This Christmas season, I decided to get my shopping done before December so I could spend that month doing things with the boys to teach them the meaning of Christmas, to learn about Advent, to make cookies, to hike up the field and cut a tree instead of having Brian grab one on Rte. 1 on his way home from work. Right up there on this list is teaching them about charity. At 6 1/2, I think Ben, especially, is ready. The other day I took my first stab at it.
Me: Honey, look at this from your school. They're having a toy drive! You can bring a toy to school, and they'll give it to a boy your age who otherwise wouldn't have gotten any Christmas presents.
Ben: Why?
Me: Well, Santa will bring him a few, you know, but his mom and dad don't have enough money to buy him toys.
Ben: I don't want to give away any toys!
Me: No, I didn't ...
Ben: I don't wanna! I'm not giving ANYTHING to ANYBODY.
Me: Ben, listen to me. We will go to the store and buy a toy to give to the boy.
Ben: Oh. Ok. Buying's good. (*begins chanting*) Buying's good and giving's bad. Buying's good and giving's bad! Buying's good and giving's bad!
Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Day 29: A Stitch in My Side
I have this health thing that I've wanted to talk about here, but when I try, I find it’s such a long story. And the ending always feels so anti-climactic.
However that’s what’s on my mind, and this is NaBloPoMo, so ...
In my 20s, I had chronic pain in my right side, under the rib cage. That pain lasted for 8 years, I kid you not. After many different diagnostic procedures, it got diagnosed as musculoskeletal about six years in, and then was treated successfully with myofacial release and massage therapy a few years later. In all, I had that pain from age 18 to age 26, when I met the amazing physical therapist who healed me. It is one of the big stories of my life.
In summer 2005, after almost a decade of that pain being a distant memory, it recurred. At the time, I was pregnant with Ava and having a lot of back pain, plus pain from a whiplash injury three years previous. It made sense that it would act up.
I mentioned it my chiropractor, but she really didn’t get it. Again, no surprise. I’d spent eight years searching for a cure for the pain. No one got it then, why would they now?
Flash forward to this summer. Ava turned 1 and the pain just would not quit. Instead, it escalated. I felt bad all around, too: bloated, tired, sad, unmotivated, PMS mood swings that affected my kids. I made my primary care doctor feel my abdomen for tumors; he ran a blood/urine screen. I saw a massage therapist a few times. I tried to talk myself into getting on the health “wagon.”
Then one afternoon in August, I Googled the amazing PT who’d helped me a decade before, and up she popped on my screen. I held my breath as I made the necessary calls, and next thing I knew, I had an appointment with her! I couldn’t believe my luck. The emotions I felt seeing Mary again is a story I’ll save for another post.
Now it’s 10 weeks later. I’m still in PT, and my side feels worse. I haven’t wanted to admit that it feels worse, but it does. Just in the last 12 days or so, Mary has started working more directly on the source of pain, and I did get a sense that maybe it might work after all. Still, I went to the doctor a few weeks ago, the new guy in the practice so I could be seen right away. He turned out to be an interesting guy, who said, among other things, that “As a mother, we put you up on a pedestal.” It's about time I got some respect!
He ordered an ultrasound, more blood and urine tests. This morning the doctor left a message saying the ultrasound was normal and to give him a call with a progress report. When I called, I told the nurse I was sure everything was fine, and she told me I had white blood cells in my urine. I’m going in tomorrow to give another sample.
I got that rush of relief -- normal ultrasound -- followed by "Except for the blood in your urine." Can I just say, this is when I hate the Internet? Too much information, folks. I read up on “white blood cells in urine” on WebMD, and it means either an infection, cancer or kidney disease. I'm hoping it’s because the lab wasn’t set up for a clean catch.
Either way, tonight, I’m thinking about the pressure I’ve been feeling in my mid back, the night the pain got so sharp it hurt to breathe, and how much it would suck to have cancer or kidney disease. Consider this post on alert for deletion, but tonight I feel freaked the hell out. I’ve had the pain for a couple YEARS. What if I’m really sick?
That’s rhetorical, by the way. I know it’ll all work itself out. If I'm sick, I'll play the hand I'm dealt. Tomorrow, in the light of day, I won’t be so worried. In truth I know I feel like crap in large part thanks to my habits of late: not exercising, staying up late, having a few beers, drinking coffee all day, eating a ½ pound of white pasta with butter and parmesan for lunch, eating candy whenever it comes to mind. Some days, though, I wonder if I’m perpetuating my bad habits because I’m afraid to stop them and realize I don’t feel any better, that I’m sick. That kind of thinking is all kinds of stupid, I know. If I eat a damned apple and go for a walk I’ll feel better immediately. At least partway better.
Besides, what’s NaBloPoMo without a post I want to delete?
However that’s what’s on my mind, and this is NaBloPoMo, so ...
In my 20s, I had chronic pain in my right side, under the rib cage. That pain lasted for 8 years, I kid you not. After many different diagnostic procedures, it got diagnosed as musculoskeletal about six years in, and then was treated successfully with myofacial release and massage therapy a few years later. In all, I had that pain from age 18 to age 26, when I met the amazing physical therapist who healed me. It is one of the big stories of my life.
In summer 2005, after almost a decade of that pain being a distant memory, it recurred. At the time, I was pregnant with Ava and having a lot of back pain, plus pain from a whiplash injury three years previous. It made sense that it would act up.
I mentioned it my chiropractor, but she really didn’t get it. Again, no surprise. I’d spent eight years searching for a cure for the pain. No one got it then, why would they now?
Flash forward to this summer. Ava turned 1 and the pain just would not quit. Instead, it escalated. I felt bad all around, too: bloated, tired, sad, unmotivated, PMS mood swings that affected my kids. I made my primary care doctor feel my abdomen for tumors; he ran a blood/urine screen. I saw a massage therapist a few times. I tried to talk myself into getting on the health “wagon.”
Then one afternoon in August, I Googled the amazing PT who’d helped me a decade before, and up she popped on my screen. I held my breath as I made the necessary calls, and next thing I knew, I had an appointment with her! I couldn’t believe my luck. The emotions I felt seeing Mary again is a story I’ll save for another post.
Now it’s 10 weeks later. I’m still in PT, and my side feels worse. I haven’t wanted to admit that it feels worse, but it does. Just in the last 12 days or so, Mary has started working more directly on the source of pain, and I did get a sense that maybe it might work after all. Still, I went to the doctor a few weeks ago, the new guy in the practice so I could be seen right away. He turned out to be an interesting guy, who said, among other things, that “As a mother, we put you up on a pedestal.” It's about time I got some respect!
He ordered an ultrasound, more blood and urine tests. This morning the doctor left a message saying the ultrasound was normal and to give him a call with a progress report. When I called, I told the nurse I was sure everything was fine, and she told me I had white blood cells in my urine. I’m going in tomorrow to give another sample.
I got that rush of relief -- normal ultrasound -- followed by "Except for the blood in your urine." Can I just say, this is when I hate the Internet? Too much information, folks. I read up on “white blood cells in urine” on WebMD, and it means either an infection, cancer or kidney disease. I'm hoping it’s because the lab wasn’t set up for a clean catch.
Either way, tonight, I’m thinking about the pressure I’ve been feeling in my mid back, the night the pain got so sharp it hurt to breathe, and how much it would suck to have cancer or kidney disease. Consider this post on alert for deletion, but tonight I feel freaked the hell out. I’ve had the pain for a couple YEARS. What if I’m really sick?
That’s rhetorical, by the way. I know it’ll all work itself out. If I'm sick, I'll play the hand I'm dealt. Tomorrow, in the light of day, I won’t be so worried. In truth I know I feel like crap in large part thanks to my habits of late: not exercising, staying up late, having a few beers, drinking coffee all day, eating a ½ pound of white pasta with butter and parmesan for lunch, eating candy whenever it comes to mind. Some days, though, I wonder if I’m perpetuating my bad habits because I’m afraid to stop them and realize I don’t feel any better, that I’m sick. That kind of thinking is all kinds of stupid, I know. If I eat a damned apple and go for a walk I’ll feel better immediately. At least partway better.
Besides, what’s NaBloPoMo without a post I want to delete?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Tuesday Giveaway: PollyWorld DVD
I've got another enthusiastic PR person on my hands, people! And, no, that's not necessarily a bad thing.
Our friend Polly Pocket has finally taken the next step in her career: starring in a full-length movie. Now, I have not seen PollyWorld myself yet, since I just received it last week. However, I do plan to watch the entire thing with my 6 and 4 year old boys, so I can enjoy them moaning and writhing on the floor in pain. Hey, who knows, maybe they'll end up liking it. (If that's the case, I'm sure Ben will swear me to secrecy.)
According to the DVD cover, the movie follows Polly "as she hits the world's most fabulicious amusement park full of monster good rides, the ultimate shopping experience and music to the max -- including a not-to-be-missed performance by Polly and The Pockets!" It's the widescrean version, and bonus features include four games, a "spectabulous Rock This Town" music video, and some kind of DVD Fabulicious Fashion Magazine thingy that I'm too old to understand.
Besides the use of fake words like "fabulicious" and "spectabulous," it looks like a harmless, fun movie for the little girl in your life. At least on the package, there is not one bit of cleavage or excessive makeup to be seen.
Back to the enthusiastic PR person. She was SO enthusiastic that she sent me several DVDs along with PollyWorld Park Pals dolls (each comes with a purse, two dresses and two pairs of shoes). Since I took one for my niece and one for the future, preschooler Ava, I have four PollyWorld DVD/Park Pals Doll combos to give away to lucky commenters.
If you'd like a chance to win, please leave a comment between now and Thursday at midnight, EST. And just for my own personal benefit, does anyone have a good idea for a Christmas gift for an 18-month-old girl who has everything (handed down from her brothers)?
Our friend Polly Pocket has finally taken the next step in her career: starring in a full-length movie. Now, I have not seen PollyWorld myself yet, since I just received it last week. However, I do plan to watch the entire thing with my 6 and 4 year old boys, so I can enjoy them moaning and writhing on the floor in pain. Hey, who knows, maybe they'll end up liking it. (If that's the case, I'm sure Ben will swear me to secrecy.)
According to the DVD cover, the movie follows Polly "as she hits the world's most fabulicious amusement park full of monster good rides, the ultimate shopping experience and music to the max -- including a not-to-be-missed performance by Polly and The Pockets!" It's the widescrean version, and bonus features include four games, a "spectabulous Rock This Town" music video, and some kind of DVD Fabulicious Fashion Magazine thingy that I'm too old to understand.
Besides the use of fake words like "fabulicious" and "spectabulous," it looks like a harmless, fun movie for the little girl in your life. At least on the package, there is not one bit of cleavage or excessive makeup to be seen.
Back to the enthusiastic PR person. She was SO enthusiastic that she sent me several DVDs along with PollyWorld Park Pals dolls (each comes with a purse, two dresses and two pairs of shoes). Since I took one for my niece and one for the future, preschooler Ava, I have four PollyWorld DVD/Park Pals Doll combos to give away to lucky commenters.
If you'd like a chance to win, please leave a comment between now and Thursday at midnight, EST. And just for my own personal benefit, does anyone have a good idea for a Christmas gift for an 18-month-old girl who has everything (handed down from her brothers)?
Monday, November 27, 2006
An Affair to ... Roomba
After seeing it on WantNot.net a few times, I broke down and bought myself a Roomba for my birthday in October. What can I say? For $135, I couldn’t resist the allure. I’d fantasized for weeks of merely touching a button on the robotic vacuum and walking away, letting it suck up the pound of dirt and crumbs deposited on my floors every hour.
Brian tried to talk me out of it. He didn’t think it would work well, that it would break the day after the 90-day warranty, but I couldn’t be swayed. No more straining my back to get all the crumbs and hard pieces of macaroni out from under the dining room table! No more pulling out my 35-pound canister vacuum to get up the ½ cup of sand spilled from John’s shoe! Most of all, no more sweeping every night! I could pick up a few toys and retire, while the Roomba got all those little bits off the floor that Ava could choke on. (That was my reasoning to Brian: It could save your daughter’s life!)
The first time I used it, I was suprised at how loud it was. But I figured, it’s a vacuum, of course it’s going to be somewhat loud. I did use it outside Ava’s bedroom door while she napped without waking her, and she’s a light sleeper. So, it can’t be that loud. However, Brian found the noise annoying. And it is, if you have to be in the same room with it.
In my small, rectangular living room, which holds Ava’s toys and no furniture, it worked great. Brian and I sat spellbound while it worked it's algorithms around the room. However, I did notice that it took a long time for such a small room. Like, an hour. Also, it goes over the same piece of floor many times, which I guess explains, at least in part, why it takes so long.
My kitchen and dining room are separated by a large archway. I figured I’d have the Roomba do the two rooms as one. This also took an hour, then the Roomba shut off without finishing the room. I guess it got tired. The thing is, though, the two rooms combined are still a pretty small area. I think my dining room is 14’ by 12’, and my kitchen is downright dinky. As much as I dislike sweeping it every night, it takes me about five minutes. I couldn't help thinking about that as I listened to the Roomba drone on for 60 minutes.
My house was built in the swinging sixties, so we have a "sunken" family room: you have to step down to it from the kitchen. Hey, at least we ripped out the orange shag rug! The stair is not a problem for the Roomba. No, it can't walk down stairs, but its two virtual walls prevent it from falling down them.
We just bought a new Oriental rug for the family room, and Brian was worried about the Roomba ruining the fringe on it. So, I was working with the virtual walls to make the Roomba stay off the fringe part. If I wanted to, I could have also taped the fringe under the rug permanently. However, the Roomba could not get onto our area rug from the wood floor. At about a ½ inch, the rug was too high. The Roomba could roll off of the rug, however. Then it would end up circling endlessly in a corner of the room.
The last place I Roomba'd was the boys’ room. Man, was it thrilling to press “Go,” shut the door, and come back in an hour to a clean floor – even under the beds! However, since I chose dark blue chenille rugs for that room, those rugs to need a deep vacuum. The Roomba did a fine job, but I’d still have to go up with a real vacuum at least once a month.
All things considered, the Roomba just didn’t work out for me. The real deal breaker was that I wanted it to clean my dining room/kitchen floor nightly, and Brian and I didn’t want to listen to it as we relaxed or watched TV. We could have started it when we went to bed, but I didn’t want to scare the hell out of the boys in the middle of the night either, and having to open the cellar door for the cat would have left us one virtual wall short.
The other thing is, it took an hour to vaccuum an area that I could do in 3 minutes. It just didn't seem practical. I'm going to look for a lightweight upright vacuum to make quick clean ups easier. Know of one?
Despite my short romance with the Roomba, I haven't given up hope. In the future, I know I'll meet a new, more technologically advanced robotic vacuum. When I do, believe me, I won't let it go. In fact, I'll marry it. For now, though, I'm left with fond memories, and a nightly date with a broom and dust pan.
Brian tried to talk me out of it. He didn’t think it would work well, that it would break the day after the 90-day warranty, but I couldn’t be swayed. No more straining my back to get all the crumbs and hard pieces of macaroni out from under the dining room table! No more pulling out my 35-pound canister vacuum to get up the ½ cup of sand spilled from John’s shoe! Most of all, no more sweeping every night! I could pick up a few toys and retire, while the Roomba got all those little bits off the floor that Ava could choke on. (That was my reasoning to Brian: It could save your daughter’s life!)
The first time I used it, I was suprised at how loud it was. But I figured, it’s a vacuum, of course it’s going to be somewhat loud. I did use it outside Ava’s bedroom door while she napped without waking her, and she’s a light sleeper. So, it can’t be that loud. However, Brian found the noise annoying. And it is, if you have to be in the same room with it.
In my small, rectangular living room, which holds Ava’s toys and no furniture, it worked great. Brian and I sat spellbound while it worked it's algorithms around the room. However, I did notice that it took a long time for such a small room. Like, an hour. Also, it goes over the same piece of floor many times, which I guess explains, at least in part, why it takes so long.
My kitchen and dining room are separated by a large archway. I figured I’d have the Roomba do the two rooms as one. This also took an hour, then the Roomba shut off without finishing the room. I guess it got tired. The thing is, though, the two rooms combined are still a pretty small area. I think my dining room is 14’ by 12’, and my kitchen is downright dinky. As much as I dislike sweeping it every night, it takes me about five minutes. I couldn't help thinking about that as I listened to the Roomba drone on for 60 minutes.
My house was built in the swinging sixties, so we have a "sunken" family room: you have to step down to it from the kitchen. Hey, at least we ripped out the orange shag rug! The stair is not a problem for the Roomba. No, it can't walk down stairs, but its two virtual walls prevent it from falling down them.
We just bought a new Oriental rug for the family room, and Brian was worried about the Roomba ruining the fringe on it. So, I was working with the virtual walls to make the Roomba stay off the fringe part. If I wanted to, I could have also taped the fringe under the rug permanently. However, the Roomba could not get onto our area rug from the wood floor. At about a ½ inch, the rug was too high. The Roomba could roll off of the rug, however. Then it would end up circling endlessly in a corner of the room.
The last place I Roomba'd was the boys’ room. Man, was it thrilling to press “Go,” shut the door, and come back in an hour to a clean floor – even under the beds! However, since I chose dark blue chenille rugs for that room, those rugs to need a deep vacuum. The Roomba did a fine job, but I’d still have to go up with a real vacuum at least once a month.
All things considered, the Roomba just didn’t work out for me. The real deal breaker was that I wanted it to clean my dining room/kitchen floor nightly, and Brian and I didn’t want to listen to it as we relaxed or watched TV. We could have started it when we went to bed, but I didn’t want to scare the hell out of the boys in the middle of the night either, and having to open the cellar door for the cat would have left us one virtual wall short.
The other thing is, it took an hour to vaccuum an area that I could do in 3 minutes. It just didn't seem practical. I'm going to look for a lightweight upright vacuum to make quick clean ups easier. Know of one?
Despite my short romance with the Roomba, I haven't given up hope. In the future, I know I'll meet a new, more technologically advanced robotic vacuum. When I do, believe me, I won't let it go. In fact, I'll marry it. For now, though, I'm left with fond memories, and a nightly date with a broom and dust pan.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
It Has Come to This
I know, I've done the picture post thing, but this is different. It's a picture of my beautiful niece and her new husband, at their wedding in October. They were over tonight, so we were looking at the pictures. Now it's 10pm, and this is all I've got.
Beautiful niece and her awesome new hubby.
And here I am. That's a professional blow-dry, y'all.
Beautiful niece and her awesome new hubby.
And here I am. That's a professional blow-dry, y'all.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Saturday Night's Alright (for a Photo Post)
I would apologize for posting more photos, however, John, Ava and I are all sick (cue the violins). Plus, these are some of my recent favorites. Also, it's Saturday night, people! I need to go out and party, blow off some steam! Er, I mean, go pick the toys up and perhaps vacuum the family room. *sigh*
Ava in her monkey suit, made by my neighbor's mom. The hat, unforunately, has the white fuzzy trim all around the face, so Ava would not allow it to come within six inches of her head. My favorite parts of the costume are the nipples and belly button. And, of course, the tail. (You can see the two different colors of her eyes in this picture.)
John strutting his stuff at his preschool Halloween parade.
His three teachers were all "big fat cows," as they described themselves. The costumes were somehow filled with air, which made for a very convincing waddle.
I love this picture of Ben. You can tell how unseasonably warm it's been here. We were out at dusk and he doesn't even have a coat on, in November!
When the boys get sent for a time-out, Ava moves in for some cuddles. She has a way of cheering them up. (Yep, that's a black eye on Ava. She fell into the stair in our family room.)
Here are the roses that I got at my MOPs meeting. A florist taught us how to make them look like that: Cut the stems so that the bud sits just above the top of the vase. Hold the center rose between two fingers, just below the bud, then add another rose, crossing the stems over each other so that the flowers fall naturally together. Repeat with about six roses or so, depending on the vase. Stick some greenery around it. Remove all leaves that touch the water and ... Voila!
Ava in her monkey suit, made by my neighbor's mom. The hat, unforunately, has the white fuzzy trim all around the face, so Ava would not allow it to come within six inches of her head. My favorite parts of the costume are the nipples and belly button. And, of course, the tail. (You can see the two different colors of her eyes in this picture.)
John strutting his stuff at his preschool Halloween parade.
His three teachers were all "big fat cows," as they described themselves. The costumes were somehow filled with air, which made for a very convincing waddle.
I love this picture of Ben. You can tell how unseasonably warm it's been here. We were out at dusk and he doesn't even have a coat on, in November!
When the boys get sent for a time-out, Ava moves in for some cuddles. She has a way of cheering them up. (Yep, that's a black eye on Ava. She fell into the stair in our family room.)
Here are the roses that I got at my MOPs meeting. A florist taught us how to make them look like that: Cut the stems so that the bud sits just above the top of the vase. Hold the center rose between two fingers, just below the bud, then add another rose, crossing the stems over each other so that the flowers fall naturally together. Repeat with about six roses or so, depending on the vase. Stick some greenery around it. Remove all leaves that touch the water and ... Voila!
Friday, November 24, 2006
Tuesday Giveaway: The Winner
Wow, I almost forgot today is Friday. It feels more like Coma Day.
Must. Stop. Eating. Turkey.
The winner of this week's giveaway, chosen by random drawing, is ... Dawn! Congratulations, and I hope your kids enjoy Curious George. Please send your mailing address to clouth@gmail.com.
Thanks to all who played along. Please come back Tuesday, because I have four DVDs to giveaway next time.
Must. Stop. Eating. Turkey.
The winner of this week's giveaway, chosen by random drawing, is ... Dawn! Congratulations, and I hope your kids enjoy Curious George. Please send your mailing address to clouth@gmail.com.
Thanks to all who played along. Please come back Tuesday, because I have four DVDs to giveaway next time.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy Thanksgiving
We got home at 9 tonight, after a 1 1/2 hour drive home in torrential rain and heavy traffic. I am, to say the least, happy to be home and in one piece.
Which got me to thinking about some other people who would be happy to be home, and in one piece.
You may have seen this already, but I thought Thanksgiving may be the perfect time to mention the Xerox-sponsored site www.letssaythanks.com. You can pick out a thank you card and Xerox will print and mail it to a soldier serving in Iraq, free of charge.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Which got me to thinking about some other people who would be happy to be home, and in one piece.
You may have seen this already, but I thought Thanksgiving may be the perfect time to mention the Xerox-sponsored site www.letssaythanks.com. You can pick out a thank you card and Xerox will print and mail it to a soldier serving in Iraq, free of charge.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Boom Town
This morning at 2:45 am, a chemical company about 2 miles from my house exploded.
Image from Nick Geannaris, courtesy of The Boston Channel
In what Gov. Romney called "a Thanksgiving miracle," no one was killed, and less than a dozen people suffered minor injuries.
The state fire marshal said "It was a very violent explosion ... It's one of the more violent explosions I can think of in recent times." According to news reports, the blast knocked people out of their beds as far as 1.5 miles away. The sound woke all my neighbors. One even said he felt the pressure on his face.
Somehow, Brian and I slept through the entire thing. How can I wake up to Ava's hiccup and not to a major explosion that registered on the richtor scale 40 miles away, followed by an hour of steady sirens? The sleep of the dead, I tell you. If we ever suffer a major catastrophe, I hope it happens during the day when Brian and I are awake. Otherwise, the entire town could be evactuated, and we'd still asleep.
My niece called my mother this morning, waking her with the news that a major explosion happened "at the end of Kris' street," and that she couldn't get through to my answering machine. Then my mother's heart exploded and she died. I'll have to thank my niece for that later.
I'm on the other side of town, like I said, about 2 miles away. Once my mom turned on the news, she knew we were ok. We actually overslept and were scurrying about trying to get Ben ready for school when she called. School was cancelled here and in a few neighboring towns.
About 90 houses were severely damaged in all; several will need to be razed. The parents of a dear friend of mine, Terri, live in the epicenter of the explosion. The houses across the street from theirs are demolished; theirs has a big hole in the roof, and a bunch of other damage I'm sure. But they are ok. Everyone's ok. I still can't quite wrap my brain around that fact.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tuesday Giveaway: Curious George
Back when Ben was a toddler, a playdate friend of mine told me she'd read her daughter some Curious George stories. She'd decided she didn't approve.
"George always gets in trouble, and it ends up working to his advantage," she argued. "What kind of message is that?"
At the time, I agreed and jumped in with my own literary whipping post: The Ugly Duckling. What a sick, twisted story that is. I'd seen it at Barnes and Noble just a week before. Standing at the clearance table on a bright, freezing Saturday morning, I contemplated the brown, matted ducking and the swan with her Sophia Loren eyes. And I got pissed.
Why would I teach my toddler that when you look ugly, people are indifferent and life sucks, but when you look beautiful, people love you and life is good? Does the story not say that ugly equals worthless, and beautiful equals valuable and lovable? Talk about lost innocence.
Sorry for the tangent. The Ugly Duckling haunts me because an astrology charactarization I read at age 15 described me as the Ugling Duckling. The gist was, I had been "ugly" (I sure felt that way), however, now, I was becoming "beautiful" (One could hope!). I held on to that for a few years, until I stopped getting more "beautiful" and began getting more "old." Now what? Where's the classic children's story for that?
Today, if asked my opinion of the Curious George formula, I'd defend it. I'd say, "Embrace Your Inner Dumb-Ass!" The one in you, in me, in children, in one-dimensional cartoon monkeys. Not the ones in murderers or child molesters. But we don't need to talk about that! Just for now, let the kids believe that, no matter what unpredictable, uncontrollable thing they might do, everything will work out OK. In fact, they'll be heroes!
I didn't watch this movie. However, I did adminster an important litmus-test. In early October, my niece got married, and I hosted her brother and his family for a weekend. The new Curious George movie figured prominently in my plans. It would be The Movie to occupy seven kids, ages 3 to 10, after dinner.
As movie time got close, and the adults' desperation for the kids to be occupied increased, it occurred to me that the 8 and 10 year old brothers might not be thrilled with a G movie, no matter the hefty marketing budget. Then, I announced the main feature, and the 10 year old said, "Oh, we saw that in the movie theater."
Something I hadn't even contemplated. At this point I wondered, Can I ever entertain without a crisis? Just once?
Then, the two boys said how much they enjoyed it, and were enthused to watch it a second time. In the end, the movie held the kids' attention for a good 50 minutes. I'd say that's a thumbs up for age range and occupy-kids-while-parents-party mileage.
Want to win a new, widescreen edition DVD of Curious George? Bonus features include interactive games, a music video, and some footage of the cartoonist at work.
Leave a comment between now and Thurstday at midnight, EST. You must include one thing you are grateful for. Please, tell me something besides your family or your health. I am grateful for fresh-brewed Maxwell House Lite coffee, with two sugars and a little cream.
"George always gets in trouble, and it ends up working to his advantage," she argued. "What kind of message is that?"
At the time, I agreed and jumped in with my own literary whipping post: The Ugly Duckling. What a sick, twisted story that is. I'd seen it at Barnes and Noble just a week before. Standing at the clearance table on a bright, freezing Saturday morning, I contemplated the brown, matted ducking and the swan with her Sophia Loren eyes. And I got pissed.
Why would I teach my toddler that when you look ugly, people are indifferent and life sucks, but when you look beautiful, people love you and life is good? Does the story not say that ugly equals worthless, and beautiful equals valuable and lovable? Talk about lost innocence.
Sorry for the tangent. The Ugly Duckling haunts me because an astrology charactarization I read at age 15 described me as the Ugling Duckling. The gist was, I had been "ugly" (I sure felt that way), however, now, I was becoming "beautiful" (One could hope!). I held on to that for a few years, until I stopped getting more "beautiful" and began getting more "old." Now what? Where's the classic children's story for that?
Today, if asked my opinion of the Curious George formula, I'd defend it. I'd say, "Embrace Your Inner Dumb-Ass!" The one in you, in me, in children, in one-dimensional cartoon monkeys. Not the ones in murderers or child molesters. But we don't need to talk about that! Just for now, let the kids believe that, no matter what unpredictable, uncontrollable thing they might do, everything will work out OK. In fact, they'll be heroes!
I didn't watch this movie. However, I did adminster an important litmus-test. In early October, my niece got married, and I hosted her brother and his family for a weekend. The new Curious George movie figured prominently in my plans. It would be The Movie to occupy seven kids, ages 3 to 10, after dinner.
As movie time got close, and the adults' desperation for the kids to be occupied increased, it occurred to me that the 8 and 10 year old brothers might not be thrilled with a G movie, no matter the hefty marketing budget. Then, I announced the main feature, and the 10 year old said, "Oh, we saw that in the movie theater."
Something I hadn't even contemplated. At this point I wondered, Can I ever entertain without a crisis? Just once?
Then, the two boys said how much they enjoyed it, and were enthused to watch it a second time. In the end, the movie held the kids' attention for a good 50 minutes. I'd say that's a thumbs up for age range and occupy-kids-while-parents-party mileage.
Want to win a new, widescreen edition DVD of Curious George? Bonus features include interactive games, a music video, and some footage of the cartoonist at work.
Leave a comment between now and Thurstday at midnight, EST. You must include one thing you are grateful for. Please, tell me something besides your family or your health. I am grateful for fresh-brewed Maxwell House Lite coffee, with two sugars and a little cream.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The 9-Minute Post: When Do Kids Stop Believing?
Tonight I bring you the 9-minute post. Brian just tried to ask me something and I shushed him away, then he rolled his eyes, sighed and left. But here I am, typing away, dedicated to a fault! I tend to dawdle, though, so I set my timer.
One reason I almost didn't do the BloMoFo thing was because I didn't want to get behind on my Christmas shopping. Life is so crazy lately, I just know that Christmas could get away from me without making cookies with the kids, lighting the advent candles at dinner, just sitting in front of the lit up tree reading Christmas stories. The other night Brian asked if I thought Ben will still believe in Santa this year. I was like, "Of course he will!" But next year he'll be in second grade. Will he believe next year?
Now I'm off to buy Ava the cutest, most affordable play kitchen I've seen. I also need to convince Brian that we should buy about 20 different catalog items I've picked out for the boys: archery sets, walkie talkies, remote cars, boomwhakers, parachute guys ... It's going to be a fun Christmas.
When do kids stop believing in Santa these days, anyway?
One reason I almost didn't do the BloMoFo thing was because I didn't want to get behind on my Christmas shopping. Life is so crazy lately, I just know that Christmas could get away from me without making cookies with the kids, lighting the advent candles at dinner, just sitting in front of the lit up tree reading Christmas stories. The other night Brian asked if I thought Ben will still believe in Santa this year. I was like, "Of course he will!" But next year he'll be in second grade. Will he believe next year?
Now I'm off to buy Ava the cutest, most affordable play kitchen I've seen. I also need to convince Brian that we should buy about 20 different catalog items I've picked out for the boys: archery sets, walkie talkies, remote cars, boomwhakers, parachute guys ... It's going to be a fun Christmas.
When do kids stop believing in Santa these days, anyway?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Tales From CCD Class
At 8:30 this morning, I taught CCD (Catholic religious education) to a class of first graders, including my son, the one who's been misbehaving all week, the one who turned the lights off during class, got out of his seat, and moaned and groaned and threw himself at the CD player when I tried to play music.
*going to my happy place*
Ben doesn't do so well with me as his teacher. And vice-versa. He's all class clown, all the time. My mom and in-laws tell me to send him to another class, but kicking him out seems kind of harsh. Since I'm co-teaching and will only be there every other class, I decided to suck it up and keep him in my class. But after today? I don't know.
Part of it, I hope, is that he's not over his cold from last week. The other part? I don't know, but if he keeps it up, he's looking at military elementary school. They have that, right?
To add further pressure to my bloodstream, I forgot my cell phone, and so did not know the time. A bell does ring at the end of class, but I often don't hear it. When I checked in with the hall monitor, there were 25 minutes left. I did a whole bunch of things with them, including the review at the end of the chapter, which I normally don't get to. We also went over the announcements and said a special Thanksgiving prayer. Then we waved palms around and shouted, "Praise Jesus, Hosana!" as loud as possible, got our coats on, put the chairs away, and lined up.
I saw a bunch of kids and thought the bell had rung, so we filed out into the hall. The hall monitor said the bell didn't ring yet, but I figured, Oh well. We're out a couple minutes early, no big deal. So we walked downstairs and I opened the front door to an empty driveway with no parents waiting. "Oh, I must be earlier than I thought."
Then the religious education director appeared over my shoulder and said, "Is there a reason you're dismissing class early?"
"No, I didn't mean to, I forgot my watch, I'll wait with the kids ..."
She informed me that when one class gets out, "it sets the entire building in motion," and, "I can't have kids out here." I apologized profusely and brought the kids back into the lobby, where my son proceeded to again turn lights off and two other boys whipped out crayons and began writing on walls. Then, for the first time since I've been there, the bell rang a full 10 minutes late.
Do you think she was punishing me?
At least I know I didn't miss my calling as a teacher of young children. At least I know, next time, I won't forget my cell phone. I may, however, forget Ben.
*going to my happy place*
Ben doesn't do so well with me as his teacher. And vice-versa. He's all class clown, all the time. My mom and in-laws tell me to send him to another class, but kicking him out seems kind of harsh. Since I'm co-teaching and will only be there every other class, I decided to suck it up and keep him in my class. But after today? I don't know.
Part of it, I hope, is that he's not over his cold from last week. The other part? I don't know, but if he keeps it up, he's looking at military elementary school. They have that, right?
To add further pressure to my bloodstream, I forgot my cell phone, and so did not know the time. A bell does ring at the end of class, but I often don't hear it. When I checked in with the hall monitor, there were 25 minutes left. I did a whole bunch of things with them, including the review at the end of the chapter, which I normally don't get to. We also went over the announcements and said a special Thanksgiving prayer. Then we waved palms around and shouted, "Praise Jesus, Hosana!" as loud as possible, got our coats on, put the chairs away, and lined up.
I saw a bunch of kids and thought the bell had rung, so we filed out into the hall. The hall monitor said the bell didn't ring yet, but I figured, Oh well. We're out a couple minutes early, no big deal. So we walked downstairs and I opened the front door to an empty driveway with no parents waiting. "Oh, I must be earlier than I thought."
Then the religious education director appeared over my shoulder and said, "Is there a reason you're dismissing class early?"
"No, I didn't mean to, I forgot my watch, I'll wait with the kids ..."
She informed me that when one class gets out, "it sets the entire building in motion," and, "I can't have kids out here." I apologized profusely and brought the kids back into the lobby, where my son proceeded to again turn lights off and two other boys whipped out crayons and began writing on walls. Then, for the first time since I've been there, the bell rang a full 10 minutes late.
Do you think she was punishing me?
At least I know I didn't miss my calling as a teacher of young children. At least I know, next time, I won't forget my cell phone. I may, however, forget Ben.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Here, Have Pictures
It's 9:30 on Saturday night, and I'm trying to figure some pictures to post. But my husband's computer has diddly squat for image editing software and no access to our digital photos. Which narrowed it down to 13 pictures of Ben and John as toddlers.
Geesh, how's that for grabbing the reader by the throat? See what NaBloPoMo's doing to me? Does anyone read blogs on Saturday night anyway? If you do, I swear, my kids are wicked cute! Don't leave me!
This is Ben at age 1 1/2, when he still lived the blissful life of an only child. Little did he know, it would all end the following month with the birth of his brother. We still have this fish, which I got at a yard sale for $7. All the kids love it, except when it tips over and clunks them on the head. Then it's all, "I hate that fish."
When John was a baby, everyone I met would exclaim, "He's sooo cute!" Here, he's he's 2 1/2 and still has some serious baby cute going on. I mean, look at those feet! Nibble-icious! Now that he's 4 years old, people just ask if he ever stops talking. Answer: No. No he doesn't.)
Ben, meet nap head; nap head, meet Ben. In addition to my love of books, Ben inherited my hair. He's 3 here. Those blue eyes are lady killers.
Ok then! You can see my ability to form sentences slipping, so let's conclude my obligatory NaBloPoMo Saturday night blog post. I'm off to look at 60 toy catalogs so I can narrow the 300 things I want to buy for my kids down to 7 each. That shouldn't take long, right?
Geesh, how's that for grabbing the reader by the throat? See what NaBloPoMo's doing to me? Does anyone read blogs on Saturday night anyway? If you do, I swear, my kids are wicked cute! Don't leave me!
This is Ben at age 1 1/2, when he still lived the blissful life of an only child. Little did he know, it would all end the following month with the birth of his brother. We still have this fish, which I got at a yard sale for $7. All the kids love it, except when it tips over and clunks them on the head. Then it's all, "I hate that fish."
When John was a baby, everyone I met would exclaim, "He's sooo cute!" Here, he's he's 2 1/2 and still has some serious baby cute going on. I mean, look at those feet! Nibble-icious! Now that he's 4 years old, people just ask if he ever stops talking. Answer: No. No he doesn't.)
Ben, meet nap head; nap head, meet Ben. In addition to my love of books, Ben inherited my hair. He's 3 here. Those blue eyes are lady killers.
Ok then! You can see my ability to form sentences slipping, so let's conclude my obligatory NaBloPoMo Saturday night blog post. I'm off to look at 60 toy catalogs so I can narrow the 300 things I want to buy for my kids down to 7 each. That shouldn't take long, right?
Friday, November 17, 2006
A Survey, a Carnival, and a Winner
The Survey: In case you haven't seen this yet, Hattie, author of MotherPie, is conducting a survey as part of her graduate media study on blogs. If you read blogs or write one yourself, she needs all the participants she can get. Her research results will be available beginning in January on her MotherPie blog. So, what are you waiting for? Go take the survey!
The Carnival: One of my posts, Teaching Preschoolers to Respect Mom's Privacy, has been included in the 27th Carnival of Feminists, presented by Laurie Toby Edison and Deb Notkin of Body Impolitic. Wow! I'm glad someone's laughing with me, what with my butt hanging out and all. Seriously, though, it made my week to have Laurie and Deb say that I made them laugh. Actually, it made my month. An awesome post by one of my favorite bloggers, Mary of Mom Writes, is also included, as well as many other fascinating links and photographs. So be sure to check it out.
The Winner: Monster Mama, the coffee-chugging, cigarrette smoking mom of two, has won a copy of The Secrets to Longevity. Congrats, MM! Please send your address to clouth@gmail.com. Thanks to every one who entered -- all three of you! (So, I guess this means my readers are not health nuts?)
The Carnival: One of my posts, Teaching Preschoolers to Respect Mom's Privacy, has been included in the 27th Carnival of Feminists, presented by Laurie Toby Edison and Deb Notkin of Body Impolitic. Wow! I'm glad someone's laughing with me, what with my butt hanging out and all. Seriously, though, it made my week to have Laurie and Deb say that I made them laugh. Actually, it made my month. An awesome post by one of my favorite bloggers, Mary of Mom Writes, is also included, as well as many other fascinating links and photographs. So be sure to check it out.
The Winner: Monster Mama, the coffee-chugging, cigarrette smoking mom of two, has won a copy of The Secrets to Longevity. Congrats, MM! Please send your address to clouth@gmail.com. Thanks to every one who entered -- all three of you! (So, I guess this means my readers are not health nuts?)
Thursday, November 16, 2006
My Day
Since I am incapable of expounding on any other topic tonight:
12:15 a.m.: Go to bed. Swear to go to bed earlier tomorrow night, but know I won’t because I have to watch Grey’s Anatomy and The Office, unless they’re repeats, in which case I will be devastated.
4:00: Nurse Ava.
6:00: Wake up to Brian’s alarm, reset it for 7:20.
7:00: Hear Ava calling me. Get up. Don't make the bed.
7:30: Drag John out of bed. Serve up instant oatmeal to the trio. Explain to John that the red things in his oatmeal are strawberries, not pepperoni. He refuses to eat it anyway.
7:45: Demand complete compliance with my requests to “Get dressed,” “Find your shoes,” “Get in the bathroom,” and “Put your sister down.” Say, “You have three half-hours of computer or TV time today, if you don’t (fill in the blank), you will go down to two half-hours.” Actually, say it 14 times.
8:10: Get all three kids out the door to bring Ben to school.
8:30: Put on make up, drink cold coffee, try to salvage my bed-head into something presentable for MOPs meeting. Accept that John ran into into the back yard and got his shoes wet. Find his other sneakers. Go to the basement to find dry socks for him.
9:00 Arrive at MOPs meeting. Drop Ava and John off in the babysitting rooms. Get some quiche and coffee.
9:30 - 11:00: Make a beautiful rose bouquet to bring home, listen to a lecture on loneliness, and remember why I love MOPs.
11:15: Walk, unprotected, with John and Ava, in a torrential downpour to my minivan. Wonder why I ever bought a raincoat without a hood. I mean, how can it even be called a raincoat, without a hood?
11:18: Try to ignore the fact that the rain stopped the minute we got in the car.
12:00 p.m.: Realize Ava fell asleep on the way home. Try to wake her up. Realize she’s in a deep sleep. Mourn nap time. Pick her up, and fantasize for one nanosecond about getting her into her crib, then realize she's awake. She's refreshed, even. Mourn nap time again.
12:30: Feed the animals, I mean, the children. Put Ava's scrambled eggs into pan, forget about them, realize they've become a very flat omelet. Add some cheese.
1:30: Bring Ava upstairs for "a rest." Wonder why I left John anywhere other than in front of a video or computer game. Envision what he might get into. Tickle and snuggle Ava. Nurse her while trying to read the September 2005 Real Simple, which keeps falling off my nightstand.
1:45: Put a load of darks in.
2:00: Listen to Ava fuss over the monitor while I clean the fall-out of breakfast and lunch.
2:10: Bring Ava to the rocking chair for the second time.
2:20: Tip-toe out of her room.
2:25: Get John away from Cyberchase, into shoes and out the door to pick up Ben.*
2:30: Greet Ben. Learn that he felt fine all day, good news since he’s been sick off and on since last week. “I just forgot I was sick,” he tells me.
2:35: Suffer verbal abuse from first-grader after I tell him that an apple, a pear, and/or crackers and cheese are his only snack options.
2:45: Pick up a billion things on the office floor that Ava has pulled out of desk drawers, the closet, and the boys’ school-paper boxes. Clean off the kitchen counter.
3:15: Give John a timeout for punching Ben on the back so hard that I heard it from upstairs.
3:20: Kick Ben and John out of the house for some fresh air.
3:25: Fold laundry.
3:30: Witness John, on the swing set, pushing the baby swing into Ben as he swings. Watch Ben grab the baby swing, then hop off the swing. See John grab the 10-foot downspout off the shed and start swinging it around. Behold my eldest child taking the downspout from his brother and banging it against the swing set with sweet abandon. Step into the yard and speak loudly. See John take the downspout back from Ben and bang it against the swing set, then drop it. Ask Ben to put it back on the shed, which he does, after telling me he wasn’t the one who took it off the shed in the first place.
3:35: Fold laundry.
3:40: Witness John swinging the 10-foot downspout through the branches of a mid-sized oak in our backyard, snapping branches with each swing.
3:50: Bring the boys in.
4:00: Start dinner, get Ben started with his homework, get Ava up and give her a snack.
4:20: Peel potatoes and chop onions for soup, slice pear for Ava, explain to Ben that his homework is NOT done. He doesn’t seem to understand.
4:30: Bring Ben to his room for various infractions I’m too tired and fed up too describe to you right now.
5:00: Fry bacon for soup, stop Ava from dumping 1-pound bag of catfood on kitchen floor, engage boys. Convince Ben to do his homework. Hear from Brian, learn that he'll be home at 5:45.
5:15: Give John his medicine. It's an acid blocker, which he should take 30 minutes before dinner.
5:45: Say, "You must take one bite of the soup. I'm invoking the one-bite rule on this one," to Ben and to John. Actually, say it 14 times.
6:00: Eat my serving of soup, plus Ben and John’s. Pass the bacon and the cheese to Ben and John, at least 14 times.
6:30: Talk to my older brother who totaled his car on Saturday. Learn that, although nothing's broken and they can't find any blood clots, he's developed cellulitis. He has to go to the doctor again tomorrow, which means my mom can't babysit for me as planned. I'll need to cancel my PT appointment.
6:45: Put laundry away.
7:00: Go to CDD teachers' meeting.
8:45: Get home.
9:00: Talk to Brian.
9:30: Try to post. See that Blogger’s down.
10:00: Talk to mom on the phone about ailing brother.
10:20: Look up cellulitis online. Don’t read the definition to my mother.
10:50: Try to finish blog post. See that Blogger’s still down. Become incoherent. Decide to go watch TV. Drink beer and watch The Office. Decide that in the finale, Pam will confess her love to a taken Jim, in a complete reversal to last year's years finale.
Then at some point I went to sleep. The end.
*Thanks to a my niece, who holds down the fort so I can go get Ben, I do not leave Ava unattended.
12:15 a.m.: Go to bed. Swear to go to bed earlier tomorrow night, but know I won’t because I have to watch Grey’s Anatomy and The Office, unless they’re repeats, in which case I will be devastated.
4:00: Nurse Ava.
6:00: Wake up to Brian’s alarm, reset it for 7:20.
7:00: Hear Ava calling me. Get up. Don't make the bed.
7:30: Drag John out of bed. Serve up instant oatmeal to the trio. Explain to John that the red things in his oatmeal are strawberries, not pepperoni. He refuses to eat it anyway.
7:45: Demand complete compliance with my requests to “Get dressed,” “Find your shoes,” “Get in the bathroom,” and “Put your sister down.” Say, “You have three half-hours of computer or TV time today, if you don’t (fill in the blank), you will go down to two half-hours.” Actually, say it 14 times.
8:10: Get all three kids out the door to bring Ben to school.
8:30: Put on make up, drink cold coffee, try to salvage my bed-head into something presentable for MOPs meeting. Accept that John ran into into the back yard and got his shoes wet. Find his other sneakers. Go to the basement to find dry socks for him.
9:00 Arrive at MOPs meeting. Drop Ava and John off in the babysitting rooms. Get some quiche and coffee.
9:30 - 11:00: Make a beautiful rose bouquet to bring home, listen to a lecture on loneliness, and remember why I love MOPs.
11:15: Walk, unprotected, with John and Ava, in a torrential downpour to my minivan. Wonder why I ever bought a raincoat without a hood. I mean, how can it even be called a raincoat, without a hood?
11:18: Try to ignore the fact that the rain stopped the minute we got in the car.
12:00 p.m.: Realize Ava fell asleep on the way home. Try to wake her up. Realize she’s in a deep sleep. Mourn nap time. Pick her up, and fantasize for one nanosecond about getting her into her crib, then realize she's awake. She's refreshed, even. Mourn nap time again.
12:30: Feed the animals, I mean, the children. Put Ava's scrambled eggs into pan, forget about them, realize they've become a very flat omelet. Add some cheese.
1:30: Bring Ava upstairs for "a rest." Wonder why I left John anywhere other than in front of a video or computer game. Envision what he might get into. Tickle and snuggle Ava. Nurse her while trying to read the September 2005 Real Simple, which keeps falling off my nightstand.
1:45: Put a load of darks in.
2:00: Listen to Ava fuss over the monitor while I clean the fall-out of breakfast and lunch.
2:10: Bring Ava to the rocking chair for the second time.
2:20: Tip-toe out of her room.
2:25: Get John away from Cyberchase, into shoes and out the door to pick up Ben.*
2:30: Greet Ben. Learn that he felt fine all day, good news since he’s been sick off and on since last week. “I just forgot I was sick,” he tells me.
2:35: Suffer verbal abuse from first-grader after I tell him that an apple, a pear, and/or crackers and cheese are his only snack options.
2:45: Pick up a billion things on the office floor that Ava has pulled out of desk drawers, the closet, and the boys’ school-paper boxes. Clean off the kitchen counter.
3:15: Give John a timeout for punching Ben on the back so hard that I heard it from upstairs.
3:20: Kick Ben and John out of the house for some fresh air.
3:25: Fold laundry.
3:30: Witness John, on the swing set, pushing the baby swing into Ben as he swings. Watch Ben grab the baby swing, then hop off the swing. See John grab the 10-foot downspout off the shed and start swinging it around. Behold my eldest child taking the downspout from his brother and banging it against the swing set with sweet abandon. Step into the yard and speak loudly. See John take the downspout back from Ben and bang it against the swing set, then drop it. Ask Ben to put it back on the shed, which he does, after telling me he wasn’t the one who took it off the shed in the first place.
3:35: Fold laundry.
3:40: Witness John swinging the 10-foot downspout through the branches of a mid-sized oak in our backyard, snapping branches with each swing.
3:50: Bring the boys in.
4:00: Start dinner, get Ben started with his homework, get Ava up and give her a snack.
4:20: Peel potatoes and chop onions for soup, slice pear for Ava, explain to Ben that his homework is NOT done. He doesn’t seem to understand.
4:30: Bring Ben to his room for various infractions I’m too tired and fed up too describe to you right now.
5:00: Fry bacon for soup, stop Ava from dumping 1-pound bag of catfood on kitchen floor, engage boys. Convince Ben to do his homework. Hear from Brian, learn that he'll be home at 5:45.
5:15: Give John his medicine. It's an acid blocker, which he should take 30 minutes before dinner.
5:45: Say, "You must take one bite of the soup. I'm invoking the one-bite rule on this one," to Ben and to John. Actually, say it 14 times.
6:00: Eat my serving of soup, plus Ben and John’s. Pass the bacon and the cheese to Ben and John, at least 14 times.
6:30: Talk to my older brother who totaled his car on Saturday. Learn that, although nothing's broken and they can't find any blood clots, he's developed cellulitis. He has to go to the doctor again tomorrow, which means my mom can't babysit for me as planned. I'll need to cancel my PT appointment.
6:45: Put laundry away.
7:00: Go to CDD teachers' meeting.
8:45: Get home.
9:00: Talk to Brian.
9:30: Try to post. See that Blogger’s down.
10:00: Talk to mom on the phone about ailing brother.
10:20: Look up cellulitis online. Don’t read the definition to my mother.
10:50: Try to finish blog post. See that Blogger’s still down. Become incoherent. Decide to go watch TV. Drink beer and watch The Office. Decide that in the finale, Pam will confess her love to a taken Jim, in a complete reversal to last year's years finale.
Then at some point I went to sleep. The end.
*Thanks to a my niece, who holds down the fort so I can go get Ben, I do not leave Ava unattended.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Must-See TV: "The Extremist Agenda"
CNN Headline News is airing a special report tonight that I think will serve to wake a lot of us up to what's happening in the world. The one-hour expose will air at 7 p.m. and 9 p.m., EST. Set those DVRs, and tell your friends.
From CNN.com:
'Exposed: The Extremist Agenda'
We know exactly what Islamic extremists are planning to do. How? We've seen the video. Tonight, you will too. Tune in tonight at 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. ET for a one-hour "Glenn Beck" special event.
Click here to learn more about the program. That page also has a link to a video clip in which reporter Glenn Beck explains why as many Americans as possible should watch this special report.
From CNN.com:
'Exposed: The Extremist Agenda'
We know exactly what Islamic extremists are planning to do. How? We've seen the video. Tonight, you will too. Tune in tonight at 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. ET for a one-hour "Glenn Beck" special event.
Click here to learn more about the program. That page also has a link to a video clip in which reporter Glenn Beck explains why as many Americans as possible should watch this special report.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Tuesday Giveaway: Secrets of Longevity
I thought this week I'd feature something for adults, rather than kids. Secrets of Longevity, Hundreds of Ways to Live to Be 100, is full of health-enhancing tips, covering nutrition, herbs, environment, exercise, genetics, relationships, faith -- pretty much every angle possible.Author Dr. Maoshing Ni is a 38th-generation doctor of Chinese medicine and co-founder/chancellor of Yo San University in Los Angeles. Many of the tips are based on Traditional Chinese Medicine, or TCM, and involve herbs or other elixirs. However, he takes from other traditions as well and manages to compile a comprehensive tome.
I say "tome," but don't expect pages loaded with tiny print. Each tip has its own page, with lots of white space and an attractive border. It's a paper back, but the publisher used quality paper. It was easy to read while nursing; I could easily hold it with one hand and read it from a distance, even in the blurry midnight hours. It's an attractive book. I left it out for a while and guests seemed to enjoy picking it up and flipping through it.
While I recognized a fair amount of the suggestions in the book, I might not be the average reader since I specialize in health writing and editing, and it's been a personal interest of mine for 14 years now. I kind of burnt myself out on the whole feng shui-mushroom brew-herbal remedy thing, so some of the suggestions I can't see myself trying. Still, I did find some new ideas, and I got the inspiration to resurrect some old ones.
If you're a person who likes to pick up Prevention or other health magazines from time to time, you'd probably enjoy this book. If you feel you need a real kick in the pants healthwise, or you have a desire to take your health to the next level, you'll get something out of it, too. I also think it would make a nice gift for that healthy/earthy-crunchy/hippy-dippy person in your life, who used to be me but, these days, not so much.
Would you like to win my review copy? Please leave a comment between now and Thursday at midnight, EST. (Regarding my copy, please note that we have loved on it a little, and it is a bit dinged. To me, it's still gift-worthy, but you may not agree.)
Please tell me, what health habit are you working on? For me, it's getting to bed earlier. I never want to go to bed. The more I read about sleep, though, the more I realize its importance to good health and, therefore, longevity. On Oprah last week, Mehmet Oz said that people not getting enough (or any) sex can make up for it through sleep (from a health standpoint). So it MUST be powerful. Maybe going to bed earlier will cancel out the French fries ...
Monday, November 13, 2006
Day 13: I Hope You Don't Feel My Pain
It's day 13 of NaBloPoMo, and my last few posts have gotten a bit kooky. Just know that I'm trying my best to shield you from the inevitable variability of post quality around here, but I cannot. I simply cannot.
Some of you have asked about my impending breast-lump biopsy, which I mentioned here and here. My doctor chose to send me for an MRI first, which I guess is standard nowadays, especially for young, firm breasts. Haha! Sweet irony! I of course have fibrocystic breasts, which are dense like young, firm breasts. Only different.
Anyway, I was thrilled to get an MRI. No needles or knives, no squashing of mammaries, no gamma rays blasting through delicate tissues. Three years ago, I had an MRI after a car accident. They put me on my back on a table, and sent me into that tiny tube. They said I could bring music, to listen to on headphones. I chose The Eminem Show, which, in hindsight, was an inconsiderate choice, since the music could be heard throughout the room. How was I to know that? The middle-aged guy who assisted me that day was not impressed. Strangely, I myself could not here the music over the psychotic clanging of the machine. I did get claustrophobic, but I was out of there in 20 minutes. In this case, pain has no memory.
Right up until my appointment yesterday, I had no worries. Even the Sunday appointment seemed great, since I wouldn't have to juggle the kids.
MRI? A quiet respite from the house -- I can't wait!
The first hint that perhaps I'd underestimated the MRI's tortur-device potential came when I saw the words "contrast" and "IV" on the order just before I left my house. I had dye injected for a CT scan several years ago, and it tasted and smelled like I'd eaten an aluminum can or drank the mercury out of six thermometers. Something like that. Work with me here.
As they hooked up the IV, they assured me I wouldn't taste the dye, and they scurried about trying to figure out when I could nurse again. Turned out I didn't have to wait at all. No worries, all around.
Then I asked the woman for headphones, figuring I'd listen to whatever music they had.
"Well, you can have the headphones, but they don't stay on right when you're face down."
"Face down?"
"Yes. And if they move out of place, you can't adjust them."
"Oh. That's fine then. How long in the machine?"
"Inside? 30 minutes."
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, face down. In a tube.
I laid down on the cold breast-dangler contraption and put my face in one of those holders that massage therapists use. I could've used a massage. The attendant kept asking if my breasts were in the hole, which they were, but they're so small apparently she couldn't tell. Then she put ear plugs in my ears, and proceeded to speak to me in this tiny muffled mumble, as if I could still hear her with freaking ear plugs in my ears. That's when my lungs stopped taking air and my heart exploded.
"Uh, I think the face-down thing and the ear-plug thing just collided and created an anxiety attack thing."
"Do you need a minute?"
Yeah, a minute to get my clothes on and get the hell out of here.
I'd like to tell you it wasn't that bad, but my mind -- and heart -- raced through the whole thing. Thank God for my vegan/health nut/Dr. Weil days, because breathing exercises were the only thing standing between me and Code Blue. I had 1 inch between my face and the table, for 30 minutes. I felt like I was on Lost and I'd been caputured and put inside a box in the hatch then someone forgot to enter the numbers and the banging and the crashing got louder and louder and louder and .... AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
So, yeah. Breathing exercises.
I have two other tips for having a breast MRI:
1. Take valium. Or some other "has worked for me" type sedative. Give it plenty of time to kick in before you enter the Chamber of Doom. I've never taken valium myself, but when I told the technician I wished I had, she said a lot of people do.
2. Don't, under any circumstances, schedule your MRI for Sunday at noon, especially if your Sunday morning involves, as mine does, about 12 cups of coffee. Your central nervous system will thank you.
Some of you have asked about my impending breast-lump biopsy, which I mentioned here and here. My doctor chose to send me for an MRI first, which I guess is standard nowadays, especially for young, firm breasts. Haha! Sweet irony! I of course have fibrocystic breasts, which are dense like young, firm breasts. Only different.
Anyway, I was thrilled to get an MRI. No needles or knives, no squashing of mammaries, no gamma rays blasting through delicate tissues. Three years ago, I had an MRI after a car accident. They put me on my back on a table, and sent me into that tiny tube. They said I could bring music, to listen to on headphones. I chose The Eminem Show, which, in hindsight, was an inconsiderate choice, since the music could be heard throughout the room. How was I to know that? The middle-aged guy who assisted me that day was not impressed. Strangely, I myself could not here the music over the psychotic clanging of the machine. I did get claustrophobic, but I was out of there in 20 minutes. In this case, pain has no memory.
Right up until my appointment yesterday, I had no worries. Even the Sunday appointment seemed great, since I wouldn't have to juggle the kids.
MRI? A quiet respite from the house -- I can't wait!
The first hint that perhaps I'd underestimated the MRI's tortur-device potential came when I saw the words "contrast" and "IV" on the order just before I left my house. I had dye injected for a CT scan several years ago, and it tasted and smelled like I'd eaten an aluminum can or drank the mercury out of six thermometers. Something like that. Work with me here.
As they hooked up the IV, they assured me I wouldn't taste the dye, and they scurried about trying to figure out when I could nurse again. Turned out I didn't have to wait at all. No worries, all around.
Then I asked the woman for headphones, figuring I'd listen to whatever music they had.
"Well, you can have the headphones, but they don't stay on right when you're face down."
"Face down?"
"Yes. And if they move out of place, you can't adjust them."
"Oh. That's fine then. How long in the machine?"
"Inside? 30 minutes."
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, face down. In a tube.
I laid down on the cold breast-dangler contraption and put my face in one of those holders that massage therapists use. I could've used a massage. The attendant kept asking if my breasts were in the hole, which they were, but they're so small apparently she couldn't tell. Then she put ear plugs in my ears, and proceeded to speak to me in this tiny muffled mumble, as if I could still hear her with freaking ear plugs in my ears. That's when my lungs stopped taking air and my heart exploded.
"Uh, I think the face-down thing and the ear-plug thing just collided and created an anxiety attack thing."
"Do you need a minute?"
Yeah, a minute to get my clothes on and get the hell out of here.
I'd like to tell you it wasn't that bad, but my mind -- and heart -- raced through the whole thing. Thank God for my vegan/health nut/Dr. Weil days, because breathing exercises were the only thing standing between me and Code Blue. I had 1 inch between my face and the table, for 30 minutes. I felt like I was on Lost and I'd been caputured and put inside a box in the hatch then someone forgot to enter the numbers and the banging and the crashing got louder and louder and louder and .... AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
So, yeah. Breathing exercises.
I have two other tips for having a breast MRI:
1. Take valium. Or some other "has worked for me" type sedative. Give it plenty of time to kick in before you enter the Chamber of Doom. I've never taken valium myself, but when I told the technician I wished I had, she said a lot of people do.
2. Don't, under any circumstances, schedule your MRI for Sunday at noon, especially if your Sunday morning involves, as mine does, about 12 cups of coffee. Your central nervous system will thank you.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
How I Spent Halloween
Tonight, I offer you a few Halloween pictures. Yes, I know Halloween was two weeks ago. But you know what? I am no longer some kind of freak perfectionist who needs to post Halloween pictures on Halloween. No, not me. I am relaxed.
In fact, during Halloween week, I was so immersed in writing about overcoming perfectionism for DotMoms that I decided to extend my new "imperfect" credo to disciplining my children.
First, I took Ben and John out in the woods so they could duke it out, superhero style. No rules, no time outs, just good old fashion brotherly love.
I've tried outlawing "play fighting," but I give up. Have at it, boys!
Then I gave Ava her first taste of candy. I know, I know. Fifteen months old and the poor child hadn't tasted candy. What a hard ass I was! No more, though. Halloween night, I let her eat all she wanted. She handled it well, too. No tummy aches, no throwing up, no saying "All done." Just glazed eyes and brown drool. That's my girl!
Ava enjoying her first taste of high fructose corn syrup and blue dye #14. Her shirt wasn't white for long.
I'm glad I've loosened the reigns a bit with the kiddos. Now, if Ben and John can't resolve an argument, I just send 'em out back with their light sabers. If I need their immediate cooperation, I threaten to let Ava eat from their candy bags. And, if I need some baby-free time for myself, I plop Ava in her high chair with some Kit Kats.
I am telling you, life around here has never been easier.
In fact, during Halloween week, I was so immersed in writing about overcoming perfectionism for DotMoms that I decided to extend my new "imperfect" credo to disciplining my children.
First, I took Ben and John out in the woods so they could duke it out, superhero style. No rules, no time outs, just good old fashion brotherly love.
I've tried outlawing "play fighting," but I give up. Have at it, boys!
Then I gave Ava her first taste of candy. I know, I know. Fifteen months old and the poor child hadn't tasted candy. What a hard ass I was! No more, though. Halloween night, I let her eat all she wanted. She handled it well, too. No tummy aches, no throwing up, no saying "All done." Just glazed eyes and brown drool. That's my girl!
Ava enjoying her first taste of high fructose corn syrup and blue dye #14. Her shirt wasn't white for long.
I'm glad I've loosened the reigns a bit with the kiddos. Now, if Ben and John can't resolve an argument, I just send 'em out back with their light sabers. If I need their immediate cooperation, I threaten to let Ava eat from their candy bags. And, if I need some baby-free time for myself, I plop Ava in her high chair with some Kit Kats.
I am telling you, life around here has never been easier.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Teaching Preschoolers to Respect Mom's Privacy
Tonight's story may fall in the "had to be there" category. Also, "too much information" and "let's hope a potential employer never reads this." More than anything, though, it belongs in "Oh, shit, it's 9:45 Saturday night and I haven't posted yet." This was bound to happen. I will pay for this in google search results.
Wednesday midmorning, mom in the downstairs bathroom, sitting on the toilet, chin in hand. Toddler leaning on her right leg, ripping toilet paper and lunging to flush the toilet.
The door bursts open. Her preschooler bounds in and stands next to her right leg.
John: I have to poop, Mom.
Kris: Go upstairs.
John: I can't, I have to go now.
Kris: OK, give me a second.
Mom makes quick work of ending bathroom session. Resourceful toddler notes her distraction amd grabs the Big Interesting Basket, pulling it off the table. Mom shouts inappropriate expletive and stands.
Kris: Ava, no!
John: Groans. Aw, Mom! Your butt.
Kris: Hurries toward door, pulling up her pants, guiding toddler.
John: I'm not looking at your butt, mom. I'm not looking at your butt. Mom?
Kris: Yes, John.
John: I'm not looking at your butt ...
Kris: OK. I got ya. Turns and sees preschooler frozen in place, nose scrunched in disgust, eyes squeezed shut with a finger planted over each, for added security against seeing THAT again.
John: I'm not looking. Why are you laughing? What's so funny? Mom, next time I won't see your butt. Why are you laughing!?
Wednesday midmorning, mom in the downstairs bathroom, sitting on the toilet, chin in hand. Toddler leaning on her right leg, ripping toilet paper and lunging to flush the toilet.
The door bursts open. Her preschooler bounds in and stands next to her right leg.
John: I have to poop, Mom.
Kris: Go upstairs.
John: I can't, I have to go now.
Kris: OK, give me a second.
Mom makes quick work of ending bathroom session. Resourceful toddler notes her distraction amd grabs the Big Interesting Basket, pulling it off the table. Mom shouts inappropriate expletive and stands.
Kris: Ava, no!
John: Groans. Aw, Mom! Your butt.
Kris: Hurries toward door, pulling up her pants, guiding toddler.
John: I'm not looking at your butt, mom. I'm not looking at your butt. Mom?
Kris: Yes, John.
John: I'm not looking at your butt ...
Kris: OK. I got ya. Turns and sees preschooler frozen in place, nose scrunched in disgust, eyes squeezed shut with a finger planted over each, for added security against seeing THAT again.
John: I'm not looking. Why are you laughing? What's so funny? Mom, next time I won't see your butt. Why are you laughing!?
Friday, November 10, 2006
ADD + ADHD = TGIF
This week, both of my sons’ teachers mentioned attention deficit disorders to me, as in “Your son may have ...” Perhaps not one for the scrapbooks, but significant nonetheless.
Wednesday, I tried to write about this, but a heavy blanket of sadness about it had settled over me, so I couldn’t. Since then I’ve talked to some friends who say ADD/ADHD can be understood, in many of its forms, as a learning style, rather than a disorder. That made me feel better.
During a check-in with John’s preK teacher, she mentioned his difficulty making friends and his inability to sit still. “Maybe an ADHD diagnosis down the line,” she said, off-handedly.
John does sit still, when he's doing something. He plays independently and can follow a task he’s interested in through to completion. However, when watching TV, listening to me read or, apparently, listening to his teacher, he fidgets and gets out of his seat. I remember at John’s 2 year visit, his doctor asked him to jump up and down. He wouldn’t. Brian and I laughed at this because it seemed that’s all he did. He’s my Mexican jumping bean.
Ben’s first grade teacher has flagged him as “at-risk” for ADD because, while he’s a delight in every way, he doesn’t pay attention or work independently. Ben will sit and listen to me read stories for hours at a time. But story time on a rug full of his contemporaries is not so easy. TV zombifies him, but ask him to amuse himself for 15 minutes? Forget it. He needs to interact with me, John, a TV/computer screen or the snack cabinet, every moment of every day. Thankfully Ben loves books and is starting to read. So soon he will have a new quiet activity. And perhaps an easier time working independently at school.
It’s ironic to me that Ben and John are so opposite in how they do and learn things, and yet both teachers have zeroed in on “attention.” The cynic in me finds their declarations reactionary. The realist in me knows they have the boys' best interests at heart, and teachers should give parents a heads-up to any potential issues.
The mom in me panicked at first. But now she knows it'll be ok.
Wednesday, I tried to write about this, but a heavy blanket of sadness about it had settled over me, so I couldn’t. Since then I’ve talked to some friends who say ADD/ADHD can be understood, in many of its forms, as a learning style, rather than a disorder. That made me feel better.
During a check-in with John’s preK teacher, she mentioned his difficulty making friends and his inability to sit still. “Maybe an ADHD diagnosis down the line,” she said, off-handedly.
John does sit still, when he's doing something. He plays independently and can follow a task he’s interested in through to completion. However, when watching TV, listening to me read or, apparently, listening to his teacher, he fidgets and gets out of his seat. I remember at John’s 2 year visit, his doctor asked him to jump up and down. He wouldn’t. Brian and I laughed at this because it seemed that’s all he did. He’s my Mexican jumping bean.
Ben’s first grade teacher has flagged him as “at-risk” for ADD because, while he’s a delight in every way, he doesn’t pay attention or work independently. Ben will sit and listen to me read stories for hours at a time. But story time on a rug full of his contemporaries is not so easy. TV zombifies him, but ask him to amuse himself for 15 minutes? Forget it. He needs to interact with me, John, a TV/computer screen or the snack cabinet, every moment of every day. Thankfully Ben loves books and is starting to read. So soon he will have a new quiet activity. And perhaps an easier time working independently at school.
It’s ironic to me that Ben and John are so opposite in how they do and learn things, and yet both teachers have zeroed in on “attention.” The cynic in me finds their declarations reactionary. The realist in me knows they have the boys' best interests at heart, and teachers should give parents a heads-up to any potential issues.
The mom in me panicked at first. But now she knows it'll be ok.
This Week's Winner
The winner of the Green Eggs and Ham Cookbook, selected by me in a random drawing, is: 1girl2boys! Please send your address to clouth@gmail.com!
*applause, whistle, applause*
Our winner writes the aptly named blog, 1 girl, 2 boys, and says Green Eggs and Ham was her all-time favorite book. I'm assuming she means when she was a kid. Be sure to click through to her blog, if you think you can handle some hard core sleeping-toddler-twins cuteness.
Thanks to MotherTalk, and to everyone who played along.
*applause, whistle, applause*
Our winner writes the aptly named blog, 1 girl, 2 boys, and says Green Eggs and Ham was her all-time favorite book. I'm assuming she means when she was a kid. Be sure to click through to her blog, if you think you can handle some hard core sleeping-toddler-twins cuteness.
Thanks to MotherTalk, and to everyone who played along.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I Don't Hate School, I'm Just a Whiner
Remember this post? No? Then go read it. Actually, just read the beginning. Stop when I start whining about timelines.
To summarize, my first grader has a speech problem. He has several atypical substitions for the R sound in all its combinations. He worked all summer on 'F' and 'SH' and seems to have those sounds mastered.
Still, when I take him out and about, people inevitably ask, "Do you go to school?" He answers, "I'm in first grade," which is a complete disaster. Entirely unintelligable. A week ago, in CDD class, I witnessed another boy make fun of him for the way he said "Thursday." Ben shrugged it off, but it bugged me because I know he must run into that from time to time. We're guessing his problem stems from the 25 percent hearing loss he suffered before getting tubes at age 4.
On Tuesday, Brian and I met with a team of education specialists to discuss whether his school will provide speech services to Ben. Would we have to continue to shell out $15 a week for private speech therapy? Would I be doomed to a winter of schlepping three kids to the appointment, where we wait for Ben in an 8'-by-12' room full of things one year olds can't touch?
Last week, when I got the results of the battery of physchological, educational and speech tests they gave Ben, I flipped right to the speech therapist's recommendations.
Which were missing.
It said, to paraphrase, "I'll tell you at the meeting."
Undeterred, I called the speech therapist the next morning. Did she really think I'd wait all weekend, formulating arguments for why Ben needed her services, if I didn't have to? Do they enjoy pushing my buttons?
I'm whining again. Sorry. I shouldn't, because: Yes! They'll give him services!
The school therapist emphasized that her goal is not to make him perfect, just get him to the point where his speech does not obstruct his learning. Good enough.
The meeting was unexpectedly pleasant. Ben tested high average or excellent/superior on his language testing, which put me at ease about his need for extra reading help. The head speech therapist will work with Ben directly, which is awesome news. And, services will start in a few weeks. We thought we'd have to wait until January.
I also felt reassured to see all of these professionals coming together to help my son. So I don't hate them anymore.
To summarize, my first grader has a speech problem. He has several atypical substitions for the R sound in all its combinations. He worked all summer on 'F' and 'SH' and seems to have those sounds mastered.
Still, when I take him out and about, people inevitably ask, "Do you go to school?" He answers, "I'm in first grade," which is a complete disaster. Entirely unintelligable. A week ago, in CDD class, I witnessed another boy make fun of him for the way he said "Thursday." Ben shrugged it off, but it bugged me because I know he must run into that from time to time. We're guessing his problem stems from the 25 percent hearing loss he suffered before getting tubes at age 4.
On Tuesday, Brian and I met with a team of education specialists to discuss whether his school will provide speech services to Ben. Would we have to continue to shell out $15 a week for private speech therapy? Would I be doomed to a winter of schlepping three kids to the appointment, where we wait for Ben in an 8'-by-12' room full of things one year olds can't touch?
Last week, when I got the results of the battery of physchological, educational and speech tests they gave Ben, I flipped right to the speech therapist's recommendations.
Which were missing.
It said, to paraphrase, "I'll tell you at the meeting."
Undeterred, I called the speech therapist the next morning. Did she really think I'd wait all weekend, formulating arguments for why Ben needed her services, if I didn't have to? Do they enjoy pushing my buttons?
I'm whining again. Sorry. I shouldn't, because: Yes! They'll give him services!
The school therapist emphasized that her goal is not to make him perfect, just get him to the point where his speech does not obstruct his learning. Good enough.
The meeting was unexpectedly pleasant. Ben tested high average or excellent/superior on his language testing, which put me at ease about his need for extra reading help. The head speech therapist will work with Ben directly, which is awesome news. And, services will start in a few weeks. We thought we'd have to wait until January.
I also felt reassured to see all of these professionals coming together to help my son. So I don't hate them anymore.
Recently, I got the name of a guru speech therapist not too far from here. Should the school cut Ben loose before he can speak properly, that's where we'll go.
In short, I'm pleased as punch.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
What have I done?
John: You know what I want for breakfast, Mama? I want to make something from that book. Let's make something for breakfast, Mama! Where's the Dr. Suess cookbook?
Me: Hmph grmbl leftover Blueberry Bumpkins ... coffee ...
John: Mom! I can't do it by myself! I don't know how to do the ingredients. Where's the Dr. Suess cookbook? Where is it?! Mom!
Me: Hmph grmbl leftover Blueberry Bumpkins ... coffee ...
John: Mom! I can't do it by myself! I don't know how to do the ingredients. Where's the Dr. Suess cookbook? Where is it?! Mom!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
MotherTalk Blog Tour: Green Eggs and Ham Cookbook
Thanks to this week's MotherTalk book selection, the boys and I have spent a lot of time together in the kitchen lately. And thanks to the kid- and parent-friendly recipes, I didn't need to go lie down with an icepack on my head afterward!When I received the Green Eggs and Ham Cookbook, Recipes Inspired by Dr. Seuss!, and saw the big ham on the cover with green stuff all over it, I winced. Just a little. But we worked around the ham, and I'm happy to report many successes, both logistically and gastronomically.
The book itself is a large (not oversized) hardcover with spiral binding inside, so it will lie flat or stand open to a recipe, making it easy to work with in the kitchen. The sturdy pages are loaded with Dr. Seuss illustrations as well as fun photos by noted photographer Frankie Frankeny (you should check out her Star Wars Cookbook too). Author Georgeanne Brennan has won awards for her cookbooks and runs a cooking school in the south of France, so she knows of what she speaks.
Here's a summary of the recipes we tried and the results:
Glunker Stew: John had this concoction for lunch over yogurt. I peeled the apples and helped him chop them up and get them into a saucepan with a few other ingredients. Then we dropped a dollop of the warm apples over some berries. Very simple. Very fruity. What's not to love?
Blueberry Bumplings: These are very much like a scone, although the name "bumpling" is way more fun to say. I challenged myself to make these because baking is not my thing. It's too exacting, I always make some little mistake that ruins everything. This time, I was sure I'd let the butter get too soft and handled the dough too much. But they turned out great. Scones can be dry, but these are moist. Brian even liked them, and he's a scone-hater.
Happy Glunker Stew and Blueberry Bumpling eater
Moose Juice: This is an orange-banana shake topped with whipped cream. I couldn’t find plain orange sherbert (only rainbow, isn’t that strange?) so I got the Edy’s kind with chocolate chips. As always, chocolate makes it better! I’m glad I got this picture of John before he took a sip, because once he started, he didn’t stop drinking until the whole thing was gone. Thumbs up!
"My mom is The Best!"
Schlottz’s Knots: These are bread sticks made to look like a Schlottz tail. So easy and fun – the boys stretched the dough out, and gobbled up almost all of them in one sitting.
Just in case you didn't know what a Schlottz tail looks like
Skipper Zipp’s Chops and Chips: Pork chops, roasted potato wedges, and a rousing reading from Oh Say Can You Say made for an enjoyable dinnertime experience with the boys. Try saying “Skipper Zipp’s Clipper Ship Chip Chop Shop” even one time fast! The chops were a little dry (maybe I baked them a bit too long), but the potatoes? We now have a new potato-roasting method.
Circus McGurkus Pink Lemonade: Easy, all-natural, not loaded with sugar and yet sweet enough to pass muster with my six year old, whose sweet tooth is the size of an ice cream truck.
Each recipe begins with the selection of Dr. Suess' prose that inspired it and has easy-to-follow directions. Some of the recipes are so simple they border on non-recipes (for example, the Noodle-Eating-Poodle Noodles, which are essentially noodles with butter and parmesan). However, simplicity is part of this book's success. The recipes are very do-able for a busy parent like myself. The book also has many unique ideas, as well as plenty of more complex recipes for when you have the time.
The whole package -- the recipes, photos, prose, and illustrations -- really came together to capture my boys' imaginations. And that's what this book is all about. That, and yummy food. I know we'll make more things from this book. I might even get the boys to try shrimp, since they're begging me to make Jedd's Bed of Shrimp. The Green Eggs and Ham? Well, we'll see.
No, I didn't forget that it's Giveaway Tuesday: The publisher was generous enough to give me an extra copy of the Green Eggs and Ham Cookbook to pass on to one of you. Leave me a comment between now and Thursday at midnight, EST, and I will pick a winner at random and post it on Friday. Since I'm feeling hungry after writing about food for an hour, please share, if you want to, either a kids' cookbook or fun meal idea that you've had success with. Now, where's that bag of Blueberry Bumpkins ...?
Monday, November 06, 2006
Obligatory Pre-Election Rant
Two voting issues caught my limited attention this year: the governor race, of course, and Question 1, which would allow supermarkets and convenience stores to sell wine, and abolish the antiquated law allowing stores to sell alcohol in just three stores statewide.
We have Duvall Patrick (D.) and Kerri Healy (R.) running for governor. Now, Massachusetts pisses me off for a number of reasons. One of them is this: Voters elect Republican governors (Weld, Swift, Romney) while electing almost 100 percent Democrats to the senate and house, thereby castrating the governor from day 1. It's a great process, one I'm seriously considering escaping.
From what I've gleaned (I avoid the news these days for mental health reasons), Healy's the underdog. Should Duvall Patrick win, he brings his long resume of tireless, selfless work on behalf of convicted level 3 offenders. Level 3 means -- and don't quote me on this because I'm too damned tired to verify my ramblings -- but level 3 indicates "violent" and "repeat." I know Patrick makes it a life practice to help those convicted of violent acts. That -- of all things -- is not what Massachusetts needs. I'm considering leaving Mass., and one reason stands above the rest: the way it treats repeat violent offenders. Between that and the high population outside of Boston, where I live, Duvall's election would be the death knell to my residency here.
On a lighter note, Question 1. A "yes" will allow many more retailers to sell wine. The con side argues that wine sold willy nilly in groceries and convenience stores will lead to more drunk driving deaths and irresponsible drinking. I have a two-pronged response to this:
Prong 1: If irresponsible drinkers or alchoholics want liquor, they can find it, in our case, at packies. However, should alcohol become more widely available, they will have to travel less distance to get said alcohol. Given the reasonable assumption that an alcoholic or irresponsible drinker may already be drinking when beginning the pursuit of more booze, then doesn't it stand to reason that wider availability means less miles driven by the drunk? And therefore a safer neighborhood in which to live? Oh, c'mon, don't you see it?
Prong 2: What about beer? How elitist of every person involved in this not to include beer! Beer and wine. Not just wine! What the hell?!
That concludes my rant. Vote however you want. No one can save Massachusetts, anyway.
We have Duvall Patrick (D.) and Kerri Healy (R.) running for governor. Now, Massachusetts pisses me off for a number of reasons. One of them is this: Voters elect Republican governors (Weld, Swift, Romney) while electing almost 100 percent Democrats to the senate and house, thereby castrating the governor from day 1. It's a great process, one I'm seriously considering escaping.
From what I've gleaned (I avoid the news these days for mental health reasons), Healy's the underdog. Should Duvall Patrick win, he brings his long resume of tireless, selfless work on behalf of convicted level 3 offenders. Level 3 means -- and don't quote me on this because I'm too damned tired to verify my ramblings -- but level 3 indicates "violent" and "repeat." I know Patrick makes it a life practice to help those convicted of violent acts. That -- of all things -- is not what Massachusetts needs. I'm considering leaving Mass., and one reason stands above the rest: the way it treats repeat violent offenders. Between that and the high population outside of Boston, where I live, Duvall's election would be the death knell to my residency here.
On a lighter note, Question 1. A "yes" will allow many more retailers to sell wine. The con side argues that wine sold willy nilly in groceries and convenience stores will lead to more drunk driving deaths and irresponsible drinking. I have a two-pronged response to this:
Prong 1: If irresponsible drinkers or alchoholics want liquor, they can find it, in our case, at packies. However, should alcohol become more widely available, they will have to travel less distance to get said alcohol. Given the reasonable assumption that an alcoholic or irresponsible drinker may already be drinking when beginning the pursuit of more booze, then doesn't it stand to reason that wider availability means less miles driven by the drunk? And therefore a safer neighborhood in which to live? Oh, c'mon, don't you see it?
Prong 2: What about beer? How elitist of every person involved in this not to include beer! Beer and wine. Not just wine! What the hell?!
That concludes my rant. Vote however you want. No one can save Massachusetts, anyway.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Does Your Cat Vomit? A Public Service Announcement
What an inviting title, eh?
My 15-year-old cat Shadow has had tummy trouble her entire life. When she was 4, we found ourselves cleaning up cat vomit daily. So we agreed to a $350 endoscopy which, according to the vet, revealed irritable bowel syndrome (IBS).
For the past 11 years, she has taken Prednisone, a steroid the vet told us will shorten her life by making her overweight and prone to diabetes. The poor thing is nearly 20 pounds, even though she's on a measured diet. But she's shown no signs of diabetes as of yet.
Even with the Prednisone, Shadow had at least four or five "bad days" a month, where she would get sick and we'd have to give her an extra dose of Prednisone. But in the last three months all that has changed. In the last three months, we have been cat-vomit free.
I repeat, cat-vomit free.
How, you ask? Behold, the peerless Purina One Special Care, Sensitive Systems.
That loud banging you hear, that's me knocking on wood as I write this.
Brian and I have shelled out some serious dough over the years for special cat food, everything from Iams to specialty brands. For years, I bought lamb baby food at $1 a jar to mash the Prednisone into, because canned tuna made Shadow sick. We've also bought carpet cleaner by the case, and spent more time on our knees cleaning puke out of carpets than any human being in a civilized society should have to.
Since we've started using this plain-old, grocery store Purina catfood, she's been fine. Perfect. She even tolerates tuna, and the occassional tablespoon of corn (her absolute favorite food since birth, I have no idea why).
Why am I telling you this? Brian mentioned that some of you may have problems with vomiting cats, and he thought perhaps this information would help you. And your cat. And your carpets.
Please note: No free cat food was obtained in exchange for this endorsement. I am simply a cat owner traumatized by 15 years of cat vomit, trying to help others suffering a similar fate. Thank you, and may you be cat-puke free.
My 15-year-old cat Shadow has had tummy trouble her entire life. When she was 4, we found ourselves cleaning up cat vomit daily. So we agreed to a $350 endoscopy which, according to the vet, revealed irritable bowel syndrome (IBS).
For the past 11 years, she has taken Prednisone, a steroid the vet told us will shorten her life by making her overweight and prone to diabetes. The poor thing is nearly 20 pounds, even though she's on a measured diet. But she's shown no signs of diabetes as of yet.
Even with the Prednisone, Shadow had at least four or five "bad days" a month, where she would get sick and we'd have to give her an extra dose of Prednisone. But in the last three months all that has changed. In the last three months, we have been cat-vomit free.
I repeat, cat-vomit free.
How, you ask? Behold, the peerless Purina One Special Care, Sensitive Systems.
That loud banging you hear, that's me knocking on wood as I write this.
Brian and I have shelled out some serious dough over the years for special cat food, everything from Iams to specialty brands. For years, I bought lamb baby food at $1 a jar to mash the Prednisone into, because canned tuna made Shadow sick. We've also bought carpet cleaner by the case, and spent more time on our knees cleaning puke out of carpets than any human being in a civilized society should have to.
Since we've started using this plain-old, grocery store Purina catfood, she's been fine. Perfect. She even tolerates tuna, and the occassional tablespoon of corn (her absolute favorite food since birth, I have no idea why).
Why am I telling you this? Brian mentioned that some of you may have problems with vomiting cats, and he thought perhaps this information would help you. And your cat. And your carpets.
Please note: No free cat food was obtained in exchange for this endorsement. I am simply a cat owner traumatized by 15 years of cat vomit, trying to help others suffering a similar fate. Thank you, and may you be cat-puke free.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Natural Red?
In the past year, I've gone to the full-serve gas station downtown about four times. Every time, the same man has waited on me. He looks to be in his early thirties. He's stocky and has a Russian-sounding accent. The first time I met him he had short cropped hair, which he has grown steadily and now wears past his shoulders, in a red wavy mane.
The first time I got gas there, as I signed my credit slip, he muttered something.
"Hmfl deh red?"
"What?" I asked. He repeated himself, but I still didn't get him. I heard "red," so I guessed he might mean my hair. But what about my hair?
Being quick-witted like I am, I said, "Yeah," and smiled. "Have a nice day." He smiled and nodded as I drove off.
The next time I pulled in for a fill-up, he said the same exact thing to me. Except this time, I heard him.
"Natural red?"
"What? Oh. Yeah," I lied.
He smiled and nodded. "It's nice. Not too many people have it."
I mumbled something pithy like, "Yeah, lucky I guess. Have a nice day."
Driving off, I wondered why I lied, and why the hell he cared about my hair color. Who was he, some kind of redhead stalker?
The third time I pulled in, I thought I might get a different attendant. Or, maybe he'd remember me and would spare me the agony of another exchange about my hair color.
Or not.
"Natural red?"
"No," I announced. "Can't you see the roots?" I bent my head toward him in the bright sun and pulled my part tight for him to see.
His eyes squinted and he fumbled for a second. "Oh ... Red looks like it's your natural color."
Yeah, it's not. Have a nice day.
Last week, I tried again, convinced he would remember my gray roots from the last time. No way would this man again say to me, "Natural red?"
"Natural red?"
I looked into his eyes and said, "No," in a drawn-out, regretful note that I might use to answer Ben's, "Can I have ice cream?" or Brian's, "Wanna fool around?" "No, I'm so sorry. You can't have ice cream, you're not getting any, and I dye my putrid gray-brown hair using a bevy of toxic chemicals. Have a nice day."
The Russian seemed genuinely surprised: "No?!" Then disappointed: "Aw, don't say that." Then curious: "What color is it natural?"
"Mousy brown. And gray." This was actually getting boring.
"The red looks nice with your green eyes," he said, with all apparent interest and sincerity.
"Thanks," I said, giving him a big smile, for lack of any other possible thing I could think to say or do. This man just cannot take this conversation in any other direction whatsoever. While I enjoyed the compliment, I realized he will never quit asking about my hair. I'll have to find a new, conventiently located full-serve gas station.
Unless I ever go blonde again. Then I have to go back.
The first time I got gas there, as I signed my credit slip, he muttered something.
"Hmfl deh red?"
"What?" I asked. He repeated himself, but I still didn't get him. I heard "red," so I guessed he might mean my hair. But what about my hair?
Being quick-witted like I am, I said, "Yeah," and smiled. "Have a nice day." He smiled and nodded as I drove off.
The next time I pulled in for a fill-up, he said the same exact thing to me. Except this time, I heard him.
"Natural red?"
"What? Oh. Yeah," I lied.
He smiled and nodded. "It's nice. Not too many people have it."
I mumbled something pithy like, "Yeah, lucky I guess. Have a nice day."
Driving off, I wondered why I lied, and why the hell he cared about my hair color. Who was he, some kind of redhead stalker?
The third time I pulled in, I thought I might get a different attendant. Or, maybe he'd remember me and would spare me the agony of another exchange about my hair color.
Or not.
"Natural red?"
"No," I announced. "Can't you see the roots?" I bent my head toward him in the bright sun and pulled my part tight for him to see.
His eyes squinted and he fumbled for a second. "Oh ... Red looks like it's your natural color."
Yeah, it's not. Have a nice day.
Last week, I tried again, convinced he would remember my gray roots from the last time. No way would this man again say to me, "Natural red?"
"Natural red?"
I looked into his eyes and said, "No," in a drawn-out, regretful note that I might use to answer Ben's, "Can I have ice cream?" or Brian's, "Wanna fool around?" "No, I'm so sorry. You can't have ice cream, you're not getting any, and I dye my putrid gray-brown hair using a bevy of toxic chemicals. Have a nice day."
The Russian seemed genuinely surprised: "No?!" Then disappointed: "Aw, don't say that." Then curious: "What color is it natural?"
"Mousy brown. And gray." This was actually getting boring.
"The red looks nice with your green eyes," he said, with all apparent interest and sincerity.
"Thanks," I said, giving him a big smile, for lack of any other possible thing I could think to say or do. This man just cannot take this conversation in any other direction whatsoever. While I enjoyed the compliment, I realized he will never quit asking about my hair. I'll have to find a new, conventiently located full-serve gas station.
Unless I ever go blonde again. Then I have to go back.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Grocery Check-out Epiphany
Candy at the check-out has been a sore spot for me since becoming a parent.
I don't like when my child has behaved exceedingly well through an entire shopping excursion, and has already eaten a snack and picked out a treat to bring home to encourage/reward that behavior, and now, at the final stretch, he must confront the one temptation he cannot resist: a buffet of candy at his fingertips.
What child can resist this?
For a while, candy-free check-outs became available, but that seems to have given way to the self-check-out. The selfish bastards.
I have employed the spectrum of candy-at-check-out-with-child options. When my child breaks down and rips open the seductive sugar pellet held in his sweaty little shopped-out hands, I have:
-- Let him eat it. What the hell? Just don't bother me for the next 90 seconds.
-- Taken it from him, only to relent during the tantrum, pay for it and let him eat it.
-- Thrown it up on the register and paid for it, then stuck it in my purse. Sorry, bud. No can do. I'm eating this in the car on the way home.
I have never not paid for it. But today I had an epiphany.
While I understand the financial allure and greedy-retailer brilliance of candy at the check-out, why should I be penalized? Yes, my four year old son ripped open a piece of the candy potpourri presented for his enjoyment. That does not mean that I, a hapless customer, must pay for it.
Today I handed the open box of "extreme" or whatever Tic Tacs to the cashier and said, "He opened these, but I don't want them."
She looked down and seemed somewhat disappointed in me as a person, but she did not argue.
I'm not saying that I never let my kids choose some candy at the check-out. I realize that 75 cents won't break me. But that's not the point.
Whether I buy candy at the check-out is my choice. Not my four year old's choice, not the retailer's choice.
Today is a new day.
I don't like when my child has behaved exceedingly well through an entire shopping excursion, and has already eaten a snack and picked out a treat to bring home to encourage/reward that behavior, and now, at the final stretch, he must confront the one temptation he cannot resist: a buffet of candy at his fingertips.
What child can resist this?
For a while, candy-free check-outs became available, but that seems to have given way to the self-check-out. The selfish bastards.
I have employed the spectrum of candy-at-check-out-with-child options. When my child breaks down and rips open the seductive sugar pellet held in his sweaty little shopped-out hands, I have:
-- Let him eat it. What the hell? Just don't bother me for the next 90 seconds.
-- Taken it from him, only to relent during the tantrum, pay for it and let him eat it.
-- Thrown it up on the register and paid for it, then stuck it in my purse. Sorry, bud. No can do. I'm eating this in the car on the way home.
I have never not paid for it. But today I had an epiphany.
While I understand the financial allure and greedy-retailer brilliance of candy at the check-out, why should I be penalized? Yes, my four year old son ripped open a piece of the candy potpourri presented for his enjoyment. That does not mean that I, a hapless customer, must pay for it.
Today I handed the open box of "extreme" or whatever Tic Tacs to the cashier and said, "He opened these, but I don't want them."
She looked down and seemed somewhat disappointed in me as a person, but she did not argue.
I'm not saying that I never let my kids choose some candy at the check-out. I realize that 75 cents won't break me. But that's not the point.
Whether I buy candy at the check-out is my choice. Not my four year old's choice, not the retailer's choice.
Today is a new day.
Tuesday Giveaway: The Winner
Marisa of I Have What? come on down, you are the first winner of Wonder Mom's Tuesday Giveaway! Wooooohooooooo!!!
So I'm a little excited. Sue me.
So I'm a little excited. Sue me.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Chronology of a Perfectionist
Updated to Add: Did anyone notice the typo in the title? It took me five days to care enough about that typo to fix it. See how well I'm recovering? If I was brave I'd post a photo of the family room as it looks right now. Then you'd really be proud.
I was so busy confusing myself over my decision to blop last night that I forgot to mention I have a post up at Dotmoms:
Age 5: Did other girls get Barbie anxiety? No, I didn't want to look like her ...
Also, don't forget to leave a comment here before midnight tonight if you want a chance to win a Gerald McBoing Boing DVD. A cartoon boy who communicates with bizarre sound effects! How can you resist?!
I was so busy confusing myself over my decision to blop last night that I forgot to mention I have a post up at Dotmoms:
Age 5: Did other girls get Barbie anxiety? No, I didn't want to look like her ...
Also, don't forget to leave a comment here before midnight tonight if you want a chance to win a Gerald McBoing Boing DVD. A cartoon boy who communicates with bizarre sound effects! How can you resist?!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Yes, and No
Yes, I'm doing NaPloMo*.
No, I don't know why.
No, I'm not including a Yoda graphic.
Yes, I wanted "Post or Die," the one with the gun. I couldn't find it.
Yes, a post a day intimidates me. I'll be forced to write off-the-cuff content, the proverbial pulling of the post out of the ass.
No, there won't be swearing. Much.
Yes, I'm wondering how to shield you from my mundane thoughts, petty complaints and buzzed humor. Although the latter might be a refreshing change.
Yes, I promise to quit NoMaBoPlo* if tempted to publish a shopping list. Or a photo of a shopping list.
No, I can't promise to keep that promise.
Yes, I am straining to end this post.
No, I haven't figured how to do that yet.
Yes, I realize this is a bad start to NaPloBo*. It's going to be a long month here at Wonder Mom. Won't you join me?
*I gave myself three guesses to remember the acronym from all the times I've seen it around on blogs. Almost had it the last time! It's NaBloPoMo for you other flunkies out there. In deference to Laid-off Dad, I think I'll stick with "Blopping."
No, I don't know why.
No, I'm not including a Yoda graphic.
Yes, I wanted "Post or Die," the one with the gun. I couldn't find it.
Yes, a post a day intimidates me. I'll be forced to write off-the-cuff content, the proverbial pulling of the post out of the ass.
No, there won't be swearing. Much.
Yes, I'm wondering how to shield you from my mundane thoughts, petty complaints and buzzed humor. Although the latter might be a refreshing change.
Yes, I promise to quit NoMaBoPlo* if tempted to publish a shopping list. Or a photo of a shopping list.
No, I can't promise to keep that promise.
Yes, I am straining to end this post.
No, I haven't figured how to do that yet.
Yes, I realize this is a bad start to NaPloBo*. It's going to be a long month here at Wonder Mom. Won't you join me?
*I gave myself three guesses to remember the acronym from all the times I've seen it around on blogs. Almost had it the last time! It's NaBloPoMo for you other flunkies out there. In deference to Laid-off Dad, I think I'll stick with "Blopping."
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