hey there dearheart

Stress. It's what for dinner.

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 03:48:00 +0000

The cutting board is on the counter and I've already cut and transferred half a pork chop to the table, ready for the little bird lings that my children become at dinner time. I flutter, frantically - like a good mama bird - trying to meet every need, ever aware that my own food awaits, cold and uncut, while a frustration over the whole affair builds.

The rice is done, but I haven't yet scooped even a single serving from the cooker to cool. It's still too hot for the baby. If I give it to her now, she'll burn her mouth, reject it and cry through the rest of dinner. Mission failed. The kids still need cups of milk. I still need to decide which vegetable to cook. I was planning on asparagus but it might very well be rotting in the crisper as I think. And this is an easy dinner. Rice in the rice cooker. Pork chops under the broiler for five minutes. And some kind of veggie.

Then I hear the welcoming sound of Chris' key in the back door lock. Yippee yippee kai aye, Daddy's home, I practice in my head. Show enthusiasm, because Daddy's home. I think it and thirty seconds later I say it, all while regretting that I didn't yet unlock the door or turn the outside light on for him. Another task on my evolving to-do list. No need for a list app on an iPhone, it's all in my head.

Chris is tired, a full patient load today, but he needs to change out of his work shirt and the pressed pants that could last another day if we only preserve them from the hazards of dinner. I'd love for him to take a detour and go directly to the kitchen table, but he heads to the bedroom, as he always does, for a quick breath before facing a scene that is often just a hair shy of a food fight.

We both need a break right about now. Sometimes I ask for it and he graciously gives it to me. For twenty minutes while they eat - a mere fifteen feet away - I lay on my bed and read and re-read the captions under the cartoons in the New Yorker. I try to close my ears, first to the kids' inevitable screams and spills and then to Chris' pleading and threats. I'm well familiar. Every one of our dinner directives are preceded by a "hurry."

Hurry and eat your meat, so you can get a treat.

Hurry and finish your zucchini, then go get on your jammers.

Hurry, just three more bites of meat 'cuz your three.

Have you noticed that I'm meat and sweets obsessed? I'm known for making my kids eat a "bag of meat" during summer park days for lunch. It's true, I'm protein focused. So long as they get the turkey or pork chop or soy beans in their little bellies, I'm fine. After that, what do I care? Bring on the funnel cakes. The cotton candy. They need fattening up anyway.

What happens after dinner is worth a whole other post. Not necessarily one worth reading, but I could probably waste three paragraphs describing how T manages to sketch out a map for buried treasure on the bathroom floor. Night after night. In toothpaste.

No, this is about dinner. And how it involves a scarily fair amount of my weekly brain power and time, just to figure out what to cook, buy the necessities and fry them up in a pan. Then I spend some more of my rapidly depreciating life occupying the kids (often with T.V.) while I cook the meal. Thereafter, we actually sit down (or hover, in my case) and I nag the kids to actually put food to mouth. It's exhausting and overrated. And this is from a person who actually likes to cook. Really, I do. You should see my cook book collection. Or tape mindless conversations I have with friends over finishing salt.

Today, while engaged in this Ground Hog Day-esque routine, I recalled a time not so long ago. Barely before kids when Chris and I had settled into a suburban life in another city. We ere lulled to the "family centered" neighborhood by old friends, J&E. They were farther along in the settling down game, with three kids underfoot and the back yard play equipment to prove it.

After work, Chris and I would run along the creek amidst the saplings and prairie grasses featured in the new development. We cruised up and back along freshly paved concrete paths, stopping to say hello to J&E before the cool down and walk back to our house. Children were on the horizon. That was the hope. Our new track home had the space for them. We were ready.

Still, we had no idea.

We usually knocked on J&E's door around seven. Ever efficient, their kids were already tucked into bed. These dear friends always made it look easy and never - not even once - did they complain about the process of funneling kids through dinner to bed or remind me of my blissful ignorance. Instead, when Chis and I would mention that we better get on home to figure out dinner, they would only laugh, at our dwindling freedom, or in fond remembrance of their pre-kids lives.

Whatever was regularly on our menu, frozen pizza or no, I can tell you it wasn't stress. And usually it was preceded by a glass of wine. Or two.

Still, I remember feeling stressed those days, for other reasons. Often, an unfinished legal brief awaited me at the computer after dinner and the list of work tasks would whir like a Rolodex in my head during my morning shower.

These days, my kids often serve as my alarm clock. The soft sound of fleece over feet tell me the day has begun and their small voices trigger my internal recitation of the day ahead. Preschool and mom-and-me classes. Violin lessons, snuggles and stories on the couch before nap - and later - scooter rides to the park.

Funny, while the day unwinds and fatigue and repetition set in, evoking an almost unrivaled tedium at the dinner hour, the mornings are almost always fresh and surprisingly - for once in my life - all mine.

Top o' the morning to ya, or whatever else a leprechaun might say....

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 21:05:00 +0000

Nary a gold doubloon or a drop of Irish can be found round here, but we've got fields of clovers and a few lucky shamrocks.

I promised my nephews and niece a cookie care package for St. Pat's. True to form, the cookies were finally sent today, scheduled to arrive a full day past the day-o-green. With an aunt like me, they're lucky to get them in 2011.

Baking notes: I saw the heart shamrocks on an "Irish and proud T-shirt." Those red heads wear it well. I tried out food glitter for the first time and I'm still working on frosting consistency. I think a "thinner" approach all round next time will help. Next project, I'll put a tad more water in the piping frosting and use a smaller tip for outlining. Also, I'll try to pop air bubbles before they create permanent frosting caverns.

Like I've heard a zillion times before, the harder you work, the better your luck. Practice makes perfect and all the rest. I'm working on it. Hopefully, this St. Pat's, you don't have to....

What happened to the cake walk?

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 04:30:00 +0000

Remember that one time when you thought this really should be a foodie blog because of all the dang baking references? Well, here's another one. I'm sorry...sort of. I dream in sugar and often wake up from a horrid nightmare where I'm covered from head to toe in dripping batter that is too heavy for some reason. And rather than wonder how I'll crawl my way out of the mixing bowl, I ponder, was it the sour cream? Or too much butter?

So...without further ado, here's the latest:

An outside of the box, 100% scratch, German Chocolate birthday cake. Nice taste, but no great shakes in the looks department, right? Sadly, there was also a backside:

Frumpy, leaky little thing, isn't it? The lesson here (an oldie): insist on photographs from your best side. Also, a profile shot helps, especially if you're wearing a top with horizontal stripes. I'm also finding that low light works wonders for those unmentionable creases.

That is all. Carry on, dear mommy bloggers.

I really have no business exercising.

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 05:53:00 +0000

I had overlooked the quarter cup or so of pool water he had consumed during the swim lesson. Or even the teaspoon of water he had extracted from sucking on his swim shirt while sitting on the edge of the pool waiting for his turn. There were probably more gulps of bright and burning chlorine that made its way into his little digestive system later when he fell forward, arms spread, mouth agape, over and over again, while playing "Aqua Man" in the shallow area.

By the time Dee and T and I made it to the women's locker room, I had assumed T was water logged. At that point, the official clock for showering in public with the children had started to run. And I needed to beat my best record. I'm talking about the panic that always overcomes me when I face any long and annoying journey like the locker room shuffle.

Years seem to pass and my face visibly wrinkles as I guide my kids around half clothed women of all ages and sizes from the pool entrance to our locker. From there, I must console my shivering brood while fumbling with the lock because my husband has spun me into a tizzy that some gym thief is going to steal my key fob from my coat pocket, beep for the car in the Y parking lot and then speed off with our minivan, all while I'm trying to keep up the basic Samba step at Zumba class.

After several attempts to yank and eventually gently massage, my overstuffed gym bag from the locker, I locate the cosmetic bag, shove off my own sweaty clothes, beg for a wet towel from one of the swimsuit-clad kids (we save the fluffy ones for when we're "clean"), and head back through the people maze to the open showers.

As expected, the water is too cold for comfort and a far cry from a steady flow. There's no time to relax - even for a second - under the lukewarm trickle of water, despite the cast of thousands, primarily because the kids need help reaching the soap and because the water automatically shuts off every 30 seconds.

So, for the duration of the shower, I engaged in a three step dance that strangely mimics motherhood itself. Step 1) pound on the water source button; Step 2) soap and rinse kids; Step 3) wash my own body in piecemeal format from single errant spray from the kids' shower. Repeat.

Somewhere near the end of the shower dance, when the kids were done and I was gathering up the shampoo and conditioner bottles, I turned to see them crouching on the floor, chins millimeters from the drain. Dee was inspecting it, apparently appreciating how the clogged hair and skin particles gathered and combined to allow a pool to form.

To my horror, T's appreciation went one step further. Like a parched lion anxiously roaming the desert, he approached the drain pool like a welcome watering hole and began to lap up its contents as if he had just survived a lengthy drought.

In that moment, I shrieked, "No, STOP THAT!" and threw in a couple "Eeeewwwww gross. That's so gross. Sooooo. GROOOOOSSSSS!!!

At some point, I stopped asking T, "Why? Why on earth would you do that?" like some prime time eighties sitcom dad admonishing his sixteen year old for denting the rear fender of the family's Volvo.

I managed to move on with my life and gather the towel round me, holding the cosmetic bag with the same hand while using the other to hold the hand of my one clean kid. T was instructed to tag along behind us, like a good little lion cub.

Before I had a chance to use my Breck Girl skills to whip my snarled wet hair back and out of my face, a familiar looking twenty something in a standard issue red Y polo shirt approached me. She was one of the gals at the child care services, charged with watching my 18 month old for the full two hours a day that Y membership allows.

My general locker room panic escalated for a second. Was I beyond the two hour time limit?

Turns out, no. The helpful Y childcare gal stopped me and my naked preschoolers two feet outside of the shower to inform me that my big baby, who left the house in a cuter than all be tennis skirt and striped tights, had had a blowout in her diaper that was now leaking down her legs.

They had wrapped her in a towel. Cool, we match.

She wanted to know if I brought extra diapers. I told her I did, that they were ready and waiting for use back at the childcare center. Then the obviously childless soul asked,

"So...should I just bring her to you now?"

At first, I thought I had misunderstood. Here? Now? I was naked. I had naked underlings with me. The diapers were far, far away.

But then, she asked again, "should I just bring her to you now?" No! Hell no! Poop juice will get on my semi clean naked self while my baby wriggles on a narrow backless bench over a concrete floor.

For a minute or so, we went back and forth over whether I had extra clothes for the baby (of course not) and if they had a changing facility back at childcare central. I knew they did. Eventually, I got the message: it was my job and mine alone to change Nar's diaper.

I suggested that perhaps it would work best if I got dressed first and then ran out to change the baby in a facility designed for such purposes. "It might be safer," I said, playing the health and safety card.

Helpful Y childcare gal accepted my promise and finally left Dee and T and I to complete the last leg of the locker room shuffle. Because were way over my panic record, T was fresh out of time to linger over the drain or to climb the handicapped bar by the toilet.

And I got to go home with wet hair and a pants free baby. In February. 100 miles south of the Canadian border.

And this - this - is why I generally exercise once a week. Those cookie calories are hard earned.

Sweet somethings

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 00:27:00 +0000

For many moons, I've mooned over the fantastic sugar cookies Bridget at Bake at 350 creates with a frequency that reveals superhero in the bloodline. Ms. B not only presents elegant pictures of her cookie masterpieces, but includes how-to instructions. All very helpful to a gal whose last attempt at decorating sugar cookies (harvest pumpkins) resulted in squash drenched in concrete.

So, a couple of months ago I printed out Bridget's instructions. Then I gathered up the stuff I needed to do it right. Mostly time and an excuse to make them. But you know me, I can whip up a holiday in celebration of a root canal.

And in the time it takes to diagnose, conduct and recover from a root canal, I managed to pipe in some love and affection. We're told that "love is patient." This cookie project most definitely proves the point. I just might need a root canal to recover.

I hope you're gettin' some sugar tomorrow, hopefully brought to you by Russell Stover. Or, if you're lucky, Godiva. Maybe not cheaper than the butter and eggs option, but much, much faster. (:

Year of the Rabbit

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 03:08:00 +0000

My little Chinese New Year party has come and gone, like a bunny fleeing the neighbors' dog. I didn't even get a chance to go ga-ga over the decorations and bore you with the details of every purchase and agonizing decision regarding where to hang the dragon streamers. I'll be visiting my folks on President's Day, the no school, so lets throw a party - day - we had set aside for the event (the real CNY was yesterday, 2-3-11).

So...I slammed something together this past Sunday all last minute like. We hosted, we crafted, we dragon paraded and we rounded out the afternoon crabby. Also, I seriously breached the rules of my diet. Almost a typical day.

To keep the focus only on the kids and the snark that happens when female friends are free to chat among themselves while wiping snotty noses and addressing who-took-what meltdowns, I dis-invited Chris, the most Chinese person in our house. He seemed mildly surprised, despite the fact that he always appears on the edge of his seat when I regale him with the latest preschool gossip or remind him that Zumba is so darn addicting.

I don't care if he makes fun of my focus while waiting for class to finish from the glassed-in weight room above the gym where Zumba class is held. I don't. Hasn't he seen that little Hokey Poky leg/hip shake I do while holding my hand out like a fan from the side of my head? It's sexy.

The girlfriends, however, were invited. Betsey came with her daughter, Dee's best friend from preschool and the person who taught Dee that "did you know you could wear a skirt over your pants??!!!"

Stacey brought half the guests (and her husband, who I also turned away, to save him from the tedium that is crafting with preschoolers). Elise brought the yummy Get Rich Dumplings and her established storytelling skills. Honestly, I think we could rock the team teaching home school thing. For one. Whole day.

That would have been the end of lunch if Almost Asian Amy didn't give up an hour of her life at the beginning of the party slaving over the stove cooking the longevity noodles. Here's to long life, Ame. Next time I promise to cook first, craft last. And try not to tell me if you cut the noodles, just to make them manageable in the pan. I know, life requires us to be adaptable, and it's shorter than we expect.

The kids made paper plate bunnies and colored and folded their own dragons this year, with varying degrees of help from the moms, depending on the topic of conversation. Eventually, we gave out the red envelopes of "lucky money" that consisted of a few semi-shiny pennies (vinegar soaked and polished previously with mixed results and enthusiasm from the kids). Then we paraded outside and drove the evil spirits of the past year away with our dragons and noisemakers.

The evil that came to reside in T about two minutes into the party over toy sharing and general chaos, was not, however, persuaded to move along by the beating of drums and dragon roars. Events inducing T to stomp his feet and splay out on the floor in screaming fits continued well into bedtime. Just to remind me that it may be a new year, but not a new life. I felt the urge to scurry away like a New Year Bunny. No such luck.

Still, after the kids settled into bed, or at least eased into quiet chatter amongst themselves, I took out the big, new Christmas camera that I barely know how to turn on. Without the noise of toddler tantrums and the mess of glue pools and last minute stir fries, I could catch on digital media the last gasps of a spirited dragon and the leap of a newly assembled bunny, and remind myself who's really finding satisfaction in all this hoopla.

I'll give you a hint. It's the half-Swede. (:

Belly evolution

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 05:53:00 +0000

Crisp, fitted button down shirts used to slip right over it, tucked into sensible wool pants, fresh from the dry cleaner, awaiting the matching suit jacket. When slim pockets started to bulge and a co-worker joked, "I didn't think you were missing any meals," wool suits were left hanging. No hurry to get them to the dry cleaner.

To accommodate it, I worked from a dresser drawer wardrobe, pulling on the same "professional' stretchy knit pants every morning and rushing some nights to get the things washed and dried before the work day ahead.

Then the belly finally gave way to a new belly. A tiny, fold over the top part of the "swaddling" size diapers, belly. Which grew and grew and grew in wiggle pants and pj's to become the big round wonderful watermelon of a thing that tells all the world, I'm not yet a preschooler. Still a toddler - a baby yet - so kiss and rub me for good luck. I'm fleeting.

When my preschooler, Dee, was about Nar's age and I was seven months pregnant with T, we used to spend time each day, "contemplating our navels." Thank goodness there's still room in the day for tummy time.

Celebrity Crush

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 05:02:00 +0000

I'm at it again, living holiday to holiday. This time, I'm hunting for discounted Valentine's Day decorations.

I'm coming to believe that I live life in a series of theme parties. It helps me to fill in the gaps between my kids' activities. It also helps me to (temporarily) stifle that little voice in my head asking, What is the meaning of your existence? Will you have a legacy? And so forth. I can't answer those questions because I'm too busy trying to find the perfect red, trimmed in bric a brac, table runner.

While some may say this mid winter day of sweet nothings and sugar coated sentiments brought to you by you, benefits only corporate card makers and the people who make teeth crushing conversation hearts, I beg to differ.

I legitimately like Valentine's Day and have fond memories of tapas, sushi and gnocchi dates with my kid less husband in big cities. I also remember the thrill of receiving a carnation-gram in high school math class and the rush of excitement when each Valentine's Day of my childhood, my Dad would pick up a Russel Stover heart box of candy for my brother and me on his way home from work.

The older I get the more tightly I hold on to one universal truth: it feels good to be happy. And if I can work happy into some short term theme for living, then bring it on.  First, I'm a shopper, so I derive supreme satisfaction from hunting for the dang decorations themselves. Second, I'm raising a shopper and a crafter. Dee will happily discuss the attributes of heart and ribbon garlands for several minutes, even with the deafening sound of her brother yelling, "I want out of here NOWWW!," upon entering any store that does not feature food or toys.

Undeterred, Dee and I will make our selections and move on to choosing the corporate character Valentine's of her liking. This will interest T for a nanosecond while he decides between Spiderman or Transformer cards. Back home -and a month before the big day - Dee will start tearing the cards along their perforated lines and then go hog wild with the fill-in and sticker possibilities. I swear, one $2 box of cards will entertain my kid for a month of Sundays. If ONLY the Valentine season were that long!

I too, tend to my own short term obsession. Beyond the decorations, I dream of the treats I can bake and the fancy packaging I can wrap around them.  Trust me, I've missed many plot lines in the cop shows Chris and I watch scouring cookbooks and Googling Valentine stuff.

He still loves me. I hope he does, because I bought him a little something something Friday at Target that rhymes with "ready." Unfortunately, Dee, in all her Valentine zeal, stumbled upon the "neddy" while digging in the shopping sack for her cards. While my first reaction was to quickly stuff it back in the sack and pretend that the flash of pink lace she saw was merely a figment of her imagination, I was derailed when D said, "Ooooooo, pretty! Is it for me?"

When I said no, it's mine, she was unusually persistent in questioning me. After I had assured her - several times - that the nightgown was most definitely mine, and directed her to put it away already, she made one last point, "BUT it's too small for you!"

Riiiiiiiight, I thought. Something tells me Hub will overlook that fact....

This month's cruise on the Love Boat may be why I have a current fascination with the show, The Millionaire Matchmaker. Patti Stanger, the star and matchmaker, helps rich and lonely people find love, or least helps them figure out why nobody's interested  (my favorite clients are the train wrecks - the lazy, self involved heirs to a fortune - they're impossible!) Anyhoo, when the matchmaker first meets with a client, she asks them about their celebrity crush, presumably to see if the person has realistic expectations for love in real life.

Before watching a mini marathon of the show last week, I'd never really thought about whether I had a "celebrity crush." It only took about 8 seconds to confirm that I did. For me, it's all about a look. My pie-in the-sky-guy has eyebrows that can teach a Zumba class all on their own. He's Samoan and he's smokin'. Can you guess?

My real life, man, Chris, is not Samoan, but has been known to check "Pacific Islander" on forms inquiring of his ethnicity. But most importantly, he's got the "look," and the requisite muscle-y eyebrows to melt my heart.

I don't believe he's yet picked up a cowhide vest for me for Valentine's Day. I hope he doesn't, because even if it fits, I'm not sure if I could overlook it. (:

How about you, gotta celebrity crush this Vday?

Wontonalooza

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 07:10:00 +0000

While my kids may believe that Santa only comes in white, when dried shiitake mushrooms are re-hydrating in a bowl on the counter and we're slicing logs of pink-rimmed fish cake, the offspring are most definitely aware that we're getting our Asian ON. Dad's traditions rule on New Year's Day and we do our best to honor the ancestors.

On Saturday, after my rousing date with Dick Clark, Chris started the process for making his grandmother's sushi (C's dad is Japanese-American) and his mother's wonton soup (C's mom is Chinese-American). My tasks were to occupy the children and to run to the store to pick up a key ingredient for the wontons. This ancient Chinese ingredient took me eleven years of marriage to pluck from my mother-in-law's repertoire, and it may surprise you. The foundation for her wontons is...dunt dunt dunt da: Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage!

Heard of it? Be thoughtful here as you plan your next Asian extravaganza. This delicacy may require a trip to your local Asian market or extra shipping for perishables purchased over the Internet. Also, if Chris' mom catches wind that I divulged this "marshmallow creme" of the Asian-American wonton world to you, I'll deny it. I will. Because I still need a few essential bits of information to make my Chinese BBQ short ribs even remotely resemble what Chris remembers from home.

On Wontonalooza (the first annual), we invited my dear friend, Amy, and her family. Amy is mostly Irish-American and also Caucasian, like me. Still, we like to believe that "we're Asian on the inside," and take every cooking opportunity to prove that point.

We're generally good with follow through, except that one time we got tired just reading the recipe for Vietnamese Pho and were too pissed off at Rachel Ray to try her "quick" version, principally because she called it a "Thai-inspired" soup. Get a research team already!

Anyhoo, I let my inner Asian out at the beginning of our food fest when I sat the group down to show them how to wrap the wonton skin around the pork filling. I placed a dollop of seasoned raw meat goodness in the middle of the wonton square, dipped my finger in water and lined the edges to create a "glue." Then I brought all the corners to the middle and sealed them together. When all I had left was the "twist," the pièce de résistance.... Chris came over, bamboo spider strainer in hand, and casually said:

"That's not right. Those are for fried wontons. We're going to boil these for soup."

Well...I never.

Some sarcastic, omnipresent higher power somewhere was calling, "GET A RESEARCH TEAM ALREADY!"

I could feel my inner Asian shrinking into a tiny grain of rice drenched in butter and milk. Seasoned with cinnamon, of all things. My true colors were revealed. Like some honored religious code, in my father-in-law's world, rice and milk DO NOT MIX. I, however, grew up in a world where milk was in everything and those wontons that came from the food court at the mall were most definitely twisty and fried.

While I swallowed my pride, I moved over a bit at the table to give Chris center stage. He then proceeded to demonstrate the "package" technique where you glue and fold the wonton over itself in a tight little package all ready for the post office. There was a simple elegance to it. After all, these things were going under and they needed to be airtight.

Also, as he worked, a memory from a past visit with Chris' mother made its way to the forefront of my thick skull. This was how Chris' mom made the things. Now I remember. I made a note to pay closer attention during future cooking sessions.

After all, we're trying to save an inner Asian here....

Dick...it's over. Really. I want it to be.

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 06:10:00 +0000

The pristine snow remains from days ago, held in place by a static thermometer and undeterred by a bright, but cool sun. The boulevard dazzles with multiples of ice diamonds, affixed to the tips of tree branches and smooth expanses of yet to melt snow. We tumble into it, out of the minivan and onto the icy sidewalk. A stream of kids and partially zipped boots, stray mittens, grocery bags and leftover coffee cups pour from the van and find their way into the house. Mostly with some double backing by Mom and Dad.

There's anticipation in the air, at least for Chris and me. The kids don't really get that it's a holiday. The last opportunity for indulgence at the end of a string of holiday enablers. But Dee and T know that kid wine is involved, a drink known to most as sparkling apple cider. If you need another preschool motivator, offer kid wine. They get so excited, I'd swear it was spiked.

The prize for us are the King Crab legs. They poke out of the newspaper lined Costco bag, waiting for consumption in our new giant icebox known in other seasons as our back deck. Soon we'll boil and crack them, swirl them in melted butter and lemon. Then we'll eat them and maybe die. Happy in 2011.

Before the celebrations begin, there are potatoes to bake and later load with real butter and ranch dressing. They'll undergo a quick cook in the microwave because we returned home from our errands later than expected. We have health insurance deadlines to meet and end of year checks to write and post before the end of the business day. And also nap and quiet time before dinner. Dee and T oblige, with promises of a special dinner and a kid movie, and of course, some kid wine. I must be raising a bunch of future drunks.

The kids didn't know about the fireworks saved from this year's gloomy, 40-degree Fourth of July, when I was grumpy and not in the mood for fireworks, despite the fact that it was unnecessary then to clear off a square of snow to create a launch pad.

Six months later I'm downright giddy planning a "I voted for this guy 'cause I hate the other guy" kind of New Year's Eve party. The thought of ringing in 2011 "with" Dick Clark depresses me. I wanted to do more to protest than simply falling asleep on the couch.

So I created my own party. First, I found a life partner, then I rounded out the guest list by birthing some kids with limited expectations and early bedtimes. I worked in a fancy dinner for myself, some real wine, and voila!... seven hours later I'm asleep on the couch, with the sound of Dick and Ryan droning on in the two minute intervals between commercials.

I admit it. I watched the ball drop, but it wasn't a highlight. That came from the channel where I watched a crowd of people in Vegas watch the ball drop on their respective big screen. I call it a trickle down New Year.

So...now I'm trying to get a direct line to you before the holiday weekend ends. While my posts and comments to you came in fits and spurts, please know that I had a great time blogging with you this year! Thanks so much for your thoughts and attention and all the best in 2011!

K

Observations

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 06:51:00 +0000

So my oldest, a 4 1/2 year old real live princess who tends a jewelry tree in her room and leaves the house everyday with some concern whether "everyone" will think she's pretty, recently had a one on one with our longtime babysitter.

Delsie, our babysitter, is a few months past 21 with long brown and sometimes blond, hair. She's cuter than any twenty something I ever was, but maybe that was because of all the baggy grunge clothing I was wearing....

The other day while I was off computering or Christmas shopping, Dee and her gal were coloring at the kitchen table while the little kids napped. Dee asked Delsie how she really knows she is a girl. Delsie said, well you know, because we have our "lady parts."

"But when do you get these???," Dee queried, making the universal sign for ta-ta's with her hands cupped in front of her chest.

Delsie considered the question and first said, "you should ask your mom," but then followed with a more definitive answer; "probably when you're sixteen." When relaying the story to Chris and I later, Delsie told us that she landed on sixteen because her best friend who's Japanese didn't start developing until "way later," like "senior year."

When Dee asked why Delsie's are "much bigger than Mama's," Delsie left that for me to explain. I imagine I can't just tell Dee, "wait until you're sixteen," because that would be false advertising.

Promises smomishes

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 20:21:00 +0000

As a child, there was a little Christmas song that would often bring me to the brink of a nervous breakdown. It's catchy tune would induce gnawed nails, sorry's and didn't mean that's. You know the one, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

The song was a hip pocket favorite for my folks come December. We'd be mid Christmas memory when the record player would reach this track. My mom would stop her cookie dough rolling to direct us to listen.

"Do you hear that?" she would say, "Turns out, he SEES you when you're sleeping. He KNOWS when you're awake. He KNOWS if you've been bad or good, so be GOOD for goodness sake!"

I got the message. So my pants were a little wetter, to my mom, what was a little laundry when the payoff was bed by 5:30? In my head, I would confess all sins and negotiate for mercy from Santa. Some moments of truth:

4 YR. OLD ME: So I drew a giant T.V. in brown crayon on my Holly Hobbie bedspread. Mom already spanked me, so we're good, right?

8 YR. OLD ME: So I pulled Mary Ann Barnes' ear while waiting in line at our ninetieth field trip to the planetarium today, and then ran. But she called my friend, Gail, a boy on the bus, so that doesn't count, right?

11 YR. OLD ME: So I baked a piece of dog food in the croissant I offered to my brother. He was mean and never, ever, ever, EVER even attempts to get the phone when it rings. I know I'm too old to actually believe in Santa and I'm too young to be baking croissants and that I eventually missed my calling, but you can't punish me for that already, right?

The sweat rolls made an impression and sent a message to my future self: NEVER, ever, EVER specifically remind your children of these lyrics. It's too stressful. Let them enjoy the season without anxiety over whether Santa uses a pen or a pencil to make his lists.

I broke that little kid promise today and probably contributed to the snowball of nerves my son will build over the course of a lifetime. Today, I dragged all three kids to a big box electronics store in the early afternoon to pick up an item for me, and me alone.

First, the timing was off. I admit that. Lunch in the car after the park was unsatisfying and naps were just around the bend. Crabbyhood had already set in for T. He finished his bag of sliced apples while I made my headphone selection. Then he asked if he and Dee could ride the back end of the cart through the vast expanse of store that lay between us and the cash registers. I thought I was home free.

I thought I could zip around like a choo-choo train, make involved-mom conversation with the kids, then pay and leave. Unfortunately, brightly colored child items, mostly brought to us by Disney, cluttered the route. T wanted to stop every two seconds until we landed at the Leapster display that contained the "Buzz Lightyear Leapfrog just like Leo's" that T is wishing for.

Apparently, T forgot that Santa is omnipresent, or didn't care. When I informed him that his turn was over he ran away and screamed at the top of his lungs, "I waaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnt a tuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnn!"

While a gaggle of clerks in bright blue polos circled us, I reached for T's arm, leaned in to his ear and with gritted teeth, sputtered, "Santa is WATCHING. Stop it. Santa can SEE YOU. Hold on to the cart and let's go."

Ultimately, T did not hold the cart. I had to pull him to the register while paying and urging his sister to follow us. T continued to scream through all of it, out to the car and for another five minutes after we were on the road.

Later, much later, when we were at home reading stories on the couch, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" cued on the radio. While the song played, T looked up and asked me,

"Mama, is I nice?"

In the quiet of my home and distanced from the panicked state of a public meltdown, my allegiances officially shifted. I didn't need just a quick fix. I really wanted T to think Santa was disappointed and to adjust his behavior accordingly. Forever. So I told T that of course he's nice (in the larger sense of the word), but we also talked about the screamfest at the store.

Maybe he gets it. Maybe he'll be better tomorrow. That's more than we can eke from "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," no? That's just confusing.

Staking a claim

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 21:47:00 +0000

Dude, can you believe I've only been trying to do this blog thing (again) for two months???!!!

This stuff is work. At a minimum, it requires a daily pounding from the boulder of discipline. As if I didn't already have serious respect for you work-a-day bloggers out there, my two months of trying that seems half-assed to the rest of the world, has sealed the deal.

You're better than me. I will forever endeavor to seek shade in your shadow. You know, for that brief moment, when you stop along the trail to down a granola bar and unzip your awesome fitting Athleta hoodie before bagging that next Fourteener (otherwise known as a month of consistent posting).

I'll be the one gasping for oxygen, crawling up crags and pesky ravines with only a single disposable water bottle for sustenance. I promise, I won't dump it in the woods. But I will need to go back for more provisions.

Like Mint Milanos. Scratch that, my Weight Watchers leader would likely advice that ten measly almonds would be a better energy-for-points choice, especially when one expects an elevated heart rate.

My Hub tells me I should try to post at least three times a week if I really want to make connections with people. Yikers! That man is always full of reasonable ideas that I have to acknowledge to keep our marriage alive (except when he leans on elderly snow blowers).

The Pioneer Woman advises that we write - at least a paragraph - EVERY DAY! I don't think she expected her audience to actually post the paragraphs of drivel, but here I am, DOING IT, like a blithering idiot.

I'm sorry, my heart rate must be elevated. Let me stop a minute and I'll catch ya after you successfully complete a NaBloPoMo. But before I end this post, please know that I think your hoodie will look fab waving like a flag at the top of the mountain peak, or even half way up, hell, even back at the lodge enjoying a spiked hot cocoa with me. That hill is yours, baby! Congrats!

I'll take the next one, just as soon as I switch from Mint Milanos to almonds.

Buzz kill

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 07:20:00 +0000

For three days I've listened to the buzz of snow blowers plowing through the first snow to create tidy pathways from garages to houses and back. Chris has even come to rely on the goodwill of our nearly retired neighbor to take care of our front walk. He rationalizes the hours of shoveling freedom this way, "men with snow blowers," he says, "they love doing it. Snow blowing a sidewalk [and a path from our front door to our back gate, plus a space near the street for Costco unloading] only takes seconds for them. It's empowering, trust me." This, from the go-to man I hitched my wagon to.

The city took a day off from snow clearing on Thanksgiving and it showed. Getting over the berms in the alleyway to the road made returning a Red Box movie an adventure sport. And *sigh* it's only November. I can handle this winter wonderland until about December Twenty-Sixth. But who's counting.

On the upside, my mini Asian me's have come over to the dark side, or dork side, depending on how you look at it. Surprisingly, they had a little help from their always seeking validation, mother. My girls, Dee and Nar, are now sporting the latest marked down Old Navy (sorta) wooly sweaters. Hurry and hop like little bunnies to find these gems. Cyber Monday is fast approaching! But beware, the world might possibly run out of wool, because we at dearheart, inc. love it so much. Except for Hub, who thinks it's itchy and unappealing.

Here we all are, all nice and cozy. I'm not itchy, who's itchy? Anyone says they're itchy gets a time out.

And one parting, "the-Thanksgiving-it-snowed-shot":

The Old Timers tell me it never snows this early in the season. And by "Old Timers," I mean my cousins who have been here longer than me. Last week, we also experienced record setting way-below-freezing lows. Old Timers said that was an anomaly. After two years of serious snow dumpage and then a freaky snow-less winter last year (still more anomalies), I'm not listening to anyone but Santa when it comes to all things that can influence my behavior, like the weather.

Pottery-Barning it

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 09:18:00 +0000

I talked my so-over-it husband into helping me get the first coat of "Firenze" paint up in our dining room Sunday night. He hates to paint and reminds me whenever the subject is raised that painting is my hobby but simply work to him.

Still, under the pressure of a deadline (we're hosting Thanksgiving), I was able to talk him into painting, so long as he could hear the Major League Soccer championship game from the T.V. in the living room. Go Rapids! (our Colorado home team won).

It didn't help when I suggested he paint in a "Y" pattern versus his strict "Karate Kid" up and down strokes because he may leave streaks. I know, I shouldn't be kicking gift horses in the mouth. Or kicking husbands with my mouth.

The name "Firenze" evokes fire, but not passion. It's one of this season's Pottery Barn paint colors. I like the color, it's a deep pumpkin that says, "clean your plate!" in a warm, understated way.

I promised Chris the roller, so I tried to stay ahead of him with the trim work. With each measured brush stoke along the bright white trim of baseboards and windows, I covered surfaces formerly dripping in a burgundy, bordering on ripe cherry, red. That red was bold, it had something to say.

To me, it said, "Welcome to our Italian bistro. Amore! Sit down under our faux Tiffany light and let Mama bring you some gravy."

Unfortunately, my best spaghetti sauce still comes from a jar and I'm always aiming for an earthy, Asian aesthetic in my decorating. Emphasis on aiming. And that's really the problem, isn't it?

Not so much the aiming and missing, but that over a couple of decades of adulthood, the message we're trying to get on the wall doesn't really say much. Slap up a nice, tactful color that won't offend potential buyers when we're empty-nesters. Avoid getting too heated in a political discussion because of the anxiety that we may not know enough facts to support our positions.

Actually, I find that these days, I avoid conflict of almost any kind because I'm just too tired to duke it out or afraid of the later consequences when I have to make small talk to that same person I pissed off at a park day. You never know. Better to just play it safe. Go with the colors closest to the embers. Dark, smoldering. Nothing flashy.

Maybe it's just age. That transitional moment between fired up youth and a state of zen, but I find that I'm floating - not necessarily lost - somewhere between the preordained color that's just understated, and my red, the one that sometimes laps out beyond the encumbrance of the fire pit and makes a mark that can hurt.

Home, home on the subdivided lot

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 08:05:00 +0000

While living quite contentedly on my little city lot, couple of trees in front, couple in back, I was recently reminded by my children that I am most definitely NOT Pioneer Woman.

Which is a little bit sad really, because I come, at least on my mother's side, from cowboy folk. Mom was raised on a farm. She plucked chickens and rode bareback on a horse named Sugar, but left me to clean up the piddles of a poodle named Sophie in our basement.

Granted, we lived on a wooded, but food-producing-free half acre in the mountains. I didn't grow up in the city, but I didn't necessarily hike in snowshoes uphill both ways to get to school. We had buses for that. And movie theaters. And a 7-11 convenience store. So I might as well have been a suburban kid, just with a 45 minute drive to the city and a sort of romanticized idea of rural life, because I believed that I kinda lived it. Because of the trees, mostly.

But then I married a city boy and fell in love with things like take-out Thai food and well manicured city parks with domed glass green houses and paths adorned with old fashioned rose varieties. So now we live miles away from fields of amber waves of grain and the farmers who tend to those fields. We can't even relate to people like my actual cousins, who keep cattle alive for a career and wrangle wild horses for fun at rodeos on the weekend.

I am assured of this and my dorkdom because of a breakfast conversation I recently overheard between Dee and T. Dee said, with authority, that "a unicorn is a horse with a horn. And a pink horse is a pony." A pretty one, I bet.

Later, T presented me with his cowboy-themed lunchbox and pointed to the saddle depicted on the side. "This is a carousel," he said. Then he pointed to the saddle horn and added, "that used to be the horse's head, but now it's gone."

So much for authenticity. Or honoring your mother. I guess we'll have to hunt for culture elsewhere. Maybe it's on sale at the mall.

Fireballs and other bullets

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 07:16:00 +0000

This past week, my little brother, business minded and frugal, forked over some cash at the post office to send left over Halloween candy to my kids. Of course, it's the devil in disguise because all I do is graze at the great cardboard trough after the kids go to bed....

Bro sent the package o' calories the first year we were here when the only candy eating kid in our house barely had enough teeth to gum a Tootsie Roll. I suppose that was his point. Save the sugar for his sis.

See, Trent (this name has been changed to protect those that would be perpetually annoyed - if they knew - that I blog) may be the little brother, but he came in first in the game of bringing home grand babies. Trent's oldest just turned 11. He's another sweet T-named kid that I adore and doted on, almost to a fault, in that fleeting time after marriage, but before kids.

I remember a much anticipated "date" with auntie, when I took my nephew, then three, out to a movie. When I met my baby brother in the parking lot, he leaped out of the car with all the efficiency of a gazelle fleeing lions. Before I had reapplied my lip gloss and zipped up my purse before getting out of the car, Trent had removed the car seat from his vehicle and secured it in mine. While I made silly faces at my nephew, Trent grabbed a worn baby blanket, sippy cup, and a bag of wipes from the floor of his back seat. He then presented me with a soft lunchbox looking thing in the event of an "accident."

I remember secretly scoffing at the idea. An accident? At this age? So, armed with my, "I like kids, so I know everything about kids," sense of the world, I bid Trent goodbye and tromped into the movie theater with my nephew, gear free. I then proceeded to buy Sweet T the biggest bag of gummy bears he could spot in a concession stand line-up, and a tradition was born.

In the few Halloweens that Chris and I spent back home before heading north, we hosted Trent's kids for trick or treating in our suburban neighborhood. The candy gettin' was good and easy and I was able to do extra doting. Every Hallow's Eve, when all was said and done, I would pack up every Nerdy candy pebble and snack-sized bit of chocolate left in my house and send it home with Trent's kids. I would make a big production of it - ask the kids if they wanted it - never minding that their dad may have a different opinion. An opinion based perhaps on spending a nanosecond with a real live child.

I recall chuckling when I walked them to their big ass kid car, Trent cursing me all the way. While he faced a 40 minute drive home and the pajama routine after that, my mind was likely on the glass of Pinot I would pour immediately upon reentering the house and the bath I would draw later in the night before floating to bed. Good times.

But now, karma or whatever comes home to roost, has entered my building. And it keeps on coming in the form of candy. Sometimes even the good stuff. Along with the caramel swirled chocolate bars he throws in there for me, there's a sweet side to Trent's revenge. Kids love candy and the person who gives it to them. And that's what bro is aiming for. He always was a good shot.

Pointillism and Pastry

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 22:02:00 +0000

It occurred to me while I piped the thousandth too-red-for-a-lizard-tongue icing star onto a little triangle of cake, that I might make better use of my time. I was decorating a leopard gecko cake for my cousin's son's tenth birthday and going way too far with the birthday boy's cake request:

"Can you make it look like my pet gecko, Echo?" Cute.
"He's yellowish/tannish with spots all over."

At this point, I have spent more time with this lizard cake than I ever want to spend with any real lizard. I first had to determine if my cake making obsession could accommodate a hairless creature with lots of craggy clutchers (difficult to get frosting on those toes, or whatever they're called). Also, as any given post on Cake Wrecks demonstrates, "yellowish/tannish" cakes often end up in the poop category. And I don't care that no one is paying me to bake them a cake, I don't want my shit to - even accidentally - look like poop.

So, I put my dormant brain to work on this one and did some reconnaissance on the Internet. You know how they say, "measure twice and cut once" in construction circles? Well, the same thinking applies in the very intricate process of homemaker cake baking. Since leopard gecko cake pans are not a dime a dozen at baking supply stores, plus, because I'm cheap, I had to find a picture to work from, create a pattern, and cut a frozen cake. Voila! Red neck cake pan!

I settled on a stylized cartoon of a leopard gecko printed on a coffee mug. Mostly because it was cute and less poopy looking than pictures of the real thing. After the kids went to bed, I got to work and opted out of a domino game called Mexican Train with my husband and his parents. I consider that game a feel-bad, low-strategy time suck, so I was happy to avoid the three hour game session due to emergency cake decorating. But maybe that's because I always lose....

While piping away, I realized two things about my technique of choice. One, it's slow as all be and that is likely why real bakers who are trying to pay actual bills don't pipe millions of frosting stars on their cakes. It slows down cake production to the point of bankruptcy! So smooth is best, people. As if you didn't already know that.

I also realized that my piping and attempts to create an ombre effect (hello, Martha Stewart!) in the transition from white lizard underbelly to black speckled top, I was engaging in rudimentary pointillism, a recognized painting technique, exquisitely developed in the 1800's by French impressionist, Georges Seurat. I referenced his work before, in describing an equally mundane experience in my life.

So my point, and I do have one, as Ellen Degeneres would say, is that I may be able to eke beyond self ridicule here. This cake business can 1) save me from other dreaded activities, 2) actually see completion because I only work from deadlines, and finally, 3) constitute actual art. Yep, I said it (art), in that louder than you might think inside-my-head voice.

So what's the verdict, is there a poo vibe? Also, never mind the gray raccoon tail. I interpreted the shading in the graphic image too literally. Remember, art is a process. That's the point, right?

P.S. The cake was served to people who know a thing or two about geckos. Turns out, the ginormous gray plume serves as some kind of food storage camel hump that's supposed to be gray. So, it's about science, not art. Or survival, maybe.

Daisy Picking

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 07:54:00 +0000

There's a gauzy haze over the memory of my pulling petals from a tiny white sundial shaped flower at the stream near our house. Fourth grader yearnings, I think. "He loves me, he loves me not...."

Please let the last petal be love. Or at least like. And let him be Chad, who leads the class in a rendition of Devo's "Whip It" every afternoon. And not Kevin, who saves a seat for me on the bus everyday, but is in the wrong reading group. My diary entries play out like a snagged record:

Chad was at school today. Chad stood in line behind me on the way to specials today. We had P.E. today. I hate P.E. Mrs. Sites is so mean and anceint [sic]. Chad wore a plaid shirt today.

Chad never did like me and he barely acknowledged my presence in his homeroom class. Except for the one time I managed to sneak in a cup of sugar mixed with a Kool-Aid pack to dump on a paper towel for our cluster of desks to dip fingers in and suck on like inverted Pixy Sticks. Jello was better, but all we had at home was instant pudding mix.

These days, I've got another guy I'm eying, and he too, responds real well to sugar. But he also shows me some sugar. And I'm addicted.

He reaches for me in pale blue pajamas from the lower bunk on the rare day when I need to wake him up to get ready for preschool. He pops out his thumb to give me a smile.

After just making it to the potty and abiding my instruction to "Wash hands!," he hugs my leg before running to get dressed. I see his little bare bottom whiz down the hall and make the sharp right turn into his bedroom.

While buckling him into his car seat, I get two little hands cupping my cheeks. I can feel each miniature finger pressing into my skin. My face and the brain beyond, yield, like salt dough, hoping to capture the essence of him, my busy, hugging, three year old boy. The gesture stamps my soul in a way that makes me want to trace over the impression again and again. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Later, when he's home from preschool, there's a rim of red around his eyes and salty trails down his face from a not yet forgotten wrong. T's grandparents are visiting and there was a kerfuffle in the car over sandwiches. When a piece of his sandwich was torn off for the baby without his prior consent, T lost it. My husband tells me they had to stop the car during the two minute drive home to address the screaming.

T wants to tell me about it. He wants me to help him eat the rest of his sandwich. And sit with him in the bathroom when he stops mid meal for a potty break. I don't always do this kind of thing, rarely actually. But today, I bring my own sandwich into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub to finish it. It helps, I think.

T's too tired for the next activity, but he wants to be there because it's the Halloween party at music class and that's what three year olds do. Dress up and sing. So T finishes his sandwich and puts on a Spider Man costume that will still be too long when he's fifteen. So I cut off six inches from each leg and arm, while he's wearing it, and help him with his coat.

When my husband, mother in law and I come in at the end of class for parent time, T is done. He wants my lap and his thumb (admittedly, not necessarily in that order). Turns out, food allergies made coordinating the snacks for partying too difficult, so the end of class party, beyond the costume wearing, is canceled. T appears to lose hope when the promise of candy is yanked.

So he looks to me, for that respite between the rest of the world and his bed. I hold him while we sit out the last song and then guide him back into the car seat where I'm gifted with kisses on my forehead.

Right now, there is no space for "love me nots." T loves me and he shows it, so I don't ever go wandering in the woods for daisies. I suspect, however, that sullen days may lie ahead, a decade or so from now, or even less, when establishing the bright lines of his identity will require T to pull away from me. I suspect then too - and least on lonely afternoons - I'll return to the uncertainty of fourth grade love and the wishful assurances of petal pulling. But at least then I'll know I'm working with the right guy and that I've got the sequence right.

Anything you can do I can do...

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 06:53:00 +0000

crappier. Turns out.

In the musical, "Annie Get Your Gun," the romantic leads, Annie Oakley and Frank Butler, bicker over target shooting skills before seemingly falling in love mid-song. Frank, with official cowboy swagger, sets the challenge, "I'm gonna give you a lesson in marksmanship you'll never forget!" With confidence, Annie declares,

"No you won't. You couldn't give me a lesson in long distance spittin'!" After a big guffaw from the audience, she (and eventually, Frank) break into song:

Anything you can do
I can do better
I can do anything
Better than you.

No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can. No, you can't.
Yes, I can,
Yes, I can! (and so on)

I just returned from three days of bliss on a girls' trip involving lots of wine and salami. And singing. When I got home, my kids weren't necessarily singing my praises, but they had plenty to tell me about, like the blobs they could make with glitter paint. And while baby was too busy to sing, I knew that face of hers smooshed against the glass of the front window was all heart.

Chris wasn't as frazzled as I might of imagined by two in the afternoon following my three day sojourn. Nor did he seem to mind that I had an immediate errand to run. I'm not sure if I could, or have ever, greeted him after a few days away with such perkiness. That was crappy. At least in the grand tally in my head that measures whether I'm really making a successful career out of this mother gig.

As the evening unfolded and we shared bits and pieces of the weekend while progressing through the tasks of nightly child necessities, I got the feeling that Chris had lassoed a few wily broncos and brought them to their knees. And he had some tips for his cowgirl, now back on the range:

C: You know how you've been worried about the constant snot, fatigue and general crankiness BabyNar has endured for the past three weeks? No time for a response.

C: Well, I think the baby would feel better if you actually fed her. Interesting concept. Does he have any studies to back up this new therapy? Also, no response necessary, don't you think?

C: Also, you should give her a bottle eight times a day in small amounts, plus three or four ounces with every meal. Have you tried giving her water? I think she's dehydrated. Shouldn't the empty diaper boxes that take up an entire car space in the garage speak to these issues? Again, speechless.

With that, Chris placed the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, reminded Dee and T to each bring a handful of toys up to their room on the way up for pajamas, and then he was gone, in one efficient, light-speed flash. I was a little dumbstruck. Maybe yogurt and a couple of bottles aren't enough for Nar. Crap. And maybe I shouldn't worry so much about sippy cup spills. Crap.

I also learned that the big kids were pretty much angels. Crappy jerks.

But as we neared the finish line of bedtime, I saw a couple cracks in his horse training. The kids were definitely responding to some kind of "do it or else" stimulus. One that just happened to be my take away a toy and don't you worry about it, because it's forever gone at Goodwill, punishment. The one used when T ran into the street and caused cars to swerve to avoid him (last recorded loss: Favorite Birthday Present Buzz Lightyear remote control spaceship with accessories). It is also the modified punishment used when the kids can't resist pushing or pulling or generally hurting the baby (last recorded losses: a black Matchbox truck and an orange flower necklace). Needless to say, this punishment is used only when the big guns are necessary. But Hub botched that. Still, despite my damaged weaponry, I could feel my strength returning. Maybe I started humming a little cowboy tune....

Also, did I mention that Chris didn't seem to notice that along with his football jersey, three year old T wore manpri pants all day, in the form of his fourteen month old sister's khakis? Score!

Demographically Appropriate Pick Up Lines

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 05:46:00 +0000

Some sparks, in no particular order:

Wife to Hub:

1) Let's swim through the sea of remotes for a kiss....
2) Socks baby, take off your socks first....
3) After you brush your teeth, can you turn off the baby monitor?
4) We don't have to spoon all night, I promise.
5) Did you just put more hot water from the teapot in the tub for me? I guess I don't need to worry about a robe!
6) The girls' trip is canceled.
7) Did you just fold that laundry, that basket right there?

Hub to Wife*:

1) I'm game, if I don't have to worry about the alarm and waking you up for your blown-off-a-gazillion-times 5:45 a.m run tomorrow.
2) Wow, you decided not to wear your woolly sweater to bed?
3) The fantasy football picks are IN!

*Sorry for the unbalanced representation. Ten years, and I'm still trying to get inside Hub's head (not just his pants).

You Wanna Piece of Me?!

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 08:25:00 +0000

The roofers at my neighbor's house must think I'm losing my mind. Or, at the very least, they have pegged me as a bored housewife with a fetish for the feel of silk. Emphasis on the feel of silk and not actual silk. They've seen my house, they know better. For the past three days, I kid you not, I have "tended" the fake spider web scene I am creating on my front porch. All while hunky young men with loud music and cigarettes tear down and reconstruct the roof next door.

On Monday, a day when my children and I have only one scheduled activity - an hour at Soccer Tots - I hauled up two storage bins of Halloween decorations in a weak attempt to provide meaningful entertainment for their impressionable, but never satisfied, young minds. They were into it for awhile and then moved on to colored bendy straws with lunch and fights over who got which lane on the Matchbox car racetrack. I however, did not. Get over it, that is.

Like finishing a home improvement project for the tiniest room in the house, say, the broom closet, I was determined to really fix up the front porch fancy like. Problem was, we didn't have enough fake spider web, or styrofoam tombstones, or flickering lights.

The next day, I found all of those things and that night, talked my Hub into playing the part of Igor to affix them all after the kids went to bed. If there's any holiday that puts a skip in the step of my work-a-day Hub, it's Halloween. He loves those corny (he-he, get it?) haunted mazes and laughing at the teenage ghouls behind the strobe lights at the local dead mall. He'll even pay good money for the experience, at least the experience of laughing to tears watching me scream in horror when the fifteen year old dressed as the angel of death gets within three feet of me at "Terror in the Corn!!!" or "Nightmare on Your Street!" I'm always the scaredy cat target, dammit all.

Anyhoo, this year I channeled that energy into creating a mood. It was dark by the time Chris and I got to fake silk stretching. When we first started, he was on the phone with his mom and I recall him saying,

"Wow. That is the biggest spider I have ever seen. Wow." Cool, I thought. That big Walmart spider is really making an impression. Even Mr. Halloween likes it.

When I actually got out there to help him, I learned different. Turns out, the "spider" Hub was referring to was a real spider with a huge ominous spider butt not hanging on the front door to scare trick-or-treaters, but crawling across Chris' hand in retreat. That big butt spider actually touched him!

Chris was in the unfortunate process of tearing down her real web in his attempt to put up the fake stuff. Big Butt wasn't buying it. She quickly scurried away from our fake web into places that were hard to see. I worried that Big Butt was a Hobo spider, a dangerous type found in the Northwest that can bite and create a sore like this:


(Not Chris' hand.)

My friend Megg, who's father is an entomologist, warned me of these creatures. She even made the effort of sending a cautionary email early in Hobo season with detailed pictures of the dreaded beast and warned us of basement and front porch sightings. At the time, I went all head-in-the-sand about it. Last night, I begged Hub to cross reference what we were seeing on Wikipedia. After some panicked research, we couldn't be sure about Big Butt. She could be a Hobo. The dangerous kind that goes from house to house with a handkerchief on a stick, biting people.

I was torn, my obsession with creating a realistic web scene was at odds with my genuine fear of Big Butt taking a bite outta me. Chris decided it wasn't worth it and retired to the living room. For me, the web's siren song was too much. Like a fly drawn to gossamer, I hung on for a bit, gingerly pulling strands of fake web from nicks in the brick to a finial in the banister to the rose trellis just beyond the porch. There was a genuine thrill to it. Scary for sure, but not as humiliating as running from those costumed teenagers.

P.S. Surprise, surprise. We survived.

On love and hate and Oreos

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 06:43:00 +0000

Everything takes work, doesn't it? Work to figure out what you want to do and then follow through for more than two weeks. Work not to eat the whole bag of Halloween Oreos, which are simply regular Oreos with orange colored frosting. I thought I could resist them this afternoon when I made the careful decision to buy them over any myriad of cookies that would not have survived the two block journey between the grocery store and my house. Turns out no, I needed to consume the entire middle row tonight, despite the fact that I kind of hate those cookies.

I pushed back a family photography shoot set in late August under false pretenses. I told the photographer we needed to reschedule in mid October because I so wanted to have the pictures taken outside with the fall leaves. I lied. I like the leaves and all, but I wanted to lose weight. At the very least, I had to lose the extra six pounds I gained over the summer, saying yes to every pastry ever folded with butter and pumped full of vanilla cream. I even turned other things into pastries. While staying at my brother's house, I scrounged for something sweet late at night. While everyone else was asleep, I dug deep in the basement storage shelves to find an economy size bag of animal crackers and grazed on them religiously all four nights we were visiting. The crackers might have been stale, but I think I kind of loved them.

Before the photo shoot, I needed to lose that dang summer weight and I had aspirations of more. I imagined the weight flying off of me, whizzing away while I spun in a steady circle of moderation and diligence. A Slimfast shake for breakfast, turkey and carrots for lunch, a Slimfast shake for dinner if I was really good. No rice, no bread, no sweets, no snacks. You get the picture. The crumbling picture.

I lost a little summer weight. But not enough. I'm back to baseline and that means rolls of mother belly oozing over my too tight jeans and feeling bad about it. I still love my one pair of skinny expensive 7 For All Mankind jeans, even if they hurt. And I still hate my Valu Village comfortable jeans that wait patiently in the pants drawer, waiting for the day that always comes when I feel dejected and huge and must put them on in order to breathe. I wore those stupid things on Saturday so I ran yesterday. I didn't run today but I did squirt dish washing soap over the remaining orange Oreos. Then I placed them at the bottom of the kitchen garbage and camouflaged them with a Land's End catalog, so Hub wouldn't have cause to ask about why I'm throwing money away in the form of an iconic American treat.

I also kept the photo shoot appointment. The weather's supposed to be good and the baby's getting over her cold so I have no excuse. I just have to suck it in and smile. And I hate that. Hopefully, when I look back in twenty years, I'll only see a relatively wrinkle free face and some little munchkins. And I'll have to love that, right?!?

Armed and Dangerous

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 05:36:00 +0000

We're on the rebound from the Mother State and tonight, I find myself halfway home in my familiar, door laden suite.

The day before we left, the big kids and my mom browsed Goodwill while I hurriedly dashed to find the cheapest entertainment for the long drive ahead in the form of .29 picture books. That's right, I said 29 CENTS, less my mom's senior discount. Mama Dearheart is the bargain queen. She's honed this skill for about sixty five years and there ain't no way, no how, you're going to get it cheaper than from her sewing machine, or from, as my kids' have come to call it, "Granny's Goodwill."

While waiting for me, just-three T, all boy in the stereotypical sense of the word, hunted the Halloween table at the store for the perfect item to grip while strapped in the cozy confines of his car seat. He landed on a novelty plastic dagger adorned with skulls and featuring a retractable blade that makes a low and lingering scream-like sound when pressed against something.

Dee, all girl in the stereotypical sense of the word, gravitated to a cheap fabric bat affixed to a glittered dowel, identified by Dee as a Halloween wand. She fancied herself the inspired, "Halloween Fairy," while waving it. Granny thought the name, "Bat Wanda" was a better fit. We moved on from Goodwill to picking up real nail polish for Dee, as promised, in a pale princess pink. The look was complete.

The afternoon wound down with a viewing of the scarier-than-I-ever-remembered, Pinocchio, including dagger waving by T and spell casting by Dee at that nasty whale, and the men who brought little boys to "Pleasure Island." Yikes.

After a little more T.V. and an elaborate sequence of post dinner candy treats, we were fat with the spoils of an old school week with the G'rents. From there, we packed up our troubles in my (twelve or so) kit bags and armed ourselves for the road ahead.

I'm feeling pretty confident. I've got fairy magic and knightly valor recharging on the other side of that door. Very confident indeed.

Now

noreply@blogger.com (dearheart) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 04:36:00 +0000

We linger over the dinner clean-up. She's wiping the counters down with a hot soapy dishcloth, freeing the area of streaks, as she's done after every meal I've known in her home. I follow her like a puppy, not necessarily doing anything to help, beyond putting the easy stuff away. After I've placed the salt and pepper shakers in their place in the cabinet, we go back to a hard conversation we had a few months ago and I reassure her that, after some reflection, I think I understand.

She tells me that there were countless times she dreamed of a cruise vacation, or a week in Hawaii. And not so long ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity and the fun anticipation that such a trip entails. But not today, she says. They are so grateful for the offer, she tells me, so very grateful, but not now.

Now, while the white blood cells in my father's body multiply erratically, and doggedly fill the remaining space in his lymph nodes, before moving on to new vessels, she needs to embrace the simple, quiet life that they find at home.

Now, she wants only to be with him. Admittedly, to have him all to herself, shuffling about their three bedroom single level track home, attending furniture refinishing projects and grass cutting. He's still as funny to her as ever, and as kind. Gently agreeing to rebuild the back of a desk she found at Goodwill, and meticulously chopping the veggies and other necessities of the recipe he's chosen for dinner. She's aching already, and us along with her, while the time bomb of his cancer ticks away. Who knows how long life will still be good. All she knows for sure is that home is generally free of the distractions and worry that catching planes and small talk with strangers bring about.

I left my three kids with them three days ago. Presumably for quality time and not to add to their stress. Chris and I are in Aspen, Colorado attending a medical conference and enjoying yet another gift from my parents in the form of a weekend without our offspring.

While alone yesterday, I ran, or walked mostly, along a narrow dirt path that followed a creek along the Rio Grande Trail. The warm autumn sun was warm on by back - too warm - and the warbled shade provided by the delicate flutter of aspen leaves allowed a respite from the task of running in the heat. It was then that I could appreciate some of the jewels of the Rockies.

I observed the dry grasses and wildflowers beyond their peak, arched over the edge of the path, creating a red carpet of sorts. The smell of fallen aspen leaves, earthy but somehow still bearing the sharp - and uplifting - smell of spring. Russet reds and oranges surrounded me in the rusty soil of the trail, the iron rails of the foot bridge, and in a good number of the rocks nested in the creek, smooth and rounded from the cover of rushing water. The creek was bordered by rustic, but meticulously maintained and upated, vacation homes. Complete with wooden pads built over the creek, upscale lawn furniture and canvas umbrellas still there, a reminder that true summer was not too long ago.

It was a lovely walk and one that I enjoyed, particularly because it involved some calorie burning. All the same, I still longed to be back at our room at the conference resort, with the surprise of my Hub out early from his morning meetings and ready to join me. There's something so sweet and comforting about having my man here with me, to walk among the aspen trees and to appreciate our now without distraction.