Today the Hubby watched The Lord of the Rings.

All of them.

The *extended* versions.

Yes, he is that hard core.  Actually, it’s mostly that he’s friends with folks that are that hard core, and he likes to hang out with them.

A facebook event invite was sent out.  People rsvp’d.  The viewing local?  The social hall of the church (that’s what you get when the pastor is the event coordinator).  Sound and visuals taken care of by one of the church sound techs (something about upgrading projectors so it was blu-ray quality, even though the blu-ray editions won’t be released until April – duh).  Sound tech’s wife (our children’s pastor) set up the comfy chairs and padded pews for those with “sensitive” tooshies.  An area for non-chatters and an area for chatters designated.  My comment:  the only thing lacking was a person live-blogging the event.

Oh, and that other minor detail lacking:

CHILDCARE.

Today, I have been a Lord of the Rings widow, and I would like to say that I have triumphed!  It’s my first day feeding, dressing, shopping for, entertaining (thank you, Michelle, for hosting the widows – our own elven sanctuary), feeding, cleaning, napping, entertaining, feeding, cleaning, entertaining, bathing, feeding, reading to, cleaning, and putting to bed three tykes all by my lonesome.

It’s 9:43:  one tyke is is swaddled and snoring, the other two are “cuddling” under a sleeping bag (well, one has his midsection covered while the other has buried his head) on the top bunk bed.

I’d like to see a Melissa and Doug Responsibility Chart with all my duties, because they’re checked off, and I’d like my sticker now, pleaseandthankyou.

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The other night Hubby and I wondered:

How

Are these kids

Related?

Seriously.

Boo Blatherings, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | 1 Comment »

It snowed yesterday.  And the world ceased to function, at least in the Pacific Northwest.  I can say that in my condescending way because I’m from Idaho where people know how to take care of snow, and because I was not on the roads, and because my husband got off of work early and only had a seven minute commute home.  So we played.

First, we wrap a Boo in a bunting from a GrandMom.  Yes, it’s big, but it’s pretty and fuzzy and red and from Nordstrom’s (I think).

Then we voyage outside:  yes, the bunting has ears.

Oooh, all pretty and white.  We watch as the professionals take to the field.

They survey the territory, assess the situation, take in all the details.

Cold.  Wet.  White.  Yep, it’s snow.

The girls hang by the sidelines, letting the experts get to work.

We make do with snow gear:  pockets are used to dethaw hands.

Time to get to work:  man making.  Small man of snow making, because the women-folk were inside whipping up something yummy and warm.

Watching the mama do her thing in the kitchen.

Pope Boo?

Whatchu giggling at, woman?

No more pictures, Mamarazzi!

When the Menfolk were done with their heavy lifting, they came in to defrost with some made-from-scratch hot cocoa (dude, the IKEA frother thingie is *awesome*).  Oh, and pjs, and later breakfast for dinner, cause that’s how we swing around here.

Making Giant Pancakes for dinner:  a logical choice to match the giant pancake snowflakes.

Some wondered where their hot cocoa goodness was:  all in good time, Little Miss, all in good time.

Some snow bunnies passed out during dinner time.  Literally.

The ferocious snow kitten monitored the situation from his command center.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we deal with snow.

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Last night I made a double-batch of eggnog scones for a brunch this morning.  I had eggnog; I was supposed to bring a baked good; I made scones.  I found some awesome-looking eggnog muffins, but muffins are such a commitment at a brunch:  you need little things, or things you can break into pieces.  And go back for more.  And some more again.

I’ve heard requests for the recipe.

Recipe.

Blog explanation.

Now, I used whole wheat pastry flour, trying to redeem some sort of nutritional value.  I whompawhompawhompahed with my biscuit cutter (a description I could NOT for the life of me remember this morning, having to describe with hand motions, “You know:  it’s flat and has four wire thingies that go around like this, and you take your thumb here and grip and go whompawhompawhompa” – or something like that) for quite some time, which some people say is key and others say makes tough scones.  I used less flour, more eggnog, I think a large egg and an extra large egg, Darigold eggnog (much better than whatever’s at Freddies), butterscotch chips (which deemed an “ooooh” from the Hubby), and raw sugar on top.  When it came to adding the wet goods, I mixed until barely combined – lots of butter bits and still kind of flour-y.  Molded into rounds on a silpat (first time I’ve used them:  had them for about four years), used a pizza cutter, separated, and eggnogged/sugared the tops.

I also was in a good mood while making these.  I had a disastrous attempt at making peanut butter popcorn (apparently when boiling sugar and honey, one shouldn’t do it on high for five minutes), and was nervous, but listening to the latest Trekcast talking about Deanna Troi’s mom (SO funny, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I know many people just shut down and lost respect for me, but hey:  it’s my heritage) made me giggle, and I think that helped the scones.

I also found out that some friends had made the very same kind and we all had different results.  Mine were deemed “biscuit-like”, which I hope is a good thing.

They’re best first thing out of the oven, but will still be edible the next day (stupid Oregon humidity making them all sticky-like).

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I remember hearing those dreaded words from other mothers:  “Some day your children will stop taking naps.”

NOOOOO!!!  That time during the afternoon, about 2-4ish, is a time when I had not a lot more to give:  not kind words, not fun activities, not books to read, not coloring books to decorate.  It’s a time for me to rest:  be quiet:  pull myself together for the Second Shift until the kids get to bed.

JJ has not napped in I don’t know how long, and ever since he and Abe started sharing a room, neither sleeps.  They have to remain in their room until Quiet Time is over, but staying in their room seems to be interpreted differently.  Such as today:

This would be my room.

And you know what, I don’t even care what was going through their darling little brains, because they were out.  Simultaneously.  And I have yet to find the lotion in my night table, but hey:  something to look forward to, eh?

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Yesterday I noticed that Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special was going to be on TV, as classic as American Christmas comes (Europe has Handel’s Messiah, and we have cartoon characters reading the Bible).  My brother and I watched this show as kids, along with the slew of claymation/cartoon/oddly filmed seasonal classics.

But then I saw the time:  8pm.

I know, I know:  not all that late.  But see, by 6pm, my goal for the day is to get to 8.  Because at 8, the children are contained in their room (in theory).  Eight o’clock, glorious eight o’clock, when I can have a non-interrupted conversation with my husband, or when I don’t have to have a conversation at all, because no one’s constantly asking me for screen time or a snack or why does Dad drive so much (which I asked him why he thought he did.  Answer: “Because he has to!”  Oh, yeah, that’s it).

So, how to get my children to have some of the normal American Christmas experience?  (which I don’t know if they really should, but enh).  Hulu to the rescue!

Funny thing, though:  they’ve shortened the show.  The not-even-a-half-hour-show has been cut down to 21 minutes.  Leaving in all the instances of saying “stupid” (a word we try not to use so much in the home).  With about 21 minutes of online commercials.  Really?  Really?!!

So then I suggested watching Rudolf.  Dude, that sucker is 54 minutes!  Give them some JJ-made chocolate covered sprinkled pretzels and string cheese, brush teeth, and throw them into their rooms!  Of course, as they were playing football in a box of a sleeping space an hour after we put them “into bed”, I commented, ‘Oh, did I forget to mention that they both took a nap today?’

Oops.

Daily Drivel, Entertaining Evidence, Holiday Hoopla | No Comments »

My eldest sings Christmas songs by repeating one phrase … over and over and over.

“Feliz Navidad” is simply “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas” – he sung that phrase for 20 minutes straight.

“Santa Claus is coming to Town” is “You better watch out … you better watch out … you better watch out.”  It’s like a skipping record, or perhaps he’s grasping the most important part of the song. 

Abe simply sings the last words of songs.  He even anticipates his father’s prayers, thanking God for ‘foo’ (food).  And even when Hubby changed up the words, Abe continued to pray for ‘pay’ (patience  ).

Boo just coos and coos.

The Jackson 5, we are not:  but they certainly like “singing” along to it.  Just wait til they figure out how to sing along to Manheim Steamroller (my brother does a mean beat box to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’:  it just embodies the Christmas spirit).

Mama Musings, Random Remarks | 1 Comment »

Man, Mondays are not my favorite.  Why?  LAUNDRY DAY.  Which, I know, I could move to another day.  But my mom always did laundry on Mondays.  Why do I remember?  Because I always had to wear the pink corduroy pants that I HATED on Mondays.  I had two pairs:  when one was being washed, the other were being worn.  And I had piano lessons on Monday, lessons I generally hadn’t prepared for.  So I was doing something I didn’t want to do in clothes I didn’t want to wear.

I’m sure this was only one year.  I can’t imagine that Mom bought me Bright Hideously Pink Corduroy Pants every year that I lived in her house.  But it was That Scarring.

When I was single, I did the ol’ “wear every item in the closet, perhaps a couple of times, before doing laundry”.  I scared a college roommate more than once by emerging from underneath a ginormous pile of laundry on my bed:  my slumbering self blended right in with the mammoth pile of fabric.

When I got married and even had my first born, I still did laundry only in dire circumstances.  I remember the highlight of my mom coming to visit is that I could actually fold laundry after I washed it:  novel idea!  And since I had a child who liked to decorate any surface with the meal he had just partaken of, laundry day meant washing EVERYTHING we owned.  Plus, we lived in a townhouse with on-area laundry machines that required quarters.  In this day and age of debit cards, who has change?!!  Quarters were a coveted commodity:  I’d go to real laundromats or car washes to get them with a harried look in my eye and dried-on-food somewhere on a garment I was wearing.

Now I do laundry on Mondays.  For a while I did a load whenever there was enough clothes to fill the washer, but then my mom commented on how interesting it was that all our white clothes were turning gray, and I thought, “Huh.  They’re not supposed to look that way?”

I actually read a book (yes, I am that much of a geek) teaching me how to do laundry.  It was FASCINATING.  The tags:  you know, those things that itch at your back and curl with repeated washings and are generally annoying?  They have information on them.  Information that actually *means* something.  And makes the clothes last longer and look better.  I had NO idea!  It was revolutionary, like when I watched my first episode of Alton Brown when he explained how when putting honey in a cake instead of sugar that you would reduce the liquid to account for the honey, and it just made sense:  you mean, there’s a reason behind it?  Same with laundry.

The laundry book said to do wash once a week so that enough clothes would pile up to do a full load of whatever washing conditions were required.  So I do.  I read tags, I sort, and I actually find it a bit more interesting.

Tonight, for the second time ever, I made my own laundry detergent.  I know the book wouldn’t agree (she said that laundry detergents were painstakingly researched for the best color-preservation/cleaning-action), but the sustainable side of me says “phooey”.  I figure the reading of the labels, the sorting, the doing laundry on Laundry Day, the not-walking-around-with-crusties-on-my-pants-having-not-washed-them-in-a-month should count for something, eh?

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So Abe was looking at a Santa scene the other day.  Santa sat with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk (as he should).

“Muk!  Meema, Muk!”  (aka “Milk, mama, milk”)

Then,

“Cookies!  Cookies!” (a word he has NO problem pronouncing – not so shocking)

Then, my oh so efficient boy,

“Mookies!”

Why say them separately when they’re meant to be together?

I think he’s on to something. 

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Tonight a good friend and I were talking cookbooks, because we like to eat good food, and we like good books, and we like to read good cookbooks, and occasionally cook something from them.    Tonight we were talking vegetarian cookbooks:  we both tend to cook less on the meaty-death side.  For me, it’s sheer lack of forethought:  forgot to thaw the fryer chicken, don’t buy chicken breasts at the store cause they’re expensive, don’t have time to brown the ground turkey and drain it, etc.  Plus, the mess:  if a tomato explodes, it’s just messy; when chicken explodes in my kitchen, that could cause death (nope, not so melodramatic over here).

I do have a few vegetarian/not so meat heavy cookbooks I enjoy.

Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian

Feeding the Whole Family

366 Delicious Ways to Cook Rice, Beans, and Grains

Jane Brody’s Good Food Cookbook

And when in doubt, I hit VegWeb or Kalyn’s Kitchen or Food Gawker.  But with the later, I always get sidetracked with the pretty pictures, generally of the cookies (ooooh).

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