photos taken of him.) I already feel myself enjoying his infancy so much more than I allowed myself to enjoy his sister's, and instead of wondering what the next day will hold, I'm finding it a whole lot easier to just enjoy the day at hand.

Bringing Home Baby

2007-08-15T15:14:00.000-10:00

Last week, at this very hour, we were bringing our 8 day old son home from the hospital 6 days later than planned. We were physically and emotionally exhausted, and full of trepidation about bringing home a child, hooked to a monitor, who may or may not go several seconds without taking a breath.

The first night home with him was terrible, but terrible in the most mundane way. He was up every hour, wanting to eat, be changed, and swaddled. We changed his clothes 4 times that night, and I was bearing enough milk to feed a set of quints. In spite of having hardly slept at all, his father and I welcomed the break of dawn just so we could consider that first night at home behind us. That night, his breathing monitor did not sound once.

Since then, we've adjusted to life as a family of 4 one small step at a time. We're re-honing our diaper changing skills, adjusting for the different anatomy contained within. Our forearms are remembering how awkward it can be to carry the car seat, and my mammaries have not forgotten what it takes to condition themselves in order to sustain a thirsty, thirsty infant. When I slid him into his sister's old sling for the first time last night, the sweetness of a baby nestled against you was with me again instantly. Tonight when the sling was the only place he found solace, I remembered how invaluable that worn piece of fabric strapped around my shoulders can be.

Last week at this time, I felt frustrated. Frustrated that after 8 days in the hospital, I still was not certain of why my son was hooked to a machine monitoring his breathing and why, even that morning, he had still been given extra oxygen to keep the levels of oxygen in his blood high enough. Frustrated with my own body, which seemingly can not carry and nourish a newborn with no initial deficiencies. Frustrated that we were, yet again, bringing home an infant with feelings of joy mixed with fear that they might not be okay on their own. Frustrated with how incompetent I had felt that week, trying to be a parent to two children in separate locations.

But if there is anything that coming home to a busy 3 year old and a newborn is good for, its to take your mind off of anything that has anything to do with yourself. Since we set foot in that back door 1 week ago tonight, there has been little time for waxing on about personal frustration or even fear. Perhaps that's for the best. Conrad's breathing monitor has yet to sound for a real medical emergency. Just loose wires and once the heart rater monitor went off when he was really pitching a fit about a diaper change. This does not necessarily mean that he's entirely out of the woods, but it does assure us that his health concerns have not grown more severe. In fact, in spite of how our son almost always has wires dangling out the bottom of his t-shirts, and we have to administer prescription medicine to him 6x a day -- as one day ebbs into the next, its almost possible to let the fear and frustration of what was last week dim. What we understand now that we didn't understand then is this...high level reflux and periodic breathing is a minor concern in comparison to living each day with all the "love" that Ella Rock has to give a newborn. Just tonight, as he was crying in my arms, she ran to him, arms outstretched to take him, saying "I'm sorry brother. Come here. I will take better care of you." Some days I feel like little more than a poorly paid wet nurse.

The 3 B's

2007-08-10T16:05:00.000-10:00

Baby, Book, and Bed!

Pat has been chanting this mantra the past two nights as he regains one of his favorite newborn pasttimes -- late night dozing/reading in bed before the babe heads off to the crib. He and Ella completed Moby Dick in her first few weeks of life, and tonight, he and Conrad are resuming this tradition by reading the last Harry Potter book that Pat was lucky enough to find on the shelf at the library tonight.

Having a newborn in the house again floods us with memories from three years ago. Of course, this time, with a 3 year old as a part of the mix, life is a lot different. We're already trying to figure out where to perch Conrad to protect him from her Tazmanian like fury with which she storms the house each day (on top of the fridge?), and we think its probably best to keep a pot of water boiling on the stove at all times in order to keep sterile all of the baby belongings that she insists on handling with her grubby sausage fingers in the name of being "helpful". She finds the world of a newborn to be quite fascinating. She doesn't understand why he sleeps so much, wants to know why he's not interested in any of her toys, and has asked more than one adult woman whether or not they have milk in their boobs like her mom -- then usually lifts her shirt to reveal her lack there of.

We're exhausted, overwhelmed, and befuddled -- but I'm not sure we've ever been happier. It's good to be home!

Update

2007-08-09T08:08:00.000-10:00

Brief update on Conrad found here

More profanity laden posts (that I hope my dad doesn't read this time) about the whole experience likely still to come when I can look at this computer screen without everything going kind of blurry. Our son who slept like a 6 month old at the hospital selected last night, his first night at home, to start conducting himself like a real newborn.

Have a Decent Birthday

2007-08-07T17:36:00.000-10:00

It's hard to wish someone a "happy" birthday when their newborn son is in the hospital for the 8th day. Yet it should not go without note that Pat Rock turns 32 years old on the 8th day of August. I'm sure, after this week, he feels like he's 32 going on 42. I could not be more thankful to be married to him than I am this week. In spite of the emotional strain, exhaustion that comes from fitful nights on a small hospital couch, and endless demands from his employer in spite of his situation, he has remained totally present in these difficult circumstances-- insuring that both Conrad and his mother are more than cared for. My only complaint being that when I tell him its his turn to go down and feed the baby, he keeps giving me some flimsy excuse about having no boobs. Blah, blah, blah!

Happy Birthday Pat! Life couldn't be as rich without you.

Things I Wouldn't Say Elsewhere

2007-08-07T05:49:00.000-10:00

(Funny thing about this post...in a state of exhaustion last night, I accidentally posted this on Ella's site rather than this site. Oops! Will be interesting to see who read it before I caught my mistake. ha!)

I maintain the picture website of our daughter, and now son, mostly for out of town grandparents who like to keep tabs. In that forum, I generally try to keep it concise and G Rated. So, that's why I would not say on that website something like "We're still at the fucking hospital"...you know, because things like that tend to upset our parents even its the most honest truth I can muster.

And please, do not take my words lightly. I'm generally hardly even a PG-13 myself, but I'm at a lack for other words right now. Pat has always told me he cursed because it made him feel better. Maybe I get that now.

The shortest version of all this is that sometime in the middle of the night on Thursday, our son started choking on the contents of his own stomach, and it caused him to stop breathing for several seconds. This occurred at the nurse's station, while we were sleeping. This event bought him a minimum of 48 more hours in the hospital so they could administer antibiotics via IV to prevent infection. (He had aspirated at least some of the substance into his lungs during this event.) During this 48 hours, they also administered several tests to figure out what caused the choking. The results of that are that we know our son has a high level of reflux that we're already treating with medication. We also know that he has some breathing issues that cause his blood oxygen levels to dip sometimes, and he also tends to hold his breath for short periods -- especially when in a deep sleep. I guess I don't need to spell out why these are not good things.

Also, just for kicks and giggles, they did an ultrasound of his heart on Friday because of a heart murmur they were hearing on occasion. What came back from that has a little old red headed lady named Susie in the cardiologists' office downstairs up in arms. They're seeing some sort of hole in his heart, but only from one view -- when normally this hole should appear in every view of the heart. Susie and her colleagues have never seen this before, and are working feverishly to get to the bottom of it. We're fervently hoping that this hole actually doesn't exist (a real possibility) and that we can scratch the hole in his heart off our growing list of things that are going to shorten our lives by 10 years just because of the sheer stress of it all.

We aren't coming up with any firm conclusions yet, but we have another big test yet today that we're hoping offers the information that everyone needs to know in order to proceed with the best possible treatment. At this point, we know we're going home with a couple of reflux medications and a sleep monitor that is loud enough to wake the dead. The long term implications are unknown, and, its at least plausible that we could be free of all of this medical baggage within a few months.

As for the emotional status of our family, we take pride in being mostly level headed with just occasional bursts of any mixture of fury, fear, crying, and/or disbelief. Mostly the nurses and our families have been so good to keep us distracted and contemplating the positive. Our daughter has really pleased us with her relative maturity and flexibility. I'm sure it has a lot to do with all of her grandparents working hard to insure that she wants for nothing while we're away, but she's rolled with the punches and kept us laughing. And just being in a hospital maternity ward for this long offers its own comedic relief. Just the lady who came to show us how to run the sleep monitor who was quite impressed with our "intelligence" (which we only demonstrated by speaking in complete sentences) and the 21 year old first time dad who tried to carefully explain the concept of a wipes warmer to his nurse (as if this was the most novel invention known to modern society) is enough to make me have hold my stitches because laughing still hurts a bit.

No matter how you slice it, we're still absolutely smitten with our laid back little boy with hysterical facial expressions and his father's skinny legs. We are counting the seconds until we can be out of this fucking hospital and home with he and his sister. There we can kick back, relax, and let his sister take on the task of raising him all by herself -- as she has more or less told us she already plans to do.

His Name Isn't Tommy or Pedro...

2007-07-16T15:53:00.000-10:00

...nor is his last name Rock!

Welcome Will Kade Thompson -- 7 lbs. 1 oz.

(Better pictures coming tomorrow when I can actually get my mits on him. He was having minor breathing issues tonight, so he's still under observation.)

I never knew you could love a baby so much that's not even your own, that you've only seen through a glass. But, then again, I've always been a sucker for boys with lots of curly dark hair.

Now its my turn!

Not Sure What to Call It

2007-07-14T15:21:00.000-10:00

So do you think its good or bad luck to check into the hospital to have your labor induced on Friday the 13th, only to be sent home several hours later because the drugs did not work and the doctor wanted to wait the weekend out before trying again? On one hand, the kid wasn't born on the fated day of doom, on the other hand, my sister was well beyond pissed that no one had told her that this process had the potential to be ineffective. And when my sister is pissed, its bad luck for everyone.

So no baby pictures to post of my nephew yet, but the doctor promises that he'll be here on Monday, one way or another. My sister and I have the same doctor, and after getting word that they were sending her home for the weekend, it finally all made sense to me. I have an office visit at 9 am on Monday morning. These visits are often lengthened by the fact that you have to wait on the doctor because she's consulting with nurses via phone about other women in labor or sometimes you have to see another doctor altogether because our own OB has to rush off to deliver a baby. Any woman who has ever been this close to their due date knows how much you look forward to these visits, in hopes the doctor will have grand news of centimeters and percentages. My sister, who will be admitted again on Sunday night, is just trying to insure that I sit in that office all morning long. Why that dirty, little....

In totally unrelated news, and also to affirm how dumb I am...

A couple of days ago, I phoned my father-in-law to discuss some tomato issues I'm having in our garden, then told him about my mutant well over 5 foot pepper plant that was competing to outgrow the monstrous sunflower Ella planted. A 5 foot pepper plant? Who has heard of such wonders? The paper should be called. Photos should be taken. These wacky gardeners should be documented.

My mom stopped by today to show off her attempt at a mid-life crisis...a sporty 2 seater convertible to tour the country side in. While here, she admired our explosion of tomatoes, and she casually asked why we were growing a rag weed. A rag weed? We have no such thing, but have you seen our mutant pepper plant? Its not a weed -- see, there are peppers coming in down here at the bottom. Oh, but right beside that little 2 foot pepper plant is the hearty stalk of one helluva a rag weed plant that I've been faithfully watering for weeks now. 1 minute later, she removed most of the rag weed plant (to which I am quite allergic), and our garden is now free of its freak show.

29 Things I Did on My 29th Birthday

2007-07-13T01:10:00.000-10:00

1. Got a phone call from both of my parents before I had even made any coffee.
2. My mom sang her own original birthday song that she sings every year which includes saying "Birfday" and lyrics like "...and you're gonna have a parteeeeeee!"
3. Got a shiny Mylar butterfly balloon from my sister.
4. And also a Best Buy gift card because she didn't know which game to get for my Nintendo DS
5. She also gave me a plate full of cookies
6. Hung out all morning with a 10 year old and 3 year old
7. Had mature conversations with 10 year old about what kinds of middle names go with the first name "Will" (likely the name for her brother-to-be) -- you know like "Will Call" ..."Will E." ..."Will Ted"..."Will Yum"....etc, etc.
8. Called my 11 year old nephew specifically to discuss video games. Talked at length about my choices.
9. Ate several cookies before noon
10. Went to lunch at 11 am at a pizza place that serves your drinks via a little train and has TV's/Video Games in each booth
11. Watched the Disney Channel while eating cheese pizza
12. Had honest conversation about the true identity of Hannah Montana, and what it must be like to have your dad be the one who originally sang "Achy Breaky Heart."
13. Went to work, took my niece, and watched a made for the Disney Channel movie while the kids napped
14. Justin Timberlake was in the movie -- back when he had afro-curls
15. After work, went directly to Best Buy to get new games for our Nintendo DS's. I got Tetris (because my nephew told me it was phenomenal), and I bought a Kirby game for my niece to help her pass the time before her new brother arrives today.
16. Came home and had "Craft Time" with aforementioned 10 year old and 3 year old
17. Took pictures of myself in a mirror
18. Opened birthday cards from the mail, looking first to see if a check or cash fell out before I actually saw who the card was from.
19. Had a Pizza/Pool birthday party at my mom's house
20. Complete with a Mickey Mouse Balloon, Sesame Street Balloon, as well as one with Winnie the Pooh and Friends. (Something tells me she didn't have me in mind when purchasing these balloons.)
21. Had a "Cookie Cake" which my mom lovingly decorated with Sixlets
22. Argued at length with my brother if me taking an extra couple of seconds to blow out the 9 candles on my cake (we tend to skip the tens place of our ages once we reach a certain age) was sissy even though I had still had extinguished all of the candles in one breath.
23. Was surprised that no one had put those trick, relighting candles on the cake -- as they often do. (Which never ceases to make us laugh, in spite of how many times we've done it to each other.)
24. Received a birthday card with a large dill pickle on the front -- from my husband. (And it wasn't even suggestive)
25. Along with a portable speaker for my Ipod, received a Nerd Rope, box of fruit Mentos, and orange flavored TicTacs from my brother/sister-in-law
26. Wished I was allowed to drink a beer.
27. Was in bed by 10 pm
28. But stayed up later, playing Tetris.
29. And realized that I had enjoyed my birthday, in spite of celebrating it like any average 12 year old.

Getting the Show on the Road

2007-07-11T10:38:00.000-10:00

The first of the long anticipated pair of baby boys is slated to arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon. I tried to explain to E this morning why my sister had to go to the hospital in order to have the baby, expressing the need for the doctor's assistance and how babies generally stay at the hospital for a few days. After which, her eyes grew huge, and she said "I thought the baby got to live at Maria's house." Oh no sweet pea, they stay there. But don't you worry, we'll get a pass just like we have for the zoo, and your dad will take you to visit every Saturday.

A few minutes later, apparently still deep in thought over the matter, she proclaimed, "My brother can just come out by himself." Mama appreciates your confidence in her super human female abilities, but I believe birthing this baby is a task I'll leave to the professionals.

But the excitement is certainly mounting. Yesterday, while exchanging a brief cell phone conversation about the news that my sister would be induced tonight, Pat, in a moment of unusual sappiness said "This finally seems real. On Friday, the boy who could very well be one of our son's best friends for life will be born." It was at that moment that I had to end the conversation for fear of losing my compsure in the middle of the shoe store. When shopping for shoes at 80% off the original retail price, one can show no weakness.

Because my family expresses themselves best with food, my sister handed me a plate full of homemade cookies this morning, when she dropped my niece off to stay, in honor of this day, 29 years ago, when our own mother birthed my own large head and 8 pound body. In exchange, I handed her a plate full of cookies I had made for her in honor of the arrival of her first son and the last day she could ingest extra calories without a second thought. With cookies exchanged, nothing else needed to be said.

In a week when we're celebrating births both past and present, it takes a bit more effort to derail my good humor. Lady Luck certainly made her best effort yesterday when I got to my car, after shopping with E, only to realize that my keys were locked inside the car. Insult was added to injury when AAA told me they wouldn't come assist me because my name wasn't on our family's account. (What?) And just as I was railing against this injustice to Pat, my cell phone died. It was at that moment that I thought that it would only be appropriate for my water to break. Then, I realized, that wouldn't happen, because, at this point, I would consider my water breaking to be good luck. But the kindness of a Barnes and Noble employee, an employee of the shopping center, and a good humored police office restored my faith in the kindness of strangers and kept my own good spirits on track. Had I had to pay someone to open the lock (thus negating the excitement of getting my kids' summer wardrobe for next summer for $3 an item and $6 shoes for myself), it may have done damages that not even a plate full of chocolate chip cookies could repair.

Practically a "Joiner"

2007-07-08T03:23:00.000-10:00

I once married a man who hated baseball and did not swim. I think I might still be married to a man with similar feelings, but he's become a lot more willing to go with the flow (or indulge my family) over the years. Maybe its love!

(Even sporting the rally cap in hopes of a last inning victory by the local AAA Team)

I Didn't Know What I Missed

2007-07-02T15:23:00.001-10:00

While I would never make light of having a child 7 weeks early, I now more fully understand what people have always meant when they said, "Oh, you missed out on the hard part."

While my personal weight gain is waning, that of my unborn son appears to be driving full speed ahead. In less than 2 weeks, he's added nearly another pound, and that blasted head of his hasn't taken a break either. I fully expected the results of today's ultrasound to lead my doctor to run screaming into the exam room "It's time to get this monstrous boy out of there." Okay, perhaps I didn't "expect" it as much as I just really hoped for it. But, no, she was much more calm and rational than that, suggesting we just continue to "wait and see", "keep our options open", and "keep an eye on things." Sigh! Doctors! No sign that Pedro is coming any time this week at least.

It did not help matters when I could hear her telling the patient in the next room to mine (the walls are paper thin) that she was 1 cm dilated, 25% effaced, and could easily expect her baby to arrive within the next 10-14 days. It was especially annoying since that patient next door was my own sister!

But, to be fair, my sister is due 12 days before me, and I do sincerely want her to have her son first. I guess if I'm committed to her delivering first, I should be glad that she's getting a move on. I guess all of those laps up the hill I made her run at my mom's 4th of July Camp-out paid off, or maybe it was just the excitement from the fireworks.

As a side note, all women should consider being pregnant at the exact same time as their sister. It has been quite an uncanny experience. From her telling me that she was pregnant (after attempting to be so for over 4 years) within 2 hours after finding out about our own baby-to-be to the fact that we separately narrowed in on the same first name (a name they might actually use but we had opted not to go with a few months ago after making the mistake of mentioning the possibility to a family member who really hated the name), it has been an unexpected adventure. We have often inadvertently had appointments at the same time (we have the same doctor), gained weight at an even rate, had similar complaints about the whole process, and even wonder if its all going to conspire to mean these cousins will end up born on the same day. (Unless the doctor were to offer a 2 for 1 special on the delivery, we agree that we'd prefer NOT to have them on the same day in spite of what a funny story that could be.) My sister and I, very different from each other, have spent most of our lives trying to find common ground in order to get along with each other. It has been an unexpected pleasure to have someone this close with whom to compare notes and swap complaints when most people don't necessarily care to hear all of the gory details. I guess from now on, we'll always have something more than a love for candy and/or how bizarre our parents are to talk about when we're together.

I'm certainly thankful to be well on my way to be having a happy, healthy son who should offer us a lot less to worry about than his sister did at her birth, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to run the basement steps a few times before bed each night -- just in case he should want to come out sooner than later.

Wanna Know How I Know We're Geeks?

2007-06-29T03:45:00.000-10:00

patrickrock: you know how I know you love me?
juliarock: how?
patrickrock: you did internet research for me

Mama, something smells like stink today?

2007-06-28T07:31:00.000-10:00

I have never been one to really put much stock in luck, karma, and the like. What happens...happens! For a reason? Not likely. I am not one to worry about much, and rarely think that life is really out to get me.

Recently I was remembering an event several weeks ago when I was sitting in an outpatient recovery room waiting for my husband to wake up from his "mild sedation" after a routine medical procedure. After an hour of waiting (when they assured me, his very hungry/pregnant wife, that he would be alert and ready to go in less than 30 minutes), the monitor that had been politely beeping along with his heart rate and other vitals suddenly started a loud continuous beep and his heart rate, according to the monitor, had over tripled. Did I worry? Nah! I sat there for several seconds, assuming the machine would reset itself or his nurse would come in. I did at least reach out to grab his wrist -- it wasn't cold nor was his pulse racing. He's fine. Back to my book. After another minute of the beeping, I did finally decide to at least play the part of concerned wife and go look for his nurse. By the time I got to the door, another nurse came to see what all the ruckus was about, and while she fiddled with the machine to see what the trouble was, it dawned on me for the first time that maybe something could really be wrong. Had we not already killed the neighbor's dog with our evil desires just a few months prior? Maybe justice was now being served -- the dog dies under routine anesthesia, now your husband must to. Thankfully, I did not have much time to entertain these bleak notions because the nurse had the machine reset quite quickly. See? Just a machine error. I told you there was nothing to worry about.

Since that day though, there has been enough pithy occurrences in our day to day lives to make a girl start to questions her strong defense of logic when her husband insists that life is out to get you -- don't f*ck with it. Things that have always functioned as anticipated have ceased to do so in the recent past, so much so, that when we went to plant our garden this spring, I insisted we plant a sweet pepper plant in spite of never having had any luck with these peppers in the past just because I feared that we might mess with our garden mojo were a defunct pepper plant not part of the mix. (And, sure enough, one of the 2 pepper plants is limp and dwarfed, but the tomatoes, onions, other pepper, and carrots are growing like wild beasts!)

With hopefully just 4 weeks of pregnancy to go, my tolerance for anything other than popsicles and my batman pillow is thin to non-existent, and I have little patience for the unexpected. So when a parking citation dated from February 28, 2007 showed up (for the first time) in the mail today, followed quickly by an email from Ebay that confirmed my prior fear that I have likely been screwed on a fairly sizeable purchase, I threw my hands to heavens and surrendered. Today's occurrences are pithy, but the camel's back has officially been broken. The next time you see me, I'll likely be adorned with a wreath of garlic, rabbits' foots in both pockets, and pennies in my loafers. If luck be a lady -- she's certainly a bitch.

Update: The parking ticket has turned out to be less random than I thought. Now its more of "Why does my husband not tell me these things?" kind of issue. Sigh! But two legs still fell off the kitchen table yesterday, and "Maintenance Required" Light came on in my vehicle -- so I'm still ordering every amulet or talisman I can fit on a gold chain before I show up at the hospital in a few weeks only for them to apologize for not seeing that 2nd baby in there on all of those ultrasounds.

Void

2007-06-21T03:27:00.000-10:00

Yesterday morning, somewhere around 4 am, I was watching Jay Leno. Apparently they re-air his show through out the night for the poor slobs who aren't sleeping as they should be at that ungodly hour. Fred Thompson was on discussing his possible run for president, and I started thinking about what the country would be like, were Fred Thompson in charge. I did not necessarily conjure a pretty picture. I started thinking about all of the current candidates, trying to surmise if I really wanted any of them to be the president... Hillary? Mr. Obama? Giuliani?
Hmmm...what about the name Rudy? That was my great-grandpa's name. And I definitely don't think I could name the kid "Barak" -- that's so very Old Testament. Fred? Pat likes the name "Frank" -- I wonder if he likes Fred...OH Hell! I'm thinking about the kid again! Stop! Stop! Stop....

As months turn into mere weeks before we welcome "Pedro" I'm finding it hard to think about much of anything else. The more I desperately try to cram in some novels, get things organized, and connect with the outside world, knowing such opportunities may soon become limited for a while, I more often find myself wistfully thinking of our son and what he will bring to this household. (And, after yesterday, trying to figure out how on earth we're going to get him out.) That is, when I'm not trying to convince his sister that no matter how hard she begs the television, Clifford will not be coming back on again until tomorrow morning.

This is Normal, Right?

2007-06-07T16:57:00.000-10:00

Today it occurred to me that my family (siblings/parents -- my husband will quickly exclude himself from all of this) might have a bit of an obsession and/or a problem.

I told you about the sour cherry balls incident back in February. You know, the one that had my dad stopping at drugstores in 4 different states, and my sister and I alternating whose turn it was to email the company.

And of course, just yesterday, I disclosed the sordid details of our Jello Pudding Pop saga.

And today, this email arrived from my sister...sent to my dad, brother, and I...

Subject: Brace Yourselves....

Just in case you weren't watching The Today Show this morning...rumor has it that cold cereal pricing is about to go up. Sounds like demand is high and farmers have been focusing more on corn. I'm afraid that the $2.00 per box days may be permanently a thing of the past. :(

Always looking out for your best interest,

Maria

(My dad, not much on advice or meddling, gave each of us one admonition when we moved away from home. NEVER spend more than $2 on a box of cereal. We've taken that to heart, watching sales and clipping coupons to make our father proud. A year or two ago, he raised the cap to $2.50, but we've still each toiled long and hard to keep it as close to $2 as possible. Its the least we can do for the old man.)

And, not to exclude my mother, I remembered that just this week, I saw an order form on her kitchen counter for a case of this. I probably don't even need to say it, but, yes, we all spent over a year looking for this specific type of boxed icing which is the only thing any of us will top our angel food cake with (a birthday favorite). When it could not be located, my mother started ordering this boxed icing by the case, doling her stash out to us as stocking stuffers and birthday gifts. I've been hoarding my last box for months now, in preparation for the summer birthdays of my mother and sister.

Perhaps we're the most well fed (albeit obsessive) dysfunctional family in America. I suppose there are worse things to be.

Dog Days of Summer

2007-06-06T15:46:00.000-10:00

One can hardly be expected to blog, when there is just so darn much going on...

...I somehow feel like we're officially breeders now, in spite of the fact that we've been parents for nearly 3 years already. This arrived in the mail today. (Little boys not included) It was much cooler when gifts from our parents involved things like plane tickets or just plain old cash.

...I've been signing up kids up for the "Lord's Army" this week -- over 900 of them no less. No, no, I swear the VBS theme for this year is not the "Lord's Army" but their is an incessant amount of discussion about being equipped with God's armor that makes me squirm a bit. The war and battle metaphors in evangelical Christianity are not my favorite, and seem taken too far, most often. Anyway, Vacation Bible School seems to be my last major hold-out in the land of evangelicalism. I've parted ways with a lot of my over-wrought emotional connections to the big, big world of church, but I'm kind of a sucker for the week long extravaganza that makes time for not only crafts but a snack too. They are apparently a favorite of my daughter's as well, who had nothing to say about her experience today other than "I ate some fruit and made some 'craps' -- can I go again tomorrow?" I optimistically assume 'craps' involve paper and glue versus time spent in the bathroom.

...I've spent a lot of time listening to my child NOT nap. Apparently, she thinks she is no longer in need of an afternoon siesta most days. Instead, she lies in her bed, talking to her stuffed animals, gently explaining "My mom thinks we're sleeping. We're not sleeping. MOOOOMMM....me and my animals...WE'RE NOT SLEEPING."

...eating Jello Pudding Pops. Well, I just started eating them today, but it will likely prevent me from blogging in the future, so be fair warned. Over a decade ago, Jello Pudding Pops were ripped from supermarket shelves all across America, with no explanation. My sister staged a campaign of hate mail and emails over the years, trying to bring this beloved treat back. A few knock-off varieties of the creamy dairy pop have come and gone, but no sign of the true J-E-L-L-O until TODAY! Earlier this evening, I swung down the freezer aisle of the supermarket to secure a bag of ravioli, when I spotted the pops. I gasped out loud, quickly dug in my bag for my cell phone, and had my sister's number dialed within seconds. All the while, my daughter is exclaiming "Why you so happy about popsicles?" Although, I ended up hanging up before she answered, thinking the surprise would be best received in person. There was much weeping and rejoicing when we stopped by her house on our way home to tell her that she would indeed be able to endure her last 7 weeks of pregnancy because God (or perhaps Bill Cosby) had heard cries and had mercy on her -- in the form of frozen pudding on a stick.

...speaking of things my daughter wondered. "Huh mommy, why you laughing at that sticker on that car?" "Because it says 1.10.09 George Bush's Last Day" on it. Perhaps we should start a paper chain or at least start gluing cotton balls to the calendar.

Yes, life is just that interesting. And I do all of this in my spare time, when I'm not bugging my husband about a name for a son. Its no wonder I don't sleep well at night. There just aren't enough hours in the day.

Vegetable Bolognese

2007-05-26T16:00:00.000-10:00

There hasn't been too much inspiration in the kitchen lately. Usually, once it gets hot outside, everyones' appetite diminishes, and we settle in for a summer of mostly salads and sandwiches. Although, I got uncharacteristically motivated this week and tried out a new recipe.

Don't hold it against me that its from the most annoying cook on the Food Network. I was bored...at someone else's house...who had cable!

This recipe is easy to eyeball and finagle. I scaled back the mushroom amounts because mushrooms aren't Pat's favorite (he likes the flavor just not the texture), and I skipped the mascarpone cheese altogether. If you did want to add the mascarpone cheese but didn't want to pay $5 for a tiny tub, I'm guessing that ricotta would work just as well.

The real reason to celebrate this dish is that our kid ate it, even with a reasonable amount of gusto. Wonders never cease!

Now Fortified with Iron

2007-05-26T04:37:00.000-10:00

I've been eating Pop-Ice by the handfuls lately. I know, I know -- those 15 calories of frozen high-fructose corn syrup times 4 or 5 a day is doing so much to promote the physical and dental well being of my unborn and I. But when it hits the lips, it tastes so goooood! Ice too -- oh how I love ice. Sometimes I look forward to my water or soda being done, only to eat the ice at the end. I know which gas stations in town who have crushed ice and those who don't. Oh what a hay day my dentist will have with me next month.

Ice you say? And a weird taste in your mouth too? Why Julia, could you be low on iron? Low and behold, what's that you say Dr. OB -- exceptionally low levels of hemoglobin? Take an iron supplement? One iron supplement and 24 hours later, I drank a glass of ice water without so much as peaking under the lid to see how much ice there would be to crunch later. And while the verdict is still out, the whole "I think I'm going to suffocate and my heart is going to leap out of my chest" episodes only occurred once yesterday, which is at least 3x less than most days. According to my own research (because we all know that the internet is the most reliable source for all of your medical information needs) if your iron is low enough it can cause shortness of breath, rapid heart rates, and heart palpitations. Hmmmmm!??? If only we could have tested my blood before we spent all of that money on a cardiologist and wore the stupid heart monitor for 2 weeks. Sigh!

Perhaps its all psychological, but if one $5 jar of iron supplements is going to make these next 2 months a bit more pleasant (not to mention protect my teeth from certain doom), I'll take it.

To add to my new fortified state of being, my thoughtful husband purchased me my very own bean filled Batman pillow last night in order to make sitting through 2 hours and 45 minutes of queer pirate antics a bit more comfortable.

Now equipped with iron AND the superhuman powers that are certainly transferred when I cuddle up with my new superhero pillow, perhaps I'll be able to take on and defeat my arch nemesis -- mouthy schizophrenic almost 3 year old. Ooooooooo! (As I type, she's playing in her room, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Nooo...this is MY messy room!" repeatedly -- and there is no one else in her room with her.)

Sweet and Sour Memories

2007-05-14T22:30:00.000-10:00

I have extremely fond memories of eating partially frozen applesauce-style rhubarb at the kitchen tables of both my grandmother and great-grandmother (Grams). Grams had a rhubarb patch outside her basement door that supplied the whole family each spring. Unfortunately, Gram's rhubarb patch no longer exists, although my mother says there are rumors of new patches being started this year. May is rhubarb's prime month, although I think you can buy it frozen other times of the year, particularly at orchards or farmer's markets.

When I saw a small pile of rhubarb in the produce section this week, I could not resist bringing a few stalks home to experiment. (Rhubarb in the produce section kind of looks like celery although the stalk is fairly red in color.) I had never made anything with rhubarb prior to this week, but I quickly found that a rhubarb sauce similar to that of my youth could not be easier to concoct.

If rhubarb is a part of your childhood food memories, or if you're a fan of things both very sweet and very sour...

Cut rhubarb stalks into small chunks (I used 3 stalks -- and it made about two portions)
Put into pot on stove top and add sugar and water. (I used about 1/3 c. sugar and enough water to cover the rhubarb)
Bring to boil then reduce to simmer. Stir frequently, remove from heat when rhubarb breaks down into more of a sauce. (Less than 15 minutes)
*I also added a handful of strawberries about halfway through. Not necessary -- but it tasted good.

I think this concoction is meant to be more of a warm sauce to serve over a cake or ice cream. I'm sure that would be quite tasty. But I immediately put mine in the freezer, and ate it all in one sitting when it reached a slightly frozen/slushy consistency. We ate it like this from Gram's freezer all summer long as a side dish on the days we ate lunch with her after my mom cut her grass each week. I think a garden in my future will have space for a rhubarb patch.

Because the Day Wasn't Already Enough About Me

2007-05-13T17:33:00.000-10:00

For Mother's Day I was gifted with a child-free afternoon that included lunch out and shoe shopping. But because I like my pleasant sunny afternoons alone with my husband to have a bit of flare for the dramatic, I spiked a red fevery cramping in my leg, that is already riddled with bruises and vericose veins, courtesy of our unborn son. The pain was sharp and severe, but did not prevent me from picking out shoes for both my husband and myself. By the time we got to my section to shoe shop, my leg pain was nearly blinding -- but the Buy One Get One Half Off Sale ended today -- along with my $5 off coupon. Pain shall not keep a woman from $10 sandals.

Within a few hours (and after a call to a friend who is an ER nurse and to my OB) I consented to make a quick run to the hospital to insure that the pain in my leg was not blood clots. I waited until the last possible moment before my husband was supposed to depart for Chicago for the week to insure maximum drama. My jealousy of him getting to spend a week all alone in the heart of a fabulous city on the company dime knows no limits. It should be noted that I urged him to go on and not wait around on results from the hospital, but do also note that he would have nothing to do with leaving until he was sure that everything was okay. I think it had less to do with concern for me (we both felt fairly certain that I was fine), but a lot more to do with the look of great disdain my mother would give were she to find out that he had left me to go to the ER alone. She's a little woman with a fierce dirty look!

An ultrasound of my leg and some blood work revealed that everything is okay. After a light admonishment from my mother for not calling my father to let him know I was in the ER, I made a quick call while waiting on lab results-- quickly rattling off the scenario and assurances that I was going to be fine to my step-mom, who answered the phone. I was hoping that would be the end of my interaction with them on the topic, but within a few minutes my dad was calling us back. Not only was he calling me back, but he also had my grandma on the speaker of his cell phone (he had been talking to her when I had called earlier) so she too could hear the report. Nothing like a 3-way call with your dad and grandmother on speaker phones while sitting in an ER bed while pain shoots down your leg. After repeating the scenario to my captive audience, my grandma chimes in with our family's history with these sorts of issues -- assuring me that I come by it honestly. She rattled off an unmemorable title for what they called it when she used to get it when pregnant with her 4 children, and told me that my great-great grandma had suffered through it when carrying all EIGHT of her children. Then she adds in, "Back then, they always called it 'Milk Leg' because it only happened to pregnant women.

And that's really when I was done with the conversation. While my dad is heartily laughing at the notion of me having something called "Milk Leg", I exclaim "Milk Leg? You gave me MILK LEG! Grandma, as if inheriting your curved finger nails, big boobs, and babies with oversized craniums isn't enough -- now you're passing on MILK LEG!??"

To seal the misery, she adds in, "Yeah, I still have to wear support hose to this day because of the damage my children did to my legs. When pregnant with your uncle I had to wear those big thick ones..."

My dad chimes in with a chortle and a "Yeah Juge, maybe you can get some of those shiny ones...like the Hooters girls..."

Thank goodness for my niece who seemed more sincerely concerned when she proclaimed to my sister and daughter, who stayed at their house while we sat at the hospital, "I really hope they don't have to cut her leg off."

My leg is still in tact, but I may indeed have to consult a Hooters girl about those tights. You know, milk leg can't be left unattended.

Say Cheese

2007-05-11T16:22:00.000-10:00

You can only say "no" so many times. E must have caught on to this early on, because, for her, any question worth asking is worth asking 100 times. She's been asking me to teach her how to take "real picture" with a "real camera" for weeks now. Tonight I caved, and after nearly splitting the camera in two and pleading with me to fix it, this was her outcome. Her headless mother and nameless brother!

After viewing this picture, I realized it is one of very few of "Pedro" in utero. Likely one of the countless things he'll use against me some day to prove that I loved his sister more than him. My younger brother still uses his baby book that has hardly more than his name written in it as proof that he was well not cared for in his youth.

In case you prefer pictures with heads (and stupid facial expressions)...

How Gay

2007-05-11T05:52:00.000-10:00

At the gas station, as one grown man enters, he stops to hold the door for another grown man leaving the store. Instead of choosing to go through the door that was being held open for him, the 2nd man opened the other door for himself and exited.

The first man hollers after him, "It doesn't make you gay to let another dude hold a door for you!"

The second man never looked back.

Queen of Nothing

2007-05-10T07:50:00.000-10:00

I've never been the type who has excelled at any one thing. I have no outstanding skills or talents. This is hardly a pity party. Its not that I'm skill-less -- just perhaps decent at a handful things, enough to make me useful (and/or dangerous) in a variety of situations. I like to believe that I'm neither really good at anything nor really bad at anything. Yet, I've generally got what it takes to get by.

Although, as of late, it has become quite apparent that perhaps there are two things that I actually am quite abhorrent at. One being a skill I likely have never possessed, and the other something I could not have known I would truly suck at until about 3 years ago.

Apparently, for which my spouse will likely readily testify, I am not a sympathetic person. Were you to have suggested this to me even a few years ago, I would have been hurt, appalled, outraged! What? Me? Not sympathetic? I love people...I am very nice to people...I would do anything for most people. The reality is love, kindness, and care is not the same as sympathy. And, when push comes to shove, I am quite likely the one who will be stating (or muttering under my breath) "Just suck it up!" This is not to say that I don't care about people's problems nor does it mean that I am not a good or willing listener. Just know that when you bring a problem to me, I am more likely to try and fix it rather than offer a tender "Oh poor you!". This could be a plausible explanation for why our daughter can fall flat on her face, get up, and keep going without even a tear. Perhaps she learned early that I was not the one to seek for support unless you need a band-aid. And my husband, who has been afflicted with the stomach flu numerous times since becoming a father, will suggest something to the effect of "she's colder than your mother-in-law's love" (or something like that) when it comes to wanting someone to throw you a pity party for how you feel. (But, for real, do you really have to moan that loud when you're sick. Does that accomplish anything?) Need a hot meal, errand run, someone to care for your children -- I'm your woman. Want an understanding pat on the head? Look elsewhere.

And most recently, I have added "pregnancy" to my list of things that I am truly horrible at. My mother-in-law disdainfully told me last week "You're the first person I've ever met who doesn't like being pregnant." While I do not believe that I'm the only who doesn't find this the most pleasant way to kill 9 months of my life (my sister isn't that big a fan either), I do have to admit, I see this as simply a means to an end. I do not want to say this too flippantly. I hold my ability to conceive and deliver a child to be a great gift. We have watched several that we love go through the agony of infertility and count ourselves so fortunate to have not have had to go through that. I love being a mother, and look forward to adding this son to our family. And while feeling him flip and turn (and kick, somersault, bounce, jump, and catapult) in my womb is certainly something to celebrate, I just don't relish the weight gain, associated aches/pains, and various other symptoms that accompany carrying a child to term. It could be said that my experiences with pregnancy might be the cause of some of my disdain. My first pregnancy ending so abruptly (albeit with such a fortunate outcome), and this second pregnancy having a series of symptoms that are not likely standard for most women. Yet, I know of women who have gone through far more and still eagerly awaited a time when they could be pregnant again. My name should not be added to that list.

I guess this makes me the Queen of Nothing -- Purveyor of Naught. I am okay with this. I am decent at enough things to make most people want to keep me around. But, for the record, I'm mostly likely not the one you want to call if you need some sympathy and/or a womb in which to carry a child.

Nesting

2007-05-02T07:25:00.000-10:00

Dear Baby Boy For Whom No Suitable Name Exists,

Please don't come until I get the mulch spread, the bathroom painted, the garage pressure washed, windows cleaned, and more junk hauled out of this house to make room for your junk. I'm sure you will really care about all of these things just as much as I do.

With love,
Your Mom

P.S. Stop kicking my bladder!

Supposedly history dictates that in the weeks and months leading up to giving birth, many mothers are known to "nest"...to clean, tidy, organize, and prepare. I don't know if its instinctual or just appealing, but the idea of nesting has been something I've longed looked forward. April was one helluva of a month that I was not sad to part ways with this week. I had been chanting "May Day! May Day!" to myself as a private mantra for weeks, reminding myself that a large percentage of my obligations would be completed by or on that day.

But now May is here. My assignments are complete, year long portfolio mailed, student teaching obligations fulfilled, and I suspect I'll even start working less hours in the near future. (This is not to say that I work that many at the present.) And now I turn my attention to the unavoidable -- my blossoming mid-section and her tiny, albeit wiggly, contents. We are so mystified by the idea of having and raising a son that we can not even come up with a suitable title for him. Our dear "Pedro" may simply be "Junior" (not Don nor Patrick) for lack of any other name that can be agreed upon in our household. Even our daughter, who once took joy in recommending names like "yogurt", "blue boy", and "Mr. Dave" now simply replies "Not yet" when you ask her what we should name her brother. I suspect her father has trained her with that response.

While I have given little attention to any sort of real preparations for his arrival prior to now, I do feel eager to start paving the way for his welcome to our home. Wile I don't necessarily know if he will need a freshly painted bathroom, a pressured washed garage, or clean windows, I think I'll feel better if those things are complete before we meet him. And just yesterday, as I passed the children's clothing section at the super mega monster store, it dawned on me that its probably not socially acceptable to dress him in the various pink and lavendar pajamas and outfits that fill countless storage tubs in our basement. And even though he's a boy, can I not still carry him in my red and pink polka dotted sling? Oh dear me, there is work to be done.

But its the sweetest kind of work. The part of me that likes to pack for a trip or plan a party is quite eager for the nesting to begin. Pregnancy Round 1 did not afford me many of these prepartions, and while, without them, we obviously managed just fine, it will feel good to at least have a few things laundered and a fresh coat on the bathroom walls to greet him with. It'll be the least I can do considering we won't even have a name to give him.

Genetically Inclined

2007-04-17T16:01:00.000-10:00

Pat's parents returned from their winter stay in Florida this week, and we went to see them this weekend. As we entered the house, I paused to take off my shoes. I hear my father-in-law say "Looking a little hippie" and I looked up to ask if he could believe how long his hippie son had grown his hair, just as his dad reached over to nudge my hip with the back of his hand. Ohhhhh...HIPPY! And he was talking to me. All I could do was blame the maternity jeans, which I finally just gathered the courage to put on for the first time that day.

The next night, after leaving our daughter in the care of her grandparents, Pat and I set out for an child-free evening with friends. Pat opened the conversation in the car as he always does whenever we're going out for an evening alone...something like..."Sooo...you got enough dollar bills for the strip club." This joke is old and tired, and I've long since started answering it with "Sure!" Although, that night, I added, "I'm sure every stripper is dieing to give a pregnant girl a lap dance."

He quickly replied with a lament because, supposedly, he had vowed to himself that the next time I readily agreed to go to the strip club with him he'd just go there, you know, in order to call my bluff. But after I reminded him that I was, indeed, pregnant, he added "Yeah, the thing with the strip club is the girl you bring has to be hotter than the strippers." Then let out a breathy sigh of disappointment.

He can inherits his father's skinny legs, lack of butt, and knack for absurd trivia, but did he have to inherit his tact as well?

Promises, Promises

2007-04-06T16:43:00.000-10:00

On Monday, against my will, I went to purchase new bras to accommodate some of the effects of pregnancy. Women who covet the idea of larger breasts might view this as a form of bragging, but for those who consider their bosom ample or more than so, you know that the growth of your mammeries is anything but cause for celebration. It took me years to embrace being well endowed, and, even now, I think longingly of what it might be like to be a cup size or two smaller.

Bra shopping has never caused me anything but much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Ditto for shopping for swimwear. Just ask my mother and sister who have whispered words of encouragement from outside of the dressing room while secretly vowing never to shop with me ever again. Thanks to an encouraging husband and a reformed view of myself and the womanly form at large, I can generally make it through a shopping trip without one curse word or tear these days.

This is not to say that I enjoy bra shopping anymore than I used to, particularly not when having to shop for larger bras. So I set out for a usually deserted department store early in the day, when I was not likely to have to deal with many customers and/or sales personnel. As my daughter and I wandered the intimates section, my daughter gleefully proclaimed the beauty of woman's foundation garments begging me try on a hot pink bra in a B cup and red polka dot bra in a C cup. When we got to the section where I was forced to shop, she promptly proclaimed the grand selection of styleless tan, white, and black bras to be "boring" and followed that with "I don't like these." Who the hell taught her the word "boring"?

Often attached to the front of any bra is small tag that has a brief advertising promise for the purchaser. For the smaller sizes, it generally makes a brief promise of the appearance of a larger breast in some way, shape, or form. As bras increase in size, the promise usually changes from amplification to minimization. On the bras I deposited in my basket to try on, the only promise they could make to the purchaser was "Smooths Back Rolls" -- in other words, at this point lady, we can't hide'em so all we can do is try to keep it all under wraps for you. Sigh!

The week has really gone down hill from there. In spite of having the week off from both work and school due to spring break, a series of unfortunate events have made what I had hoped to be a relaxing yet productive week into a very stressful and emotional week. 5 family members have been to the hospital for completely unrelated reasons this week, and 2 of them remain in hospitals still. Earlier today, my dear grandmother, for whom our daughter is named, had not only her husband, but also her 2 month old grandson and identical twin sister all admitted into the same hospital. Thankfully, her grandson, my cousin, will recover soon from a bad case of the roto virus, but the prognosis for my grandpa and great-aunt are not likely to be as favorable. Her sister's battle with cancer is growing grim, and they've yet to figure out how to control the strokes and/or seizures my grandpa is suffering.

My sister, who is just as pregnant as I am, spent the night in the hospital earlier this week with inexplicable pain in her back, that they've yet to identify or cure. She is heavily medicated. Thankfully, it seems to be unrelated to her pregnancy and not affecting the baby. My own husband was had his own dealings with medical professionals this week, his not being an emergency, thank goodness. But as I sat alone, waiting to take him home following his procedure on Thursday, I gave a lot of thought to growing old and having to watch him grow old with me. I thought of what it will be like when our medical needs are more frequent and urgent due to age, and what it must be like when the day comes that you realize the quantity of your remaining days. All of this happened prior to knowing what my grandma would have to endure this weekend with 3 of her closest kin. And now I recall the thoughts I had on Thursday when waiting for Pat, and I mourn for my grandma understanding a bit better now that true fear isn't your own mortality but that of those you love most.

Its not been a good week, and I cringe when the phone rings, after receiving so much bad news already. It makes one wonder what tomorrow will bring, but I know, no matter what happens, my back rolls will be smooth.

In the Best Way Possible

2007-03-01T03:40:00.000-10:00

The mounds of snow are slowly dwindling in our front yard. A couple of days ago, I noticed some newspapers in the yard coming to the surface, after being frozen below for a couple of weeks. When I tiptoed out in my slippers to retrieve them, I noticed something a bit more dastardly -- a mound of items meant for recycling were strewn about on a small portion of sidewalk that had become exposed. Soda cans, soup cans, milk jugs, and beer bottles were strewn about.

I conjectured that during the major snowstorm that dumped the bulk of the snow while E and I were in Florida, the recycling bin was tipped and the evidence covered in snow before our recycling men came to pick up the orange crate. Before strapping on some more substantial footwear to go deal with the debris that would certainly label us as rednecks forever (You know how fancy our neighborhood is! You've met our neighbor with the mullet, right?), I placed a quick, non-related call to my husband at work. I mentioned, in passing, the debris in the front yard, asking if he was aware of its presence. He stated he was not, then offered, "Well, now you have something to do."

*Gasp* *Curse* *I'm *!$* offended* *Hanging up now*

He later clarified that it was only meant as a joke. Hmph!

The next night, as we were putting the wee one to bed, I partially lifted my shirt to expose my expanding mid-section. "Hey EJ, look at my belly." Her father casually glanced down, and proclaimed "WHOOOOA!" which I quickly interpreted as "Damn Bitch! Packing it on kind of fast aren't we?" Before my stares of death could pierce through his face and melt his brain, our perceptive daughter diffused the situation by uttering, with a giggle, "Oh mommy, look at that beautiful belly!"

Maybe, just maybe, I have been a bit sensitive lately. The endless grey days, mountains of slowly melting dirty snow, part-time job that well over 1.5 years ago I said I'd only do for a summer, unexpected resurgence of pregnancy related illness, and copious amounts of school work and lesson planning can get the best of me. I find myself daydreaming about summer days, and already wanting to plan ahead for what bulbs I'll plant, seeds I'll sow, and even what type of swimsuit will cover 7 months of pregnancy come June. I like to think that I can will myself to live above feeling grey or getting bogged down by the details. That the power of the positive and my own sheer desire to give my family my best is enough to overpower the "blue funk" that can hover from time to time.

The good news is that spring will come, the semester will end, and surely the sun has got to come out...perhaps tomorrow. In his defense, he did tell me he liked my jeans last night, which was particularly kind since its my only pair of jeans that can still button without the aid of an elastic hairband. Its not likely that any of these factors will make my husband any better about making lame jokes that piss me off. (Bickering and mockery is our love language!) But we'll keep aiming to make each day good by its own standard, and trying hard to take it, as Pat always tells me, "in the best possible way."

Cravings

2007-02-25T15:59:00.000-10:00

Surely the recent content of this site has made you aware that sometimes a pregnant girl likes some food. As for the much publicized "cravings" that coincide with growing a kid in your womb, I'd say that cheese has been the bulk of it. Cream cheese, ricotta, colby, sharp cheddar, Parmesan Reggiano, and my favorite indulgence, Monterrey Pepper Jack.

As of late, I have had a new, less conventional craving...chocolate...

Chocolate?

Yes. Chocolate.

A Chocolate Lab to be exact. Really, isn't he cute enough to eat?

Pat established very early on that we were categorically NOT "dog people". (But don't you remember when he said he wasn't a cat person either? Ha!) I stipulated that we were not "dog people" now, nor would would we be for a very long time. But, maybe, just maybe, we could be dog people some day. Should one of our offspring truly want a dog (or maybe if I truly wanted a dog) we could have one someday, you know when the kids are old enough, responsible enough, our house is big enough, and the yard just right. Maybe, just maybe.

But we travel a lot, our kids are small, and our house...well, it feels like its getting smaller by the day. Blah, blah, blah!

I gave some consideration to the dogs of my past, coming to the grim conclusion that perhaps my own family just wasn't all that good with canines. There was the Brando, who preceded my birth. My grandma's call to say she'd seen him dead along side a country road near our rural home when I was hardly even 4 years old might be one of my very first memories. It was certainly the first time I remember crying from true sadness. Next came Mandy, a black mutt who was already 14 years old when we got her. Needless to say, she did not last long. There was Pepper, the Pekingese, whom my father loathed for coating his work pants in hair each day, and it was after her departure to another home that my parents vowed that we were no longer dog people. That only lasted until we completed our whirlwind tour of 3 states in 3 years while we moved to follow my dad's job, and then,once we settled back into Hoosier Heartland, we welcomed Otis, Moses, Patches (the Dalmatian who chewed through extension cords...when they were plugged in), Calvin, and another one while I was at college whose name eludes me most likely because by that point I had to guard my heart from being attached to dogs that entered our home. (And mind you, these are just the dogs we had. We had plenty of cats too.) Each of these dogs came and went via an unknown hole in the back gate, to my grandparents farm, or, in the case of the truly crazy ones, via the back seat of my mom's car -- most likely to the pound, although she would never admit to that. (Shhh...my now 24 year old brother still thinks Patches went to a "farm"!)

What's that? Eight dogs in less than 18 years? In defense of my family, my sister has had the same pooch for over a decade now (and another for about 5 years even though Pat accidentally didn't latch their back gate well enough once and he ran away for 3 days), my mom has had the name neurotic canine for 8 years, and my dad and brother have both been responsible dog owners for well over 3 years respectively. Maybe it was me that ran all of our former puppies off?? Perish the thought!

And I probably should not even tell you this, but for about a year now we have loathed the small rat-like dog living next door to us. From day one, this dog has barked vehemently at NOTHING for hours on end each day. If you've spent any time at our house in the past year, you most certainly know of which dog we speak. The neighbors were aware of and even sympathetic to our frustration, because, apparently, she barked just as much inside as she did out. How they tolerated her we do not know, but they never made mention of finding another pasture for the little bitch. We often plotted the little dog's death, and Pat's dad, when he visited, always sincerely offered to carry out the plans. We never gathered enough courage to do anything other than wistfully pray for the dog to one day not be there anymore, however the Lord above saw fit to make that happen. Well friends, God, He does answer prayers.... Just this last weekend, while shoveling our driveway, the neighbor came down to offer us his superior shovel. He made mention of losing their dog recently, to which we politely nodded because their son had told us that one of their 2 older mutts, Cheetah, had to be put down a few weeks prior. We mourned her passing as she was a gentle giant who I often whispered sympathetic encouragement to over the fence because I knew she had to hate the little dog as much as I. When we offered our condolences to the neighbor in regards to Cheetah's passing, he quickly corrected, "No it was Skye...the little one. She died too." What? Apparently they had taken her in to be spayed, and she never came out of the anesthesia. Oh what heathens we felt like, offering our sympathy while our insides danced with glee. Yes, apparently, even now, I can run a dog off.

This truly is not the time for us to own a dog, and, perhaps, you could argue there never will be. So this pregnancy craving will go unindulged. I guess that means more pepper cheese for me.

Again?

2007-02-21T09:05:00.000-10:00

An Ode to my leftovers that I forgot to bring to work with me today but wish I could eat right now...

I presume that everyone has a meal or two in their repertoire that they go to most often. That one meal that you almost always have the ingredients for, is easy to make, and tastes really good, at least to you. The first time you made it, everyone seemed to like it, and you might have even made it for guests once, twice, or 500 times. You've got one like that, right?

For me, at the top of the list of dinners that I've most likely burnt my husband out on is this tomato black bean conglomeration that I think I originally got off the side of a can of generic black beans the first year we were married. I've long since stopped being able to buy that brand of beans, but I've made this dish so many times that a recipe is hardly necessary.

In case you're curious...

1. Crushed garlic, diced onion, and diced green pepper sauteed in some olive oil. Add salt, pepper, cumin, and some sort of spice if you want.
2. Add a can of black beans & a can of diced tomatoes. (We prefer the tomatoes w/ the green chilies.)
If you had cilantro around, now would be the time to add it. Cilantro adds a bit of flare.
3. Stir it up, make it hot enough to bubble, then turn it down to simmer for a bit. It can cook for 10-30 minutes. Just make sure it doesn't get too dry.

There may have been more to it originally, but that's pretty much what's its evolved into at our house.

Now what do you do with it?
Its good in a hard taco shell, good on a bed of chips like nachos, good in place of taco meat for that Taco Ring recipe that uses crescent rolls, tastes good in a burrito shell, and I like it on a taco salad.

Top it like you would a taco -- salsa, cheese, sour cream, etc.

Last night, I threw in some Trader Joe's Mexican Red Sauce (like an enchilada sauce but better) that I had in the fridge, and it was like my favorite stand-by recipe had been born again. Mmm!

Feel free to supply your own quick stand-by recipe of choice for the sake of my husband, whose shoulders can't sometimes keep themselves from drooping a bit when he comes in to find this dish on the stove top...again! (Although, in my defense, I think last night was only the 2nd time we've had this dish in 2007. Quite an improvement from 2005, when we probably had it once a week.)

Happiness Is...

2007-02-17T17:55:00.000-10:00

...finding a full supply of Brach's Sour Cherry Jels after your entire family searched for them for weeks. My sister mentioned that she had looked several places for this traditional Valentine treat, but had no luck finding them. Did you say CANDY? Say no more -- we were all looking. Even the 2 year old walked into Walgreens and demanded directly from the cashier, "Do you have Maria's candy here?" A shipment of them came in to Meijer just before the holiday, and my father was more than relieved when I emailed to say the search was over. He had looked in 19 different locations in at least 4 states. Don't say we don't love each other! When E and I stumbled upon them, I'm pretty sure I gasped out loud, and E clutched the first bag (of several) I put in the cart to her chest for the duration of our shopping trip, repeating "We found them. We finally found them."

...getting to sit in the super wide, leather goodness of first class seats that you did not pay for. E and I took a quick trip to Ft. Myers the first part of the week to see Pat's parents. (Read: Indulge their obsession with our kid while I read fiction by the pool.) After my experience with AirTran this week, I'm not exactly sure I would recommend them. But after going to no less than 4 employees because my daughter was assigned a seat 11 rows behind my own, we ended up in first class by virtue of those being the only two seats left together on the flight.
In retrospect, I'm not so sure why I was so hell bent on sitting with my kid knowing how enjoyable it is to fly alone, but I will say, those seats up there are BIG!

...leaving 78 degree Florida sun in order to return to sub-zero wind chills and over a foot of snow. Then spending 2 hours today, assisting your husband in removing that snow (against his will), now compacted, from your long driveway that seemed like such an asset when you purchased house several springs ago but now just seems like a giant pain in the ass. Oh wait...that's not happy...

...but...

Buzz-Kill

2007-02-05T07:18:00.000-10:00

Surely I've bellyached enough about my teams of choice never winning the appropriate "Big Game" enough for you all to know that I am soaring high in the heartland this morning. I'm so happy, that I'm only marginally pissed that its 5 below outside, and normally I take this kind of abominable weather very, very personally. Who knew it could feel so good to live in Indianapolis?

I will not wax on about the game itself, only pausing briefly to offer my MVP awards to my favorite pair of running backs, Joseph Addai and Dominic Rhodes. And perhaps an honorary MVP award could be offered to Rex Grossman for such abhorrent offense on behalf of the Bears. They couldn't have done it without you, buddy.

But to make sure I stayed suitably grounded in reality this morning, our daughter woke up at her usual hour (in spite of going to bed 2.5 hours late) with snot and drool pooling down the front of her PJ's (2 year molar #3), and an insistence that she and I spend EVERY MOMENT of the morning together. The first hour of making beaded name bracelets for every female we know was endurable, but she must've noted I was enjoying it too much because she pulled out this treasure for some pre-lunch reading time:

"Mommy, what's 'forfeit'?
"Its what your father and I did with all of our personal freedom when you were born?"
"Huh!"
"Oh sorry! Its what it looked like Rex Grossman did in the second half of last night's game."
"Oh, okay!"

What exactly are "Song's from God's Garden"? Apparently, they rock out old school in the garden of God with familiar favorites such as: Rise and Shine (give God the glory, glory), What a Friend We Have in Jesus, I Love to Tell the Story, How Sweet the Name of Jesus, and, of course, closing it out with O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing. And its not just the lyrics. There is a button along the right side of the book to press for each page that plays the song for you as you sing.

Thank you dear, sweet staunchly traditional Nazarene Great-Grandma Phyllis for adding this treasure to our child's library.

I hate to say it, but "Songs from God's Garden" is a post-game buzz-kill, but its not too hard to kill a buzz when all you could drink during the game was...

Baby, Its Cold outside.

2007-02-02T17:48:00.000-10:00

I'm seriously hard up for anything to say other than "It's cold". On the way home tonight, I told Pat that I was really trying to will myself not to say "I'm cold" repeatedly through out the day because its truly just pointless. Its a given. Yet, not even a minute later, without even realizing it, I muttered again, "I'm just so cold."

We live in an old house with poor insulation and tall ceilings. In short, you can't get this place warm. Well, actually you can. My father-in-law had this place jacked up to 72 degrees over Christmas and we were TOASTY. But, as my daughter states daily, Christmas is over, and Mama's too cheap to keep the house at 72 degrees every day. Instead, we huddle around space heaters, frequently wear robes over our clothing, and fill ourselves with the warming comforts of things like oatmeal and tea. (I currently have tea bags in my coat pocket, school bag, car, and purse -- a cup of tea is never far from thought.) And, of course, we cook...

(Who says this can't be a food blog?)

I got a little adventurous in the produce aisle this week, and came home with some fennel, which I've been wanting to try for ages. If you're the soup type, you might really like this. You probably won't need all of the broth it calls for.

Meat and 3?
Do people really fix a meat entree AND 3 side dishes for most meals? Forget how much food that is. That's just a lot to plan, cook, and clean-up. Uf! Pat swears this is how he ate growing up, although does anyone who's ever met Pat believe he ate that heartily as a kid? Yeah, me neither. (Not to mention his mother weighed only 98 pounds until she was well into her 40's.)

As part of my bargaining to get dinner out on Thursday after a long day at work, I offered Pat the rare treat of "Meat and TWO" (although it ended up being 3 because he requested all carbs and nothing green) for dinner on Friday night. Its probably because I never cook like that, but Pat heartily endorses this easy dry rub pork loin prep....

Dry Rub Components: Dried Thyme, Kosher salt, cracked pepper, and rosemary.

Cut some slits across the top of the pork, stick some of the rub down in there, along with some slivers of garlic, and use the remaining dry ingredients to season the top of the pork.

1/2 lb. of pork loin takes about 30 minutes to cook in a 350 degree oven. Adjust according to the amount of meat.

Today's plans for staying warm in the kitchen include some festive BLUE sugar cookies for tomorrow's festivities, and perhaps some of this granola, because it just sounds good. And tomorrow, there will be Jiffy Pizza Crust breadsticks for the party as well. I won't include the recipe here because I wouldn't know how to make them without the boxed pizza crust mix, and the recipe for the breadsticks is on every package.

Go Colts!

Que Romantico!

2007-01-31T09:22:00.000-10:00

juliarock1978: it is cold
patrickrock1975: http://www.ohmibod.com/
patrickrock1975: thats what you're getting for Val day
juliarock1978: that's amazing
juliarock1978: seriously -- there is NO END to what they'll hook up to an Ipod
patrickrock1975: thats what you'll be sayiing
patrickrock1975: AMAZZZZZIIIIINNNGGGGG
juliarock1978: what would someone listen to?
juliarock1978: I'm not exactly sure what appropriate "vibrator music" is
patrickrock1975: i dont know
patrickrock1975: Faster Pussycat?
patrickrock1975: the Pussycat Dolls?

What's more stereotypically pregnant than posting about food 2 times in a row?

2007-01-26T03:18:00.000-10:00

Oh well....

My dessert of choice is always and has always been a cookie. Crunchy packaged cookies need not apply. I'm talking about the soft, chewy goodness of a baked cookie.

My love of homemade cookies runs into two major issues every time. For starters, I inherited my mother's notion that a cookie isn't worth eating unless there are 4 more cookies to chase it with. Second, I hate excessive dish dirtying, hence why my family is rarely served a side dish. (It's pitiful, I know.)

While I have hardly mastered the first issue, with my usual technique being making cookies only occasionally, eating lots of them the first day, then insisting Pat take the remainder to work with him the next day.

The second issue of the dish dirtying is made better by any cookie recipe that doesn't require me to get the mixer out. That's two less dishes and one less appliance to wipe down when I'm done. Plus no bits of butter splattered on the wall, as I'm prone to do when creaming the butter and sugar together.

I've long been a fan of the ever so easy "Cake Cookie" recipe that a friend's mother gave to me in college. It is simply:

1 Box of your favorite cake mix (I like Funfetti)
1/3 cup of oil
2 eggs

You can mix this all with a wooden spoon, drop it on the cookie sheet, and bake them for 8-10 minutes. "Homemade" cookies for unexpected guests in less than 15 minutes and only a bowl and cookie sheet to clean-up. You can add in nuts, chocolate chips, etc and I'm sure they'd taste good with icing too.

Yesterday, when E wanted to surprise her dad with some cookies (code for "I want to stick my hand in the cookie dough when you're not looking, mom!") she suggested we make Oatmeal Raisin cookies in honor of her father's recent obsession with eating oatmeal every morning. A quick search on allrecipes.com (my favorite recipe site), I found an Oatmeal Raisin recipe with a high rating that didn't require beaters...SCORE! And they were seemingly a bit more healthy than some of the other options...EXTRA POINT!

We only ended up making half a batch because of an unexpected oatmeal shortage (guess I better starting buying the BIG can), so we made a few modifications that still turned out well.

The Original Recipe

Our Modified Recipe for a Half Batch

* 1/2 cup canola oil
* 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
* 1 eggs
* 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
* 1 cup whole wheat white flour
* 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
* 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
* 1 1/2 cups rolled oats
* 1/2 cup wheat bran
* 1/2 cup raisins

DIRECTIONS
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease cookie sheets.
2. In a large bowl, mix canola oil, brown sugar, eggs and vanilla until well blended. Combine the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg; stir into the sugar mixture. Mix in the oats, wheat bran, and raisins last. Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto the prepared cookie sheet.
3. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes in the preheated oven. Allow cookies to cool on baking sheet for 5 minutes before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

The half batch yielded 16 medium sized cookies. The right amount for E and I to ruin our lunch, have some for her dad and an unexpected visit from my mom and step-dad, with only 3 left to taunt us this morning. Perfect!

No Soup For You

2007-01-23T17:03:00.000-10:00

As of late, I've been giving a considerable amount of thought to food -- savory, hot food. Before you break into a chorus of pregnancy jokes, I don't know that I've been eating a lot of food -- just thinking about it. Every so often I get on a cooking binge where I read lots of recipes, savor new ingredients, and get a little crazy in the kitchen. Nothing too terribly exciting has come of it this time around, other than some pretty decent vegetarian chili (and a non-vegetarian version for some friends), a rice dish with these tasty green garbanzos that a clerk at Trader Joe's conned me into buying, my own made up recipe for veggie fajita enchiladas (because I wanted to use the Mexican Red Sauce that another Trader Joe's employee talked me into) that needs some tweaking, and a rare treat for my husband -- a pork loin complete with TWO side dishes: carribean black beans and sweet potatoes. (Meat AND side dishes in the same meal. And it's not even his birthday!)

Maybe I've been more productive in the kitchen than I realized.

My thoughts of food led me to stumble on this today, and while I'm not likely to invite a bunch of people over to exchange soup, it did, of course, lead me to thinking about soup ...mmmm...delicious soup...

So in the spirit of "Soup Swap 2007", I offer you a recipe for an easy soup we like that even the picky toddler will eat some of (if she gets to sprinkle the cheese on top herself)....

Spinach Tortellini Soup
(Disclaimer: I'm not a very precise cook)

A few cloves of garlic minced
Some onion chopped
1 Tbs. Olive Oil
Italian Seasoning Herbs -- dried or fresh
Salt/Pepper
1 Can of Diced Tomatoes
2 cups of chicken or veg. stock (1 Can)
1 Package of Dried Tortellini -- Fresh Tortellini would probably be good too, I'm just cheap(or dried mini-ravioli from Trader Joe's - NO employee persuaded me to buy them :)
A few handfuls of fresh spinach (no stems)

1. Saute onion and garlic in oil.
2. Season with herbs, salt, and pepper
3. Add tomatoes and stock -- bring to boil
4. Add pasta -- cook until soft (add more liquid if necessary or if you like it
really soupy)(You could also cook the pasta separately if you like)
5. Add spinach a bit at a time and stir until it wilts

Add parmesan cheese as garnish if you'd like.

It's good -- healthy -- and quick to make. Its not very soupy, but you can make it so by adding more broth and/or water.

The moral to all of this?
1. Trader Joe's employees can be pushy in spite of their extreme friendliness.
2. I'm working real hard on getting big quick. Send me or post something else to cook before I burn out and resort back to grilled cheese and potato skillets.

"We Get A Diet Pepsi"

2007-01-21T10:34:00.000-10:00

Sports have long had a stronghold in my psyche. While never being gifted at any of them myself (unless ping pong counts), I have cycled through being fanatic about most professional sports with which Americans have an affinity.

I can tell you exactly where I was when the Hoosiers won in 1987, when the Reds won in 1990, how ill I felt when Duke beat Kentucky in 1992 (Don't get me started on Christian Laetner), I painfully watched all of the Trailblazers and then the Pacer's attempts at victory in the past two decades, and cheered vehemently for IU in 2002.

Teams that I call my own rarely are victorious when the championships are on the line, to the point where one who might believe in luck might think that I have none.

The Indianapolis Colts victory this weekend feels tremendously good. Even in the snowy burbs, the fireworks are sounding and the neighborhood is roused. This past week crept by so slowly due to anticipation that one can only wonder if this city can stand 2 more weeks of the angst.

I will happily launder my family's collection of blue horseshoe clad t-shirts for another two weeks, continue to count the moments until the next and last (sniff! sniff!) football game of the season, and, based on my previous "luck" in these types of championship situations, will cheer with all my heart for the Bears in hopes of a Colts victory.

All this...and I can't even drink beer!

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

2007-01-10T03:55:00.000-10:00

I can rarely remember my dreams, minus the few that have reoccurred over time. When I was a kid, there was a scary reocurring dream about being trapped in some dark mansion. I eventually, after having the dream several times over a period of years, escaped by rolling out in a barrel, right past a long line of tourists lining up to tour the mansion.

More recently, I periodically dream that I've gone back to college, at my current age, to, apparently, finish up my degree. (In spite of the fact that I have my degree and graduated 6.5 years ago.) Its always the same bible college that I attended, but the dorms and those present in the dorms is always different. Because I attended a conservative bible college that girded every female with a chastity belt and boy-less dorm , I often contemplate in my dreams how I'm going to deal with the fact that I have a husband.

Recently, in real life, I visited the campus of my alma mater. Some of my dearest college pals gathered in Cincinnati for a brief reunion over the holiday, and, with respect to our college traditions of minimal grooming, a few of us rolled out of bed after a late night (of ice cream and movies instead of beer bongs and joints, naturally), and with not much more than a brush of our teeth, we visited the campus to see how it had changed.

We haunted some familiar locations, posing in rememberance of the pious days of our youth...

Because everyone knows God hears you better in a gazebo.

And overloooking the city skyline makes you look like you have something serious to ponder.

To some of the dogma and over-wrought emotional experiences of our college years, Anne and I give a flying middle finger.

But there is nothing to regret about an experience that allows you long time friends such as these.

Since the visit, the dream of returning to college has come again, but this time I was living in a co-ed apartment off campus, where a not famous Vince Vaughn was one of my roomates. I think I'm making progress.