Pardon my twitching lower abdomen:  *someone* is practicing the lovely art of having the hiccups.  *All**the**time*.

It’s funny how I don’t remember things from pregnancy to pregnancy.  I’ve heard countless mothers say the same thing, but I always thought, “How could you forget such an amazing, precious, life-transforming thing?”  And then I tell Hubby:  “This kid has so many more hiccups than the boys!” to which he responds, ‘Uh uh, Abe had a lot of them, too.”

Really?  Honestly, I don’t believe him, but my shrinking pregnant brain is in no shape to argue.  Although I did manage to find some small bit of lucidity to defend my position that “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty is *not* alternative radio material, even though I heard it on our local alternative station.  Don’t question my understanding of the Tom Petty cultural phenomenon or my ability to quote “Grosse Pointe Blank”:  you’ll get a beat-down.

I used to be floored that my mom couldn’t remember what year my brother was born, or would flip our birth dates (24, 26).  And now people, like the children’s pastor at a church we were visiting a few months ago, ask, “How old is JJ?”  To which I respond, “Oh, 5.”  “Um, then he needs to be in the 5′s class.”  “Oh, I’m sorry.  He’s really 4.5, but both my kids like to act at least six months older than their age.”  Yeah, step away from the crazy pregnant lady.

The only thing I can remember about the in utero boys is that JJ wedged his boot in my right rib cage – a LOT – , and Abe stuck his butt out, stretching my stomach to the point that I thought it would rip and reenact one of my mama’s most favoritist scenes from a movie (she was a lot more selective about what movies she would see with my father after that one ).  And the boys both moved:  a LOT.

So far this little one doesn’t have any trademark moves except for the regular hic.hic.hic.hic and the nightly Zoomba sessions.  That, and seemingly not liking to be touched or talked to:  more than once she’s jumped when people touch my stomach, and Hubby’s gotten a few pops to the nose when asking her what’s going on.

But she does seem to like to listen to Tom Petty.  How do I know?  Because I’ve dreamed about Tom Petty.  Twice.  And he’s on the radio a lot lately.  And I really like it.

And while I could leave you with a link to a Tom Petty song, I’m not going to.  Because while searching for the above youtube clip, I came across this.  And it makes me happy (and will be today’s homage to Mikey J:  gotta be culturally relevant).

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | No Comments »

Yesterday a friend asked me how I picked 11lbs of raspberries in an hour and a half:  the title was my answer.  Well, that coupled with rows that boys could run up and down, snacks that take a looooong time to eat (granola without a spoon anyone?), and setting aside my desire for my children not to be the walking essences of the raspberry fields (let’s just say that Abe’s yellow Mythbusters shirt may never recover).

This is my summer of craziness:  two tykes under five, one Buddha belly, and this insane determination to explore the local/sustainable/harvesting lifestyle.  Our CSA delivers a bounty of lettuce and other greens that must be worked through in seven days; I’ve hit the strawberry fields twice; our cherry tree gave buckets of fruit that have been cut, pitted, and frozen; I want to go back to the strawberries, but my Mama kindly reminds me, “Sweetie, other types of fruit are ripening.”  “Yes, Mama, but so am I.”

So then I bat my big eyelashes at Hubby as I say, “Boy, I’d really like to get blackberries, blueberries, peaches, and apples this year …”  My hubby who has the same childhood phobias of berry fields as he does of the fabric store (which I have NOT taken him to:  isn’t he glad I get my stash of yarn from Freddies?).

Each “harvesting” experience is interesting in itself, so different.  Raspberries are much kinder to my belly, getting to move up and down rather than squat and wonder if my doctor would just meet me out in the strawberry fields in September because it’s an awfully conducive place for contractions.  But I picked half as many raspberries than strawberries in the same amount of time (which is dictated by small tykes’ abilities to cope and patience for eating granola oat by oat).  But then I just washed the berries, threw them on a tray, froze them, and they’re ready to go:  no pitting, hulling, slicing, etc. (my fingers are still recouping from/protesting being make-shift cherry pitters).

So far the most consistent thing I’ve found:  once I’ve harvested, I’m ready for a break.  I don’t want to eat any strawberries or cherries:  the craving has been quenched (for the moment).  I’m still okay with raspberries, but am so ready to move on to the next thing.  Perhaps that’s what keeps the harvester going back to the fields rather than saying, “Ugh, I’m done!”  That, and true harvesters kinda hafta sorta harvest or starve.  However, I know that my teriyaki tree blooms year round, and that’s a hard one not to want to go back to over and over and over again (oh, my tree of the knowledge of good and House of Teriyaki:  how you tempt me).

Daily Drivel | 1 Comment »

A while ago, when my idealistic side got access to the Dreaming parts of my brain (meaning the Realistic side had worn out of making lists and lists and more lists), I wondered about the sleeping situations at Chez Dren.  We have three bedrooms, all occupied.  What could we change?  What if the little bros. shared a sleeping room?  And we could turn the other room into a playroom/office?  In college many folks lived in the suites and had a Sleeping Room and a Working Room.

I broached the idea with Hubby who immediately said, “Why?  I always had my own room.  Who would want to share?”  I, too, had my own room and *loved* it.  But our eldest’s need for alone time seems to be done within thirty minutes of falling asleep, and then he’s ready to put on his party shoes again.

Then a little Boo decided to make her presence known, and room reorgs had to happen.  I already have two scruffy roommates (at least one of them shaves on a regular/semi-regular basis depending if it’s No Shave November or not; the other one just sheds on my side of the bed) plus now a short-term renter whose 40-week lease will not be up for renewal.

We got bunks.  Yes, we are suburban IKEA web2.0ers with young boys in bunk beds.  Who woulda thunk it?  The beds were purchased and set up a while ago, and in typical fashion, we’ve been doing things in “stages”:  let JJ get used to them, move Abe to a regular bed in his room, move Abe to the bunk bed while JJ was up at the Grand’rents, and then the final installment which began on Saturday:  the boys share a room.

We had a brief bout of sharing rooms when visiting Hubby’s folks, and they did …. okay.  They fell asleep LATE, but that might have happened anyway.  The immediate benefit I noticed:  entertainment without the presence of adults.  Talking to each other.  Sharing toys.  Bossing each other around.  Trying to get the other one to do something they weren’t supposed to:  you know, all the stuff that siblinghood is about.

So Saturday night we loaded them in the room.  Abe:  delighted, jumped in the bed, pulled the sheets up, “ByEEEE”.  JJ:  “But I want to sleep on the bottom!”  Sigh.  However, they managed to entertain each other.  Until 10:15 pm.  JJ only came out of the room a few time with reports:  “I bonked my knee and it hurts.”  “Abe wanted this toy and I gave it to him.”  “We want the windows open and lights on.”  “I didn’t open the blinds, but *someone* did.”  Tears exploded only a few times.  When Hubby went to tuck the boys in after the final passout, they were continuing to share … the bottom bunk.  My response:  “I don’t care what they do, as long as I don’t have to get involved after they go in that room.”

That’s honestly my feeling.  I. Don’t. Care.  JJ gave us quite the workout training him to stay in his room and fall asleep.  Seriously.  It was training:  for us all (although Hubby did most the heavy lifting, or containing).  Every few moments, the door would creak open, or “tip toes” would be hurting running across the hall.  It was exhausting.  Abe, however, doesn’t seem to know that’s an option, and even when JJ leaves on Reporting Duty, he mostly stays in the room.  Progress!

Until 5:30am the next morning, that is, when I heard “tip toes” running through the hall and blinds being opened.  “Hubby:  Boys.Up.”  He immediately shuttled them back to bed:  Abe conked out, JJ bided his time for an hour until he could stand it no longer.  His morning report:  “Mama, I let Abe share the bottom bed with me.  And then I woke up and said, ‘Rise and shine!’  But Dad made us come back to bed:  why?”

They’re still adjusting.  JJ’s new favorite “mean thing” to say:  “I don’t want ANYONE to share MY room!”  Abe doesn’t like having quiet time in his old room, because then he might actually fall asleep, and might be a bit more pleasant (not necessarily, though).  Hubby’s dealing with the boys being loud, even if contained, for a longer period of the day.

Last night I was putting the boys to bed solo, which honestly I was dreading to a degree:  I was Reported Out.  But they fell asleep.  Both.  In a few minutes.  In their own beds.  It was so … idealistic.  It may not happen again anytime soon, but it *did* happen, and I will savor that for at least a few sleeping times to come.

Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

So, you know how you’re at home, trying to take the obligatory belly shot to appease the masses (or at least the one or two gals who you pestered, and turnabout’s fair play), and your husband comes home with the preschooler.  And sits on the couch.  And pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel | 3 Comments »

The dreaded words were coming.  I knew that as much as I could see both the dates approaching on the calendar and not see the tips of ears:  “Could I get a haircut before our trip to visit my folks?”  Which means a three-for-one deal, because if the shears are coming out, everybody’s getting shorn.

The dread comes not from hating to give haircuts:  it’s a choice I make, and it’s fairly theraputic to watch all the locks fall to the floor.  It’s more the unknown element that comes with each buzz:  which boy will squirm the most?  How will I cut their hair for the season?  How long will it take to grow out before it looks semi-acceptable?  Will I forget to put the number shear on the clippers and just dive in at zero? (a mistake I made only once, on the second haircut I had *ever* given, to my Hubby, which I got to stare at for a while).

This time I tackled the folks over four feet, and the Hubby took on those under four feet, i.e. bring on the summer cuts.  For most of my life I’ve loved the short cuts on boys – Tom Cruise in Mission:  Impossible – GREAT hair.  But with my boys?  I’m all about the Abercrombie do:  long curls coating the head.  Except when you have an abundance of sweat genes passed down from the generations, those curls quickly become … not so pliable.  “Mama, that hurts!  Don’t comb my hair like that.”  “Sweetie, I have to:  it’s all tangled.”  “Tangled?  Like a rectangle?”  Mental note:  Hubby’s right – time for a hair cut.

So, I take on winter duty, and Hubby shears away all those sweet locks come summertime while I bury my attention in whatever car-chase movie we’ve put on the TV as a distraction for squirmy boys.  JJ got a close-to-summer shear, and Abe initially had the same.  But he has a “challenging” head to work with (spherical, yet quite pointy in places), and he ended up looking like the Dad from Back to the Future.  I sighed:  “Just lop it all off.”

Now the boys will be ready for any heat waves that come our way.  While I’m not a rec”tangle”, I don’t think a hair cut will help the condition of my shape. 

Daily Drivel | 5 Comments »

Friends = good.

Food = good.

Sun = good.

It was a good weekend.

Saturday we loaded up to go to Costco to get an order of contacts.  This was attempt #2, with attempt #1 being two previous Fridays when we tried to hit the Joe’s “Liquidation” sale which turned out to be liquidating their parking space availability as well as unclogged walking isles, but we found that out later because our first Joe’s attempt was too early – not open yet.  We went to go to Costco, but it wasn’t open either, so we got Costco gasoline and stopped off at PetSmart first because JJ had been promised a new fish, you know, in December.  In typical American fashion we walked out with six (I believe) new fish and a snail that’s favorite game is “trick the girl owner into thinking I’m dead so that she has a mini-attack most times looking at the tank, but FAKE OUT”.  Then we went to Costco.  Except Costco opens at 11:00 during the week, not 9:30 like the weekends:  FAKE OUT.  So, back to Joe’s for the last FAKE OUT experience of the day (those prices:  20 percent off is liquidation?!!  Dude, that word can *only* be associated with at least 70 percent or better – don’t you read all the frugal sale blogs?!!).

So we went to Costco this Saturday and boo-yah:  open.  Contacts:  purchased.  Other things we “neeeeeeded”:  purchased.  I mentioned to the Hubby:  it’s going to be nice – go buy something fun to grill.  He wanted salmon, but mentioned how it’s just not the same without the cedar plank treatment that we always do at my folks.  Round the corner:  boo-yah – planks.  With little salmons etched onto them.  Calling Hubby’s name:  use us!  Use us!  Then we grazed for samples (good day for adults – all natural turkey, garlic chicken meal, hawaiian chicken bowl, smoothies, two nut stations, and acai drinks; not so great for kids – dehydrated blueberries and mangoes).  AND we ran into some friends making their necessary purchases of Fair Trade Organic Sugar and non-Fair Trade non-organic Cheerios:  excellent combo.

We left.  We came home.  We unloaded.  We ate lunch.  Hubby moved into yard maintenance, and I moved into, “Hmm:  I wonder if I can lure our friends over for dinner by constantly Facebooking them.”  It worked.  And the food was GOOD, and so easy:  I seriously don’t know why I don’t do meals, with friends, more often.  Minus the incessant reports of all the ways my children were hosting/hazing the other kids.  The one thing I forgot to pick up at Costco:  the Fair Trade Organic nanny.

On Sunday we were chatting with friends during community time while the boys were getting their pack animal mentality on (first exclamation when one saw the other, “JJ, let’s RUN!”  And they did.  Oh, how they ran), and we decided that going to service just wasn’t in the cards once Abe had a permantent indent in his hand from getting a heavy door slammed on it.  So we went for Extended Community Time at a friends house because, really, did we want to have to entertain our children by ourselves, or rather to encourage/lock them outside to play together while we sat and talked?  The answer is obvious.  Again:  most excellent food – an assortment of baked goods from various grocery stores in our area.  They had bakery chocolate chip cookies that made me miss Buttrey’s/Alberton’s bakeries in Boise when I would get a free chocolate chip cookie to munch on while Mama shopped.  Which my boys don’t get, and won’t get, until they’re old and determined enough to read/slog through my blog and get to this blog post.

Sunday I took advantage of naptime to throw on the walking shoes and hit the hills.  There’s a little red on my shoulders, but there’s sunshine blazing on my inside.  Such an odd sensation, plugging in the headphones, having flashbacks of my daily walks in Boise, feeling like I could breathe for the first time in I don’t know how long.  Breathing:  that’s another thing I should add to the good list.  I so often forget.

This week we’re eating from the Moosewood Restaurant Cooks at Home:  Fast and Easy Recipes for Any Day.

Monday:  Mighty Zucchini Muffins w/cream cheese, bananas; Mockamole, nachos, ants on a log; Simple Quesadillas, Caribbean Black Beans

Tuesday:  Fruit-filled French Toast, yogurt; Italian-style Tofu Pizza, apples w/pb, crackers; Broiled Tofu burgers, seasons fries, peaches

Wednesday:  Cottage Cheese Apple Pancakes w/peanut butter, cheese; Greek Pita, hummus, chips, apples, veggies; Golden Cheddar Cheese soup, Pesto Palmiers, Salad, tangerines

Thursday:  Leftovers; PBJ, crackers, raisins; Leftovers

Friday:  Blueberry Multigrain Muffins w/cream cheese, peaches; Greek Spinach Frittata, cinnamon raisin toast; Sweet Potato Quesadillas, North African Cauliflower soup, chips, salsa

Saturday:  Yogurt Cheese Pie, cinnamon toast; Tofu Burritos, pb crackers, fruit leather; Feta Spinach Pizza, breadsticks, marinara, peaches

Sunday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; waffles

Daily Drivel, Foodie Facts, Present, Random Remarks | 2 Comments »

I went away on a retreat with a bunch of lovely ladies a few weeks ago.  One morning we were talking about food (as women often do) and families (as women often do) and being too busy (as women *never* do ), and the topic of menu planning came up.  “Oh, y’all should check out my website!  I post weekly meal plans *every* *week*.”  Yeah, that was a couple of weeks ago, and I put up nothing:  classy.

But that doesn’t mean we weren’t eating.  We’ve been eating … and eating … and eating.  The week after the retreat, I went to my folks’ for a “retreat with two small boys, one of whom decided he would prefer to be attached to mama at all time as well as weep and wail and gnash those darling little molars while falling asleep or at 2am or both” – not necessarily so restful, but rejuvinating in that I didn’t have to cook or clean for seven blissful days.  And I could watch a number of NCIS marathons (a show that has been endeared to me since finding out that the writer/producers also created Magnum, P.I., one of the sacred Trinity of TV Childhood Favs).

While at the Mama & Pappy’s, I could also indulge in a guilty pleasure:  reading books about health/frugality/green/sustainable living.  Why is that guilty?  Because everytime I read these books (or watch Oprah), I freak out about all the bad things that could infiltrate my family’s health and purge the nasties.  Organic grapes and strawberries:  a must.  Homemade laundry detergent:  on top of my laundry machine.  Flax seeds and antioxidents:  regular part of my diet.  Buying disposable diapers:  a shame and guilt-laden experience.  Using paper towels and paper napkins:  rare, but also guilt-laden.  Unplugging any appliance that hasn’t been used:  compulsive and sometimes theraputic.  Bad plastics:  being weeded out.  Becoming a member of a CSA:  first pickup’s in a few weeks.  Positive, happy, healthy thinking:  work in progress, kinda shoved down the list …

I’ve been banned from watching Oprah pretty much because Hubby comes home and I say, “So Oprah says …” and then life changes, or I live in the anxiety that I don’t know what or how to change so that BPA doesn’t infiltrate our drinking water and thereby corroding our systems so that we grow third arms.  It’s totally irrational and illogical:  I’ve swam in the Willamette.  Repeatedly.  I am DOOMED.

My idealist kicks in, and I can’t get it Right, and then I my mind shuts down as I start projecting out, thinking about planting a garden and harvesting everything and spending time ordering ginormous bags of locally organically grown grain to store in Safe plastic containers and grind by hand into my own bread and use organic butter that I get after a day’s walk to and from McMinnville because using my car would cause too big of a carbon foot print, and then I find myself with only enough energy to say, “Could I get some ketchup with that, too?” as I lean out the car window to pick up my hard-worked-for dinner offerings from the House of Dave Thomas.

So I read these books at my parents’ house.  Because their tanks to deal with The Crazy are much fuller (and more experienced) than my poor lives-with-the-daily Hubby.  And they find some of it interesting (hmm: wonder where I get it?).  And they have years and years of knowing how to temper me:  “Why don’t you take baby steps? … You know, instead of planting a garden, investing money in knowing *where* your food comes from is a great first step …  There will always be other years ….  I’ve found an herb garden is pretty easy to grow”, aka. oooh, here’s a direction to move in, oh all-or-nothing one.  They know not to make “You’re wrong” statements or “That won’t work” because look at the head-strong one go charging in that direction.  Plus, they’re just as all-or-nothing as me, oh move-to-the-farmland-Idaho-suburbs-to-by-acreage-and-grow-a-huge-garden-and-raise-animals-because-our-experience-of-living-in-the-urban-South-and-Germany-and-Tacoma-prepared-us-for-situations-such-as-these parents.  I’m just sayin’ …

This last time I read The China Study.  I let Hubby know I was taking it.  “This is the book that my friends read, and they stopped eating meat.  I’m just warning you.”  I read it; I enjoyed it; I believe the author – he’s not a whack job.  I haven’t gone bonkers yet.  I must admit, The Crazy One looks at animal products and thinks, “These promote cancer:  DOOM!”  But The Tempered One says, “Baby steps to four o’clock.  Baby steps to four o’clock”.  So we had Vegan Week in which I cooked vegan dinners.  I thought they were yummy, particularly since two meals required peanut sauce (mmmm).  And to celebrate the end of vegan week?  Grilled cream-cheese-stuffed turkey burgers.  Success.

Honestly I am feeling convicted to be more aware of animal products in my family’s diet, but not crazy.  I need to use things up in my freezer.  And I need to honor my family’s requests for favorites.  Mantra – these are choices to make out of love, not fear, to move us into life, not prison.

This week I used meals from The Sneaky Chef:  How to Cheat on Your Man (in the Kitchen):  a baby step in working veggies and other good stuff into the boys’ food.  I didn’t “hide” things:  I shared what was part of the meal.  And I bonded with my handheld blender:  we needed some quality time together.  Soon it will be quality smoothie weather …. sooooon ….

Monday:  Cheese eggs, cinnamon toast, banana (had to get out the door for MOPS); grilled cheese & turkey, grapes, crackers; Burgerville (Hubby’s half birthday:  woo hoo!  Burgerville’s also very locally/sustainably minded as well, and just plain tasty:  bonus).

Tuesday:  Power Breakfast Cookies (which led to some little peoples’ power poops – oy), sausage, strawberries; Chicken Waldorf wrap, veggies, apples; Italian Herb Chicken, Mighty Parmesan Mashed Potatoes, applesauce, bread, salad (comment:  “Wow!  You really went all out!”  Tried not to extrapolate into “and finally cooked a real meal/meal like my family cooked” – see, holding in The Crazy).

Wednesday:  Blockbuster Blueberry Muffins, cheese; Burly Burritos, veggies, crackers, raisins; Real Man Meatballs w/spaghetti, apples w/pb, salad, bread

Thursday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; Leftovers (seriously needed.  LOOOONG days cooking beforehand)

Friday:  Chocolate-Charged French Toast, cheese, banana; Leftovers (had a meeting that ran long); probably fend for yourself (because I had planned for Turkey Burgers, but tomorrow’s supposed to be quality grilling weather)

Saturday:  French Toast Bites, banana; English Muffin Pizzas, veggies with laughing cow cheese, peaches; Now You’re Talking Turkey Burgers, Real Freedom Fries, applesauce

Sunday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; Top Banana waffles, turkey bacon

In typical tradition, what one child hates, the other loves, and visa versa.

And what one child leaves, the other wears.  Marinara:  the latest facial treatment.

What, no kiss, Pappy?

At least he gets lovin’ in the belly.

Daily Drivel, Entertaining Evidence, Foodie Facts, Mama Musings, Present, Random Remarks | No Comments »

What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music? – High Fidelity

At the beginning of the year, I did not make a resolution.  Resolutions are something that I find myself wanting to sneak around, squiggle out of, avoid at all costs.  Because resolutions are supposed to be *good* for me:  and why would I want to do something like that?

Instead, I put out a request:  “Self,” I said, “I would like to have some form of physical activity almost every day.  Working out, walking, pedometering the steps, etc.  It’s supposed to make us healthy, wealthy, and wise; and dude, I really dig those endorphine thingies.”  My self found these thoughts acceptable, and since then exercise or daily movement has been fairly consistent.  Normally I would get up before the little monkeys, turn on my happy lamp, and walk it out with Leslie (“pulling those blessings down from heaven!”  Bless her little, and so healthy, heart).

And then “someone” decided to get competitive by getting up before the mama.  Like an hour before the mama.  And even Leslie‘s positivity can’t pull this tired patootie out of bed at 4:30am.  So these past couple of days I’ve been trying to squish concerted physical effort in where I can:  breakfast times, naptimes, or today the blissful “One child at school, and the not-as-needing-of-social-engagement child at home:  sweet freedom!” time.  Yesterday we The Firmed together, but apparently someone is a gear head and did *not* want to share the other dumbbell, and I didn’t know, but we had assigned fanny lifters that were *not* to be shared.  My bad.

Today we went for a walk around our park.  I had a goal:  we met half of it before Abe started to doze off.  And naptime in the stroller:  not cool.  That creeps into his other Times of Containment which are meant for sleeping and letting Mama sit on the couch and eat bon bons and watch The Dr.’s to figure out which prostate exam is the most effective (for future reference).

I needed to move about more, and I didn’t want to accomplish it by lugging laundry up and down the stairs:  it’s an option, but not a good one.  So I flipped to the ol’ Itunes to find some dancey music.

Today I’ve been craving dancey music since I read about Cinnabon giving away free Cinnabites in honor of tax day.  Obvious correlation on all fronts, yes?  See, in college, when my roommates and I had done all our homework and were good little college students, or at least mediocre college students, we would wake up late Sunday morning, throw on our pajama pants and slippers and hoodies, pile into a car, haul off to the mall to the “Good Entrance.”  Within 15 feet of the entrance we could access Starbucks (venti Mocha Frappuccino), Jamba Juice (really big Aloha Pineapple with immunity boosters), and Cinnabon (extra frosting, please).  I didn’t say I was necessarily at my *heathiest* time of my life, and we usually made up for it by cooking a “proper” chicken and salad and bread dinner (never made the correlation why I felt so much better after dinner and notsomuch in the morning …).

To and from the Good Entrance, we would listen to music:  loud music:  loud pop music.  Because we could, and because it was a wholly new experience for me:  happy music, bouncy music, music that wasn’t written by goth boys with moppy dyed-black hair to match their all-black ensemble that blended into their sinister tomb of dark madness (aka their parents’ garage) as was my previous listening preference (oh, Robert Smith, you’ll still always have a place in my heart).   There were dance moves involved in this happy, peppy music experience, dance moves that I learned, and now have the pride (the privilege, nay, the pleasure) of bestowing them upon the next generation (of course, while their father is at work.  But it’s not like he’s not going to teach them to get their Warren G on:  regulators, mount up).

• So we dance to a little of this.
• And this.
• And he *really* liked this, talking back and waving to the screen.
• And we danced to this, so he could find something that’s more “his generation” (but we didn’t watch:  those shoulder pads are just a little too graphic at his tender age).

Yesterday I was complaining to a friend that Elmo and his orchestra was about to get booted out of my home.  He reminded me of some good kids music, but the pop music, the happy peppy baddy pop music, finally leveled me out.  Of course now I’ll need to temper that with either some Beastie or Vivaldi:  really, it’s a toss up between the two.

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It’s been sunny:  outside and in my soul.

I didn’t realize how not-sunny it had been.  I hadn’t felt right complaining about the weather.  It doesn’t do a whole lot of good, and we’ve had rainier, grayer seasons, I’m sure.  But once the sun hit, and smiling was more a reaction than a “hmm:  this situation requires a positive response:  c’mon, cheek muscles – you can’t be *that* atrophied”, I realized my solar tanks had dipped beyond low.

Life is a series of baby steps, daily baby steps, often til 4:00, just like Bob.  Because at 4:00, I only have one more hour of activities I am solely in charge of.  Which, now that it’s sunny, involves boys, the out-of-doors, and me throwing balls … lots of balls.

Abe is becoming oh-so-toddleresque.  We’ve removed the side of his crib, we’ve depacifieried him (a feat he’s still protesting), and he’s joined us at the table without a tray table separating us and his yogurt-saturated fingers.  His favorite thing to do is throw the kitchen rug out of the way, move the family heirloom child-sized rocking chair into the kitchen, stand on it, open the utensil drawer, and whack away at my sink with a seraded bread knife.  We’ve weaned him down mostly to spoons and butter knives: they leave fewer chinks.

He’s enjoying living into his boydom.  The other morning while I was working out (mind you, it’s like 6:30am, because We Love Mornings and Must Rise Early to Beat the Boys But They’re Competitive in Everything Including Waking Up), I heard a noise coming from behind the couch.  A liquidly noise.  A quick run to the back of the room revealed some pjs, a removed diaper, and a naked boy smiling as he peed on the carpet.  Delightful.  Right now he’s giggling while leaning on my chair, because as he leans, it gives him the support to fart.  Glorious.

JJ is a preschool boy all the way:  every stick is a weapon, every other boy has an imaginary light saber, every block building must be knocked down, and every free moment should be filled with building legos or playing MarioKart (WEEEEE!) or running around with his Lightning McQueen hooded towel, because he’s a SUPEr hero.  But there’s also the sweet moments of bringing his brother books to read or comforting me when another toy has broken and I wonder if I live in a house of destruction (I miss pretty, breakable things somedays.  Other days, when I’m cleaning, I don’t miss them so much).

“Why” is a frequently asked, frequently dreaded question.  “Why do I have to go to bed?” “Why do I have to make my bed?” “Why do you make that face when Abe eats yogurt with his hands?” “Why is that lady’s tummy so big?” “Why can’t I adjust my underwear standing here in the middle of the living room with other people around?”  I realized a while back that he really doesn’t want an answer:  often he knows the answer.  But in order to process, and oh, do we process in this house, he must ask questions.  Out loud.  All the time.  So, in proper parenting mumbo jumbo, I reflect things back to him.  “Why do you think?” or a shrug of the shoulders or a “Hmm:  interesting” often stops the “why” neverending teacups ride before it starts.

The Hubby got his Summer Preparedness on this weekend.  A mowed and weed-whacked lawn and fertilized lawn, a washed car, and a grilled meal were all enjoyed.  Boys threw balls, kicked balls, rolled balls, and played with chalk.  The clouds are rolling in even now, but I think I can maintain the Vitamin D glow for a few more days.  That, or I’m getting a portable Sun Lamp:  if you see me with a strange contraption mounted to my head, just nod and smile, nod and smile.

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Once upon a time I posted pictures on this blog.  But lately it’s all been food this and recipe that.  Yeah, yeah, yeah:  I’ve been missing out on the good stuff.  As my kids get older, and able to read, I’m starting to be a bit more selective of what I put out there.  Because looking back, dang:  my donations to their “My Mom Exploited Me On the Internet for Laughs:  She Didn’t Even Get Any Adsense or Amazon Associates Revenue So Now I Need Years of Therapy” fund is getting quite hefty.

And I find that just as there is a time to laugh and a time to mourn, there is a time to photograph and a time to . . . not.  Perhaps it’s that life has found a comfortable rhythm that doesn’t seem all that photo-worthy.  Or perhaps I’m tired of trying to explain why I don’t want to share my camera (which mostly is not explanations, but a barking, repetitive “No.  No.  No.  No.”  Etc., etc., etc.

However, on the ol’ Powershot I found some images.  Scenes of preppy boys:

And flattering self-portraits:

And flattering brotherly portraits (seriously:  could use the term Block Head in this case):

And cousins sitting:

And scholarly exhausted boys:

And getting their weekly body treatment of yogurt, banana, and granola boys:

And boys with bonks:

And boys who comply:

And boys who don’t:

Fairly typical of life around here.

We also plan on eating, this week out of the critically-acclaimed, French cuisine-inspired staple of the Cordon Bleu curriculum C is for Cooking.

Monday:  Big Bird’s Banana & Berry Delicious Toast (which the kids actually thought was delicious.  I was shocked:  my brother and I would not have touched anything cream cheese-ish with a ten foot pole), cheddar cheese; Rosita’s Pita Pizzas (a resounding “Yum!” from the hubby), apples w/peanut butter; Tofu & Veggie Stir-Fry with Beth’s Peanut Sauce (Beth is not a Sesame Street character, but rather a friend from my former meal-cooping days.  I found a container of her peanut sauce in my freezer and did a dance of glee.  Really.  Ask my hubby), crackers, raisins.

Tuesday:  Cookie Monster’s Yummy Pancakes with Strawberry Sauce (I thawed some of my strawberries from last year:  heaven in a ziplock freezer bag), sausage; Cookie Monster’s Peanut Butter Sandwich with grated apples on cinnamon raisin bread, string cheese, carrots; Grover’s Egg Sausage Strata (which we were supposed to have tonight, but someone forgot to read the instructions beyond the ingredients to notice things like “refrigerate overnight or for at least four hours” until three hours before dinner), fruit salad

Wednesday:  Ernie’s Jelly Omelet (sounds yucky, but hey:  maybe Ernie can work his magic), Abby Cadabby’s Pumpkin Muffins (which we already made last week – huge hit); Rosita’s Turkey & Cheese Quesadillas, bananas w/ peanut butter, snap peas; Ernie’s Roast Lemon Chicken, Cookie Monster’s Stuffed Potatoes, garlic bread

Thursday:  Leftovers; PB & J, string cheese, crackers, raisins; Leftovers

Friday:  Ernie’s Breakfast Banana Split; Rosita’s Strawberry Mango Smoothie, cheese toast; Grover’s Little & Adorable Chicken Nuggets, garlic fries, peaches

Saturday:  Elmo’s Dutch Baby Pancakes with Buttery Apples (expecting this to fly really well with the Hubby), sausage; Oscar’s Egg Drop Soup (not expecting this to fly with the little ones, but it just sounded so good), crackers, applesauce;  Leftover Chicken & Leftover Peanut Sauce pizza, carrots, bananas

Sunday:  Leftovers; Leftovers; Zoe’s Easy Cheesy Waffles, apple chicken sausage, applesauce

As I was coupon clipping, recipe organizing, and grocery shopping on Sunday, I told the Hubby that this is a lot of work.  But I think it’s good work, which he affirmed in his laid-back way:  “Yeah, it’s good for me not to eat only pizza and Hot Pockets.”  Oh, that’s right:  I’m feeding people *beyond* the kids:  sometimes I forget that.  Which could also be why there aren’t so many pictures of people above four feet featured on this site.  Hmmm…

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