Mandyland

Jars-to-Go Bags

2013-05-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Anne sent me a link for A Tiny Forrest's Etsy shop where there was a pattern for a lunch bag complete with interior Mason jar sleeves.

Let me back up a moment. Before Pinterest turned Mason jars into The Hottest and Trendies Things, I used jars for everything from soups to sippy cups to holding our toothbrushes. I dumped beads in them, stored beans and rice in them, and used them to hang my dangling earrings.

Mostly because in a home where canning is done every summer, all summer, there is always a plethora of jars.

Now, of course, I hadn't thought of such wonderful things as salads in jars, but I had thought of strawberry shortcakes in individual servings. Still, I'd like to think I was Mason Jarring before Mason Jarring was hip.

With that being said, every week I make a big pot of steel cooked oats in my crock pot and divide it into half pint jars for breakfasts. And most weeks I make a big pot of soup and divide it into jars for lunches. Which means I tend to have a lunch box full of jars.

Which brings me back to Anne and these jars-to-go bags.

After a few emails between Kimberly, the pattern creator, where she assured me she was just an email away if I needed help and if I found I really couldn't figure it out, she'd refund me, I bought the $5 patterns and hit up the fabric stores.

Cue heart failure.

Now, don't get me wrong. I understand fabric has been going up in price, but when I found the perfect patterns in the most gorgeous colors, I was not expecting them to cost between $12-$15 per yard. Still, I swallowed my inner frugality and splurged.

I'm so glad I did.

After a weekend of sewing - the first day with Anne who, thank God, understands spatial relationships as they pertain to lined bags with handles - I had three adorable bags. Two were gifts to Tara and Sarah. One was a gift to myself.

I can't wait to see how Anne's bags turn out. She's making one for her and one for Jen out of the sweetest fabric. I also grabbed more fabric for a couple more gifts. And maybe another for myself.

I might be addicted to these lunch bags.

And I might try to make them with slightly smaller sleeves. The quart size makes my two pint jars swim. Hmm...maybe a little velcro will help...

Yep. Completely addicted.

Roasting Hot Dogs

2013-05-17T13:24:00.001-07:00

It was cool, far cooler than the nearly triple digit temperatures of the previous weekend. The workday was almost over and I had an evening with the kids plus Collin ahead of me. Sitting at my desk, I stared out the window at the blue sky and made a decision.

"Do you have scrap wood laying around?" I texted one friend.

"Can I borrow your parents' fire pit thing?" I sent off to Chad.

Visions of hot dogs roasted over the fire followed by marshmallows so gooey and sweet they'd give us stomachaches promised to brighten an otherwise normal Tuesday.

I walked into the house with a bag of marshmallows. The kids were ecstatic. I dug through a Rubbermaid bin of camping gear and came up with four roasting sticks that had seen better days. Cleaning them off, I noticed our neighbor was playing in the yard with the kids so grabbed another package of hot dogs.

We started the fire and before long we were burning hot dogs. But the hot dogs were second to what they were all waiting for - the marshmallows.

I stuck them on the sticks and watched while they torched the white puffs into fireballs. I thought, briefly, of how far I was from the hose and then, like blowing out birthday candles, leaned over and extinguished the flaming balls of sugar.

There were burned fingers, dropped marshmallows, and one that fell into the fire to cries of "Oh no!" and "It's going to get bigger than the fire pit!!"

The giggled and roasted and ate until their hands and faces were sticky, smoke permeated their hair, and the bag of marshmallows was almost finished.

We put the lid on the fire pit, I sprayed down the deck - visions of smoldering embers igniting the nearby bale of hay belatedly paramount in my mind - and decided we needed to do this more often. Because if you can't have a camp out dinner on a Tuesday night, life has gotten far too serious.

She Had a Rough Day

2013-05-15T21:25:00.001-07:00

"Honey, why are you crying?"

I watched as Elizabeth took a deep, shaky breath, large tears dripping from her lashes. "I've had a rough day," she got out before she broke into sobs again.

She seems to have had quite a few rough days lately. Most nights - not all, but most - find her, at some point, in tears. Tears and tantrum worthy, hiccuping sobs and kicking feet.

The first time it happened, I told her to go cry in her room because Joseph and I were eating dinner and, when she was done, she could come out for a hug. It's how we usually handle "tantrums" and typically works. She gets to vent her frustrations and we don't have to listen.

I say "she" because Joseph's thrown two tantrums in his life and the last one was a week after Elizabeth was born. I used to pat myself on the back, but then Elizabeth turned nine months and I realized, once again, Joseph was a decoy child created to ensure siblings.

Moving on...

Usually, Elizabeth goes in her room, closes the door, throws a rockin' tantrum, and then comes out calm and ready for a hug and a kiss within ten minutes. This has not been the case lately.

Lately, the "tantrums" have last at least twenty minutes and would have probably lasted longer, but I caved and went into her room during the first one.

"Baby, why are you crying?"

"I don't know," she said between sobs. "I just have to."

I pulled her into my lap and held her while she cried like her little heart was broken. She kicked a little, but mostly she clung to me and buried her hot face in my neck. I stroked her hair and, when she was done, gave her another hug and she was off, back to "normal" until the next day when the scene repeated itself.

Tonight, the "I just have to" was replaced by "I had a rough day" and I listened as she explained that she jumped on the trampoline fifteen times and had to run around and exercise and then L at school was bossy. The words came out in a torrent while I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. She kept her arms wrapped around me and sobbed. When she was spent, I hugged her extra tight and told her I loved her.

It's rough being three, almost four.

Rougher yet being the mother of a three, almost four year old.

I have no idea how I'm going to survive this stage if it lasts much longer. The tears...they are ridiculous. And at the same time, I want to keep my cool about them because she doesn't seem to understand why she's crying herself and God knows there are times I feel the same way.

Of course, I thought I had about ten more years before this sort of thing hit.

Have you guys experienced this with your kids?

The World's Greatest Wallet

2013-05-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

Today, after nearly seven years of service, I retired my wallet.

I loved that wallet.

"What do you want for your birthday," Becky asked over the phone.

"A wallet," I replied, gently patting a baby Joseph's back. "Something I can put all my crap in and move between a diaper bag and purse."

"I'll get you a Hobo style one."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but thanks."

The red wallet arrived shortly thereafter. With two clasped pockets and a full hinged center, it was perfect. Perfect in so many ways.

It held my chapsticks, my pressed powder, my gift cards, my cash, my drivers licence, my insurance cards, my credit cards, my sanity.

With it, I felt a sense of regained control in a life that had shrunk to the size of a receiving blanket and exploded in an avalanche of baby chaos. I shoved it into a diaper bag packed with more than a baby might ever need, I tossed it into a nearly empty purse and pretended I was someone other than a new mom, I threw it into the bottom of the stroller, I carried it as a clutch, I wedged it beside my camera.

"I love your wallet!" Sales clerks looked at it with admiration. I'd smile and say thanks, grateful they didn't appear to see the nursing bra straps, the baggy shirts, the sagging jeans. I might not be the height of style, but my wallet was.

Over the years, I thought briefly of replacing it - after the hinges were bent when it got caught behind a car seat - but I couldn't ever find anything I liked as much in my price range. I learned to open it with a slight push to counter act the hinge issues and continued to take it to Disneyland, the aquarium, work, the park, the zoo.

And then, a couple months ago, it started to fall apart.

Literally.

Long strips of the exterior leather shred from the corners. The interior pockets began to gape and tear. I knew it was on its last legs, but was in denial until I opened it and pieces came off in my hand. I emailed Becky to ask her where she'd gotten it. I'd hoped to find a new one, an exact replica.

"Target."

"You're kidding me." All these years I'd assumed she'd bought it at Nordstroms where she'd worked at the time. This must be a record for a Target wallet. And, if I'd known how much I was going to love it, I would have bought a half dozen so I wouldn't be in this position. The position of not being able to find a replica for less than $150.

Yes, I realize $150 isn't a bad price to pay for seven years worth of wallet, but I'm on a budget. A tight budget. So I kept using my beloved wallet and began to look for alternatives to replace it. Nothing was the same. Nothing worked as well.

Finally, with the large pockets beginning their slow decent into decay, I bit the bullet and bought a new wallet. Well, actually, a new wallet for my every day needs, a credit card case for my gift cards and reward cards, and a pencil case for my chapsticks, my pens, and my pressed powder. And all for under $25.

I couldn't even pretend that the purchase of the three small items would equate the splurge of the more expensive style.

And with that, I said good bye to my lovely old wallet. And hello to another era of transitional purse organizers. I hope, someday, I'll find something similar to what I had.

Are you suddenly beginning to analyze me and wonder if perhaps the wallet is representative of the changes in my life? Stop. It's not that.

It was simply the most awesome wallet I've owned and replacing it took me months.

And I'm still not satisfied.

Seriously. Stop analyzing me.

Facebook Mother's Day

2013-05-13T11:15:00.000-07:00

When I went to write about my Mother's Day, I had to laugh a little at the difference between my Facebook Mother's Day and the reality. Not that I lied, on Facebook, but...

FB:
I'm laying in bed listening to the kids make breakfast while Joseph tells Elizabeth how many donuts they each get because he's "good with division and this is just like a word problem".

Reality:
It was 6:30 when the kids woke me up to tell me they wanted to make me breakfast in bed. 6:30 in the morning on Mother's Day. We've long established that I'm NOT a morning person so let me repeat. 6:30.

Now, there are times when they get up and play quietly while I sleep in. There are times when they make toaster waffles without a sound and I can continue my dream of eating all the waffles without concern for their calorie count. This was not one of those mornings.

They did an amazing job and, with a little help from a friend, were able to put together a delicious breakfast and not eat all the donuts. They presented me with handmade presents that made me smile wider than a diamond necklace ever could.

But still...

6:30.

FB:
Working off breakfast with a Mother's Day hike. Should have gone before the heat hit. Oops.

Reality:
We procrastinated our hike until nearly 10 when the temperature began to hover around 80. On the way to the trail, I realized I'd forgotten to pack bottles of water and made the colossal mistake of mentioning that fact out loud.

For the next hour while we hiked through trees and up hill and down, I got to hear "I'm thirsty" and "I'm going to explode from thirst" and "I'm going to die of thirst" approximately once every two feet. On a mile and a half hike.

We got back to the car, grumpy and sweaty and raced to the nearest store to get water, of which they drank approximately three sips before capping their bottles and putting it away.

FB:
Beat the heat with a trip to the beach, good friends, chocolate banana gelato, and, later, Gatsby. What a perfect Mother's Day.

Reality:
Still sweating from our hike, we decided to take Anne up on her offer of a place to put our things while we joined her and Collin at the beach. A few minutes after I responded, we found out that Sarah would be joining us with Jackson and Harper. Win!

We packed sandwiches while eating left over donuts - lots of veggies between the bread per Joseph's strategy to counteract the amount of sugar we were consuming - and loaded our lunch boxes with fruit and peanuts. The kids changed into their suits, I threw on a skirt with my tank top and we headed out the door, hats on heads.

At the beach, we sat in the warm sand and basked in the thirty degree cooler weather. We ate our sandwiches, played in the water, and soaked in the sun.

A little too much sun.

In the rush to get out the door, I made a rookie move and forgot to sun block myself and reapply it to my gingers. Even with their long sleeves and hats, Elizabeth was a little pink on her legs and cheeks and Joseph was rosier than I'm comfortable with.

As for myself, I'm currently taking ibuprofen and hoping The Peeling that is sure to occur will be as non leprous as possible.

We got home from the beach to meet Chad who took the kids home for the night, leaving me to take a shower and cool off with banana chocolate gelato, one of my all time favorite "treat me" treats.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was in Rome, sitting on the edge of a fountain, then remembered that was my sprinkler and it needed to be moved to keep my plants from dying a horribly dehydrating death.

With gelato for dinner, I went to see Gatsby - an emotional roller coaster from which I'm still recovering and processing - with a glass of Wild Horse Chardonnay because I like the VIP section of the theater with its wide, plush seats and booze.

It was, overall, an amazing Mother's Day - both the reality and the FB version.

A Letter to the Mom of the Teenage Girl

2013-05-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom of a Teenage Girl,

You don't know me, but I'm the woman who was trying very hard to avoid eye contact while we three - you, your daughter, and I - were standing in the aisle of WalMart. I was just there to grab a pair of cheap flip flops. You, it seems, were there to exhibit the patience of Job.

I wasn't judging you. Far from it! I saw you look at me sideways, face ashamed. If I'd known that it might be accepted, I'd have defended you - Mothers Unite and all that.

Your daughter is in eighth grade apparently. She has her graduation coming up where she'll leave middle school and venture into the world of high school. That's a scary, wonderful time. I heard the conversation while you tried to help her find a pair of shoes.

I tried not to get in your way, but you were sort of right in front of the flip flops. I walked an aisle or two away, hoping to give you space and then, I had to make a dash to your aisle.

I'm a little ashamed I walked away, truth be told.

Because the abuse being heaped on your head was more than any woman - any person - should bear.

For the record, you are not ruining your daughter's life because you suggested the brown sandals. You are not stupid because you thought the white ones would match her dress. You are not ugly because you were wearing Crocs. You are not an idiot because you thought the wide size might fit better. You're right, shoes can't make you look fat. You are also just as good as her friend's mom.

Yeah. I heard all that. I couldn't help it. Your daughter has a voice for the stage and the drama to match. Her sighs could be heard two aisles over, her sneers four.

And I know you know all this. I could tell by the way you kept your calm, kept your voice steady, and patiently offered another option.

I admired you for that. I'm not sure I could do it. I wish you hadn't looked so embarrassed. I wish you had realized I wasn't judging you. I wish there was something, anything I could have said.

But I know there wasn't.

Just know in a few years, you're going to be the first person she calls when she needs advice. In a few years, you're going to know everything and she'll wonder why she ever thought you didn't. In a few years, she'll ask you for help picking out shoes for her wedding and she'll listen and maybe laugh at how awful she was as a teen. In a few years, she'll hold up the shoes you buy for her baby and exclaim at their perfection.

You just have to get through this bit first.

Stay strong, stay patient, and I hope, really hope, you have someone with whom you can vent and maybe drink a glass of wine. After that shopping trip, you need it.

The Dangers of Hooping

2013-05-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

At the suggestion of Cam, I've started using my Wii Fit for more than hitting a soccer ball with my head. Apparently the "Fit" thing actually works. And since I already have it, it's free. And fun. Fun, free fitness. Who wouldn't be all over that?

So I started a little routine of ten minutes hula hooping, ten minutes boxing, and ten or so minutes of yoga. It's not Crossfit, but I sweat and my heart rate goes up and I feel better afterwards. I'm hoping to work my way up until I can figure out a way to run on a daily basis.

Last night, halfway through my ten minute hula hooping routine, my legs began to shake a bit. (Yes. It's that intense.) Then my thighs began to burn. (Seriously, that intense.) My "form" got a wee bit...off. (Who am I kidding? I'm that out of shape.)

My hoops started to slip.

I pushed myself harder.

My cheering squad got louder.

And then, as the clock turned red and ticked down to eight seconds, I felt my ankle pop.

There are a couple things wrong with one's ankle popping while hula hooping. First that my ankles should not have been twisting or moving. It's not my ankles keeping the hoops hula-ing, it's my core. Second, who the hell injures themselves on a Wii Fit?

I finished of the last few seconds because I'm hardcore like that and then got off the board, my ankle throbbing.

I was able to do the boxing and yoga, but by the end of the night had to take ibuprofen and spent the morning limping around the house.

Who knew hula hooping could be so dangerous?

The Kids

2013-05-07T15:57:00.001-07:00

I looked at this picture and, fuzzy as it is, can't help but smile.

Photo not by Anne. Hers aren't this fuzzy.

I see five women who care for each other in a way that I've discovered is rare. I see five women who have been through pregnancies, births, divorces, new love, health scares, husband frustrations, children frustrations, broken bones, moves, and dozens of other events large and small that make up life. It's no wonder that when I sat down last November to write a novel, I decided to use Supper Club as the basis for my story.

We're not all alike - I see Jen's eyes glaze over when I start talking about Iron Man and Tara's early morning habits boggle me - but we're all connected in a way I can’t define and maybe I'm not supposed to.

I’ve had friends for a reason – people who have gotten me through bad or good situations, people with whom I partied or crafted. When the reason ended, so did the friendships.

I’ve had friends for a season – people who were there during, looking back, specific times in my life, times that are now over and I’ve seen them drift away. The friendships didn’t end with a bang, usually, but, most often, with a slow fade.

And I have a few cherished friends who have been friends, so far, for life. These are the ones who have lasted through reasons, though it might have been why we started our friendships. These are the ones who have lasted through seasons, multiple seasons.

When I look at this picture I see something else.

Photo by Anne

Notice how Collin has his arm linked with Joseph’s. Note how Hannah is clinging to his other arm. See how Elizabeth has her arm around Holden? And how Arabella is leaning towards Elizabeth? How Jackson is leaning towards Arabella and even Harper is touching Holden? Their smiles are goofy, their poses ridiculous, the danger to the babies very real. Still, there is something here. I see the future. A second layer to the community I'm building for myself and my children.

I see how these little people are forming a bond within our bond. Joseph has known these kids since he was three, Elizabeth since birth. Collin calls them his family. And maybe they are. After all, friends are the family you choose.

Strawberry Puff Pancake Recipe

2013-05-01T08:07:00.001-07:00

Happy May Day! With strawberries turning brilliant ruby in my garden, I decided to pull out this recipe. Now, for the record, I didn't use garden berries. Let's be honest. Joseph and Elizabeth eat those suckers before I have a chance to pick them. But right now, Farmers Markets are carrying flats of brilliant red berries as sweet as spring.

So why not make something special with them?

Strawberry Puff Pancake Recipe

You will need:
3 eggs
1/2 c. flour
1/2 c. milk
1/4 tsp. salt
1 1/2 tsp.vanilla
1/2 c.strawberry preserves
3-ish tbsp. Drambuie
1/2 c. fresh strawberries, sliced
Powdered sugar or whipped cream to taste

Directions:

Heat oven to 400. Spray a pie pan with cooking spray.

In a mixing bowl, whisk the eggs. Add flour, milk, salt and vanilla. Mix well and pour into pie pan.

Bake for 20 minutes until it puffs up or is well browned.

While the pancake is baking, put the preserves and Drambuie in a sauce pan and bring to a simmer, stirring to keep it from sticking. When the pancake is done, pull it out and top with the preserve mixture.

Add sliced berries and powdered sugar or whipped cream. The pancake will “fall” but that’s okay! It will taste divine.

Two or Five Ingredient Cookie Recipe

2013-04-27T09:57:00.002-07:00

I've been seeing all these posts lately on Pinterest for two ingredient cookies. Basically, you take mashed bananas and oatmeal and bake.

I was intrigued because a) I always have brown bananas and oatmeal, and b) even if the kids ate half the batch, they're basically eating a bowl of oatmeal and a banana.

The problem is...the recipes I found didn't taste that good. Don't get me wrong! The kids loved them, which is amazing and weird. But for me, they didn't satisfy my sweet tooth.

So I tweaked the original recipe and created a little something that is still healthy and yummy and now a bit more delicious.

Still not a cookie, but a legit breakfast bar.

Two or Five Ingredient Cookies

2 bananas, mashed (mash them first, it really helps)
1 heaping cup oatmeal
1 tsp honey
1/2 tsp vanilla
Dash of cinnamon

Stop here or add...

Handful of chopped walnuts
Handful raisins
(To be honest, any nuts, chocolate chips or dried fruit would work here.)

1. Preheat your oven to 375

2. Mix all ingredients together in the order they're listed.

3. Bake for 15 minutes on a greased cookie sheet.

4. That's it! Guilt free, gluten free (with GF oatmeal), white sugar free, high fiber, low fat, low calorie, good for you cookies that don't taste half bad.

Pulling to the Side

2013-04-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

I heard the unmistakable sound of frantic wails beneath a flash of red lights. I did what we do.

I pulled over.

Sitting there, on the side of the road, I watched as the ambulance and fire engine parted the heavy traffic like Moses with the Red Sea. No matter how they'd jockeyed for position moments before, now all drivers were united in getting out of the way.

Why?

Yes, I realize it's the law. But so is coming to a complete stop and not exceeding the speed limit. Yet we all break those laws at some time or the other.

But we don't break this one.

I've driven for over twenty years in rural and urban locations and whether I'm on a freeway in LA or a nearly empty road in the country, everyone always moves to the side of the road.

I wonder if we all have the same thought...this could be for our friend, our neighbor, our brother, our sister, our child, our parent, our husband, our wife.

I wonder if we see these emergency vehicles screaming our way and feel the urge to help someone in trouble in some small way even if it's only to get out of their oncoming path.

I'd like to think it's the later, that we all sit in our cars for that brief pause and think - even if it's a fleeting thought - Hurry! Go faster. I'll stay put. My lunch is not nearly as important as what you're about to do.

I think, in some way, it's what we all think when we witness a tragic event, even if it's from a distance. Our first reaction is shock. Then comes horror. Then we search for ways to help. It's honestly what gives me the most hope that people, generally, are good.

I started a post about Boston a week ago. It was conceived in a haze of Robitussin and lack of sleep. I let it sit in my drafts as blog after blog, article after article saturated the internet. I didn't want to be a drop in a sea of vocal outcry. So I sat on it.

Now, things have calmed a bit. I can pull it out, look at it and say, yes. I'm proud of Boston, a city I fell in love with last fall.

I've been charmed by her people for quite some time.

I've been intrigued and fascinated by the idea of the North Easterner personalities. From the tomato adding Rhode Islanders to the helmetless motorcycle riders of New Hampshire to the "r" dropping officer while I was crossing the street outside Mike's to the smiling brewer and my understanding hosts, I can't help but adore them. Their Blue Laws boggle, their use of wicked strikes a chord of envy, and their stoic acceptance of snow in April combined to a heady mixture of otherness.

And they adored me right back.

When I saw the damage the bombs had wrought on that fair city, a city with saucy statues and history steeped into its cobblestone streets, I cried.

But I always knew Boston would be okay. It's a country that spawned a Revolution. Of course it would be okay.

And, from what I've seen it is.

Thanks to all the people who pulled to the side of the road and who continue to pull to the side of the road.

Two Years

2013-04-23T10:14:00.000-07:00

I'm sure there will come a time when this day will pass and I'll hardly notice the date. I'm sure there will be a time when I have to sit and think and count on my fingers and try to remember if it was the 23rd or the 26th.

It's not that time yet.

It's been two years since Chad and I decided to divorce. Last year, I wrote of all the things I'd accomplished during that first year. Big things, little things, strides towards independence.

This year, I've realized something interesting.

After the first year, and all the inherent "firsts" associated with that year, it's all just...life. Normal, ordinary life.

It's amazing how quickly a person can adjust to a new normal and equally amazing how quickly a person can't remember or imagine the old version.

A couple months ago, we went to Sarah's house for Supper Club. The kids and I got out of the car. I juggled my dish and a bottle of wine while Joseph unbuckled Elizabeth's seat. They ran across her yard and up to her front door. I swung my purse over my shoulder while they knocked and had a sudden realization.

Two years ago, the idea of preparing a gourmet dish, loading up the kids, and attending a group dinner alone seemed overwhelming. I was accustomed to an extra pair of hands to wrangle children, an extra pair of hands to carry a heavy Dutch oven, an extra pair of eyes to make sure little feet didn't find their way into the street.

Now, it's second nature. I'm comfortable being alone at gatherings. I'm comfortable taking the kids hiking or out to ice cream or to the movies. I'm comfortable making big purchases without consultation. I'm comfortable being alone on the couch in the evenings and watching TV. I'm comfortable eating dinner, just the three of us. It doesn't feel as though someone is missing. It doesn't feel as if we're a chair missing a leg. We're a tripod and we're steady.

I feel Chad and I slipping apart, our lives once joined, now separate. I remind myself that while we're on different paths, we'll always be there for our kids and, I hope, we'll always be friends. But I can't imagine living with him any longer. I don't know him the way I used to. I don't know his plans, his goals, his interests. And he doesn't know mine.

Perhaps that's the most difficult part of an amicable divorce. For so long our plans were entwined. What he did impacted me and what I did impacted him. Now, we still care about each other, but it's different. It's the care of old friends and while I want him to be happy and he wants the same for me, how we achieve that goal is no longer linked.

It's a weird feeling.

So I look at the calendar and expect some sort of lightening strike moment, some sort of milestone to mark the day that sent me tumbling into a sea of chaos and pain. Then I remember...milestones mark the big moments. The rest of life is pebbles.

Seven

2013-04-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

Joseph is seven.

Seven.

"How was dinner?" I asked as I brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"Pretty good. The service was great."

Seven.

"My friends are a little out of control."

"I noticed," I said wryly.

"What can you expect?" he shrugged, "Sometimes they're just ridiculous."

Seven.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he drew a line in the sandy infield with his finger.

"Measuring how far I went so I can go further next time."

Seven.

"Is that what you're wearing to your party?"

"It works," he shrugged.

"Don't you want to dress up a bit?"

"Not really."

Seven.

"Don't let go, Mama!" he begged as I jogged behind his new bike.

"I won't," I told him, "don't lean to the left. Pedal!"

"Don't let go until I'm ready!"

"I won't," I promised, "Pedal. You can do it!"

"Let go!"

I did.

Seven.

Happy birthday, my little love. Before you, I was Mandy not Mama. Before you, I didn't know what it meant to truly love.

Talking Around the Bonfire

2013-04-17T20:31:00.003-07:00

All day my screen has been open, waiting for me to type a quick post. And all day I've been hacking up my lungs and bemoaning how sick I am to the goldfish while they stare at me with little to no sympathy.

Still, before I go into my drug induced sleep tonight, I wanted to make sure I let you know that I spent the day over at Gigi's place talking around the bonfire.

What was I talking about?

Dating as a single mom.

It's a good one.

Go. Read.

Now I'm going to go to bed and bemoan how sick I am to the walls. They're sure to be more sympathetic than the fish.

The House

2013-04-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

They painted the walls blue. “Blue like your eyes,” he said with a sparkle in his. They stood next to each other, washing away the colorless white as the sapphire drops spattered their faces and hands. He pressed her against the wet paint while laughter turned to need. The wall embraced their passion. It soaked through the plaster and into the very bones of the house.

They loved.

She ran through the doorways, her tiny feet slapping against the wood floors. Her hair stood on end, tufts of chick down swaying as she darted away from her mother who begged her to slow down as she waddled in pursuit. Her father watched with a small smile on his face. The little girl paused in the wide entry way with a look in her deep blue eyes that warned the chase was far from over. Her mother’s hand rested on the white trim. The house supported her for a moment until the game resumed.

They grew.

His screams bounced off the ceiling. His mother pleaded, her pinched forehead and dark rimmed eyes brimming with tears. His cries continued, filling the house until nothing else remained. His father put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged away his touch. He screamed louder. His father took him from his mother and instantly, he quieted. His small brown eyes closed, his breaths came in great gulps and hiccups as he fell into a deep sleep. His mother slumped to the floor, the bare wood softening to cradle her.

They struggled.

They sat next to each other on cushions padded with age. His arm wrapped around her while she looked at him with eyes that had faded in time. “They still match the walls,” he whispered against her lips. She sighed and looked out the window as their past and their future walked up the drive. The house sighed and creaked as it shifted with her.

They lived.

She sat next to him, holding his hand and whispered words of regret. He rasped words of comfort as the breath in his chest rattled. Candlelight sank into the blue walls until the flickering flames failed to penetrate the darkness pressing around them. From the doorway two pairs of eyes looked on. They leaned against the faded blue walls creased with a highway of cracks.

They lost.

The house was silent as the ghosts whispered like sand in the wind.

This is a little one off based on the Write on Edge prompt this week. The photos in this series were so hauntingly beautiful, I wanted to make sure I submitted a piece.

Alligators, Lemurs, and Wine

2013-04-09T09:52:00.003-07:00

Last Saturday, as I crouched down in the soft green grass while the sun warmed the back of my neck while I rubbed the soft belly of a six foot alligator, his sharp white teeth a mere foot from my hand, I had the thought that if I were to see this prehistoric guy wandering most golf courses, I'd be high tailing it in the other direction.

But this wasn't most alligators and this wasn't most golf courses.

This was the Zoo to You "Wine, Cheese, and Chocolate, Oh My!" fundraiser and I was relatively safe with Spike while his handler described the differences between alligators and crocodiles.

To be honest, the idea that there would be animals at the event was of less interest than knowing there would be wine and cheese. I'm a sucker for the combo - especially a nice artisan cheese and one of our delicious local wines. The area I live in has over two hundred wineries, many of them award winning. I'm always game for a wine tasting event - though they're usually held in the hottest months of the year and are usually so crowded I start to get claustrophobic.

Not this event. It was cool and sunny with maybe two hundred people wandering the event site tasting wines, bidding on the silent auction items, and, of course, learning about the animals.

I discovered lemurs have fingernails and thumbs and when people get too close to this guy, he snuggles into his handler's neck the same way Elizabeth snuggles into mine.

I learned that there are still falconers who hire their hawks to dumps to alleviate sea gull and rodent problems.

I learned that this little armadillo rolls into a perfect ball but doesn't ever roll.

I peered into the wise eyes of an owl with a six foot wing span that fanned the air so hard, sheets of paper blew.

I pet a beaver as he tried to make his way to the water, his fat body waddling.

I rubbed the ears of a kangaroo who was snug in a pouch sling.

And I gave the porcupine a wide berth as he walked on his leash.

Oh. And I drank wine, ate cheese, listened to a band, and realized, at the end of the day after filling myself with Chinese food, what a truly fantastic day it was and how happy I am that spring is here and with it, amazing weekends are filling my calendar.

What Parenting Style?

2013-04-05T08:18:00.002-07:00

I don't know my parenting style. I think it's a little like this blog - a hodgepodge of this and that. I've never read a parenting book beyond "The Baby Whisperer" which, I have to be honest, saved my sanity those first few weeks. But I've been known to devour a few dozen articles about different ways to raise your children and think, "Huh. I didn't know that was a Parenting Style."

I'm not crunchy enough to be an Attachement Parent - though I nursed both of my children as long as I could, going almost two years with Elizabeth, I wore my babies, and tried, once, to use cloth diapers. Sadly for our environment, I got too grossed out.

I don't have the kids in nearly enough activities to practice Concerted Cultivation. We prefer to spend our days lazing about and gardening, drawing, playing video game, reading or swinging on the apple tree. Not that those who do activities don't do such things as Cheryl so eloquently wrote. But my after work time is finite. Too finite for a lot of activities.

I throw too many temper tantrums myself to be an Emotional Coach. In fact, I don't think expressing anger or frustration is a bad thing and when they have trantrums of their own, I send them to their room to do it. I make sure I give them a big hug when they're done because let's face it, I'm only one more broken kitchen appliance away from stamping my feet and screaming. And I hope they give me a big hug when I'm done.

Which means I'm probably not an Aware Parent.

I might be a bit of a helicopter mom, but I do let them play outside on their own and see no problem with letting them walk the neighborhood when they're a bit older. I don't micromanage their homework, but at the same time, I do send emails to Joseph's teacher to touch base and make sure everything is okay.

I'm not really a Punishment Based parent. At the moment, I have a son who has almost always put himself in time out before I have the chance and a daughter who might or might not be a 30-year-old woman and tends to put me in time out.

I love the idea of Slow Parenting, however I do have the knee jerk panic when I realize my children aren't learning a second language and have probably missed the boat to become Olympians. It usually takes a dark room and soothing music to remind me they'll be okay.

I'm not a Strict Parent. I tend to ask "why" a lot when it comes to their requests and my rules and boundaries are more guidelines than anything else. Besides, sometimes the kids have really good reasons for their requests that I may not realize .

I don't really know my parenting style. I'm not sure I have one and send big kudos to those who do. Still every now and then, I wonder if adhereance to a particular style just makes life a lot more complicated.

I spoke to a woman at the doctor's office the other day. She was young, sweet, friendly. We started talking about kids and she confessed her three year old is driving her crazy. I laughed and agreed the terrible twos were nothing on the troubling threes.

I added, "It's funny. At three, they're old enough to have enough words to express their opinions and thoughts, enough mobility to act upon them, and the strength to insist on independence. It has to be a rough year for them too!"

She replied, "I can take the independence. I just can't take the mimicry."

"Is he copying you?"

"Yes! And no matter how often I put him in time out or take away his toys he just won't stop!"

I felt my face freeze for a moment in a smile while I tried the best way to respond without judgement. Because while it wasn't a crime for which I would enact punishment, I have been at my wits' end more than once. Let's be honest. I'm there more often than not.

"Give him something good to say."

"What do you mean?"

"When my kids mimic me," I said slowly, "I say, 'Mommy is the most amazing mommy in the whole wide world.' or 'Mommy is so beautiful. Mommy is the best cook ever.' or even 'I can't wait to eat my vegetables."

She paused for a moment and said, "I never thought of that. Does it work?"

I shrugged. "They're usually laughing so hard after two sentences, they can't copy me any more."

"I'm going to try that!" She thanked me and left.

I'm not writing this to toot my parenting horn. I mess up more often than not and those moments of genius are rarer than Elizabeth sleeping in her own bed all night. I'm just wondering...do I have a parenting style? Do I need a parenting style? Or should I gamble that the moments of genius will outweigh the bad calls?

I'm going to go with gambling. At the moment.

Tomorrow a new article will come out that will send me into a tailspin of worry and self reflection.

My Italian Grandmother

2013-04-03T07:23:00.000-07:00

It was sunny, a warm spring day that tempted with a promise of summer and tomato plants. Joseph and Elizabeth stood behind the fence watching me as I scooped a pile of soiled straw with my shovel, making a mental note for the upteenth time to invest in a wider model. Maybe a snow shovel.

"You're really beautiful, Mama," Joseph said in a solemn tone.

I bit back a smile knowing the picture I made in my worn gray yoga pants tucked into polka dot rain boots and topped by a shapeless purple tee. "Thank you, baby," I said as I shoveled another pile of dirty straw into the compost bin.

"It's not a compliment," he said matter-of-factly.

"It's not?"

"No. It's the truth."

"Oh."

"I just don't understand why you don't have a boyfriend," he fretted.

"Well, uh," I thought back to our conversation a few weeks ago and wondered what is bringing this on.

"You're beautiful and a good cook and you smell nice." He shook his head. "At the very least, you should have a husband."

At the very least. I stared at him, my little champion, and shrugged. "Why is it so important to you?"

"I just don't understand it," he sighed.

I really need to have a chat with him sometime soon and get to the bottom of the whole dating thing. In the meantime, I'll bask in the knowledge that I am, apparently, still beautiful to him. And probably start thinking about talking to him about other qualities to look for in a mate - though smelling nice does top my own personal list.

Sweet Pickle Relish

2013-04-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I reintroduced myself to an old friend.

It'd been a while.

We parted ways late last fall when the last of the tomatoes, the last of the apples, and the last of the late season fruit had been canned and sauced and jammed. It was the end of our season together and I looked forward to a long winter of enjoying the fruits of our labor. I put her in the garage where she sat silent and empty until last night when I pulled her out to make sweet pickle relish.

I've mentioned my sweet pickle relish a time or two haven't I? At least once?

The recipe comes from my favorite canning book. William Sonoma's The Art of Preserving is, without a doubt, filled with some of the most delicious and elegant canning recipes I've come across. This one in particular is a tangy sweet blend of vinegar and sugar, peppers and cucumbers that is so good, my children now refuse store bought relish. I couldn't help adding my own twists.

Sweet Pickle Relish Recipe

(makes 4 pints)

2.5 lbs cucumbers, finely diced
1 red bell pepper, finely diced (I once used orange instead of red and it still worked beautifully.)
1 yellow bell pepper, finely diced
1 sweet onion, finely diced
1/4 c. kosher salt
3 c. sugar
2 c. apple cider vinegar
1 T celery seeds
1 T mustard seeds (the recipe called for brown, but I used yellow because it was all I could find)
2 tsp whole allspice

1. Before we start in on the recipe, I'm going to tell you that I send all my veggies through the food processor instead of hand dicing them. The picture in the cookbook shows a delicious looking, chunky relish sitting next to gorgeous cheeses. Since ours tends to top hot dogs and tuna sandwiches, a more fine consistency works better for us.

2. Take the cucumbers, bell peppers, and onion and put in a plastic bowl. Cover with water and add salt, stirring gently. Cover and set on the counter overnight.

3. The next day, drain the veggie mixture in a colander. Rinse and repeat. While it's draining, put the allspice in cheesecloth and tie with a string. I don't actually have cheesecloth. I use these amazing little inventions instead. Trust me, even if you don't drink tea, you'll find all sorts of uses for them.

** Now is the time to start your hot water bath boiling and your jars sterilizing.**

4. When your veggies are all nice and drained, put them in a large pot and add the sugar, vinegar, spices and the cheesecloth with all spice. Turn the heat on high and bring to a boil, stirring frequently. When it starts to boil, reduce to a simmer and let it go for about 10 minutes.

5. Remove the allspice bag and ladle into hot jars. You're going to want to leave about 1/4" head space and you might need to use a knife to eliminate air bubbles.

6. Wipe the rims of the jars clean with a damp paper towel and put the lids and seals on them. Process in the hot water bath for ten minutes.

You're done! This is truly one of the easiest recipes I've tried. Go one. Give it a whirl.

A Little Hike

2013-04-01T11:01:00.002-07:00

I stood in the kitchen, the morning air still slightly too chilly for comfort. In front of me was a sandwich assembly line - salami, pepper jack, mustard, sourdough, lettuce, pickle. I slapped them together with blurry eyes, sticking them in containers with grapes and trail mix.

My phone chimed. I looked over and saw that Anne was on her way.

We loaded up a backpack with added water, chips, sunblock, and sweatshirts. And then, we walked out the door.

It was gorgeous - just cool enough to ponder wearing our sweatshirts, but not so much to actually pull them out. We started the hike walking through eucalyptus.

"That tree is naked!" Joseph cried, pointing at a eucalyptus stripped of it's bark.

The adults laughed while Joseph went on to tell us it creeped him out. We passed delicate yellow flowers and wild carrots. Poison oak started popping up between wild blackberries. We watched the kids with eagle eyes, hoping to prevent an itchy and painful night. We climbed nature's jungle gym of low tree branches and wide, knobby trunks.

The trail came to an end at a sand dune covered with purple and green ice plant. We turned left and continued down the slipping, sliding sand.

The view opened and the brilliant blue sky reflected in the cobalt ocean. Rocks stepped around tide pools. We took off our socks and started to explore until it was time to eat our lunches while sea gulls begged for scraps and the waves crashed off shore.

I love that the kids and I are starting to go on more and more hikes. Being outdoors, enjoying the fresh air and each other while we explore all the beautiful places in our backyard has become one of our favorite ways to spend a Saturday or a couple hours after I get home from work. And when we get to share one of those hikes with friends, it's even better.

Supper Club

2013-03-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

I spent the Saturday before Supper Club in the kitchen.

Barefoot.

Covered with flour.

The open windows and sliding door let a cool breeze tease my legs. My feet slid on the flour coated floor while I rolled and kneaded, proofed and mixed.

I wished for an island, more room for my appliances. I wished for a Kitchen Aid with its massive dough hook that would allow me to double the batches instead of four painfully slow single batches.

I quick pickled onion in lemon juice and googled how to cook Israeli couscous. I dragged my crew, consisting mostly of the under seven crowd, outside to move chairs, straighten table clothes, pick up gardening tools.

And then I shook out white curtains - the only fabric I own big enough to cover the eight foot table - and layered them with a red table cloth. Elizabeth rolled lemons between colored glass lanterns. The sun beat down on our heads while we smoothed the fabric and put bright blue paper plates at one end.

The dishes began to arrive - potato salad flecked with parsley, pistachios chopped with mint, couscous with bright colored flecks of peppers and lemon, chicken simmering in a pot, brilliant purple eggplant roasted to perfection, bright tomatoes tossed with hot peppers, and the smell of pitas grilling.

We put bottles of deep red wine and sparkling white on the table and sat as the sun set. We filled our plates with food, our glasses with sweet Moroccan mint tea, and the air with laughter. The candles sent a glow across the table while children filled the apple tree.

Soon, one by one, the kids went into the house to watch a movie. Elizabeth crawled into my lap and cuddled next to me. The gold clip on earrings and chunky pearl necklace she'd insisted on wearing clinking as she shifted to a more comfortable spot.

Every now and then, there's a perfect moment. I treasure those moments, savor them.

And that night, in the candle and star light surrounded by friends and my children, was one of them.

Kat from Home

2013-03-21T09:14:00.000-07:00

Kat slid onto the bar stool, her sleek dress shifting to expose three additional inches of tanned leg. She lifted a manicured finger to get the bartender's attention. Her scarlet lips quirked with amusement as he made a beeline to her. Easy men soothed her wounds.

She leaned forward. His eyes shifted downward.

"I'll take a French Kiss," she purred. The bartender brought his eyes from her breasts to her lips and stared, transfixed before moving away.

She leaned back in her seat and toyed with a bar napkin wondering how long it would take him to look up the drink and make it. She studied the crowd of people lining the bar. Men in suits flirted with college girls with blond streaked hair and tight jeans. Women in pencil skirts clinked glasses and let their hair down. Same crowd, different night. She suppressed a sigh and wished, not for the first time, she'd gone home with take out and a good book. Home where a half empty closet mocked her inability to move forward, she reminded herself.

"One French Kiss," the bartender subtly flexed his muscles while setting the frothy drink in front of her. Kat rewarded him by leaning forward with a shift that exposed more of her breasts. She took a sip and let out a small moan of pleasure. "Delicious."

"That's fantastic." A deep voice laced with laughter distracted her from her small game of cat and mouse.

A man lounged on the stool next to her, his hand wrapped around a glass filled with amber liquid and ice. He stood out in the after work crowd. His shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned partway down a nicely toned chest sprinkled with golden hair. His cobalt blue eyes laughed in a face too tanned to be comfortable in a boardroom and hair slightly too shaggy to belong in this neighborhood.

She turned dismissively to her drink noticing the hunky bartender had moved further down the bar.

"Do you ever pay for your own drinks?"

Kat turned back to the man and raised an eyebrow. "Are you insinuating I flirt for booze?"

"I'm not insinuating anything," he said with a grin. "I'm saying it flat out."

Kat frowned slightly. This was a different approach. She lifted her drink and took a sip. The strawberry and champagne liquid was perfect on a hot summer night. She let her eyes roam his body. The shirt rested, untucked, on worn jeans molded to muscular thighs. The hand holding his glass was tanned with square tipped fingers and tendons that stretched to an arm that made Kat briefly wonder if it was as firm as it looked. She looked back to his face. He stared back in amusement.

"I haven't seen you here before."

"I've been around," he said, "watching."

Kat pushed down the discomfort his words brought. She twisted her lips into the cat-like smile she was paid thousands to use. "Are you done watching?" She wondered how long he'd distract her.

He picked up his drink and downed it in one swallow. Fishing a couple of crumpled bills from his pocket, he set them on the bar.

Moving closer to her, he leaned down, on hand on the back of her bar stool, the other resting lightly on the bar. His breath smelled of whiskey, his body of soap and wood. "Not yet." He stood and walked away.

"Definitely a different approach," Kat muttered, intrigued.

This post is in response to a Write at the Merge prompt on Write on Edge. If you don't know who Kat is, you haven't read Metaphysical Gravity where she made her appearance as Abby's BFF. So go buy and read.

A Baby in the House

2013-03-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

There was a baby in the house last night.

A chubby, adorable, sweet smelling baby.

And lest we forget, her older brother.

Rachel asked me to watch the kids after work yesterday. I jumped at the chance. A playdate with Benny Boo for the older kids and a snuggly Juniper for me? Perfect.

We ate lasagna - well, except Juniper, though she was making me feel guilty as she followed my fork. The kids played outside with the neighbor girl, running and yelling well past dusk.

And then, I fed a wee babe, held her in my arms and expereinced that most amazing of feelings...a sleeping baby cuddled up to my chest, her hand clinging to my shirt, her breath sweet and soft.

Heaven.

Where Do We Start?

2013-03-19T09:56:00.002-07:00

I'm going to start this off with a little warning...

I'd like to tell my mom to skip it, but that would mean that she'd just read it more quickly, which sometimes makes me wish I'd started this blog anonymously. And I'd like to preface by saying this could be a trigger post.

It was New Year's Eve 1999. We were partying, well, like it was 1999. I was at my house and I knew everyone invited. These were people I trusted and had known for years.

We were an eclectic group, accepting of each other and our nerdiness. We weren't jocks. We didn't belong to sororities or frats. We were goths and punks, show people and waitresses, IT guys and students, government employees and store managers. We'd partied together before and by "partied" I mean drank. We didn't do drugs, we didn't drive drunk. We were just silly and had fun and sometimes drank too much.

So I got wasted. The kind of wasted you get when you're surrounded by people you trust. Shots, mixed drinks, champagne, more shots.

We threw confetti, we hugged, we kissed, we slurred, "I love you mans".

Sometime after midnight, I started feeling sick. I stumbled my way upstairs and collapsed on my bed.

I don't know how long I was passed out, but I opened my eyes to see a man who was a friend lifting up my shirt. He was fumbling in the dim glow of the Christmas lights strung around the hallway. I tried to tell him to stop, but couldn't seem to speak. I tried to lift my hands, but they lay lifeless next to me. My vodka soaked brain tried to force the words past numb lips, but I couldn't. He was a guy I'd made out with in the past. He was a friend. A good guy. And he was trying to take off my bra.

I don't know what would have happened if my friend Ed hadn't come upstairs to check on me. Ed who was sober and on leave from the Navy. Ed with his strong moral compass that caused him to grab the man by the back of his shirt and haul him off of me. Ed who yelled and hit when I wasn't able to do so. Ed who helped me to the bathroom where I threw up and finally started to regain my senses.

I was shaken, but oddly, not mad at the friend, nor was I scarred and scared. To be honest, it ended up being one of those weird stories that happen in your early 20s. A story that is shared by the vast majority of my girlfriends in some way or form.

And now, I can't help but wonder...Why?

I read Alex's post yesterday. It chilled me. She likened this sort of situation to drunk driving. It's something no one ever thinks they'd do, would never let a friend do, think that people who do are bad people and yet...

People drive drunk every day. Good people. People with families and careers and who make otherwise good decisions.

The guy at the party? He was one of the "good guys". He has a sister, a mother. He's married now to a sweet woman and they have a little girl themselves. He's, by all accounts, a good man, a good father, a good husband.

Yet he didn't see anything wrong with undressing and touching a woman who was too drunk to move.

Why?

I read a blog post by Henry Rollins.

"I think to a great degree, we humans still divide ourselves into two species, even though we are monotypic. There are males and females. We see them as different and not equal. Things get better when women get more equality. That is a bit obvious but I think it leads to better results up the road. If it’s a man’s world as they say, then men, your world is a poorly run carnage fest."

Is that it? Is it a matter of equality? Is that the reason why victims are still painted as liars and sluts while perpetrators are hailed as promising athletes?

I'm not saying the young men involved in the Steubenville case are anything other than criminals. The details coming out of the case horrified me.

So why, then, wasn't my 24-year-old self horrified at what a friend tried to do?

She should have been.

Maybe it's as simple as what Alex wrote.

"It’s going to start with the idea that sexual assault is so commonplace each of us will have an opportunity to prevent it. Do we have the resolve to be that friend? Like taking away the keys of a drunk to not only save the driver’s life, but the lives of all those on the road, we have to protect those around us. The culture of driving drunk changed as more people stood up in basements and barrooms and demanded the keys. Each time we say, “That’s not okay,” people hear it and believe it."

It's a start.

Painting Flowers

2013-03-18T12:28:00.000-07:00

Friday night, after a dinner of roasted vegetables covered in fresh tzatziki in a warm pita, Anne and I made our way to SLOMonart to try our hand at painting whimsical flowers.

Our previous foray - her first, my third - had proven three things:

Engineer and Virgo brains are frightfully similar.
A patio covered with white tables on color spotted cobblestones can also look like a levitating table with white dinner plates floating over a crowd of people if one does not understand proportions and perspective.
I don't understand proportion and perspective.

Not one to give up, Anne agreed to attend another painting class. This time a project guaranteed to provide a relaxing evening with wine and chocolate and flowers taking flight from the canvas.

So we did.

And we chatted and painted and I drew inspiration from my floral blouse to paint a picture for Elizabeth's side of the room.

The room hummed with conversation. Music played softly in the background. We chatted, catching up on all that has been going on over the last couple of weeks in that way women have with interruptions and meandering topics.

Time has been pushing me forward into March and nearly April without much time to stop, pause, reflect, collect. It shows no signs of slowing down. Sometimes I want to push the pause button and take a deep breath before hitting play again.

That was Friday night.

A pause.