=== The Jet Set

The Raisin Defense League

2012-01-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

Alright.

That’s IT.

I like raisins.I do. I think they’re delicious.

SO THERE.

from the pedia of wiki

Know what’s even better? When raisins are in stuff: trail mix, cakes, oatmeal, granola, cinnamon rolls, strudel, and cookies. I just blew your mind, boom. You’re welcome.

However these days it seems that raisins have fallen out of favor. People hate raisins! No really, they despise raisins. Guys, they’re just grapes. You love grapes. Everyone loves grapes. People who don’t like grapes probably hate Christmas, mothers, snowflakes, and baby dolphins.

But back to hating raisins. Raisin hatred is endemic, no, it’s pandemic. “Eww, it has raisins,” people say. What, you don’t like little drops of sunshine in your food? They even pass on cookies because they have raisins. Not eating a cookie because it has raisins? That’s bananas. I’ve even seen raisin hatin’ plaques on people’s walls. There is ANTI-RAISIN DECOR.

Even my children have turned on me. “I hate raisins,” they say.
“No, you don’t,” I answer.
“I don’t want that cookie, it has raisins!”
“But you just asked for ants on a log and that’s just celery with peanut butter and raisins.”
“Well, I just don’t like raisins in cookies,” My stupid four-year-old says. What does he know, anyway.

(NOTHING. He knows nothing.)

I like to soak raisins before adding them to baked goods so they’re plump and juicy. I even like when one of those raisins gets to the bottom of the cinnamon roll and it’s a little hard and burnt on one side. My mother-in-law uses chocolate covered raisins in oatmeal cookies (tell me that’s not a stroke of genius.) If anyone asks, the Kirkland brand chocolate-covered raisins are the best. I think raisins in my curry are delicious (like this seena with raisin curry.) In Morrocan foods raisins are divine; sweet bursts in warm spiced savory tagines.

I don’t know how you can hate raisins, unless you also hate world peace. And golden raisins? You stop right there. I listened at "golden," but you had me at “raisin.”

Raisins do not deserve your hatred. They deserve your adequate respect and healthy snacking.

So let’s hear it for Raisins! Be part of the Raisin Defense League! Don’t let them get bullied into some sort of dried fruit purgatory. Stand up for raisins, because raisins are good and right and awesome.

Heck yeah, RAISINS!

About the New Girl Scouts Cookie: Savannah Smiles

2012-01-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

The movie was better than the cookie.*

≠

Thank you.

*Disclaimer: I haven't actually eaten the Savannah Smiles Girl Scout Cookies, nor purchased any Girl Scout Cookies of any type in the past 18 months (broke,) and while I usually prefer Samoas and Thin Mints (who doesn't, Trefoils,) I can't tell you definitively that Savannah Smiles are delicious or not delicious, but that the name does offend me as someone who saw Savannah Smiles approximately one million times in the early 80s and considers that movie a wonderful example of the "bumbling kidnapper" genre, which genre name I just invented, and as a movie that still functions as a time capsule view of the area surrounding my hometown, I simply find it annoying that no one, especially not respected journalists, has even mentioned Savannah Smiles as being a movie FIRST and not a cookie.

Amen and pass the Oreos.

Freezing Time

2012-01-09T14:59:00.002-07:00

In the chilly morning I’d pulled baby into bed to nurse with me while Proximo snugged in on the other side of Lulu. The three of us under a pile of warm covers and bright eastern light.

Lulu stops nursing, turning around to laugh at Proximo’s little tickling fingers, his now lanky arm crossing her chubby tummy and wiggling into her sides. One laughing meant the other would laugh, which meant that I would laugh, all of us in a triad of soft happiness.

“Let’s go camping!” Proximo exclaims, pulling the white sheet over our heads until the cotton brushes our cheeks and fingers.
“Is this our tent?”
“Yes!”Lulu reaches out with her dimpled hands and touches the sheet, rolling between us, little toes tucked into a sleeper. She grabs at Proximo’s glasses. He giggles and says, “No, baby.”
She turns her attention to my glasses, smears them with tiny prints.
“I want to lay on your belly,” he says.
"Why?"
“Because it is soft. Move over so I can have the warm spot.” (This warm spot is his obsession, the place our bodies have heated, if we get up from the couch, or a chair, Proximo rolls into a ball and claims our seats.)

I oblige, moving to the colder half, a baby on one side and a child on the other, laughing over me, under a sheet, in a cozy house, the cold January winking at us from outside the window.

Keeping New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-02T10:30:00.000-07:00

I came up with 5 ways to keep your New Year's Resolutions. This would only be helpful if you have a resolution to keep. NOT SO FAST, I came up with a list of resolutions to choose from as well. Look, I'm trying to be a better person, so you should be, too. Peer pressure. I think that's how it works. Maybe. I'm not really sure. You're probably already a better person than I am.

OK, fine, go have a cookie.

The Dreaded 2011 Recap

2011-12-31T23:00:00.000-07:00

I posted a recap of my 2011 over at Todaysmama.com, because I thought you might like to read it. If you don't want to read it, I'm sure you can find something else on the Internet to read (if you look very carefully.)

Although I one of the promises I made to myself when I started blogging was that I would only post when I felt like it, and I'd never apologize for not posting, I'm going to do both right now. I've been happily buried with a writing project lately and haven't had much time for posting, and I am sorry. There are lots of things to share with you soon, but for now I hope you'll be satisfied with a thank you note of sorts:

Thank you for reading The Jet Set over the years. I spout a lot of nonsense and you routinely read it and, for some reason, keep reading. I love your eyeballs, they're downright fancy. Now let's hug. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. *waves hands in front of eyes*

Caramel Biscoff Blossom Cookies

2011-12-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Last week I was invited to Jeri's Cookie Exchange, which is always one of my favorite events of the holiday season. I had an idea for a cookie to bring this year: something made with Biscoff Spread, since it was on sale at the store and I need to both have it in my house, and not eat all of it by myself.

But what? Then one night I got my answer through a plate of peanut butter blossoms left on our porch. One of J's favorite cookies, a neighbor made them for him as a thank you gift. E.G. found them on the porch and ran them upstairs to J in his office. Excited, he dove right into the cookies; they were delicious with a little extra crunch! Munch, munch.

A few minute later he went to the bathroom to help the boys brush their teeth for bed. That's when J noticed an ant crawling on his shirt. And another ant on his sleeve. He rushed back to his desk and found the pile of cookies crawling with ants. The rest of the evening he was flossing little bits of black exoskeleton out of his teeth.

Always inspect the porch cookies, gang, always.

Anyway, peanut butter blossoms have been on my mind, and I set out to make them with Biscoff Spread. In a stroke of genius, I decided that caramel-filled Kisses would be the perfect compliment. And in a stroke of horror, I had to make 120 of them for the cookie exchange (Jeri doesn't mess around.) When the votes were tallied I was named "Queen of the Cookies"! Hooray! My first year winning! I was genuinely thrilled and delighted. Couldn't stop grinning. It's your turn to enjoy these caramel-y cookies.

Caramel Biscoff Blossoms

1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup salted butter
1 cup Biscoff Spread
2 eggs
2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp salt
2 tsp baking soda
3.5 cups of Flour
1/4 c evaporated milk
2 packages caramel filled Hershey Kisses

Cream the butter and sugars until light in color. Add the Biscoff Spread, then eggs one at a time, then vanilla. Sift the dry ingredients together and then add to batter, pausing half way through to add the milk.

Make your helper people unwrap the kisses. Best to keep them in a bowl in the fridge until you're ready to use them.

Scoop the dough with an ice cream scoop onto cookie sheets (I used a scoop that holds two teaspoons.) Bake at 375 for 8 minutes, remove and place a Kiss into the center of each cookie, put back into the oven for another minute or two.

Now you can win Queen of the Cookie, too!

Nom.

Deseret Book Giveaway

2011-12-16T18:00:00.002-07:00

I'm giving away $100 in wishlist items from Deseret Book!

Go enter, and do it in a hurry, because I want you to have your things before Christmas.

That One Time The Hospital Switched My Baby

2011-12-14T14:08:00.003-07:00

I read a news story the other day about a woman who had the hospital bring her the wrong baby. She nursed, held, and loved on that baby for three hours before realizing her mistake.

"GREEN BAY, WI -- A Green Bay, Wisconsin mom wants answers after she says she was taking care of the wrong baby for almost three hours at a local hospital.Amy Amschler said her son, Henry, was given to another couple for several hours after he was born at Saint Mary's Hospital in Green Bay four months ago. Instead, Amschler was given the other couple's infant.
Amschler said she was told by the hospital it was a "breech in protocol," after the wrong crib with the wrong baby was brought to her just a day after her delivery.
Now Amschler wants to know who had her baby while she was nursing someone else's child."

The same thing kind of happened to me.

When Miss Lulu was born she looked like this:

24 hours later she looked like this:

But at some point in between, a nurse took Lulu to run some tests and then wheeled her back to me a couple hours later. She'd been staying in my room with me almost since she was born and this was the longest we'd been apart. It was about 1am when the door opened and the nurse came in, pushing the baby cart to the side of my bed. "Sounds like she's hungry!" the nurse chirped.
That baby doesn't sound right, I thought.
I looked at the baby in the clear plastic container.

It was wrapped in a blanket that didn't look the same as the one that Lulu left wearing.

It had darker hair than Lulu left wearing.

It came in with a penis.

"That's not my baby," I said to the departing nurse.

She abruptly looked up and ran over to my bed where she compared the band on my wrist and then the band on the baby's ankle.
"OH!" she gasped, "You're right!"
Of course I'm right, I thought, I know my baby.
"That's why we check the bands!" said the nurse, presumably to herself.
"Mmm," I frownsmiled, "We have enough penises at our house, take that one away."

While I can certainly feel sympathy for this mother who was brought the wrong baby, I, uh, knew immediately that my changeling was the wrong baby. He was different than Lulu. I don't know if that mother was well-medicated, or exhausted, or whatever, but it took her three hours to figure out it wasn't her baby?

I'm just sayin'...

After re-reading the story, it seems that the mother knew something was wrong with that baby, but it took the hospital officials coming in and explaining about the switch for her to realize it was because that baby wasn't her son.

If you have a baby in a hospital, make sure that the nurses check the bands, OK? Also, memorize your baby so that if you have to identify her from a line up, you can. And if it's not your baby, practice saying this,
"YO, THAT IS NOT MY BABY."

Maybe those home-birthers are onto something.

Pep Talks

2011-12-07T01:33:00.001-07:00

Tonight I stood up, shook out my limbs from their crunched angles, and said, "I need a pep talk!"
"OK," Said my Other Half, "About what?"

That was half the problem, the "About what" part of the request. A general pep talk? Do they make those? Some sort of plug-n-play Coach Taylor pep talk that unspecifically puts the wind underneath your wings? Go team? Take state? Yay college? How are your meds?

"I feel like I'm hanging on by the tips of my fingers," I said, putting my hands into the air in front of me and bending my knuckles in a fair, if unconscious, imitation of the Hang In There Kitty. "Everything: the house, the work, the baby, the parenting, the business, the paperwork, the end of year flexible spending account."
"The worst is behind you."
"Yes."
"You've totally got this."
"Yes."
"The baby is almost six months and you'll never have to do the hardest part again."
"And all this is worth it?"
"Of course! I couldn't do what I do without you."
"I keep telling Tiffany that this is the hardest it will ever be."
"Exactly."
"I wish I could sleep for a couple months."
"Well, let's not take it that far. No hibernating, please."

And then I immediately felt ungrateful. It's a silly spiral: when you start feeling overwhelmed until you see the trials of your friends, and then remember how taken care of you are, what amazing people surround you, and how wonderful life is (because you're in the world.) It's like I'm being coddled and beaten at the same time. Two different kinds of eggs! To which I am allergic, even in similes!

The truth is that most of us are just hanging on by the tips of our fingers, knuckles bent under the pressure of keeping your entire self upright and functional. We're all being taken care of by the mercy of each other. Because you are strong in a way that I am not, and I am strong in a way that you need.

Here's your pep talk: You can do this. We all can. Here's an umbrella for the vale of tears; pass it on when you hit the sunshine. You can eat your feelings, read about it until your eyes fall out, make a doctor's appointment, ignore it, pray about it, rage about it, but you can do it.

So take a deep breath, and DO.

HELP YOU GUYS

2011-11-28T23:42:00.001-07:00

When we stayed last week at the crappy time share in Orlando I noticed a cockroach on the floor of our bedroom.

A COCKROACH.

I pulled all our luggage and everything up off the floor and into the wire shelving. I noticed that this particular time share "suite" didn't actually have a seal under the front door, so you could see the light from the outside shining into the "suite." Not so great for keeping small, or not so small, creatures out of the house.

Today, while back at my mother-in-law's immaculately clean home, I was sitting on the bed in the guest bedroom nursing Lulu when I saw A COCKROACH CRAWLING OUT OF MY LUGGAGE WHAT IN THE I CAN'T THIS IS SO GROSS THIS IS DISGUSTING FLORIDA.

I grabbed it and flushed it.

Tonight, I walked back to our bedroom where Lulu is sleeping AND THERE WAS ANOTHER FOUL DISGUSTING COCKROACH I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS HOW DO I DEAL WITH THIS. GRABBED AND IT RAN AND FAKED ME OUT BUT I AM SMARTER THAN THE COCKROACH AND I FLUSHED ITS DISGUSTING SHINY BROWN CARCASS DOWN THE TOILET.

Then I called Joe and he said to put all the luggage in the garage tonight and then I will need to wash everything, inspect the luggage, and SHUT THIS MOFO DOWN ASAP. Which I am doing, believe me, and then he calmly and gently asked me where Lulu was sleeping AND YOU GUYS MY BABY MY BABY COCKROACHES IN THE ROOM WITH MY BABY. SHE'S IN A PACK AND PLAY THAT'S RAISED OFF THE FLOOR AND WILL SHE BE OK BECAUSE COCKROACHES AND I SWEAR I CAN FEEL THEM CRAWLING IN MY HAIR ALL THE TIME NOW. All of this made my bowl of ice cream EXTREMELY UNPALATABLE.

Joe said the GOOD NEWS is that they probably WILL NOT have had time to LAY A BUNCH OF EGGS SO IF I CAN GET EVERYTHING OUT OF THE SUITCASES AND WASH EVERYTHING WE SHOULD BE OK CRAP CRAP CRAP WHAT IF THEY INFEST MY HOME?

I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS.

YOU GUYS YOU GUYS

COCKROACHES.

FLORIDA.

The People Magazine

2011-11-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

Cheers from the Sunshine State!

Last week I braved the fear of the titans and flew across the country with all three kids by myself.

It was mostly OK, until I lost my temper somewhere over Kentucky when E.G. refused to listen to my instructions to stay buckled-in on take-off; I batted at him with my three-week-old People magazine with Steve Jobs on the cover.

Steve Jobs! Still abusive after death!

Speaking of People, it's not normally a magazine I buy. I didn't even buy this instrument of child torture, Allison did and then gave it to me (obviously her fault.) I did, however, buy one copy of the Toddlers and Tiaras Double Issue Special People for the flight I took to Hawaii two months ago. I needed a magazine to read while holding the baby on my lap, something to occupy my brain and yet light enough to easily handle. I opened the People to a really large section on fashion. OK. Sure. Lots of pictures of women in party dresses. Too many pictures of women in party dresses. An annoying number of women in party dresses. Articles that were sneeze-length. By that time I was on to the cover story, which took up about 2 paragraphs, I nearly threw the magazine down the aisle. I plowed through that People in about 15 minutes, reading it cover-to-cover, and then had the rest of the 5 hour flight to get angry about not having anything else accessible to read. I don't know why I thought I could get a People and be set. People is a dentist office magazine (US Weekly is for pedicures, US News and World Report is for doctors offices.*)

I don't know what I was expecting, that every magazine is like the New Yorker? Where articles are 17 you better believe it pages, interrupted only by pithy cartoons and intellectual poetry? It's my own fault. I can't expect People to be what I want it to be, I'm not their target market. Wait, yes, I am. I still reject their publication. I need tiny, tiny type that's been stuffed and kerned into a dozen columns on a quarter page. There are never enough words to jam into my needy brain.

Breakthrough! Perhaps I wasn't just angry at E.G. for disobeying as I was at myself for oh I'm bored with this post now that the 1/2 cup of Coke I drank earlier has worn off.

Goodbye and goodnight from the Sunshine State.

*Magazines By Location of Optimal Perusal:

Dentist Magazines:
People
Money
Newsweek

Pedicures:
US Weekly
Lucky
InStyle
InTouch/Hello

Doctor's Offices:
US News and World Report
The Economist
Time

Planes and Traveling:
New Yorker
Vanity Fair
Entertainment Weekly

Do you have a magazine location list?

Intermountain Moms Giveaway

2011-11-11T16:07:00.001-07:00

So you've read about Miss Lulu and I's trip to a ridiculous hotel. Well, you have your own chance to win a ridiculous hotel giveaway from Intermountain over at Jet Set Galore.That is, if you like hotels that overlook cities and come with spas and brunches and high teas and did I mention it's a spa giveaway?

Go enter!

Miss Lulu Says Vacations Should be Monthly

2011-11-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

Miss Lulu and I were out of town (again) last week. J was lamenting that within her 5 month lifespan, Lulu will have been on four vacations and he will have been on none. I'm just preparing her for the life to which she should become accustomed.

Life with a Butler

I toted Lulu to a corporate retreat with some dear friends who happen to be co-workers. We spent three days at the St. Regis hotel in Deer Valley getting work done. Never stayed at a 5 star hotel? I recommend it. You should do that immediately. Stop reading this and go check yourself in. The suite we bunked in came with a butler.

A BUTLER.

Here's a surreptitious picture I snapped of him as he settled us into lunch:

He was Bavarian. I got a chance to use my sehr rusty German. (Because he's MY butler!)

You can't even drive up to the lobby of the hotel, you have to drive to a lower level portico, valet your car, and then take the funicular up. Don't know how to pronounce "funicular"? Doesn't matter; it's fun no matter how you pronounce it. I would like a funicular installed to take me from my garage to the mailbox and back. I would also like one of those giant bathroom mirrors that are actually a TV. I discovered a remote hidden in our Egyptian cotton face cloths, behind the lavender scrub, and when the power was pressed, viola, TV in your marble bathroom. You get used to a certain way of living and it's hard to regress into the real world. The world without TVs in bathroom mirrors, porters, masseuses, and butlers.

Life Without a Butler

It was exceedingly sweet to see Lulu light up when she laid eyes on her long lost brothers. She giggled and chortled at all their entertaining antics. They compete to see who can make her laugh the hardest, performing jumping and karate-type moves to her extreme, hand-flapping delight. For all his serviceable glory, the butler never did that.

"What's that? My little finger? And who's wrapped around it again? That's what I thought, ALL OF YOU."

Single Parent Scholarships!

2011-11-10T00:30:00.000-07:00

Get an education.

Yes, you, the girl who is coasting along in school. Go to college. It's important. You need something other than your high school degree. Why? Because you could be Megan, who became a single parent and needed to support herself and her child.

(I don't think you should just get an education JUST because you MIGHT become a single parent, I think you need to get one because you are an important person who deserves all the benefits of higher education. Full stop.)

A confluence of events lead Megan back to school so that she could support herself and her daughter. A scholarship opportunity changed her life and will make all the difference for her child. There are other single parents out there who struggle to provide for their children. LDSBC is gathering donations that go directly to scholarships for single parents, especially mothers, to help change the course of their lives. You can help. Click on the box below to help fund a scholarship. Make a difference.

Living The Seasons

2011-11-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

I tried something this summer that I thought I'd never have the guts to try: I didn't turn on the air conditioning. We had a late and soggy Spring that helped to keep everything cool, so even though I was one million months pregnant until late June, I wasn't boiling. The furnace ran constantly last Winter with little difference in warmth, and the day or two I tried to cool the house, it struggled vainly to move the temperature. Off it stayed.

I managed by opening as many windows as possible to allow the slight and inconsistent river breezes to help cool us. Since we live in the mountain west, it cools off at night pretty quickly. The boys ran around in almost nothing. The heat during a few hours of late afternoon was almost oppressive upstairs, but downstairs it was cool enough to live comfortably.

There was something about embracing the season that felt right. Summer should be hot. The morning should be cool. The afternoon breeze should blow the sheer curtains gently. You should feel the relief as the sun disappears behind the trees and the rays push their force somewhere else. I dressed Lulu in onesies for bed time and turned on a fan to cool her room. I did miss a ceiling fan, but portable fans helped (especially when nursing a hot little baby on a leather couch.)

It wasn't until a mid August Sunday afternoon and a visit from my mother-in-law that prompted me to turn on the air to keep her comfortable.

We were sitting on the couch when the ceiling started dripping. And then water was pouring like a light faucet from the ceiling. Our air conditioner unit, the one I hadn't used all summer, was broken. It had probably been broken as part of the furnace for months, that's why it had run all last Winter and barely warmed our home. We turned off the air and the leak stopped.

This Fall, as the temperature drops into the 50s, I long to keep the windows open as long as possible. I'd sleep with them open in January if I could. It's Fall. It should be chilly. The boys need sweat shirts and socks, an extra sweater, down puffs. Lulu wears fleece pajamas and a cozy quilt to bed; behind her drawn curtains are shutters too keep in the warmth and barrier the cold.

Sometimes I think we hide behind our furnaces and fireplaces instead of feeling the seasons. Terrified to be hot. Scared of being cold. Feeling your rings grow tighter in June and then slip off your fingers in December. Insisting on t-shirts on single digit days, Ugg boots in July. We don't try to live in harmony with our world. We fight the weather instead of finding the joy in the constant change. It will be icicles, rain, heat, chill again and again. Live where you are.

The Candy Free-For-All

2011-11-02T23:30:00.000-06:00

J focused on me, “OK,” he said seriously, “I figure we should take their candy bags and hide them, probably in our closet, so we don’t wake up to find everything eaten.”
“Ooooor, we could just let them eat it all as quickly as possible.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I can’t be bothered this year. In fact, let’s make them eat their candy immediately.”
“Yeah! Whether they want to or not!”
“‘You WILL eat that Snickers and then you’ll eat ANOTHER ONE.’”
“‘I don’t care if your tummy hurts, you finish those Starbursts.’”
“And if they don’t eat enough, we can always just put them into the blender. ‘What do you mean you don’t want to drink it? It’s a SMOOTHIE. You love smoothies, and this one has all the rest of your Halloween candy in it.”
“Let’s wake them up right now and make them eat it all.”

How is this free-for-all going? Not as bad as my mother’s voice in my head had me convinced it would be. Any time a kid asked me if he could eat candy I answered, “YES! In fact, have another one!” They viewed me with suspicion, waiting for the other shoe to drop. As soon as they figured out I didn’t have a secondary request, they ate their candy as quickly as possible. “You’re still eating dinner, of course,” I followed up, their chocolate-stained faces nodding in promise.

I only made up one rule: I sternly said, “No candy,” when the request was filed at 7:50 am. Clearly, I’m the kind of mother who only allows candy after 8:00am.

It’s 48 hours post Halloween and almost all their candy is gone. I’m not finding wrappers all over the house. Nobody is sneaking anyone else’s stash. I’m not freaking out over sugar rationing. And when the little one knocked on my bathroom door and asked for the throw-up bucket, I reminded him that candy had lead him down this dark path and perhaps he should reconsider the volume of his consumption. Don’t you worry, it was a false alarm; only an aching tummy and a sorrowful child full of a new comprehension and respect for a cocktail avalanche of Kit-Kats, Dum Dums, and M&Ms.

Have you tried the free-for-all? It’s daring in its simplicity and execution. Recommended.

Sore Throats

2011-10-27T01:00:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I swallowed a swig of orange juice, and for the first time in a week, I wasn't in excruciating pain.

This all started when I went to Seattle. The day before I left Proximo woke up saying that his throat hurt and crying. That night he was running a 102 fever and emptied the contents of his stomach every two hours for the next 12 hours. I can’t name a single thing more fun than a child up vomiting and a new baby awake, crying and demanding to be fed in between. It was quite the magical evening.

In the morning, Proximo was still running a fever and I was running around packing, He followed me around the house as I grabbed a scarf from here and a pair of someone's socks from there, no time to thoughtfully pack. I threw in a pair of jeans, a maternity shirt, rain boots, and maybe a kitchen sink? It was kind of a mess. He looked at the suitcase and said forlornly, “So where are you going to live now, Mama?”

Jeffiner texted me, after I left him in her car, to say that he’d curled up on her couch and said, “I feel like I become an old man.” Still fevered. The next day, as I marched Lisha around Pike’s Market hoping to kick her into labor, I booked him a Dr’s appointment. Turns out it was scarlet fever.

Scarlet fever?

Yes. I felt terrible for being so far away. Then I giggled making old timey jokes to myself. Scarlet Fevah!

Scarlet Fevah is strep throat gone bad. And apparently, a good sign your kid has strep, besides a sore throat, is vomiting and a fever. If things get worse, like a strawberry tongue and a sandpapery red rash, your baby’s developed The Scarlet Fevahs and will have to be put down. Or go to the Doctor and given antibiotics (it’s your call, really, but check with your insurance company.)

A few days after I returned, J got home from work and told me he’d been having hot flashes and chills all afternoon. I sent him to bed. No one needs that nonsense ambling through anywhere. Two days later, on the start of Fall Break, it was my turn for fever, chills, the sore throat of horrors and the shuffling gait of doom.

I pose this question: Is there anything worse than a sore throat? Is there? And you know the kind of sore throat I mean, when you stop eating and drinking, when you hold saliva in your mouth instead of swallowing it and have to summon all your courage to gulp and then tears come to your eyes? I just had a BABY from my UNDERCARRIAGES without drugs of ANY KIND and I’m telling you, I’d rather have a natural child birth once a month than a sore throat ever again. Someone make that happen. And then keep the resulting child because we’re all full up here.

Yesterday, on the day after our 14th anniversary (which we spent wrapped in our individual blankets on opposite ends of the couch, coughing and moaning from the pain,) we got a shared (awww) Dr’s appointment where we were cordially given a strep diagnosis. I got the penicillin shot. J, thinking he had some sort of wimpy, normal pain-feeling person on his hands, started counting down the thick shot, “You’re almost there! Half way done!” I laughed in his face.
“I don’t need that kind of encouragement.”
“Well, I do, I like knowing I only have to endure a little more.”
“It’s a shot. Who can’t take a shot? Who even cares?”
And then I grabbed all the rest of the shots the nurse had and stabbed them into my eyeball to prove my sharp point. I followed up with a question for a friend: if the shot would cover syphilis and maybe clear up some burning?

(I guess I can’t go back to that office anymore?)

A short five hours later, I drank that orange juice and nearly cried from the lack of swollen misery. Penicillin! Some day I should try making my own from organic oranges and homemade bread for which I ground the wheat myself. I mean, that’s where we’re going with all this craft blogging: pharmaceuticals, right?

It'll be a huge hit on Pinterest.

There Are Razor Blades in Your Apples!

2011-10-24T04:31:00.004-06:00

Halloween 2009, back when these two were cute

I cover that and why people are ruining Halloween today over at Todaysmama.

It's a Pot Boiler!

2011-10-14T02:31:00.000-06:00

I've jetted off to Seattle to see if I can make a pot boil just by watching it.

Not that it's not fun to walk around downtown Seattle with all the homeless people and women without makeup, but it's more fun when you're making your pregnant sister walk around with you. I like hearing her say, "Yesterday" when people ask her when she's due. I will not like it so much on Sunday when I have to fly home and she will not have had my first nephew. We also think it's funny when she's holding Baby Lulu and is awfully pregnant in public. A decent woman would be in her confinement! You can see people doing the baby math in their heads and trying to figure out this hyper-fertile lesbian couple taking the light rail.

The day before I left Proximo woke up with a sore throat and quickly developed a fever. I'm no over-reactor, so I just kept an eye on him. My eye does not possess magical healing powers, because he added vomiting to his symptoms by 7pm that night. He woke up every two hours after that complaining that his tummy hurt, but that he did NOT need to throw up, and then threw up. (See? Even if the baby sleeps through the night doesn't mean I get to sleep.) I was in more of a panic than usual, so after touching him, or wiping up his inaccurate aiming, I'd scrub my hands vigorously and then follow with anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. I was terrified of the baby getting sick.

Today, after three days of fever that wasn't abating, and me two states away, J took Proximo to the doctor where he was given scarlet fever. You pay a co-pay and you get a disease in return, right? Excellent.

Sometimes, after these doctors appointments where they award your child something scary, all I can think is, "100 years ago my child would have died from this."

The tooth abscess E.G. developed in July of his 6th year? Dead.
Proximo's scarlet fever? Dead.

If I'm feeling especially soft I'll cry over the dead child I do not have but would have had. Yes, I have that many spare tears.

Today my watched pot and I will head off for more bargain hunting and to meet Marie for a snack. At least that's the plan if my nefarious plot to send her into labor by schlepping all over the city followed by Internet-assisted foot reflexology didn't work.

Boil, pot, boil!

Miss Lulu Says

2011-10-10T19:35:00.001-06:00

"This vanity sizing is OUT of CONTROL!

"3-6 Months? Hogwash!"

I Don't Know How She Does It!

2011-10-10T04:53:00.002-06:00

Truth is, I don't know how I do it either.

(It's a good thing my kids can get their own ice cream cones these days while I'm in the shower. One less thing I have to worry about. And I was super worried.)

Advice on Sharing a Room?

2011-10-03T23:41:00.000-06:00

Alright, Hive Mind, I need your ideas and advice.

The Problem:

Six months ago I put the boys in one room and into what Proximo calls bunka-beds. It was several months before Miss Lulu would be born so it would give them plenty of time to adjust to sleeping in the same space.

They have not adjusted well.

It turns out that EG is an early bird. He needs his sleep. He would prefer to go to bed early and get up in the awful early morning hours. He's chipper and with it in the morning. He can even coherently do homework (sometimes faster than if he tries it at night.) No matter what time he goes to bed, he's up early and ready for school.

Proximo is a night owl. (Oh, now that's a shocker.) He invents one million reasons to leave his bed. There is always one more drink, one more hug, something he forgot to say, has trouble sleeping, ran out of sheep to count. He sneaks out of bed and will sit behind the family room door until his breathing gives him away. He will sleep in mornings, and if he stays up late, he'll absolutely sleep in. He's a bit of a grump on the bright side of dawn.

Now, these two have the same 8pm bedtime. EG is exhausted and on his last fumes by this time of night. Proximo is just getting started. Proximo is sometimes literally bouncing off the walls. He's chatty. He won't stop trying to engage EG in conversation. EG is frustrated and begging him to settle down.

Conversely, while Proximo would be fine if he stayed up and slept in, EG waking up and leaving the room often wakes him up. Then he's grumpy, fussy, tantrum-y for the rest of the day.

So EG is often heard yelling in frustration at his brother, who is giggling and hanging all over furniture like a monkey, long after bedtime. Sometimes EG will be able to fall asleep anyway. They will exhaust each other several hours later. I thought it would be better by now, six months into this mess.

Yes, we have a bedtime routine. No, they don't usually have any screen time two hours before bed. We finish homework, engage in hygienic cleaning activities, and read a book or two together. Yes, we've tried wearing Proximo out. Just tonight he literally ran across BYU campus, rolled up and down hills, and raced his brother. We eventually had to put Proximo to sleep in our room so EG could get to sleep in his. That can't be the answer, can it? We have three bedrooms, so the boys need to share.

What would you do? What have you done?

SAVE US HIVE MIND!

Brief Interviews with Important People

2011-09-30T01:54:00.000-06:00

I got to interview Bob Iger, who I guess is kind of a big deal, being that he runs Disney. (All of it.) Tom Staggs was also present, and I accosted him with questions as well. Those boys can think on their feet, I tell you what! (They were sitting down at the time.)

Gratuitous sleepy Miss Lulu in Hawaii shot!

Pre-packed Clothes For When Mom Travels

2011-09-29T23:34:00.000-06:00

One of my anxieties when I travel is what my children will look like when I'm gone. I have visions of barefoot, raggedy children whose hair hasn't been combed in a week and sport a perpetual orange Dortitos crust around their mouths.

During the summer it's no big deal, but I shudder to think about my children going to school looking, at best, like no one loves them and at worst, like Dickensian street urchins. J is a smart enough fellow, but he can barely dress himself in clothes that go, let alone the children. In any case, I'm pretty sure that pants are always optional when I'm gone.

So this time I devised a plan:

Step One: Write the name of the day on a paper bag for each day that I'd be gone. Wednesday was picture day at school so I was particularly concerned with what my kids would be sporting.

Step Two: Fill the bag with the complete outfits for each child, including socks and undies.

Step Three: Fold over the bag and set in a convenient location. Grab and go fashion!

This worked out well since J only had to grab the bag as he was about to drive the kids over to grandpa's house where they'd dress and spend the day while he worked. Nobody likes to have to think about outfits and find socks at 6:45am (well, no one in their right mind.)

Guess we'll see how this idea really worked out when we get the school pics back.

Why Did Jenny Go to Hawaii?

2011-09-28T00:48:00.003-06:00

Miss Lulu and I were headed to paradise, but I'd still need to work. I'm good with toting baby everywhere, but this trip to Hawaii required some time investment away from baby. Plus, baby deserved to keep her regular nap times no matter what big wig I'd be scheduled to interview--Miss Lulu is that important! We had to have someone come with us.

And who better than Jenny? She really loves kids!

May I recommend her as a traveling companion? Oh, good.

Only next time I'd like to be on the same flight as my traveling companions so I don't end up holding Miss Lulu in a confined area for 12 hours of travel time each way and completely mess up my back. Ouch. Mama needs a lomi lomi.

What to Do at Aulani

Miss Lulu's Turbans

2011-09-26T06:13:00.000-06:00

I decided Miss Lulu couldn't fly to Honolulu without her tutu...and her swim caps. But they don't have turban swim caps for babies.

So I had to make them.

She was basically the talk of Aulani. And Hawaii.

A girl can't have her rather bare head exposed to the elements, now can she? That's what we thought.

Aloha!

My Trip to Aulani

2011-09-25T23:59:00.000-06:00

The Thursday before last Rachael called me up and said, "Dude." (She starts every sentence with "Dude".)

"Dude, do you want to go to Hawaii on Tuesday?"

Do I want to go to Hawaii?

DO I WANT TO GO TO HAWAII?

The answer is yes, I am always wanting to go to Hawaii. I was, however, nervous about how exactly I could make the trip. I asked J and he said "If someone asks you to go to Hawaii you have to go, those are the rules." So thanks to him and my sister Jeffiner for putting up with the boys while I jetted off with Miss Lulu to Honolulu.

You can read more about what I liked and didn't like about Disney's Aulani Resort and Spa over at Today's Mama. Here's a clue: it was Hawaii. Aloha.

Miss Lulu Says See You on Waikiki

2011-09-20T09:08:00.001-06:00

"I feel like I haven't had a truly relaxing day in my entire life."

"I'm absolutely, positively, ready for vacation. We fly into Honolulu--well done on that name, Sandwich Isles!"

"Could I get a hand with my portmanteau? Bell boy? Anyone?"

"Oh, bother!"

Painful Shopping Regrets

2011-09-19T09:01:00.001-06:00

Do you remember that Marc Jacobs bag I passed up more than a year ago? WELL, I DO.

I walked into TJMaxx and there it was: a sapphire blue Marc Jacobs bag in python. It was gorgeous. The blue was captivating and the leather so perfectly shined. I ran my finger over the nameplate, tracing the M-A-R-C; the hardware gleamed. I carefully turned over the price tag and breathed in sharply: $159.00. I’ve never spent that much on a purse in my life (although I had definitely wanted to.) I’d had ambitions before: many years before, I’d thought for a week about a pearl embossed Italian leather designer tote for $179. When I made up my mind to go back and get it, it was gone. Just as well, I assuaged myself.

But this Marc Jacobs was different. Oh, so beautiful. I knew that the price tag (cha-ching cha-ching) meant choosing between groceries for the kids that week and looking put together for the rest of my life.

I didn’t buy that purse...

It’s been years and I still think about them: shopping regrets! I could tell the story of my life through all my shopping regrets. The black and white coat I didn’t buy at Express. I looked for it on eBay for the next five months until it popped up in my size. The original giraffe pattern Kate Spade in that consignment shop, a bargain just out of reach. The grey and blue round toe mary janes from Nine West that I dog-eared in my Vogue that early Spring day on the university campus. The cognac leather boots at Nordstrom. The matching designer luggage that would have made every trip on time and first class.

As recently as six months ago, those Gucci sunglasses on clearance at The Rack for $89 (marked down from north of $300.) My Puritan ancestors, not to mention the bare facts of my bank account, wouldn’t allow me to purchase them. I actually dreamed about them that night. I awoke and stared at the moon; me and those sunglasses under the same white orb. Cue Fievel. I wished them well and blessed them with a happy home.

So yes, I still think about that Marc Jacobs, along with all the other shopping regrets of my past.

And you?

Best Roasted Salsa Recipe Ever

2011-09-16T11:08:00.001-06:00

This is the time of year when I love to make salsa. The fresh peppers and tomatoes are at the height of deliciousness. Salsa is fast, healthy, tasty, and there's no wrong way to make it. (Well, there is, I just don't care to list the ways.)

Ingredients:

Peppers

Tomatillos

Tomatoes

Jalapeno

an Onion

some Cilantro

Salt

one Lime

Liquid Smoke

BUT WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY HOW MANY OF EACH?

Because it doesn't matter. Geez, relax. I used Anaheim, Bell, and Jalapeno here. Use whatever you can find at the store or stand that looks beautiful and is on sale.

TOMATOES?

I used 4 or so in this recipe. If you aren't buying your tomatoes in July, August, or September, just use drained canned tomatoes. Don't make salsa with gross tomatoes you bought from the store in February. And you wonder why your kids hate tomatoes.

Put your assortment of washed peppers and tomatillos on a baking sheet.

Broil them for a few minutes until charred. This is not the time to walk away, you'll need to flip the peppers and remove them individually when done. The tomatillos may collapse and leak. Don't freak.

When done, put your tomatillos aside, and put your peppers in a Ziploc and seal. Morally opposed to Ziploc? You can use any container (tupperware, glass) that has a lid you can seal. You're steaming the peppers so you can remove their skins easily. Leave to cool for 10-15 minutes. You can even leave them overnight, I'm not your mom. After they've cooled, you'll be able to slip their skins off*, and clean out the pulp and seeds--especially important if you want that Jalapeno to add pleasant heat instead of barn-burning heat.

*One time I was all "Oh, let's skip taking the pepper skins off because I'm busy." That salsa had a bitter, nasty flavor; it was inedible. Take the skins off.

Get out your food processor.

Put in your small or medium yellow or red onion and process until chopped. Add a handful of cilantro. I'm not the cilantro police--put in as much or as little as you like. Whirl up the cilantro with the onion until it's all finely chopped. Let it fall into a bowl.

Process the tomatillos and add to the bowl. Process the peppers until also finely chopped. Do the same with the tomatoes. If it's looking a little soupy and you don't like watery salsa, drain it a bit with a fine-mesh sieve. Add half a lime and kosher salt until you like how salty it is. Maybe add a pinch of sugar for balance.

And here's the secret: Liquid Smoke! Add a couple drops to your salsa, it's delicious! If you don't have Liquid Smoke, who cares, don't add it. Keeps for a week or so in the fridge.

Other things you can add if you feel like it:

Red jalapenos

Mangos

Peaches

Avocados

Pinch of chili powder

Enjoy!

Yelling WITH Your Children

2011-09-15T01:48:00.000-06:00

Over my career, most of my superiors have been fantastic and brilliant people. Nevertheless, I certainly had a few stupid bosses in my very early working years*.

But I’ve never, in any job, been screamed at for 45 minutes because a boss woke up on the wrong side of the bed, had refused to put on pajamas the night before so they are cold, standing in front of me in just their underoos, yelling for a blanket, angry that I got the wrong blanket, angrier that I didn’t put on their blanket right, crying because I’m paying more attention to getting someone else out the door so they don’t miss the bus, screaming that I’m hurting their feelings, and upset that they have to use the bathroom like a normal human.

It would be unacceptable for a boss to scream at underlings or coworkers with that kind of frequency, amplitude, and chaos.

People love to get upset with moms who yell at their kids. I don’t like to yell at my kids, but I will, especially if they can’t hear me otherwise. Don’t get those self-righteous panties in a bunch, I don’t scream at my kids. What’s the difference? Screaming is angry, abusive, and out of control. Yelling is encouraging, provides direction, and in control. Yelling is how stuff gets done. Just ask any mom who has lost her voice due to laryngitis: nothing gets done.

Do those same people get upset at kids who yell at their mothers? I need to know.

Anyway, there’s plenty of yelling and hollering from my kids. I got a big holler from Proximo today because I wouldn’t skip the commercials on the TV show he was watching. I tried to explain that it was “live” TV, but these spoiled, entitled children don’t understand; they’re still frustrated that the TVs at grandma’s don’t pause--like, at all. Our previous analog limitations defy their tiny comprehensions.

“WHAT?!?!” screams EG when I ask him to do something awful, like pick up the family room. He follows the screaming with a flop onto the floor and crocodile tears. Dude. Maybe I should get you a dog and let it get run over so you get some perspective. Cleaning the SMALL family room is nothing. You should see the 1000 acres of weeding, baseboard scrubbing, and the Bataan Death March I had to do at your age. I don’t even make you can. We didn’t have a dishwasher. I was the dishwasher. And TV? Not only did our TV not pause, but we didn’t even have a TV. That’s right. Please, stop screaming about picking up 3 socks and your Lego battalion.

Yes, I yell sometimes because I love. And because I want stuff to get done. But you don't get to yell back at me because your blanket is on backwards. That's ridiculous.

*No, none of them read this blog. We’re talking a supervisor at the call-in service center, that sort of thing.

Miss Lulu Wonders

2011-09-11T16:00:00.000-06:00

...what on earth she'd ever done to her grandmother to deserve this dress.

Oh, the indignities of it all!

Keep a Better Eye on My Kids

2011-09-09T15:31:00.003-06:00

"Hey blog."
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."
"I know, it's been a while, but I've been busy."
"So busy you couldn't write on me?"
"Yes."
"Busy writing every place else except here?"
"Sadly, yes."
"I see. I'm your oldest piece of work and now that there are shiny, new places to write, you don't like to write here."
"I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, you are a piece of work."
"I see what you did there, and I don't appreciate it. Your mother makes bad puns for jokes, don't go skipping down that path."
"It's inevitable that I become her, I might as well embrace puns."
"You'll embrace no such thing. Anyway, what do you want?"
"Can't a girl sling a few phrases together to say 'Hi!'"
"I suppose that's possible, but that's never enough for you."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know perfectly well that you use seven words when three will do, and ten penny words at that. Do you really expect that people reading your blog will read it with dictionary.com open in the next tab?"
"I don't consciously pick big words, this really is my vocabulary."
"It's annoying. And pretentious."
"You're pretentious."
"I'm a personification of a weblog, hardly grounds for pretension. But let's get down to business."
"Remember how I'm bad at supervising my children?"
"Why, yes! As that anonymous commenter very helpfully informed you! Thanks for turning back on the anonymous comments, by the way, because it always ends so well for me."
"Well, while I was feeding the baby and also maybe working, this happened:"

"Are those books?"
"Yes. It's the lower half of my library laid out end-to-end in a large circle through my living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and the foyer."
"It's almost like an installation piece!"
"And he did it while completely naked, so I really do think I was experiencing a visceral, deep social commentary on the modern condition."
"He's clearly a genius."
"Clearly. Less genius was what happened a couple months ago..."

"Wait, is that..."

"Yes, a bucket of flour with a half-naked 4YO stuck inside it."
"But...how...is he...a shirt...what did you do with the flour?"
"I threw it away. After I made them some pancakes. No need to be wasteful."
"That's disgusting. Anonymous commeters back me up on this one: you really should keep a better eye on your children."
"But if I keep a better eye on them, what will I blog about?"
"Bait. Nice."

7th Graders

2011-09-02T12:52:00.002-06:00

This one time, in junior high, actually in 7th grade, it was cold. OK, it was cold a lot. Didn't stop all of us from rocking an acid wash denim skirt in the dead of winter. It was morning. I probably scraped some of the dried hairspray off the barrel of my curling iron before I plugged it in (or right after, trying to scrape with my nail before it got too hot.) Then I sectioned my bangs, half up, half down. I curled the bottom fringe under. I curled the top fringe up, spraying it with hairspray at the same time, until it was almost solid. I used the poky end of the comb to separate and make my bangs into a claw. Hawt.

Spray, spray, spray. Man, it was cold. I picked up the curling iron and rubbed it on the arms of my shirt. Oooh! That made my arms warm! I rubbed it on the front of my skirt, aaaah! Pleasant! I moved to the back of my skirt. Only a few minutes until I'd have to go into the REALLY cold air to make it to the bus on time. I was warm! OW! PAIN! BURN! OW! I forgot about the kick pleat in the back and the curling iron went right through.

And that's the time I burned my inner thigh with a curling iron because I was cold and because 7th graders are stupid.

YOUR TURN.

The End of the Corolla

2011-08-31T00:40:00.000-06:00

Longtime readers remember my first car: a 1989 Toyota Corolla.

Yeah, that's it.

You might recall when I'd had it with that car back in January of 2009 (but kept driving it, hating every blasted, snow-leaking minute, for another year.)

I put it up for sale in December of 2010, and even though I had a few people interested, the sales fell through. Then I was pregnant and couldn't handle any extra tasks, even selling a car; it lived in my garage testing the bounds of my marriage and causing constant digging remarks from my mother.

Well, last week Amelia put the call out: did anyone she know have an old, boxy car that she could use for a commercial shoot? Why yes, in fact, I did have a beloved/gross old car to sell! My car naturally possessed an aged patina with period-appropriate dirt sprays and intact spider webs. She came over to take a look and pronounced it "Perfect!"

They took the corolla away on Thursday to destroy it: flipping it and who knows what else.

Goodbye, car! Have fun being famous/on TV!

(If I was sentimental I'd write an ode to the corolla, but I'm not, so I'm over it.)

I thought that was the end of the car...

Friday night, long after midnight, came a knock on the door. J thought it was the neighborhood kids so he ignored it.

The knocks came again, louder this time: bang, bang, bang!

It was the police.

A very serious Officer C. said, "Hi, are you Carina?"
"Yes?" I answered, nervously running through the past week of my life trying to figure out what I could have done to merit a visit so late on a weekend.
"We found a car registered to you up in Salt Lake in suspicious circumstances."
"Oh! Haha! Yes, I sold the car to a production company yesterday! They were going to flip it and destroy it!"
"Suspicious circumstances," he nodded, "Do you have the name of the production?"
"Hold on, let me call Amelia so we can get the name," as I dialed her. Turns out she doesn't answer her phone at 1a.m. Weird.
"Let me just give you a number to call, " the officer suggested, "And you can give them the details."

With that cleared up, J decided to ask the officer some questions about how he uses math on the job (J likes to provide concrete, real-world examples of "How will I ever use this?" to his students.) Officer C. chatting on our front porch with J for another 10 minutes. I bet our neighbors were dying with curiousity: Friday night, police cruiser, officer on the porch for 20 minutes, a long conversation, a couple of handshakes? Oh, we're the talk again.

So that's how the corolla passed out of my hands and into the realms of regional superstar-dom. I'll be sure to alert you when it's on TV. Set your DVRs.

Speaking of super stars, want half price tickets to Mary Poppins? Of course you do.

What We Do at Night

2011-08-25T05:20:00.002-06:00

You can check in with us over at Today's Mama, where what we do all night is documented.

Of course, we don't document what happens if I sleep through my alarm because of our nocturnal shenanigans and EG misses the school bus by 45 minutes. Hypothetically.

Oh How I Need You

2011-08-21T02:19:00.001-06:00

The trouble with being a true extrovert is that you really need other people to keep your sanity and perspective. If I start to sink into the morass, J knows to send me out to be with people. Just as an introvert needs to be alone to recharge, I need company and conversation to ease my spirit.

I need you, in other words.

I was discussing this personality bent with Courtney; she who is, despite all evidence to the contrary, an introvert. I have a lot of friends who are introverts, and I married one to boot. I’ve grown to understand that they need to be alone, to cut me and the rest of the world off, that they crave this as much as I crave the communal. Too many days and gatherings take an emotional toll; they retreat into the salve of solitude.

The older I get the more I also need that solitude, but on my own terms and with finite boundaries. In truth, when I start to retreat too much, and I’ve recently felt the inclination, that’s when I need to reach out and be out more--or I sink deeper.

So I met Anne for breakfast and a needed connection. She leaned over a white table cloth, the remains of french toast and home fries closing our distance, smiled her sparest Anne smile and said, “The older I get the more I realize that my friends are the family that I choose.” I thought back to the day we met, during PE in junior high. The bus stop. A thousand parties. All the New Year’s Eves.
“That’s the thing,” I said, “We’ll always be friends.”
“And I apologize,” she said, “That I haven’t been around.”
“There’s no need.”
“Yes, there is, because you are the family that I choose.”

On a recent afternoon at the pool, I ran into one of my former professors (Women’s History and Civil Rights History.) We gave the kid age and gender rundown, since mothers must share those most crucial heart-based facts first. I asked her opinion about The Help. I remembered her discourse on pioneer and immigrant women. “It was a tremendous sacrifice for them, more than most realize, because women need other women. They left their homes, and yes the comforts of civilization, but more than that, they left their networks: their mothers, sisters, cousins and friends, probably to never see them again. Left their people to live often isolated frontier lives.”

I thought of that truth over the breakfast as Anne contemplated a life a thousand miles away.

People come into our lives because they are supposed to: the million coincidences, the friend of a friend, the providential entrances, the chance reunion. Introverts or extroverts, women need each other.

Just like I need you.

A New Week!

2011-08-17T07:00:00.011-06:00

Some of you might remember this, where I documented life without caffeine as mom to a newborn.

That ended tonight, while on my way to a work meeting, when I woke up on the freeway. Yes.

I pulled off the road, into the first gas station I could find, grabbed the “small” size (programming note: 20 ounces is small?) and drank 8 ounces of Diet Coke. I decided that it’s no good avoiding caffeine completely if the alternative is killing myself. You know. It’s the little things you do for your kids, like staying alive.

Hold on, Anonymous Internet Commenter! Yes, of course the solution is to get more sleep. Know what would be an even better solution? Paid maternity leave like every other industrialized country in the world.

In fact, I think this is Answer the Anonymous Internet Commenter Week at The Jet Set. .

Yes, Anonymous Internet Commenter, 8 ounces of Diet Coke. I'm a lightweight. People named Allison are always poking fun at my extreme sensitivity to caffeine, and every other ingestible substance.

I'm also aware, Anonymous Internet Commenter, that lots of people die, often tragically, as a result of drowsy driving. Let me know when my driver will arrive.

I think we can both agree, Anonymous Internet Commenter, that DVRing Millionaire Matchmaker was a low point in my nursing viewing habits. I apologize on behalf of myself, Comcast, BravoTV, the institution of marriage, both traditional and otherwise, and my mother.

From Today’s Mama If You're All Anonymously Commenting, "Why Isn't She Posting More Here?":

Why Do Schools Suck at Digital?
The Pagent Boy
School Uniforms

The Toothbrush

2011-08-09T01:00:00.001-06:00

I stopped cleaning the bathrooms, you might recall, because I'm teaching my sons to clean them. They get the bucket of cleaning tools and potions and instructions on their use. I still have to supervise and conduct the inspections. El Guille is usually OK about the initial cleaning he gets to perform, it's after he fails the first, then the second, and sometimes the third inspection that he falls apart.

Last time we had a fight over whether or not he could reach behind the toilet. I maintained that he could and he maintained that he could not. I won. I told him to use the toothbrush (from the bucket of cleaning tools) and scrub around the commode base with Comet until it was the right color. He whined and I left. That's what I do. If the protestations and whining are too much, I leave until the right changes have been affected. You can't make me stay and listen to that.

Summoned to the bathroom for the 4th inspection, I found a clean toilet base and nearly excused El Guille to go and play. "Did you use the toothbrush?"
"Yes," he answered. Something dawned on me.
"Wait...did you use the one in the bucket or your toothbrush?" He looked at me with big eyes and an apologetic face crumple, "Mine."
"What?! There is a toothbrush in the cleaning bucket! Now you need to go throw your toothbrush into the garbage!"
"OK," he said sheepishly, and when I returned I saw his toothbrush in the garbage.

That night I prompted El Guille to open his new toothbrush and get started on his oral care. I turned to Proximo to brush his teeth.
"Mama?" said Proximo.
"Yes?"
"Mama, my toothbrush tastes weird. It tastes bad."
"What?" I answered brushing more vigorously.
"It tastes bad, my toothbrush tastes bad."

And that's when it dawned on me: Inspect the brushes. El Guille's discarded toothbrush had crusts of blue at the base of the bristles. I turned Proximo's over in my hand and saw it was...yellow.

"YOU USED YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH TO CLEAN THE TOILET? YOU USED COMET ON YOUR BROTHER'S TOOTHBRUSH? YOU THREW AWAY YOURS KNOWING IT WAS FINE? LEAVING HIM TO USE IT? THAT'S POISONING HIM!"

I...just...

What Happened to Borders: A Tech Warning to Businesses

2011-08-05T01:00:00.006-06:00

The news came last week that Borders Books, unable to secure a buyer for the company, would be liquidating their merchandise and closing all their stores.

I’m sad.

Not just because Borders is my favorite bookstore, but because I’m a former employee.

I worked at my favorite Borders for four years while I finished university. I was a manager and then did community coordination work. I loved working there; it’s one of the jobs I was sad to leave when I went to work in the corporate world. You can read about some of my bookstore adventures here and here.

Retail is a hard, complicated business and it’s hard, grueling work. So many of the stories discussing Borders demise noted how the company couldn’t compete with Amazon.com, or even Barnes and Noble.

However, the story goes so much deeper and carries far more lessons for the business world than simply being “unable to compete.” Why? Because Borders was unwilling as a corporate entity to adopt new technologies at a fundamental level.

When I opened my Borders bookstore in 1998 I was the Human Resources Manager. The brand new computers installed were running Windows 3.1, hopelessly outdated in 1998. We didn’t even get Windows ‘95, already more than four years old in 1998. We finally upgraded to Windows 95 sometime after the year 2000. It was the hallmark of a company that didn’t understand how important technology was to their business market. There was no Internet access in the store. Some of you may not have been online in 1998, but I was an old hand, and so was Amazon.com. Not even the managers’ computers in the back of the store had Internet access. If a customer wanted to look something up, we couldn’t use the Internet, we were dependent on databases provided to us by the company--and who knows when they were updated last. Books-in-Print, BINC (Borders Inventory Control) all of those were either internal databases, accessible through an intranet, or a limited access proprietary database that we had the rights to use. It was frustrating and laughable.

Borders launched their website around 1998. Prior to that launch, you couldn’t purchase books through Borders.com. Barnes and Noble.com launched far before Borders.com. Keep in mind that Amazon.com had been online since 1995. Borders couldn’t come up with a website where you could purchase items until 3 years later. That’s an eternity in both the retail and technology worlds. After trying unsuccessfully to make a go of online sales well after online book retailing, and Barnes and Noble.com, Borders ceded their online presence to Amazon.com, funneling all their traffic directly to them. They gave up. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have given up, it’s clear that Borders.com wasn’t working, but it’s because they were so late to the game that it failed so abjectly.

Borders had another handicap that was an initial advantage. Soon after the company was founded, they came up with an internal inventory system called Book Inventory Systems. In an age before widespread computerization, BIS was a marvel of book inventories. Other companies licensed BIS. However, after the computerization of both the regular business world and, increasingly, retail, BIS was no longer an advantage. The system became an archaic and artificial way to manage inventory. The extra time to sticker each book with its own BINC number, imposing the BINC system over every aspect of inventory, managing the databases; it was unsustainable opportunity cost.

It’s also true that Borders diversified into CDs, DVDs, and scads of other items at the peak of saturation and popularity. The cost to maintain CD/DVD areas and selection is expensive; the infrastructure necessary to each bricks-and-mortar location is expensive; it all came at the tail end of market demand. I remember one music employee who, in 1999, scoffed at the customers buying music because she knew she could just go home and Napster the same inventory she hawked during the day. She accurately called the death of retail CDs/DVDs. No one at Borders Corporate saw that coming. Just one more example of both willful ignorance and hubris in the face technological change.

There are other traditional business reasons why Borders failed: over-expansion, saturation of the market, transient company ownership and poor strategic partnerships; it’s all relevant (read more about it here under Gale Directory-BGI.) However, from this person on the ground level, Borders never understood what the Internet and technology would mean to their business. They failed to make investments to their informational underpinnings. They failed to act quickly in the new Internet marketplace. They didn’t understand what could happen, they didn’t listen when employees brought up the technological gaps. They didn’t position themselves to either take advantage of e-readers (until it was too late) or accurately communicate why they were an alternative. They rested on strategies from a bygone era and prided themselves on internal technologies that were 30 years out of date. They ignored the signs, refused to change, and when they did change, it was too late.

And that’s a shame, because Borders was a great company.

I Worry About Pie

2011-07-28T05:09:00.002-06:00

I do.

I worry about pie.

I worry that we're going to lose pie making.

I'm not worried about cakes. Yes, box mixes are a different animal than from-scratch cakes, but people are still making cakes. Pie making is dying. Honestly, when was the last time you actually made a pie from scratch, the whole thing? The pre-made graham cracker shells, boxed and canned fillings, frozen dough, and cool whip, people just don't make pies anymore. I even hear the heresy that there are people who don't like pie. Well of course they don't like pie, if all that pie means is frozen, boxed, packaged, and canned sludge.

It feels like pie makers are going to the grave with all their secrets. Across America, your aunt or grandmother, neighbor or church lady, have a lifetime of pie making that no one is bothering to learn. Because pies are regional, and the secrets to making them depend on local conditions and ingredients, these women are the repositories of baking magic. Pecan pie is made where they grow pecans. Apple pie strongholds in the north east and north west, wouldn't you know it, where they grow apples.

From the way I hear you tell it, the scariest thing in the world is pie dough. But don't let it scare you out of making pie. There's something so satisfying about the challenge of pie dough. Will you get the ratio right? Will it be too warm or too cold? Will it tear as you transfer it to the plate? I suspect it's those kind of questions that keep people from making their own pies, but that's the adventure! I've been making pies for almost 30 years and I still don't get it perfect, but I always try.

So what's the secret? Keeping it cold. When the recipe says chill the dough, really chill it. Chill the pie plate after it's filled with dough, too. Don't get it out of the icebox until you're really ready to fill and bake. Where I live the air is so dry that pie dough needs more water than the recipes call for. As for the filling, there's no right or wrong answer, but if I could nudge you, it would be to make pies that mark the season: strawberry pies in June, apricot in July, peaches in August, apple in the Fall. No more lovely way to mark the passing of a calendar than to make a pie.

My dad is the pie maker in the family. His pumpkin pie is legendary (shh, he uses the recipe on the back of the Libby's can.) Mincemeat and apple are his other specialties. He'll tell you that the best apple pies are made of Rome pples. My mother-in-law swears by McIntosh. Every region knows a different most delicious apple for pie. I've even heard of fights over a double crust apple vs. a crumb-topping apple.

My specialty is coconut cream. Oh, it's so, so good.

We can't lose pies; it's Un-American. That's what the House Un-American Committee should have been about: how to stop pie loss.

So ask your grandmother, your neighbor, the church lady to help you know the pie-making secrets in your corner of the country. What's your regional specialty? Shoo-fly? Banoffee? Mulberry? Sour cream lemon? Whatever it is, I want you to make a pie for real, from scratch. For extra credit, look around your neighborhood or farmer's stand and pick what's bursting in season this week. And for heaven's sake, whip some real cream.

Will you?

The first pie pictured is apricot. It's my personal favorite because it's not only easy, it's out of this world delicious. The recipe is a variation on Ruth Reichl's apricot pie:

Apricot Pie

Chilled pie dough in a 9 or 10" pie plate
2 lbs fresh apricots
1/4 cup flour

Topping:
1 stick butter
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 teaspoon grated nutmeg

Preheat oven to 400ºF with rack in lower third.
Pull apricots (with skins) apart into halves, throw away pits. Melt butter in a small saucepan over medium heat, then stir in sugar, flour, salt, and nutmeg, and remove from heat. Cool mixture until firm enough to crumble, 10 minutes. Toss the apricots with 1/4 c of flour, just to coat them, discard the extra flour. Put apricots in pie shell (I like to stand them up on their ends, overlapping them slightly,) crumble butter mixture on top.

Bake the pie, with a foil-lined baking pan on rack below it (to catch drips), 10 minutes.

Reduce oven temperature to 350ºF and continue to bake until top is golden, 50 minutes to 60 minutes.
Cool pie to warm or room temperature on a rack, serve with fresh whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

Tractor Raising!

2011-07-23T06:00:00.002-06:00

It's no secret that two of my favorite local restaurants are Communal and Pizzeria 712. I love that they use local ingredients whenever possible. Some of you are neighbors with Clifford Family Farm, which provides eggs, honey, greens, and other ingredients to restaurants and the community.

The time has come for Clifford Farm to get a tractor, and the guys at Communal and P712 are throwing a tractor raising! What's that? Why, a special dinner on August 1st to raise money to help Clifford Farm get a tractor. Tickets are $20 each, although additional donations are welcome. If you're passionate about locally owned restaurants and local, sustainable foods, I'd think you'd be interested in helping the Cliffords with their tractor raising. You can find out more here.

Things I’ve Done While Sleep Deprived

2011-07-20T01:00:00.002-06:00

Totally stuck my tongue out at the 80s CD collection infomercial when they said I couldn’t gather those songs, not ever. Oh, infomercial people who still think we’d pay $16 per CD, this ain’t Sam Goody 1992, yo! Also! CDs! How cute!
Downloaded Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton’s We’ve Got Tonight
Played that song really loud in the car and tried to sing both parts (fail)
Cried a flood-stage river because my kitchen floor was dirty
Read the comments on this post about Neville Longbottom and howled (they're hilar and will make those of you who’ve watched far too much Brit TV feel not so alone. And YES, comment #2443511, he should play Bertie Wooster.)
Reached around while in the car at a red light and smashed the spider that was crawling on Proximo’s arm.
Operate a moving vehicle.
Watched the same episode of So You Think You Can Dance fourteen times because I kept passing out cold in the middle.
Discovered Pawn Stars. I could watch that show all day. Or until I passed out cold.
Forgotten to take out my contacts...a lot...
Traded obscene amounts of Popsicles for 10 more minutes of sleep.
Bought bean sprouts and cabbage for a dish I decided not to make. I decided NOT to make it before I got to the cash register, but bought them anyway?
Forgotten what to do with a cabbage, accidentally purchased or otherwise.
Burned dinner. Who does that? What a rookie move! I haven’t burned a dinner in 10 years.
Tried to read a Foreign Policy article entitled “Everything You Know About The Collapse of the Soviet Union is Wrong.” I’ve been trying to read it for five days. How do they know that everything I know is wrong? How can I prove Foreign Policy's assumption of my level of Soviet knowledge is mistaken if I can’t concentrate enough to read the whole thing? Oh, Foreign Policy, you smartypants, you win.
That last point took me two days to write and I'm still not sure it makes sense.

I Did Not Want Children

2011-07-18T02:00:00.003-06:00

Justin Hackworth asked me to write and read something on motherhood for the opening reception of his 2011 30 Strangers exhibit. I was honored by my company: Brooke, Amy, Molly, and Stephanie. I cried a lot, but so did everyone else. A few people who attended asked if I would post what I wrote to my blog and then I did:

I did not want children.

Who would want children? I am the oldest of four and believe me, handling my little brother and sisters was not just annoying, but constant. I had plans, you see, I had dreams. And everyone knows that kids supplant your dreams with the end of your life. No more midnight walks. No more movies in the middle of the day. Lazy weekends spent sleeping in or marathon novel reading. Traveling to Tahiti, Timbuktu, and Hong Kong, too. Plus hosting a child inside your body? Inside your body. They have to get out...somehow. And what happens if you forget about the child once it’s out? People get really upset at that sort of thing. I once kept an ivy plant alive for almost 18 months--I was handing out no guarantees on children.

But something happened one day and I knew I had to have a child. Not in the abstract, “Oh yeah, I’ll be a mom some day” but in the concrete, "I need to start having children."

And then I couldn’t have children for a long time. The months, then years, went by and no children came. I read a lot of novels. I slept in a lot. I built the career I thought I always wanted.

In the middle of a pre-Christmas snow storm, my first son came and turned everything I thought I knew from the inside, right side out. I would stare at him in the plastic hospital bin and wonder who he was; it’s a strange feeling to love someone without knowing who they are. During the middle of the night I’d hold him in front of me and look into his dark eyes. This backfired one night when I watched his eyes go cross eyed, then cock eyed, sending me into a brief, sleep deprivation induced panic that I had a demon-possessed baby. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t really possessed. At least not at that time. Ask me about the time that he walked, as a 4-year-old, to LaVell Edwards Stadium by himself so that he could go to the football game. Or the night I went to close the garage door at 10pm and saw a flash of bare white skin as the long-bedded escapee ran naked around the house.

My second son arrived at the end of March and the beginning of Spring. My Grinch-heart grew another three sizes, maybe even four. It’s a good thing he was so sweet, so loving and affectionate, because no one ever told me how toilet training would literally stink, especially when it took more than a year. A year. The profound and never ending scatological travails of motherhood. The constant dribble, flow, and stream of juice, spit-up, crushed cereal and bodily fluids. I don’t know if you can even call yourself a parent until you’ve caught vomit in your hands--or down your shirt, pooling in your brassiere.

A daughter arrived on the first day of summer. There’s a moment after you have a baby when you look down and realize, “Hey, that’s MY BABY, I can pick her up whenever I want.” I can hold her all day if I want. I’ll miss her when she’s sleeping. She won’t keep, she’ll grow bigger, stronger, smarter, and push away from me. And based on what I did to my mother when I was a teenager, I have some terrible, but just, things in my future from a tiny bundle, this spirit captured in a wiggling mortal body.

Because it’s true that once you have a baby they are always your baby, even when they are yelling back at you, “I am NOT a BABY!” I heard the other day that Late Night talk show host Jimmy Fallon’s mother still calls him “The baby.” The baby is on TV. The baby has a new movie coming out. It doesn’t matter how old he is, he’ll still be the baby. That makes perfect sense to every mother. Because when you look at your child you can still feel their baby weight in your arms, the nights you spent staring into their eyes, the longer nights when you begged them through the most profound exhaustion known to man outside of a POW camp to please, please, please sleep, the days you spent cleaning, wiping, sorting, scrubbing, holding, hugging, feeding, yelling, yelling louder, and answering the never ending chorus of “MOM. mom. mom. mom. mom.”

Who knew? Who knew that you laugh more, cry more, that everything is more when you’re a mother? It’s not that you’re giving up your dreams, it’s that you understand that the dreams you had before were incomplete, a facsimile of a real life. It’s not about you, it’s about what you do, how you serve, how you grow citizens, workers, warriors, and responsible people. That you’re trying, desperately, not to mess up these people, to give them everything they need and not everything they want. So while I didn’t want to be a mother, I don't think I was a real person until I became one.

SKE-Dual or SHHED-jewel?

2011-07-13T06:00:00.000-06:00

Do NOT schedule your husband’s vasectomy at the same time as your baby’s 3 week growth spurt and your Grand Uncle's funeral, because Lawsy Mcgee, it was crazy today.

I’m the opposite of a scheduling savant, it seems. I realized last week that I scheduled my first hair appointment in almost a year at the exact same time as J’s Big V. I didn’t immediately cancel because the buildings are literally half a block away from each other. And if you’re practical, like me, you’d realize that it was really a gas saving trip! Besides, I was just going to be sitting in a waiting room anyway, I might as well pop over to the salon and get all pretty, right?
J did not see it that way.

“Let me put it this way, “ he said, “If you are not there when I am done...”

No need to finish that sentence, Snips O’Hoolihan.

Snips is not allowed to lift anything, is supposed to just take it easy for 5 days by lying on the couch and watching movies (Doctor’s Orders!) I can’t help but compare with how my medical professional said at least 2 weeks of taking it easy! Only PJs! No picking up anything heavier than the baby! I mostly listened (except for that night I didn’t and moved the sectional by myself and steam cleaned the family room carpet and then had to spent the next day on bed rest because I should have listened all the way.)

Anyway. 5 days. This means my kids have two parents who are doing a lot of sitting and lying down, playing chicken with the doorbell. I hope they don’t grow up to be lazy and have no work ethic because of these 5 days and 2 weeks.

Oh, fluffernutter, I couldn’t bear raising, then loosing, lazy children on the world. I mean, all children are lazy, but they grow out of it if you make them work hard enough, I’ve found (because I was a lazy child and my parents worked me until I screamed.)

Baby Lulu is working me until I pass out. Growth spurts! So fun! She can’t be hungry again, can she? (Yes.) Why is she still awake? (Hungry.) Will I ever sleep again? (No.)

I was going to tell you more about the Adventures of Lulu and Snips, but Lulu is yelling at me again and I am powerless to resist.

Over at Today’s Mama:
Third Child, Can You Step it Up?

30 Strangers Opening Reception

2011-07-10T23:59:00.007-06:00

My friend Justin Hackworth is holding an opening reception for his portrait exhibit, the 2011 30 Strangers in 30 Days on Friday, July 15th.

I love this project: portraits of mothers and daughters across generations in an unguarded moment.

It seems like every year Justin happens to photograph women that I know and love, even though they are strangers to him. I don't know how that happens, but I do groove on the serendipity.

The women above? Well, let's just say that I wouldn't be the person I am today had the woman on the left not forced me to grow up and become a responsible human. She taught me to be a leader. And that looking your best is always important. And more lessons than I can't even articulate in one blog.

Justin asked me, along with some other great women, to speak about motherhood at the opening reception. Will you think about coming? I promise to write something new, never before heard, possibly genius, more likely slightly incoherent, just for the occasion. You can even see how I no longer look pregnant with twins! (Instead, I look only 4 months pregnant with a regular baby.)

You'll be there? Good.

Baby Lulu's Birth

2011-07-06T23:50:00.008-06:00

It started at 4am on June 22nd. J had been asleep since 2am, unable to keep up with me as I was a whirlwind of Getting Things Done, until a self-imposed bedtime of 3am. I had a lot of errands to run in just a few hours, and I'd need at least some sleep, right?

I wake up at 4am to try to go to the bathroom and, no shock to my logical mind, I'm in pain. I hobble to the on-suite and hobbled back, cursing the end of pregnancy and the way my body's strained with weight and promise. I go back to sleep.

At 5am I wake again, in pain even before I can even sit up. Argh, I think to myself, this really hurts, and I haven’t even tried to move yet. Stupid pregnancy. Hurting all the time. Wait a minute, I think again, labor. This has to be labor.

Duh, I hear you saying.

But guys, I say back, it felt different than the other two labors. This one felt lower, more like extraordinary pressure rather than waves of contractions.

Wondering how far apart they were, and realizing that I hadn’t downloaded a stop watch app yet to my phone, I laid in bed and found one to download. Of course I did. I didn’t want to wake up J in case things settled down, so I decide to get in the shower.

You might remember that I didn’t want to use drugs for this delivery. In an effort not to “wing it” this time, I borrowed my friend BreAnne’s Hypnobabies book and CDs. Two nights before I’d started the Hypnobirthing book; I made it through the intro and most of the first chapter. Go me. Pretty sure I got the gist of it.

So there I was, in the shower, when the contractions started strengthening. Sorry, not contractions, “surges.” Surges is what hypnobirthing folks call contractions; it’s a “positive” word instead of a “negatively-associated” word. Well, they feel the same, is what I say. A rose by any other name is still a freaking contraction. I remembered the 5 pages I’d read and tried to breathe calmly through the "surges." I even went as far as to picture a damn ocean.

Breathing in and out. Tides. Quiet. Gray ocean day. It's working. Deserted beach. Phone with stopwatch outside of shower and I can’t hit the button to lap the contraction because I’m dripping wet. Breathe. Doesn’t matter. The surges are a minute apart, maybe less. Don’t really have to bother with a stop watch at this point because there is no more "apart" there is only one long "surge" that doesn't stop. I can barely lift my leg to get out of the shower.

I call my sister and tell her to get to my house. “Want to meet me downstairs and unlock the door?” she says.
And in the last full sentences of that morning I’m able to say, “Use your key.”

I fall to my knees on the bathroom floor and call the midwife. She insists on asking me a bunch of questions. Dammit. I can’t answer these. I manage to stammer out a few answers. She tells me I’m doing a good job breathing through the contractions and she’ll meet me at the hospital.

I call for J. “J,” I say, from the floor of the bathroom.
“What,” he mumbles from the bed. I have to wait to answer again until the surge passes for 15 seconds.
“J,” I say.
“What?” Another long pause.
“J,” I say.
“What do you WANT?” He says.
“BABY,” I manage to get out.
“OH!” he says, and runs to the bathroom, “So, uh, what should I do?”
“Get. Dressed.” I respond, grabbing whatever shirt is laying over the back of the chair to pull over my head.

I just have to put the things I use every day into my already packed bag: contact solution, contact case, makeup, face lotion, toothbrush. I am unable to move. I can’t put those things into my bag because the space between the surges is so short I’m only able to grab one item and move it 6 inches before another surge hits. Not to mention, I am blind: I can’t stop to put in my contacts and no one can find my glasses. I’m just reaching for whatever is in front of me.
“What do you need?” J asks.
“Pants,” I reply.
“Which pants? Where?”
“Drawer. Pants. Brown.”
He has to help me put them on because I can’t: I can’t make a full sentence, I can’t put on pants, I can’t put my things in my bag, I can’t see. I have to hope that my glasses are in the bag because no one else in the house can find them even though I try to tell them to check the floor next to the bed (where they fall at night after I go to sleep.)

We leave the house at 6. My car is on empty. Why? Because Wednesday is errand day. I was going to Costco, to DI, to a million other places, including a stop to fill the tank. “Do I need to stop to get gas?” J asks.
At this point, reduced to monosyllabic responses, yet running a commentary in my head, I am getting angry at him. I don’t want to answer him. I want to breathe through this CONTRACTION. I cannot be answering questions or making decisions.
I grit my teeth and answer, “Yes.” We pull into the corner gas station.
“How much should I put in? Should I fill it?” he asks.
“Two. Gallons.” I spit out.
“Where is your gas thing?” he asks.
WHERE IS MY GAS THING? WHERE IS MY GAS THING? HOW CAN HE NOT KNOW WHERE MY GAS RELEASE BUTTON IS? I HATE HIM.
“Door,” is what I’m actually able to say.

I breathe and try to picture the ocean again. It’s not working. I should have read more of that book. I don’t have my glasses. I can’t see. I keep my eyes closed so I don’t have to look at the blurry world and because it seems to help. Also, I don’t have to look at the guy who doesn’t know where the release button is.

We take off down the road. The hospital is 20 minutes away in normal traffic. Thank goodness it’s 6 in the morning, the light is pale and there aren’t a lot of cars out. I’m half sitting, half lying, holding onto the door. When I have a break I try to reach the back seat, into the bag, to try to find my glasses. I never get any further than reaching the bag before I have to stop to deal with the contractions. I open an eye to peek and notice that J is driving really fast. Good.
“Should I take State Street or I-15?” He asks.
MAKE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION, I scream in my head, I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS. I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.
“I...15...” I manage to say.
He speeds, weaving through the sparse traffic, and asks me about the freeway exit.
“Right. Left. Straight.” I say, hoping he can remember those directions as we barrel down the off-ramp.
“Run it, ” I say when we get to the next light. He does.
“Hmm,” he says, “Looks like the road is closed ahead.”
NO THE ROAD CANNOT BE CLOSED BECAUSE THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO THE HOSPITAL WE HAVE TO GO WE MUST GO ON THIS ROAD.
“STRAIGHT,” I demand through my clenched teeth.

We pull into the red lane in front of the hospital entrance at 6:15am. J runs inside to get a wheelchair. I try to get out of the car. I can’t. I try to talk myself into moving. I can’t. I take a deep breath, twist out of the car and into the wheelchair. “Bag,” I say. I manage to grab my contacts case from the bag’s side pocket and hold tight to it.
He pushes me to the elevator and we’re going up to Labor and Delivery.
I notice that there are a lot of nurses around. A lot. “Did you want to go unmedicated?” asks one.
“YES,” I say.
They wheel me into the triage room.

I’ve been in the triage room before with my other babies. You lie down on the bed, they strap a monitor around your belly. The “whoomp whoomp” sound of the baby’s movements and heart fills the audio system in the room. It's calm and orderly, people measuring and deciding.

Only this time it's chaos; they are trying to convince me to get onto the bed. I won't. They keep insisting.
“I CAN’T” I say, before giving it all I have and crawling onto the bed on all fours. They try to talk me into turning around, lying down, and someone is trying to put the monitor on me.

“NO,” I say, “Check NOW.” A nurse checks me and declares, “She’s complete! Time to go! It’s a good thing you wanted an unmedicated birth because you couldn’t of had drugs even if you’d wanted them.” I crawl off the bed and back into the wheelchair and I’m wheeled into a labor room. “I need a mirror,” I say, “For my contacts.”
“Honey,” says one nurse, “You’re having an unmedicated birth; I think you can manage to put on your contacts without a mirror.” She’s right, I realize, and while in the wheelchair, I undo my contact case and notice how my hands and fingers are shaking as I put in my contacts. It works. I can see--and I see the giant mirror they roll into the room. “What?” I say, “No, get that thing out of here. I just wanted a mirror to put in my contacts.” The nurses are laughing. I stand up out of the wheelchair, and bend over slightly to put my palms on the bed, my feet planted on the floor.

There’s a slightly scared looking male EMT in the corner who is observing the birth. One of the nurses explains, “This is an unmedicated birth. If you ever have to attend a birth in the field, this is probably what it will be like. See how she’s standing? See how she’s telling us what to do? All we do is listen to her and follow her instructions.” Yes, I think to myself, yes.

One of the nurses is applying counter-pressure to my lower back, her palms facing outward while she pushes. It feels wonderful. She calls J over and shows her how to push on my back. He pushes lightly, at first.
“MORE,” I say, until he pushes too hard, and I grunt for him to stop.

At that moment I realize something: if I push, this will all be over.

I don’t have to do this any more. I can push and it will be over.

I push and it feels right and good and I want to push more. I want to push harder. I do, and my water breaks, all over J’s shoes. I laugh inside, because I know he’s panicking inside. This is his nightmare--he does not want to be viscerally involved. He'll want to throw away those shoes. “Get onto the bed!” the midwife and the nurses tell me.
“No.”
“You have to get onto the bed!”
“Fine,” I summon all my strength, climb onto the bed, and lie down. I push.
“STOP!” says the midwife, “She’s crowning!”
I don’t want to stop. I want to push. Screw this stopping stuff. It only feels right when I push.
“Stop!” says the midwife again, “Push a little then stop, take a breath, only push a little, good, good.” I grudgingly listen to her, and when she says I can push, I do, and baby is out.

“I DID IT! I DID IT I DID IT!” I yell happily. The nurses are all laughing again, and I’m laughing with them.
“I DON’T HAVE TO BE PREGNANT ANYMORE!” I yell again. I am shaking a little but feel fantastic.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I DID IT! I FEEL AWESOME! HONEY I DID IT. I COULD DO THIS AGAIN.”
“You did great,” J says.
“LOOK AT THAT VIEW!” I say, staring out the window, up the green mountain where the sun is shining over the highest peaks, “WOW, IT’S GORGEOUS!” And they hand me the baby,

who is even more gorgeous.

I see her.

She’s beautiful.

She’s perfect.

She’s in a hurry; it was 6:35am. 14 minutes from the time we pulled into the hospital until she was born.

I don’t count her toes or her fingers, I just look at her face.

I memorize her face.

And I know she’s the one.

Guess Who...

2011-07-02T02:18:00.000-06:00

In case you hadn't heard, I had a baby.

She's pretty cool.

The whole story coming soon, but let's just say, she was in a hurry to get here once she finally decided to come.

Thanks for your patience as we enjoy this time off from the world to bask in the newborn glow.

Kisses!

This Baby is Fired

2011-06-17T18:13:00.003-06:00

Remember how last week I was all, “Ooh, it hurts to move.”

HAHAHAHA that girl was full of crap, because it hurts way more now.

Every time I stand up I swear bad swears in my head. “Great Cesar’s Ghost!” I say, only not that. I do not know who is sneaking into my house and beating my lower back with a 4” pipe, and why on earth I am not noticing during the commission, but it needs to stop. Walking is the worst joke. So is sitting. My own body is violating the Geneva Convention.

If you’ve had a baby you know the last couple weeks are physical torture. I don’t know why it’s such a surprise. You know that your insides will be squashed and pummeled. You know that your bladder will experience sudden, crushing pain. You know that staying in one position for more than 15 minutes will cause brutal debilitation and shocking torment. Yet, we still have babies, plural.

People ask how you are and you’ll smile and say, “Tired,” when the truth is that you’re in physical agony. Mostly you want people to stop asking how you are, or if you are excited about the baby, or what the baby’s name is.

How about we go with Emmie’s advice and say one of only three things:
1. You look fantastic.
2. Would you like to sit down?
3. Have a cookie.

Not on the list:
“You must be so done!”
“Hurts just looking at you!”
“Have you had that baby yet?”
“No, you cannot have Thai food.”

(Yes, I can, and it had better have at least 3 stars or you’re all fired.)

Bottoms up, all!

p.s. Thanks for all your suggestions and ideas. I got a glider. It is not hideous as most are, we didn't pay full price, and I don't need to recover it right away.

Proximo is Going Places

2011-06-15T01:12:00.000-06:00

You know that traditional graduation book from Dr. Suess "Oh The Places You'll Go"? Well, Proximo has places to go and things to do and I, apparently, am not privileged to that information.

Read more....

I Can't Make This Decision

2011-06-13T01:08:00.006-06:00

I have a bit of a conundrum I need your help with, dear reader. I know that pregnant women all over the world are suffering from terrible fetal-maternal health, no skilled attendants to help delivery, are at risk for fistulas, and all kinds of deplorable conditions. So let's talk about my first world problems, OK?

My mother-in-law wants to buy me a glider for this baby. Generous, right? Of course.

But....

Gliders are ugly. They all look like bad, overstuffed 80s furniture. LOOK AT IT TAUNTING US WITH ITS DISGUSTING ROLLED ARMS. Ugly furniture gives me the creeps. And maybe the vurps. EWW.

I've thought about getting a glider and then recovering it--by myself of course because I am cheap, broke, and completely delusional about the amount of sewing projects I can get done in the next week or two.

So when MIL told me that my sister-in-law found an inexpensive glider at IKEA, I got a little excited. Something in my style? Modern-looking? Not cottage-y, sage-y, beige-y, hideous? I want that fictional glider. I couldn't find anything like a glider on their website. I drove to IKEA and scoured the floor, no glider.

I did find the Poang chair and Poang rocker, which both have an ottoman. Boy, are those chairs comfortable, at the right angle, and NOT UGLY. The chair bounces so there is a range of motion that could soothe a baby. The rocker is a rocker, and you understand how that works because you are an intelligent human being. What's more practical, a rocker, or a chair that can transition to a grown-up space?

Turns out my SIL got her glider at Target, not IKEA. Shoot. I'm back to looking at gliders.

Do I accept my MIL's offer for a glider and get one? Even though this is my last baby and a piece of ugly furniture I will hide? Will I really use a glider and am I insane for thinking that I can recover one before I have a baby? What color and brand of glider do I get? The budget can't afford a Dutailier. Do I say, Thanks, but I really like this rocker at IKEA and could I get that?

I can't make this decision anymore. And someone make me a drink.

Over at Today's Mama:
What to do about Father's Day

Oh, This Baby

2011-06-10T01:46:00.000-06:00

I'm at the stage now where you can't actually stand up after you've been sitting and start moving, you have to stand up, and then wait until everything adjusts. Next comes the part where you tell yourself, Kill Bill style, to move your legs. Move your leg. Go ahead, move it forward. That way. No, seriously, move it. If you're lucky, one of your legs will start moving while your spine screams a rabbit-like protestation.

If there's a wall nearby, all the better, because you don't actually have to pick up your leg, you can kind of lean over, put your hand on the wall, and then try to get your legs to move. After a couple of staggering steps, you feel comfortable enough to push your hands into the small of your back to balance the weight pushing down your front and keep moving your legs. And you thought pushing hands into a lower back was a cliche!

Yesterday morning, after eating oatmeal with dried fruits and nuts, I had raging heartburn. That's ridiculous. There should be no such thing as morning heartburn, and if there is, by Poseidon's Trident I'm going to switch over to chili dogs and hot wings because suffering for granola is stupid. Let's see how you like heartburn NOW, baby doll!

Now, let's gild the lily with a hacking cough with a stuffy nose. I am the picture of glowing abundance! I am Gaia! All should welcome my radiance and post-nasal drip!

Over at Today's Mama:

Summer Time and Bedtimes

Keeping Kids Up and Busy

2011-06-06T00:27:00.001-06:00

Don't worry, everyone! I am still pregnant! And it was hot today!

(Lawsy, I can't do many hot days and be this pregnant. I know you were all fussing about the rainy Spring weather, but I needed it--so I could survive and not commit any violent crimes.)

When my midwife told me last week that I wasn't having a baby this week or next, I said, "THANK YOU."

See, I know, even if everyone else thinks it will be at any moment, it won't. Don't get my hopes up otherwise. Baby can't come until the pillows are done and I find the perfect nursery lamp. And I come out of the deep denial I'm in about how I'm going to manage to have a baby, work from home, grow a business, and keep my home and family together. It will be fine, nothing will change, everything will be perfect! Magic!

Lawsy, lawsy, lawsy.

The boys on Mother's Day, when they brought me breakfast in bed.

Ever since Mother's Day, EG will just show up with breakfast in bed for me. I have no idea how he latched onto this idea, but there's nothing quite as delightful as waking up to a banana and berry "face" in the morning with a glass of water. Maybe he feels bad that he got me sick with this deathly cold that I can't shake. Maybe he should feel bad about that; it's like a last minute "screw you" from the free germ exchange known as elementary school.

*hacking cough*

I hate not being able to yell at their beautiful faces, really cramps my style.

Over at Today's Mama:

What Are You Feeding Your Kids?

Quick Summertime Meal Ideas

Baby Shower

2011-05-31T00:01:00.001-06:00

Noelle threw me a shower a few weeks ago, and it was incredible. Lindsey cooked the food and we ate until we 'esploded.

I thought that the shower started at 2:00, so I planned out my day carefully to make sure I arrived exactly on time. J came into the bathroom at 1:45 when I was drying my hair and said, "What time does your shower start?"

"2:00, why?"

"No, it doesn't, it started at 1:00."

Oh, Mylanta.

An hour late to my own shower? RUDE. I felt awful. Some people had to leave early and I got to see them for 5 minutes. Stupid me. I think I gave Noelle a heart attack because I'd stopped looking at my phone while I was getting ready. In labor? In a car accident? No, just didn't know the time to my own shower.

On This Memorial Day...

2011-05-30T11:13:00.000-06:00

Last night I watched 60 Minutes. It was an amazing episode. I highly recommend watching it for today, Memorial Day.

You'll meet Staff Sergeant Sal Giunta, who is the first living solider since Vietnam to win the Medal of Honor. You'll also spend time in the Korengal Valley, near the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan, with the men fighting there. It's worth your time, and depending on their age, your children's time.

This is no video game.

One or Two?

2011-05-27T23:38:00.001-06:00

I drove to the store tonight to grab some farfalle, as you do. I ran into a neighbor who tried to make small talk. “Are the boys at home?”
“Yes! Just grabbing a few last minute things for dinner.”
“So...is there just the one baby in there?”

Look. I know I’m very, terribly, awfully pregnant, but do we REALLY NEED to point it out? I nearly spit out the words, “Did you just say that to me?” Instead I said in a cheery, clipped voice, “Yup!” and then walked away as fast as my waddling self would take me.

I picked up one more thing and went to the registers where the cashier said,

“Do you have one baby in there or two?”

and I said,

“The next person that asks me that I will literally reach over and slap their face. There is one baby. I have anywhere from a couple weeks to maybe even a month to go.”

To her credit she tried to recover.
“Is it a girl or a boy?”
“Girl.”
“So do you have a name?”
“NO.”
I grabbed the receipt and walked as quickly back to the car as I could.

How am I feeling? I feel tired. There’s your answer. I answer that question all day.

I felt so tired this morning that I could barely move. I have to perform a cost-benefit analysis when I look at the crap strewn on my floor. Is it truly worth it to pick up that sock? I have to go down on all fours to clean the floor and face the very real possibility that I won’t be able to get back up again.

I stare down over my belly at the green straw, the unidentifiable plastic wrapper, the school work, and think hard. I think about the one baby in my belly. The last baby in my belly. The one that’s held six babies; three tighter than the others. The humans that grew there are the only people in the world for whom the casual asking for butterfly pasta for supper would send you to the store at dinner time, to run into people who ask you things without thinking and raise your blood pressure to Everest.

And I figure out the contortion to let me pick up the sock.

Everybody's Problem

2011-05-26T14:24:00.000-06:00

"Are you excited to not have a pregnant wife anymore?"

"Well, kind of. It goes from just your problem to everybody's problem..."

I told him that I seriously want to consider naming the baby something from the Arabic tradition. (I've been reading The Looming Tower lately because I've owned it for three years and it was about time.)

Even though I truly do think Arabic offers beautiful girl names, mostly I think it would be funny to piss off my in-laws forever. Baby Noor. I like it. Yes!

I hear, however, that naming babies to spite other people's silly prejudices isn't the best idea.

(Whatever.)

In other news, the boys got the most awesome road trip survival box of Cars and Cars 2 things, and you can win one for your Cars fanatics, too. Hop on over to Jet Set Galore (Hint: portable DVD player!) to enter.

A Mother's Saturday Morning Serenity Prayer

2011-05-21T12:02:00.003-06:00

Dear God,

Please grant me the patience not to send your children back to Heaven.

Help me to not throw plates, shoes, books, either at them, near them, or at walls.

When I came downstairs and found them still watching Harry Potter (a movie they are not allowed to watch for fear they will accept movies more readily than books,) a full 45 minutes after they were told to turn off the TV, thank you for helping me not to yell and instead giving them the Stare.

Bless the prompting I had to store my vases on another floor inside a deep cabinet so that they would be hard to find when I wished to pick one up and throw it through my husband's ginourmous computer monitor.

Thank you for the air I was able to breathe deeply during my son's hissy fit after I told him to clean his bathroom. Someday may they understand that those with appendages that dealt the damage are those that will scrub it up. And may he come to know when I say "that potty is not clean until it is its original color," that color is white.

I am thankful for past lessons on holding my tongue so I only call my children spoiled and ungrateful in my head instead of out loud. But lo, I will throw all their toys away for their abundance is shameful.

May I be encouraged by Lisa's cleaning examples and try to maintain a cheerful attitude so that my children will learn to clean with joy.

If I cannot be granted the wish of object levitation, please remind my family I can no longer pick up things from the floor as it causes me great pain and loss of breath.

Although I have prayed in the past that I do not turn into my mother, I realize this is moot. Thank you for answering that prayer by granting me compassion for her Saturday morning ranting and raving, for now I understand.

-C

Tweet-up Monday Night at Rodizo's Grill

2011-05-20T17:56:00.000-06:00

On Monday night J and I will make the long, arduous journey to Salt Lake for dinner at Rodizo's with a whole bunch of other bloggers and Tweeters. I love Tweet-ups; it's fun to meet people you interact with but have never in met in person--unless they turn out to be hygienically challenged, which is not as much fun, but does create "interesting conversations" about natural deodorant.

See that pineapple? It's mine. Hands off. Also hands off: the fried bananas and those little mini cheesy breads.

Confession: I will break my 10 minute driving radius for food.

This is your chance to ask J every math question you've ever wanted to hear the answer to!

Confession: Good luck getting him to talk.

You get to hear J's opinion on blogs and Tweeting!

Confession: he will give you the side-eye

If you want to join us on May 23rd, Rodizio's is having a special four-course meal with dessert for $19.99 a person just for the Tweet-up/Blog peeps. You just have to mention that you read about it here.

Lycopene

2011-05-16T06:00:00.000-06:00

Here's the problem with being pregnant:

Sometimes your baby knocks on you, the external layer of her apartment, and says, "I want some Chef Boyardee Ravioli."
And you say back, "That is ludicrous, why on earth would we eat that?"
"But I want it."
"No."
"But think of those big, soft, mealy ravioli in that barely savory sauce."
"It's awful for us, no!"
"Remember how you make it? Just open a can, pour it in a pot, and heat over medium heat?"
"Ridiculous. It's Sunday night, we don't have any in the house, so this is a moot point."
"But isn't this the definition of an ox in the mire?"
"No, as a matter of fact, it is not. You want to eat a crappy can of processed food; it's no ox."
"But it wants it!"
"We have to think of what this craving is really saying. What nutrient do you need that you're not getting?"
"Sure. Nutrient. Because I need some enriched wheat flour, high fructose corn syrup, textured vegetable protein, and crackermeal!"
"No, think harder. What is it that you really want? Can you fix this with tuna or an apple?"
"Tomato."
"But I don't want to cook."
"Tomato."
"I'm going to go look in the pantry again. Maybe something will have magically appeared."
"Tomato."
"It's 10pm at night."
"Tomato."
"It's 11pm at night."
"Tomato."
"It's midnight."
"Tomato."
"It's quarter to one! You need to shut up!"
"Tomato."
"FINE, I'll make tomato soup."
"Thank you. Is it done yet? Is it? Is it?"
"You're going to be a jerk and give me heartburn after we eat this, aren't you?"
"Absolutely!"

The Loss of Two Loved Ones

2011-05-09T00:44:00.000-06:00

Thursday night EG casually mentioned over the dinner table that his new, week-old soccer ball was stuck in a hedgerow. The little bully had tried to kick it over our neighbor's 14 foot tall hedges and the ball had disappeared. J immediately left the table and took EG with him to retrieve the ball. They arrived back home 15 minutes later, J in a mood and EG crying. No ball. "How could you let him take the ball out?" J asked me. "I didn't know that he wasn't supposed to take it," I responded.

So in my guilt, I took EG, my belly, our long rake, and walked over to the hedges. I spent an hour and a half poking every square inch of that row. All along the top on both sides, in the middle, on the bottom, parting and looking, with no success. By the end, I was covered in dirt, old evergreen pieces, dust, and scratches. I found three balls, two drink containers, an old bird's egg, a shoe, and a frisbee, but no soccer ball.

I walked over to the bully's house to ask his parents to come search, but no one answered. Because of course not. My scratches began to well up into hives. EG looked 4 shades tanner from the dirt that coated him. I drew a bath and went to go find him a towel. When I went back into the bathroom, the tub was almost full and he was sitting between the tub and the toilet...
with my phone
on the edge of the tub
trying to unlock it.

I screamed.
He looked up, tried to grab the phone, and accidentally pushed it into the tub.
I screamed again.
I screamed some more.
I panicked.

J took over EG's bath.

Phone insurance comes with a deductible, did you know that? And did you know that if your deductible is more than the phone is actually worth the insurance company doesn't care? It could be that the insurance company is even in the middle of a class action lawsuit for trying to make people pay more in a deductible than the phones are worth. But none of this will help you. So you call T-Mobile back and when the nice customer service girl answers, you might start crying. Which means they send you to Customer Care and give you a brand new, much nicer phone for almost the same price as the deductible.

The next day when EG asked me to text his friend's mom to ask if he could play, I got to say, "I can't."
"Why?"
"Remember when you drowned my phone?"
"Oh."
Proximo helpfully reminded me that I could just go get a new phone at the phone store.
"I hope they take pies," I thought to myself.

A couple months ago I had a funny feeling that did not turn out to be heartburn or my usual cocktail of guilt: time to start backing up my computer. My laptop stores all my work, my music, and years worth of my kids' pictures. I signed up for one of those automatic online backup deals.

So when my hard drive died on Friday and Saturday, I was frustrated, but not devastated, and there is a difference, I tell you what. Nick came over to my house Saturday night and gave me the diagnosis. He also offered to help me get it all up and running again, which is why he is going to win at life. Go buy his wife's album.

My phone and my laptop in 24 hours.

Oh man. It's like I'm a pioneer. A pioneer who has to use my husband's tower and barter for computer time. A pioneer who has to use her land line! (Only it's not really a land line, it's VOIP.) I'm trying to treat this constant downtime with some appreciation. Don't people preach all the time about unplugging and living in the moment? Well, I don't approve. Not being able to Google/tweet/calendar/text/call everything, all the time, and immediately, stinks. If I wanted to be in an old-timey re-enactment, I would have signed up for one.

How to Keep Your Child From Failing Math

2011-05-04T01:37:00.003-06:00

Don't let the title scare you!

When I tell people that DH is a math teacher I get a couple reactions, from admiration to the more common confession that they are terrified of math. I know many of you struggle to help your kids, and even wonder how you can keep them doing well in math as they progress.

The first thing I'd tell you is to stop telling yourself that you're "bad" at math. It would be unacceptable for you to go around telling people that you're "bad" at reading, "bad" at writing, and "bad" at driving. You keep that to yourself, because just like negative body image, your kid will pick that up right away.

The second thing that we see is preventable; it's something so simple, so basic, that if you make sure your kids knows it, they will be equipped to handle the math coming down the road...story first:

DH had a long conversation with a parent recently, a parent who was extremely upset at him because their child had 100% on all their math homework, yet scored 25% on the tests. The parent was furious, demanding an answer from him on why their child was failing despite having perfect homework.

DH pulled out the homework; it was full of correct answers--answers...but no work shown. He said he didn’t want to accuse any student of cheating when there’s always room for divine intervention--intervention that happened to desert the child during tests. So, DH made an offer: if the child could set up a problem from any of the homework, not solve, just set up the work, he’d be happy to grant the child an “A.” The child burst into tears. The parent soon grasped the picture.

What’s more, DH said, can you tell me what 7 times 8 is? The child thought for a few minutes and answered “42” then after another minute “56.” Here’s the problem, DH said, you never learned your times tables when you were supposed to, and I bet that every teacher after that allowed you to use a calculator until now, is that right? The child nodded. I suspect that you and your child will have a different type of summer activity planned soon, DH said to the parent.

So how do you help your kids with math, even if you feel inadequate to do so? The very first step is to make sure they have memorized the addition and multiplication tables. Every double digit addition and subtraction in their head. Every multiplication and division in their head. They should be able to answer instantaneously, with zero lag time. They should be able to do this by the 4th grade. If your child can't, you know where to start. Your kid should also be able to to count up to the 12th multiple for the first 12 counting numbers--i.e. 12, 24, 36, 48, etc, all the way up to 144 and back again without an “uhm” or a breath.

How do these things help? Instead of trying to figure out how the numbers all fit together, your kids will be able to concentrate on the problem in front of them. If you can make sure your child knows their tables they’ll be prepared for the advanced stuff. You would not believe how many kids reach high school without basic addition, subtraction, and multiplication--it is the fundamental root of so many kids failing math.

Now you know. And you can prevent it.

The Birthday Presents

2011-05-02T10:59:00.001-06:00

(I might be a little bit pregnant.)

My mom started laughing nervously after dinner last night. “First of all, I went to the mall to try to find you a present, and you know how I hate the mall.”
“I do know that.”
“And I looked and looked for a present but had no idea what to get you and there was so much stuff going on and so many stores and it was crowded...”
“So you panicked and bought whatever was in front of you?”
“YES! I’m so sorry. I don’t know. There was a kiosk and I didn’t know what to do and I bought a bunch of things from it and I’m sorry!” she said apologetically as she handed me a white plastic bag with four headbands inside with humongous sequin and feather flowers larger than my head, a pile of pastel jewelry, and some earrings that were pretty cute.
“It’s OK, mom” I giggled.
“But isn’t the necklace pretty?” She said.
“It’s very pretty,” I agreed.
“You don’t like it.”
“It’s just that I can’t wear pastels; it doesn’t go with anything I have. But you like it! You should keep it!”

Some people are blessed with the gift-giving gene, and some people are...not. My poor mother. She has absolutely no idea what to buy her children, but she really wants to buy things for us. This results in a motley vision of plastic bags wrapped around oddly-colored (yet cashmere!) sweater-sets from DI, strange matching jewelry that we’d never wear, Japanese-inspired poly-silk robes, inexplicable items from Ross Dress For Less, or satin shoes (what?)

The other problem is that she buys things, stashes them, and can’t remember where she put them. Half of Christmas morning she spends walking around saying, “I thought I got something else for you guys...I wonder where they went.” There’s the year she gave my sister the same pair of flannel pajamas she gave her the year before. It’s kind of endearing.

“How about this, “ I suggested, “We go back to the mall together, return these things, and you can spring for a nice pair of flats.”
“OK,” she concedes, “And I’m SORRY.”

Royal Wedding?

2011-04-28T06:00:00.001-06:00

Gang, I'm over at Today's Mama talking about a little party going down in the wee hours of April 29th.

A Pregnancy by Cravings

2011-04-27T01:00:00.002-06:00

Corn Nuts. Because my fetus is in junior high.

Nacho cheese Corn Nuts. Tried to swap out for BBQ Corn Nuts one day and ended up refunding. Things learned the hard way: you don’t want to refund Corn Nuts. (2 weeks.)
Sour cream and chive baked potatoes. The only thing that made me feel human. Eat one and no tossing cookies for 90 minutes. Like magic bullet tubers. (One month.)
Boursin and crackers. So continental. (Three days.)
Meatballs! Ended mid-bowl when realized teriyaki meatballs are worst invention on planet ever. (Four days.)
Chinese food. Affair abruptly ended after maiden voyage to Pei Wei Diner and a truly terrible take-out container full of Dan Dan noodles. (Two weeks.)
Izze drinks. Bought two cases at Costco with coupon. Made it through 1.5 and then lost interest.
Maillet tiny French gherkins. Expensive. (Five days.)
Puffy Chee-Tos. There is no excuse. (One month.)
Meat. Lunch meat, hunks of meat, meat, meat, and meat. (Three months.)
Fresh mozzarella (Three weeks.)
McDonald’s hot fudge sundae. Felt so bad/hypocritical about craving that tried to make own hot fudge sauce with three different recipes. Was not the same. (One week.)
An entire pineapple.
Carl’s Junior hand-breaded chicken tenders with honey mustard sauce. Drove past a Carl’s Junior recently and couldn’t even look in that direction without heaving. (Two weeks.)
Greek yogurt and granola with dried fruit and flax seeds. (Two months.)
Quinoa (Three days.)
Pad Thai. Am now proud owner of 3 extra palm sugar cakes, giant bottle of fish sauce, tamarind pulp, two packages rice noodles, and a recipe to duplicate. Have sauce ready to go in fridge for immediate sharp pangs. (Four weeks, spread over multiple months.)
Baja Chalupa. Blame La Yen. (One day.)
Carrots. Ate a truckload of carrots, but not enough to turn palms orange. (Three days.)
Naked Juice Protein Zone with pineapple and coconut. (Seven months.)
Magnum bars--STEP IN WRONG DIRECTION. (Six days, so far.)
Fish - (Entire pregnancy.)

Advanced Storm Warning

2011-04-22T05:00:00.000-06:00

I don't want to scare you...

...but you might want to watch out for miniature storm troopers in your vicinity. Storm troopers can strike without warning during Spring hours. Best to take precautions (step to the side and hold your arm out to keep them from advancing.)

What's In Your Easter Basket?

Spanish Tortilla

2011-04-13T21:18:00.001-06:00

I make this thing called tortilla. Why? Because my mom made it, my abuela made it, her abuela made it (when they had oil. And when they had no oil, they ate sand.)

Chances are that if you've been to my house for breakfast or brunch, you've had a slice.

I always have people ask how to make it (along with the garlic aioli) so I put the recipe together for Marie over at Make and Takes.

It's totally authentic. It's perfect for spring, summer, or because you heart easy food. It's how we roll in España.

How to make Spanish tortilla!

Rio Movie Premiere for Today's Mama

2011-04-12T15:38:00.000-06:00

I went to the Rio movie premiere for Today's Mama this past weekend, and you should go read all about it.

It was an OK weekend, I guess, if your idea of a good time is 4 star hotels, room service, HDTV, sleeping-in, dinners out, and meeting movie stars.

And the picture above? That's a shot of Peter Farrelly. I was so surprised to see him that I just said, "HEY!" as if I knew him. To which he answered, "HI!" like he thought he should know me. We do not know each other.

Proximo's 4th Birthday!

2011-04-07T22:48:00.004-06:00

His body is lengthening, limbs stringing out, knobby-inside knees that are mine. He looks older.

Most days he hangs on me like a stole. Today, as I sat at the table helping his brother with homework, he climbed to the top of the chair and leaned over my head, stretched his arms around my neck, and made a right angle.

Have I told you that 4 is my favorite? It is. It's my favorite age. 4 is the reward for the hard work of 2 and 3. It's before the emotional neuroses of 5.

He planned his birthday party himself. We were going to a park, there would be balloons, and lots and lots of friends.

We disagreed about the cupcakes. I wanted them, he didn't.
"NO," He said, frowning* at me, "I want a CAKE."

"But a cake will be hard to cut for your friends at the park."

"NO."

"Look! Here are a bunch of cupcake liners, red, blue, green, and you can pick which ones you want if you have cupcakes! If you don't like them, I'll make a cake." After some consideration, and another frown, he conceded, ".....FINE. Red AND blue."

Devil's food with raspberry filling and marshmallow tops. They were ridiculously delicious, and I don't even like cake.

So many friends to play with! Not having to be the tag-along little brother! Friends just for him!

You see that black haired vixen? That's his crush. He made her a special Valentine. He calls her "Weesabella."

Proximo decided he wanted to ride home with his Tia Jeffiner. This is what happened in the parking lot on the way to the car:
Tia Jeffiner, "So, Weesabella is fun, huh?"
Proximo, "Yep, she's fun."Jeffiner, thinking she's digging a little deeper, "She's kinda pretty, too, huh?" Proximo stops and gives her the famous frown* and says,
"Weesabella's prettier than you."
Jeffiner gasps, "What? No, she's not."
"Yes, she is."
"No, I'm Tia pretty."
"No, she's jus prettier."
We're just different kinds of pretty."
"NO."

3 months

1 year

18 months

2 Years

3 Years

(*the famous frown)

Happy birthday, baby!

The beautiful birthday party pictures were taken by Tia Jeffiner, the Fotohok, who's an amazing photographer, and available for your kid's birthday, or other life event.

How to Name a Child

2011-04-05T13:48:00.001-06:00

Here's how I name a child:

1. Create a Google Doc and start listing names I might like

2. Add to the list by noticing names as I read, watch, and go places

3. Dig through my family tree

4. Discard names when I realize they've been taken by close friends and family

5. Maybe add the names back on again because, let's be honest, will we really know those "close" friends and "family" in 5 years?

6. Check the Social Security name index and discard any names that are in the top ten or look like they will be in two years' time

7. Curate an impressive, eclectic list filled with classic yet unusual, interesting, but not common, names

8. Agonize whether to place certain names on the list (are they TOO unusual? "Eclectic" meaning weird? Hipster?)

9. My husband rejects every name on the list completely and offers no alternatives

10. Start building the list, again

Snacks

2011-04-04T12:00:00.001-06:00

Proximo made me a snack. The butter hunks were particularly delectable (Kirkland vintage 2011.) The nickel was because he loves me (also evidenced, I guess, by the cookie cutter heart used to cut the bread.)

The news today of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed current trial plans reminded me of this post, Mastermind, which made me laugh all over again.

What I wrote for you in other places:

Do you listen to old people music? (Hint: yes.)

Are you Today's MILF? (Hint: I cannot possibly answer this question for you.)

Do you dread Saturday evening or Sunday morning phone calls? (Hint: I have exhausted this construct and yet persisted in using it.)

She Moves

2011-03-29T08:54:00.000-06:00

She wakes up at 11pm and spends the next few hours revolving in her little space. She rolls, thumps, and wiggles. Small bumps push out. A transverse stretch hits the top of my abdomen and under my belly at the same time. If I lean too much on my stomach, she pushes persistently, rhythmically, on the flattened spot where her world meets my mattress, until I move. My shirt quivers where the top-most curve juts from my body. I gasp a little when she hits a vital organ I can’t identify beyond a sharp pain in a remote place it wasn’t a moment before.

The boys can feel her. They press their hands around me waiting for the next shove. They open my mouth for me and shout down my throat to her in a forgivable misunderstanding of my anatomy. When they start yelling at each other in joy or anger, she tosses in recognition.

I can no longer sleep on my back. It feels wonderful at first, but her weight concentrated on my spine makes my future ambulatory intentions impossible. I get out of bed and almost collapse from the pain. I try to straighten and walk while spinal nerves regain their impulses. I hold the corner of the dresser, hand skims the wall. I remember developing a wall-skimming habit with my first baby; I could not trust my equilibrium. It was months, or maybe years, before I walked down a hall without stretching out my right hand and feeling the texture of the surface under my fingertips. Once I forget about her and try to bend down straight and quick. The agony nearly knocks me down. I do not forget to adjust again (legs wider, bend to the side, accommodate where the belly wants to be.)

The relaxin makes every day gripping, pushing, and reaching a question instead of a certainty. It’s a hormone that softens your joints and ligaments to prepare you for birth, and it’s not localized. I grasp a glass and it falls through my hands, spilling milk like a thin waterfall down the counter and puddling opaquely on the floor. I push the car brake and feel the curb stop my car. I toss an object and it does not go where it should. J tosses something at me, and although I feel my arms move and my fingers stretch in anticipation, I can’t close around it to secure. She is the only thing I know I have secured, gripping her and keeping close until I must release her.

I hunch over, compressing her space, and she protests in reaction. She begins to pick directions to test her growing limbs--left she goes, then right, then out out out. It’s too early for her to get stuck in my ribs. There is room to turn where soon there will not be. I feel her and she feels around me.

How I Used to Be a Better Blogger

2011-03-24T01:05:00.005-06:00

Searching my archive tonight for a specific post led to me reading a bunch of old posts. The internal reflective consensus is that I used to be a better/more interesting blogger. It's been a slow, inevitable, Romanesque decline. I expect the Visigoths to knock on my door sometime in the next week. Visigoths look like pest control salesmen these days.

I like to blame Twitter. If I had an observation or a joke I was trying to work out, I stored it and worked it into a blog later. Now I can just slide my phone open and throw it out there. Lazy. (Not lazy for those of you who follow me on the Twitters; all kinds of convenient for you.)

I suppose you could also blame my work. Since I started writing this blog, my work went from writing occasionally, to being the focus of my career. While it's still fun to try voices out on this here blog (Appalachian!?) I use most of my creative inclinations for paying clients.

I can't help but think over the past year's complete uncertainty and roiling personal waters as stealing some of my mojo. The personal reflective time I used to spend blogging is now often spent in my head, trying to make sense of all the miracles and disasters that surround me. My head feels so full I can hardly hold it up, but I can't find the words to empty it. The fear of developing a bitter bite encroaches. I like writing for you, but the posts can't all be good. Most of them are barely passable. Every once in a while I write something I really love.

The clock says it's fast rounding the corner of 1am, and I am fast losing my admiration for Ben Stein's recommendations. Maybe I can distract myself with a new project! Reorganize the laundry system! Do a closet purge! Perform a used car search to research buying a car we couldn't possibly afford! Learn how to change the oil and filter on a lawn mower! Worry! Excessively and without reason!

So, to tie it all up into a bow: nothing is like it used to be and that is scary.

Voyeur Vigilante

2011-03-22T22:17:00.001-06:00

What would you do if you saw a cell phone sticking out from under your dressing room or bathroom door taping you?

Heather Seamons saw a voyeur trying to tape her in a Forever 21 dressing room. She left her room half-dressed, banged on the door, confronted the man, and alerted the clerks. The clerks let the man go (probably because they were about 16) and questioned Heather instead. She wouldn't stop, however, insisted on calling security, the police, and the news. I'm so proud of her for going public and trying to find this jerk.

You can probably guess how I'd react. I hope you have an image of me absolutely LOSING IT in a public place. I don't know if "confront" is the right word as much as calling on all the powers in the universe to unleash a storm of fury that wouldn't stop until the man was cowering on the ground duck-and-cover style in absolute terror.

And then I'd press charges. And I'd make sure his computers were confiscated so that he could be charged on multiple counts. Then I'd Google-bomb his name and image. I'd see him prosecuted to the fullest extent possible.

I despise people who violate women and children. I would be their millstone. Why? Because I have the strength to do it, and so often, those victims do not. I have a problem not getting involved when my friends are being spitefully used. And if you try to spitefully use me? That would be a mistake.

What would you do?

Your Sleep Position?

2011-03-21T09:19:00.003-06:00

I DVR CBS' Sunday Morning every week because I am 70 years old.

This week featured a Ben Stein segment speaking about sleeping; it really got me thinking. Watch the video, it's short.

I know I don't sleep enough. The truth is that I do not like to sleep. I get a lot more done because I am awake (incontrovertible fact!) (but also anecdotal and not from an unbiased source!) I like being by myself and not having to concentrate on anything but the task I'm attempting to do.

I also know that it's not good for me. When I have the opportunity to sleep uninterrupted (pause for general merriment) I naturally sleep between 7 and 8 hours, and wake without an alarm. I usually sleep between 5-6 hours, and that is rarely without interruption. Last night I supposedly slept 5 hours, but really, I was awakened 3 times. That can't be good, no matter what I wish was true.

Part of me wants to say "Whatever." The baby arrives in about 90 days. My sleep will be so fragmented and nuts at that stage that it's hardly worth trying to sleep as much as I can now--you can't really store up sleep for later. It's GOOD that I'm used to a minimal amount of interrupted sleep and getting a nap or two in during the day because pretty soon I won't have a choice about that. Surrender in the face of the advancement.

The other part of me says, "Maybe you should sleep while you have the chance." It's going to be awful after the baby arrives (until you've had a baby [or been a POW] you have absolutely no idea what sleep deprivation is like.) Perhaps I should sleep more now and try to be well-rested when baby arrives. Sure, it's going to be harder to sleep through the night as the baby and I grow, but I should really give it a shot. Fortify and defend in the face of advancement.

There's a family history of sleep problems hanging over my head: my mother and brother don't sleep well. Sometimes I have insomnia (which is when I want to go to sleep but can't, instead of the usual case of I don't want to go to sleep but could.) Usually I just have the I-don't-want-tos. I am jealous of people who only need to sleep 4 hours a night--like Martha Stewart. I don't want to BE Martha, I simply want to have her sleep tolerance. A new study shows that "short sleepers," as they are called, have a genetic mutation that allow them to naturally function on less sleep. This is a gene mutation I want to have. It's a gene mutation I pretend I have.

But Ben Stein (of all people) might have me convinced to try sleeping more. What are your thoughts?

For Japan

2011-03-18T09:54:00.001-06:00

Get involved here .

Math: Check it Out!

2011-03-07T07:00:00.014-07:00

Guess what?

Did you guess?

I'm not diabetic.

How cool is that?

In fact, my numbers were lower than during any of my other pregnancies. Screw you genetics!

During one of my four blood draws, I was late. This is a bad thing, apparently. Once you drink the drink (must finish within 5 minutes of starting,) you need to take a blood draw exactly one hour later. I was on time for that one. For the next hour I sat in the hospital lobby and tried to work. An hour later, I walked back to the lab, which was now crowded. I took a seat, surrounded by three moms with babies there to test for jaundice. I felt bad for their babies; I have been there.

One by one, the phlebotomist called them back to prick their babies' heels. I was getting a little antsy, I was 15 minutes over my hour. An elderly couple walked in to have the wife's blood drawn. Finally, I mentioned that I was nearing 20 minutes after the hour. The phlebotomist freaked out. "Why didn't you say something?" I don't know, I thought, why didn't I? I didn't want to be rude to the other people in line.
"Next time, you tell them you're here for glucose and they'll test you right away!" she tsked, pushing the elderly couple out of the way, "You might have to repeat the test!"

Argh. No. That is not possible. That will not happen.

Now...I knew that they had a baseline and the first hour on time. I knew that when it came for my last draw I'd hustle into the joint and demand a test. It kind of didn't matter when they took the second test during the time allotted. All it would take is a little bit of math: you have the numbers, you have the timeline, you can figure the rate of change vs. the time for the second test. I was annoyed they'd even suggest I repeat the test. Annoyed enough that I called J. "Oh," he laughed, "So now you want people to be good at math?"

"Yes," I answered, "Or I'll demand they give you the numbers and you can do the really extreme calculations it would take to get that number." Seriously, just because I know it can be done doesn't mean I want to do it. I outsource my math.

When it was over I went to the car and had a refined flour baguette with pure orange juice fructose. It was delicious and I didn't have to pass out while driving.

P.S. Each of the two phlebotomists did two draws on me. The first phlebotomist was marvelous; her draws didn't hurt at all. The second phlebotomist's draws hurt. However, where the first drew had a far larger and more painful bruise than the site where the second drew--which didn't hurt at all.

What's that about?

Does it mean that the Mayans are right about 2012? Because that's the direction I'm leaning.

I Lose My Favorite Job

2011-03-04T01:10:00.001-07:00

“I don’t want you in my family anymore,” declared Proximo, “I don’t want you as my mama!”
“Oh, I’m not your mama anymore?”
“NO!”
“And I don’t want daddy or my brother, either.”
“So you’ll live here by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Well. Who will make your breakfast?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will put on your shows?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will help you with your socks and shoes?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Who will help you put on your jacket?

*pause*

“Grandpa.”
“Who’ll tuck you into bed?”
“I do it mysef.”
“Oh, can I go then?”
“No. Stay with me. Don’t leave. AND you’re an IDIOT!”
“An idiot, huh?”
“YES. You’re AN IDIOT. Know who else thinking you’re an idiot?”
“Who?”
“Nana thinks you’re an idiot. Grandpa thinks you’re an idiot. Tia Jeffiner thinks you’re an idiot. Abuelita thinks you’re an idiot.”
“No they don’t, they love me.”
“You’re an idiot, and you’re not my mama anymore!”
“Ah. OK. I still love you, you’re my baby.”
“No, I’m not. When is dinner?”
“I thought I wasn’t your mama.”

*significant pause*

“You can be my mama again. You can be in my family.”

I'm Everywhere, Including The Hospital!

2011-03-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

Today is my gestational diabetes test. I volunteered to do the 3 hour fasting test instead of the 1 hour take and drink test. I fail the 1 hour test every time, so it's not worth having to drink that horrific concoction twice when I can drink it once and be super uncomfortable just once. So I'm hanging at the hospital where, when I asked the front desk about wireless access, they helpfully pointed me to a wall plug.

(Here's how you do the test, in case you're interested: You don't eat for 10-12 hours. Go to the hospital, they take a blood sample. They give you this glucose drink that tastes like soda, but 3 times as sweet and flat. It is awful. You wander around for an hour, they take more blood. You sit and wait for an hour, they take more blood. You do NOT drive, because you will probably pass out, you sit down and wait for another hour, and they'll take more blood. If you're lucky, your body processes the glucose at the right rate and you are not diabetic.)

In the meantime, I'm not just at the hospital!

Commercial Brats over at Today's Mama

They Should Not Contend over at Segullah

It's Bananas over at Sell Party of

Kisses!

E.G. is Sentenced to the Gulag, I Mean Goes to The Dentist

2011-02-23T10:11:00.000-07:00

The last time we took EG to the dentist it did not go well. (And by “we” I mean “me,” as in I take the kids to the dentist, and the doctor, and to everywhere because for some reason I’ve turned into The One Who Does the Driving. Fine.) He needed two teeth pulled: one for being stubborn and one for being bad.

A note about EG: he’s a thinker like his dad and horribilizer like his mother. This means that he psyches himself into dramatic apoplexies based on his imagination. Although he was shot up to high heaven with numbing agent, his screams and cries echoed through the dental office. I, personally, watched the dentist shot him up multiple times, there was NO WAY he was still feeling anything, but the suggestion of work and pain was enough to send him into a freak-out spiral. I held his hand while the dentist tried to convince him that he was OK and that this would take No Time At All. The teeth came out quickly but the fit continued. “BLOOD?” mumble-screamed EG, “There’s BLOOD?” Because in his world, there is nothing worse than something bleeding. Oh, my dear child, there are far worse things than bleeding, trust me, as one who has both given birth and seen the ravages of disease.

We had to go back to fix the cavities a week later.

(Side note: I’m still angry we don’t have fluoride in our water. I hate all you nut bags.)

I informed EG we were going to the dentist when he was already captive in the car. He started screaming and crying, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”
“Do you know what used to happen to children who had teeth problems? Who had an abscess like you did last year? Who couldn’t get their teeth fixed?”
“What?”
“THEY DIED. Now, because we love you, and don’t want you to die, we’re fixing your teeth.”

When we arrived he refused to get out of the car. I got him out of the car. He refused to leave the car’s side. He refused to get into the office. I got him in the door. He ran to the corner, kicked off his shoes, curled up in a chair, laced his arms through the chair arms, and declared his intention to fight the dying of the light. The other man in the waiting room was amused.
“Next time,” I said to the receptionist, “I want a prescription for Valium--for both of us.”
“Do you want us to give him nitrous oxide?”
“How much extra is it?”
“It’s $42.”
“WHAT? That’s IT? YES, DO IT.”

I gave EG the requisite threats and he walked back with the dental assistant, crying and screaming the whole way. After about 15 minutes they brought him back out.
“There’s nothing we can do, he’s not cooperating, here’s a referral to a pediatric endodontist.”

I took him outside where he continued to his Reactor 5 Meltdown. “ANOTHER DOCTOR?” He screamed.
“Yes.”
“BUT HOW LONG WILL THAT TAKE? I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SOMEONE ELSE I DON’T WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE...”
“I don’t know what to tell you, “ I said as we drove away, “You have to get this done and if it’s not at this dentist, it will be at another.”
“I want to go back.”
“Are you sure? I don’t know if they can even take you anymore.”
“I want to try again.”
“Fine, but you can’t give them any grief. You have to listen to them and do what they say.”
“OK, but I want you to hold my hand when I get the shots.”

We drove back to the office and the dentist agreed to try again. EG was a little upset when I couldn’t hold his hand--I guess preggos aren’t allowed in the same room as the laughing gas--but the assistant held his hands the whole time. EG finally listened and breathed through his nose to catch all the magic effects of the nitrous; it made him chatty and a little mixed up.

Whatever, he got all his work done and left happy.

Now, I need some nitrous so I can get some “work” done.

Justin Hackworth Takes My Picture

2011-02-17T12:26:00.001-07:00

I don't remember when I first met Justin. Maybe at a dinner party? Was it at a conference? It just seems like the Hackworths seamlessly entered my life at some point and that was the end of it.

Last week Justin asked if he could take my picture.

Uh, yes.

So I bundled myself off to his office. Even though the address could not have been simpler, I got myself thoroughly lost. It took me an extra 20 minutes to figure out where I was and where I needed to be. I have no idea, gang, blame the baby.

Look! You can see the baby!

Do I look almost 6 months pregnant? Good. Because I am.

I have so many beautiful pictures now, I had trouble picking the ones to put in this post.

Someone told me (it was Justin) that Justin is giving away wedding photos! If you're engaged or know someone who is, maybe you should pop over to Stephanie's blog and enter--I think there are only hours to go!

Otherwise, Justin is taking headshots all the time, and you can book yours here.

Thanks for taking my picture, J!

I've Behaved Badly

2011-02-10T01:34:00.004-07:00

I am sorry that I made fun of my cousin’s name (not to her face) vociferously by asking what my aunt was thinking lo those many years ago. My father pursed his lips in vague disapproval, but my mother suppressed a laugh that suggested she's been holding it inside for twenty years.

On the other hand, I did not tell my mother that her roast would be better suited to re-soling my work boots (a slice of roast should be not harder than the table upon which it was served, nor hold its gravy like cream cheese on melba toast.) No need to repent for something you did not say (I think.)

I apologize to my children, but not really, because after spending a day where one would antagonize the other until he screamed his high-pitched scream every five minutes, they do not deserve an apology.

In fact, I am still owed an apology since they so rudely interrupted the sacred Sunday nap on a constant basis; being in a semi-dream like state, I couldn’t actually arise and lock the door. Things did not go well. I resented them for hours.

I may have completely ignored them when they cried. I am not apologizing for that. Moms only have so many screams per day that can be responded to before ignoring the rest.

I do apologize that I made other people handle my children because I was ignoring them.

I am sorry that I sat on the couch Tweeting instead of sitting down to dinner when everyone else was (but brownie points for not telling my mom that I wasn’t TEXTING, I was TWEETING, and they are different.) I needed to be alone for a few minutes before sitting down with a whole bunch of people that might say something kind and innocent that, in fact, is the most annoying thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

Perhaps I shocked my mother by not borrowing a coat for my eldest when he rode home in the dark. I am sorry that she felt bad for my child. I am not sorry that my child was cold because he deliberately decided he wasn’t going to wear a coat. It’s a lesson you learn when you live someplace with Winter. However, asking him out of my car window if he felt cold now was probably unnecessary salt on the wound.

I tender sincere apologies to the church ladies, who greeted me happily at the Sunday night meeting, to which I responded without making eye contact and a curt response. That was rude. In my defense, I wanted to be watching the Super Bowl, which is not really a defense nor in any way excusable, and I feel badly about that. I feel like I should apologize for going to the restroom; you started the meeting while I was using the facilities and I therefore missed conducting the music--one of the only reasons I was supposed to be in attendance. My bladder is penitent; the baby remains defiant.

I was, in general, a miserable person to be around that day, and terribly mean. I am sorry.

Enjoying TV that Horrifies You

2011-01-28T15:17:00.006-07:00

It’s no secret that I enjoy TV that horrifies me. Aghast and appalled are such delicious feelings, n'est-ce pas? I was watching American Idol when it occurred to me that if I were the sort of person to whom fame was a concern, my baby could be on that show in 16 years. That’s not very long. I clearly remember what I was up to 16 years ago (and if you can’t, perhaps you’re too young to read this blog.)

With a shudder of evil delight, I tracked that my baby could be on Toddlers and Tiaras in less than four years (because for maximum horror potential, the child should be a veteran pageant competitor by age three.) Have you seen the show? I hope you have. They feed the children Coke, coffee, and line after line of Pixie Stix. Drugged with legal substances! Children who are spray-tanned and have manicures! Exhausted toddlers who can't cope with the pressure being forced by their parents to walk on a stage and/or get yelled at! Toddlers who repulsively yell at their moms (and whose moms actually take it!) Moms who call their babies "divas" without a trace of irony!

But wait! At this very moment, I should be preparing for my I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant appearance! That’s the show where women try to convince you that they did not know they were pregnant until they had their baby in their pants. While they are trying to convince you of one of the least likely possibilities ever, actors stage reenactments that sometimes even include the actual 9-11 call (because the women always think they are dying. Joke's on you; it's a baby! A baby that will try to kill you someday anyway.)

Maybe I should have the “surprise” baby on a horse farm! I could tell them that I’d been busting broncos all day and felt a little tired, but had been a little bothered by what I thought was indigestion from the chuck wagon jalapenos (I might be getting horse farm and old west ranch mixed up.)

Stacey suggested a chair lift above a ski resort. What a killer TV reenactment that would make! The actress who plays me, stranded on a chair lift, surrounded by sweeping vistas, terrified unrelated tweens next to her, horrified skiers below, a shot of something red dripping onto the snow. Wicked reader Sarah suggested the Olive Garden. “Welp, I thought it was just the fra diavolo sauce actin’ up, or that the breadsticks were disgreein’ with me. Turns out I gave birth to the kid right there, at table 38, the waiter caught it.”

I’m hoping for a reenactment that has the actress vaguely beached; surrounded by empty bags of CornNuts, boxes of Totino’s Party Pizza, and 2 Liter bottles in various states of drainage. “I thought I’d just overdone it on the Mountain Dew and pizza rolls, and needed to poop real bad.”

The reality possibilities are endless!

Today's Mama: Super Bowl Snacks

2011-01-27T10:01:00.001-07:00

I'm over at Today's Mama with some ideas on Super Bowl snacks to serve.

I'm warning you: almost everything in that post either IS a cheese sauce or could be served with cheese sauce.

The Good News

2011-01-25T17:45:00.000-07:00

Great news everyone! E.G. started a Lego club and I am in! He told me himself!

(I am also invited to his next birthday party! [for now.])

Oh,

The other thing?

Sorry, Mo...

It's a GIRL!

Is It Girl or a Boy?

2011-01-25T00:00:00.002-07:00

What did he ask Santa for?

A baby sister.

Do you know what he's been asking for almost once a week since last March?

A baby sister.

Do you know that when he prays at night he asks the Almighty for a sister?

Until he found out that we really were expecting a baby, and then he prayed that the baby in Mama's tummy would be a girl.

"Why do you want a girl?" I asked.

"Because it's not fair," he answered, "I'm a boy, Proximo is a boy, daddy is a boy, and you are the only girl. It's just not fair."

When we asked Proximo if the baby in Mama's tummy was a girl or a boy he looked over his glasses and said, as if we were complete idiots for even asking, "It's a baby."

Today is the day we find out if E.G. will have another little brother to steal his Legos and torment his friends, or his long-imagined and much hoped-for baby sister.

What do you think we're having?

My Lipstick isn't Here

2011-01-24T15:07:00.001-07:00

And neither am I....

Take a look at technophobes and technophiles at worship over at Segullah.

See the 11 Things (not resolutions!) that I'm trying accomplish in 2011 over at Today's Mama. (I may have stacked the deck.)

The Lightweight

2011-01-21T11:39:00.002-07:00

I’m a mover and a worker. I am busy working on things from the moment I wake up until the minute I finally, reluctantly, petulantly pass out in bed (usually with a remote or a book in my hand in a final act of conscious defiance.) You all know how I feel about sleep (a waste of time! Only to use when forced!)

Yesterday I woke up early, dressed, made lunches, got people off to school, and did the dishes. Then I prepped a seasoned baked chicken and veggies in separate containers for easy dinner assemblage later. I got myself ready and Proximo. I whirred up a plain yogurt, banana, and oatmeal smoothie for breakfast-on-the-go. I shoved my sewing machine and laptop to the car with everything else I’d need for the day. After dropping off Proximo, I drove to Salt Lake to Alt Summit. I’d be helping Susan with her workshop by teaching novice sewers how to make a simple envelope pillowcase. Dragging a sewing machine from the Little America Hotel to the Grand America Hotel, along with everything else, was great fun.

I attended the keynote luncheon where we heard Seth Aaron and Mondo from Project Runway speak. They were a lot of fun. (Mondo and I are the same height [when I am wearing 3” heels] but he is tiny, like a doll. They described what shooting days were like: in bed at 2am and up at 6am. So what, I snickered to Allison, that’s basically my normal schedule; I’ve been in training for Project Runway for 15 years. Except now that I’m pregnant my hours are a more reasonable 1am to 7:30am.)

The workshop was really well done; Susan did a great job prepping and organizing it all. My friends urged me to stay at ALT, but it was already 5:15pm and I was feeling atypically exhausted. I decided to go home. I decided it so fast that instead of mingling and mixing with people, I sat down on my sewing machine case in the middle of Grand America and didn’t move. I asked (begged) Amy Hackworth to drive me the block to my car so I wouldn’t have to carry everything back to my parking spot. She agreed because she’s an angel.

Faced with the prospect of driving home in a warm, comfortable car, I stopped by the only place on the one-way route to the freeway: McDonald’s. I felt stupid charging a dollar’s worth of Diet Coke, so I got a vanilla cone, too (because charging $2.36 is infinitely less stupid than charging $1.07, right?) Oh, burgleflickle, 5:30pm on a weekday means rush hour traffic, doesn’t it? 30 minutes into the stop-and-go, I started to feel awful. Really terrible. Hauling all that stuff, eating not enough, trying to do a mountain’s worth of work in just a couple hours, no. Nope. No. “NO,” says the baby, “NO, no, no just no.”

Have you ever vomited while driving on a freeway? It’s my new talent. That and attempting to fall asleep at the wheel. I called everyone I could to talk to so I’d stay awake. When I pulled into my driveway I could barely make it out the door and into the house. I was put to bed immediately, where the children, not having seen me all day, could crawl over me while I tried to not die.

“That was stupid,” I thought. The hardest thing for me to accept while pregnant, even harder than accepting the physical changes, is that I can’t go, go, go. My body will quit. It will drop out from under me. I have no choice in the matter. If I was Courtney I’d write about how giving up that kind of control is a profound experience, but I’m me, so I’ll just say it’s HARD for me to ACCEPT that I am NOT IN CHARGE of my OWN BODY. The consequences of stress, physical work, and trying to do everything, are unavoidable and immediate. This baby has already laid claim to me for its needs, and I am bound to it.

I'm Having This Baby in a Hospital

2011-01-18T22:48:00.009-07:00

(anxietus habitatus)

Yes. Yes, I am. Unless I have the baby in the car on the way to the hospital, in which case I will be a widow because my husband will have passed out and crashed the car from the horror of It All.

It feels like more and more people are having their babies at home these days, or at least entertaining the possibility. Know what? I think that’s awesome!

I think you should have your baby at home if that’s what you want. From what I understand, it's as safe as a hospital (all things considered.) It's the way birth has been done since, oh, well, practically forever. Surrounded in your own controlled environment, with people you love, no machines, no beeping, no strangers poking into places heretofore reserved for the cherished few, I get it! I just don’t want it.

In talking with friends and acquaintances, it’s pretty clear that a lot of hospitals are rotten places to have a baby. I don’t know if rotten covers it, they’re horrid. If the choice was to deliver at one of those pits, I’d give a second thought to my notions.

However, I have a perfectly lovely hospital where my midwives have privileges. I delivered my last baby there and had a wonderful time in my private room with beautiful mountain views. No fear of a nurse giving my baby formula when I’m not looking, no undo pressure to take, or monitor, things I don’t want taken, or monitored. Lots of support for the kind of birth I want. People bring me food that I did not have to prepare or cook; it’s not terrible food and I can have food any time I like. I don’t have other people crawling all over me. I don’t have to referee any fights. I get to be alone, just me and the baby.

My house...my house. It’s a nice house, but it gives me anxiety. Does anyone else suffer from House Anxiety? It’s crippling, I tell you. No matter where you are, or specifically are not, in the housework cycle, there’s always more that can be done: another surface to fill and clear, another pile of junk, a wall that must be scrubbed. The table is perpetually sticky with a proprietary blend of jelly, peanut butter, and unidentifiable goo. The floor does a mean Cap’n Crunch impression. You always think you might want a place with four bathrooms, but as it turns out, that’s four bathrooms that have to be cleaned. Four bathrooms that men use. You may draw your own conclusions (they’ve certainly drawn their own...)

When I am at home the House Anxiety weighs on me: there is more to clean, more to organize, and more to tidy than I can ever possibly accomplish. I cannot have a baby here. I just can’t. I do not want to be in the throes of labor and look over at the un-dusted windowsill and feel House Anxiety. I want someone else to cook for me. They bring you food! Maybe even cookies! Do you know how many kinds of juices they have? That’s practically cocktail service! Jetted tubs! It’s quiet! Private room where you can refuse visitors! I do not want to have to worry about anything. If the hospital would let me stay a week, I would.

Hmm.

On further reflection, maybe, just perhaps, what I want more than a birth in a hospital and not in my home,

is a vacation.

Stand Down, Everyone!

2011-01-12T12:14:00.001-07:00

Hey! Everyone!

Remember when I lost my perfect brown v-neck lightweight shirt with long sleeves? And how I told you all to keep an eye out for it? (You've been on high-alert/Code Red/Def Con One since then, right?) I haven't seen it since sometime around Fall of 2006. I've torn apart dressers, moved furniture, dug into boxes trying to find it, holding out hope that my perfect brown shirt would turn up when we moved--no such luck. I've wondered what you've been doing to find it. Quizzing suspects on the street? Joining the Clothing Militia? Trolling eBay in case it shows itself?

I didn't want to keep you on the hunt a minute longer! I found it! At the bottom of the box of maternity clothes!

And now I can't wear it for 8 months.

Fighting The Nothing

2011-01-07T00:57:00.002-07:00

One of the reasons it’s taken us so long to decide to have another baby is what happened the last time we had a baby: I fell into a black hole of nothing that ate me.

The loss of dear friends, losing the only income we had, and other profound circumstantial difficulties, exacerbated my already precarious perch. The precipitous drop in hormones that a lot of women experience after having a baby plunged me into a depression that in my life had no equal. I was a shell. I had the nothing. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t remember to do the most ordinary tasks, I forgot everything.

My friends would call on the phone and I would answer, but couldn’t even muster a “Hi.” Instead, my friends learned to say, “I know you can’t talk, but I want to talk to you, so you don’t have to say anything, just listen.” And that’s what I did. I listened because my brain couldn’t make words come out of my mouth. Some days I would cry and not know why. Other days I would sit and stare straight ahead and not know what happened. My husband would ask me to do simple things, like remember to put a dirty diaper in the garbage; I could not even accomplish that.

The only thing I did know was the fierce bond that Proximo and I had from the very beginning. He was the solitary light; my solar system; the entirety of the universe. My first born and my husband bore the brunt of my myopic preoccupation with the baby and my bungling neglect of all else; the nothing almost pulled them out of my hands.

I’m grateful that I blogged so much during that time because I honestly do not remember that year. I have a record because the only coping I could do was to write. I know that one day I woke up from the nothing. Huh, I thought, I need to do the dishes. I tried to remember when I had last done the dishes and realized that I’d been pregnant; I had a one-year-old on my knee. My relationships were a wreck and I was in shambles.

During the time of nothing I kept telling myself that it was getting better. No, I didn’t need to go to a Doctor, no I didn’t need help, no I was fine. It’s better than it was two weeks ago, I’d tell myself. But it wasn’t, because I couldn’t see how I’d lost myself. I needed help and I didn’t get it.

This time will be different.

I made my friends and family swear an oath that even if I insisted I was OK from here to Sunday, they know the truth and they will have to drive me to see a professional. I cannot risk losing another year of my life to nothing. It’s not acceptable to do that to my children and my spouse when there might be a way of preventing it.

So when I went to the midwives for my first appointment I explained that I would not be putting on a repeat performance. The midwife and I made a plan, and that plan includes a prescription for happy pills. It will be the first time I’ve ever taken the happy pills. I’ll start them about six weeks before the baby is due so that I don’t jump at the precipice. I’m somewhat nervous about taking the pills; I’m very sensitive to medication and stimulants of any kind. I don’t know how my body and my mental state will react to the seratonin. However, I will do anything it takes to fight the nothing--anything.

Conversations with E.G.: Egg Edition

2011-01-03T01:11:00.005-07:00

Team Star Wars pancakes for birthday breakfast courtesy of Tia La Quina

“I’m sorry I was so sick tonight.”

“It’s OK!”

“Do you have any questions about the baby?”

“Yeah...how did it get in there again?”

“Remember how I have eggs inside me?”

“Yes, but how did they get in there?”

“I was born with them. Moms are born with all the eggs they’ll ever have.”

“Whoa. Like a thousand?”

“Try like a million!”

“BZZZZT!”

“Any other questions?”

“How does it turn into a baby?”

“Dad fertilizes the egg. It’s just like a seed, and then the baby grows.”

“Did you know that popcorn has like a little guy inside it and when popcorn gets really hot the guy's face goes like THIS and then he POPS?!”

How to Throw a Mocktail Party

2010-12-30T21:13:00.006-07:00

I've been throwing mocktail parties for years. They are awesomely fun for a crowd who won't be drinking. I guess they are less fun if you're used to tying on a pair of beer goggles and using that as an excuse to engage in blackmail-able behavior, but we won't get into that here.

I love a mocktail party for a baby shower, a teen party, your church group, recovering alcoholics, Mormons, Muslims, or local Carrie Nation enthusiasts. Over the past year I've been featuring a bunch of mocktail recipes for fun and zero profit, and now you've decided you want to throw your own mocktail party! I can help!

What You Need For Your Own Mocktail Party

Permanent Equipment

Glasses
You can pick up a bunch of plastic cups (I won't deny you the clean-up pleasure) but for maximum enjoyment, use real glasses. I own martinis, highballs, tumblers, an assortment of flutes and goblets, and some general good-looking glassware. I've picked them up cheap over the years (IKEA, Target, big box store sale, vintage) and keep them in a cabinet where they look all sparkly-like.

A Shaker
This isn't absolutely necessary, you can provide swizzle sticks, but you really can pick one up in the clearance section of TJ Maxx or Target for just a couple dollars, and just get one, OK? A shaker combines the liquids and flavorings in your mocktail, tossing them with ice. You'll strain the liquid into the glass it so there's no ice in the drink but the drink is cold.

A Blender
For crushing ice and making blended drinks like margaritas and pina coladas.

Ice Bucket
You can use a bowl or large container, but pick up an ice bucket. You're an adult.

Sundries
Cocktail napkins, toothpicks, coasters, swizzle sticks; they're all nice touches that prove you're a civilized individual.

Liquid Supplies

Juice
Get bottles of different kinds of juices: pineapple, cranberry, and orange are the usual suspects. Don't be afraid to get whatever else you spy at the store: apricot, cran-raspberry, pomegranate, coconut milk, cherry, or pear. Natural food stores often have cool juices not found in regular groceries.

Soda
You'll need plenty of club soda and ginger ale. I also recommend tonic water.

Flavored Sodas
A great shortcut to max flavor. Grab a few bottles of Italian or French sodas. My favorite is lemon, but grapefruit, pomegranate, strawberry, or even lemon-lime and colas are marvy.

Flavored Syrups
Rose's Sweetened Lime and Grenadine are imperative. You can pick up a bottle of bitters if you desire. Maybe even rose water. Even those syrups used to make Italian sodas are fun. Chocolate syrup? Why not? You can find most of these in your grocer's drinks section.

Not Flavored Syrups
Make some simple syrup. Boil 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water together until the sugar melts and the water reduces slightly. DO THIS THE DAY BEFORE. No one wants to add warm syrup to a mocktail. Keep in a squeeze bottle for easy mixing.

Ready Mixes
These are the prepared drink mixes found at your grocers. Margarita mix, pina colada mix, bloody mary mix, they're all meant to combine with ice and alcohol and be ready to drink. I've shied away from these lately in favor of fresher flavor, but they're great for an easy wow factor and making blended drinks.

Other
Half and half is totally optional, but delicious. You can use it to make an egg cream. Don't worry! No eggs! A chocolate egg cream is club soda, chocolate syrup, and a little half and half. SO good.

Garnishes

Fruit
Lemons and limes are important, both for flavor and garnish. Have some oranges and grapefruits on hand for fresh squeezed juices if you like--I usually quarter or half those for easy squeezin'. Maraschino cherries if you are into that kind of abomination. Olives are a nice touch.

Herbs
Mint is the most important, tarragon or rosemary can be fun.

ICE

Because you aren't an idiot. Cubed, crushed, or pebbled, it's up to you.

Set-Up

I set-up a table with glasses, cocktail napkins, toothpicks, swizzle sticks, sodas, syrups, garnishes, the shaker, and ice. I keep the blender in another spot since it's messier and can cause a guest bottle neck. Have another spot for a cutting board and knife for easy garnish-making. It doesn't matter what you've selected from the liquid and garnishes above, you can simply combine or tailor your offerings because every party is different. You can suggest drinks, but people just love to experiment creating their own.

Bottoms up!

A Cover Song Makes Me Lose It

2010-12-29T01:06:00.001-07:00

The iPod in my car started playing Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah about ten minutes from my home this afternoon. I sang along with Buckley and started crying. In my primary defense, I am thoroughly pregnant. I have no accountability on emotional control. Second, David’s story always upsets me with its trade of eternal glory for obsessive love; it is utterly human.

My friend Andy asked his Facebook friends to name their favorite Old Testament story. I could say David, but he just breaks my heart into pieces, he’s not my favorite. I answered Hannah and Samuel, because her story can make me cry even when I’m not pregnant. (Truthfully, I love the Old Testament and its wild stories: women killing men with spikes, hiding idols under clothes, lies, battles, cursing, prophecies, poetry, and enduring love. Do you remember that after Hannah gave her beloved, longed-for, adored child to the Lord, she visited him every year? And every year she brought a new coat she’d made for him? Sniff.)

With the exception of persistent episodic crying, each of my pregnancies has been very different. Last time, I was sick for seven months. My temper was ever seconds from exploding. I went through most days unbelievably angry at everything. I had a high-pressure executive job with an underground parking space and serious responsibilities. Consequently, my blood pressure was a constant concern. It wasn’t until a strict talk with the midwife and a renewed commitment to daily yoga that I was able to control my temper.

This baby makes me sick and tired.

Not the kind of sick and tired that your mom used to get when you wouldn’t pick up your room, left your backpack in the hallway, and your friends had eaten all the Fruit Roll-ups, but the separate notions of both a.) sick and b.) tired. Oh, and I forget about c.) absentmindedness. I simply don’t have a lot to get angry about. I should be more stressed about the lack of regular income that I’m bringing in, but I have acquired some sort of happy faith that our situation will resolve itself in a happy way.

The angry pregnancy created a calm and sweet baby. Will this calm pregnancy make an angry baby?

I forget where I’m going with this post...

Last Monday at Segullah: Holdouts

2010-12-27T13:45:00.001-07:00

I'm over at Segullah today talking about a bunch of holdouts.

How Eggs Became My Enemy

2010-12-22T23:41:00.005-07:00

source

It started about six months ago, but maybe even before that.

I cook almost every day and bake often, so I crack a lot of eggs. Months ago I noticed that my eyes would swell up and itch after I cooked, just like the allergic reaction I have to animals. After trying to figure out the common denominator, I zeroed in on the whites of eggs. If I had even a trace of egg white on my fingers and touched my eyes, they’d itch, water, go red, and start to swell closed. The yolk had no effect on me.

One day I separated some eggs and forgot I had a cut on my finger. My left index finger swelled like a sausage in a too-small casing. Could I really be allergic to eggs? I could eat eggs in things and I had no problems, so it wasn’t a true egg allergy. If I took Benedryl, the symptoms would go away (clearly a histamine issue.) I happened to mention that eating fried eggs gives me heartburn to a friend--I mentioned it like it was a normal thing to happen. Only I guess that’s not normal.

It’s not normal for an egg to cause your body pain when you eat it. It’s not normal for your mouth to go tingly and your tongue to go a little numb.

Which is ridiculous, because eggs are delicious. Is there anything as wonderful as a perfectly cooked egg? Soft-boiled, once over easy, the runny yolk and whites with crispy edges, soft and buttery scrambled, a rolled omelet with delicate herbs? No! Nothing is as delightful as the perfect egg!

I tried to live in denial but the rent was too steep.

A couple weeks ago I was making a flan, like you do; it’s just custard: eggs, egg yolks, cream/milk, sugar. I had some leftover custard that wouldn’t fit in the pan so I poured it in a cup. I added some fresh grated nutmeg and a drop of rum flavor--egg nog! I drank that sucker; it was so perfectly yummy. Even as I finished that small ¾ of a cup, I remembered that it had egg white. Oh no. Oh no. OH NO. Kids, the pain that followed: the cramping, the nerves firing, the feeling that I would lose it, and I did. That nog went through me like a train through Kansas. I think the only comparison is lactose intolerance. Oh, my lactose intolerant friends, I am so sorry! I have felt your pain! I am now empathetic!

I even tried fresh eggs from friends’ hens, to find they’re just as painful as the Omega-3 Oakdells I buy from Costco.

After a little more research I figured out that I have an egg white intolerance. It’s not an egg allergy because I most likely will not go into anaphylactic shock if I eat some egg. I can eat eggs that are well cooked, like in cakes. But I can’t eat an egg. This is terrible. And weird. What if I have to go vegan now?

(I am not going vegan.)

Morgan's Holiday Essentials!

2010-12-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

My friend Morgan has put together an online studio filled with all kinds of great holiday essentials. If you're one of those people (you know who you are) who needs a step-by-step tutorial on crafts and recipes, plus actual help from an actual person, I'm pretty sure you need to check this out.

Sometimes when I say "My friend" what I mean is my Internet friend, or someone who I met once at an event. This is not the case with Morgan.

I've known Morgan since she was my "cool" friend in Junior High; she always had the slickest bolo ties, the best taste in music, and had mastered the art of liquid liner years before the rest of us. We might have also had some serious fights over certain boys. (Didn't you tell me to stay away from a boy because he was YOURS, Morgan?) I heart you.

Anyway, away with you, nervous crafters and wanters of holiday help, Morgan is here to save your day.

The Blog Also Rises

2010-12-14T23:18:00.008-07:00

“Hello?”
“Where have you been, freak?”
“Blog? Is that you?”
“Yes, where have you been? It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Am I supposed to feel sad about that? The nausea can’t be that bad anymore, and you can write through the dry heaves. You’ve already done this twice before.”
“It just feels different this time.”
“You always think that, but the truth is that morning sickness is morning sickness and any self-respecting writer can write through anything. Think about Hemingway; he wrote everything in a revolving state of drunk and hungover.”
“Maybe that’s why I never really cared for Hemingway.”
“No, you never liked him because he was annoyingly masculine.”
“Guns and women and war and guns and killing and colonialism and manhood and GAH.”
“Right, but one of you is famous and the other of you spends most of her day face-deep on a sofa wondering when the next wave of heaving will reach her metaphorical shore.”
“Can we talk about something else? Please? In a hurry?”
“What’s that in your hand?”

“It’s a list of questions El Guille wrote down for me to answer.”
“HA! It’s all math questions! No one can doubt the parentage of your child now!”
“Wait, was that ever up for debate?”
“Nevermind. How is the fetus?”
“Sucking the life out of me. Remind me why we do this?”
“You’re creating humanity anew! Experiencing the incredible life force! Every new baby refreshes the world! Or maybe that’s a Pepsi. For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
“Enough with Hemingway, seriously. Plus, that story might not even be attributable to Papa.”
"Oh, sure, go check Snopes. Can you do anything ever without checking Snopes?"

"It's just a useful repository of which people should perhaps avail themselves more often."

“Yeah, we're all impressed you can use the Internet. Let me ask, are you craving anything interesting?”
“Meat. I ate a hunk of ham for a midnight snack the other night. I felt so primal.”
“How Green Hills of Africa of you.”
“Stop it.”
“I thought you were into Asian foods, like last time.”
“After an unfortunate night following a maiden voyage to Pei Wei Diner, we might have cut that obsession short.”
“Can you really vomit on command?”
“Affirmative.”
“Wow. I’m kind of impressed. Can you stay awake?”
“Not for a million dollars.”
“So you’re a narcoleptic refunder? What a delight!”
“I’ll say.”

2010-12-09T10:00:00.003-07:00

This is Brody Young. I went to school with him. He's a really cool guy; quiet, and kind.

Brody is park ranger. During a vehicle stop on November 19th at the Poison Spider Mesa trailhead, he was shot in the arm, leg, and stomach. The shooter is still at large. Since then, Brody's been in and out of surgeries and remains in critical condition. He has three little ones under the age of six. If you have a couple extra dollars to throw in his hat, that would be really cool of you.

Read more information over at Ranger Brody.

The Never-ending Birthday Party

2010-12-08T23:58:00.006-07:00

E.G. is planning his birthday party. Many hours of work--E.G. crouched at the coffee table, pencil in hand and paper at the ready--have been spent on the growing list of details. This is serious business: only boys this year. The guest list will be decisive and carefully curated. A number of considerations are on the table: location, activities, and culinary proclivities. Our home has yet to host a birthday party for him, so after some consideration, festivities will be in-house. I don’t want to scare Jordan, but we might have a budding party planner on our hands. I'm just saying she should watch her back: a whole lot of almost seven is hot on her heels.

We are engaged in high-level coordination, dear readers. If you can’t hack the birthday intensity, best to retreat to your thrown together, half-hearted soirees filled with whichever gender happens to arrive and whomever was free.

As we ate dinner the other night, party planning mercifully tabled, J asked E.G. to turn to me. “What do you think? Should your mom dye her hair blond?” I swiveled my head back and forth a little so he could declare his objective opinion. “Hmm,” he said, squinting a little and sticking his tongue out of the hole where a front tooth used to be, “No, I think she’s pretty much perfect just the way she is.”

(I guess I’m his Bridget.)

Enough sentimentalities; it’s invitation time.

Hand-made? Store-bought? Theme? Engraved?

Oh, the agonizing choices!