But who has to clean up after them? Me. That’s who. And somehow putting the blender back, which takes five seconds, is the absolute last straw.

I told Dick that the kitchen was like my office, and how would he like it if I messed up his office?

Of course he wouldn’t like that, he admitted, but now he has another way to irritate me: asking if I’m ever going to do the dishes in my office. So, I’d like to take back what I said about the kitchen being my office. I hereby lay no claim whatsoever on the kitchen or its contents.

In that spirit, I’ve been doing more “Cook with Your Children” stuff. I want my kids to learn to cook, be aware of sound nutritional principles (whether we live up to them or not) AND to appreciate that the food on the table doesn’t just magically appear.

One of our more successful experiments so far is Banana Popsicles, which we first had during spring break at The Well-Rounded Woman’s house. Apparently in Arizona it’s a good idea to start freezing your fruit in March.

For this project I had only one lovely assistant, Susan, as Spot was napping and Sally was attending that ill-fated musical with Grandma.

Here she is holding the ingredients. I don’t know how bananas can be both green and freckled at the same time.

I like my bananas ripe in general, but they need to be pretty firm for the freezing and impaling process. Speaking of processes, here’s the complicated recipe:

I stole the phrase “not lengthwise” off recipezaar.com, I think. In case that sounds like “not-counter-clockwise” or something, here’s what they look like before you pop them in the freezer:

And here’s Aunt Marcy demonstrating the proper dipping technique, or at least, what results from proper dipping technique. (Notice her new pretty not-wedding ring):

Dick’s boss’s name in Egypt was Falak. She was kind of a pill, that woman. Here in Utah we have neighbors named Fallick. Anyway.

Whatever your name, these Banana Popsicles will work for you! Next time I’d like to try a layer of peanut butter topping (think Reese’s makes some), freezing for a minute, and then a layer of chocolate. Yu-um.

This weekend’s Things That Must Go features a $50 Giveaway from Hanes! (More Underwear + Socks = Less Frequent Laundry Loads!). Check back to share your Things That Must Go and to enter the contest.

ShareThis

Did you wash your hands?

No spitting!

WHY are you taking off your shirt?

Blow. With your nose.

Put your shoes back on!

When’s your father going to be home?

Just eat it!

No!

This is the LAST book!

WHERE did you learn that?

Life ISN’T fair.

I’m sorry you feel that way. I could never never hate you.

Don’t throw that!

Do you WANT to spend all day in time-out?

You can have dessert AFTER you eat your dinner.

Stop!

Quit stabbing your sister with the toothbrush!

Who wants to play Sorry!?

No biting!

I saw that!

Get back in bed. Lay down. Close your eyes.

No more snacks! We’ll eat tons tomorrow.

—

And, when you can’t hear me:

What is WRONG with you? / Where did I go wrong?

It’s lucky you’re adorable and sweet-smelling after a bath. Because. Otherwise?

—

And, when you’re sleeping, and you really can’t hear me:

I could watch you for hours, and not even feel silly for crying about how inconceivably, stupendously, over-every-top-there-ever-was much I love you.

Oh, did I forget to say that when you were awake? Sorry.

I love you!

This weekend’s Things That Must Go features a $50 Giveaway from Hanes! (More Underwear + Socks = Less Frequent Laundry Loads!). Check back to share your Things That Must Go and to enter the contest.

ShareThis

1) Kids are annoying. (Yes? You disagree? How about “high-energy” or “best-enjoyed-after-long-stretches-away-from-home”?)

2) Public school policy can be moronic.

I think I’m pretty rational (if liberal) about school attendance, so imagine my surprise when Sally’s school started sending home truancy notices last year. As if their attendance policies were somehow more significant than mine. Wait — Who gave birth to this kid? That’s what I thought.

When I reported to the school secretary, she advised getting doctors’ notes in future, as illnesses are excused. I asked, “How about I just tell you she’s sick. Because I don’t take her to the doctor for every cold or stomach bug, and I assume you don’t want green snot and vomit everywhere.” And the secretary kindly told me I could bring Sally in for them to determine that she is sick. As if I need anyone else to tell me my kid’s sick or to dispense a heavenly benediction upon my decision to keep my kid home from school. Just when, exactly, did public school import Principal Mao?

So. There’s a lot to be said for homeschooling, namely: freedom from dimwit public “officials” with unimaginable thirsts for power.

Then again (it’s July, after all), there’s much to be said for saying adios every morning at 8:30 and feeling genuinely excited to pick up the kids at 3. Love you again!!

I admit. This seems pretty unbalanced on the side of arranging things for mom’s benefit. Sure, Sally gets interaction and learns stuff at school. But I could set up playdates and fieldtrips and such. And now that she can read (after agonizing about her not reading by five, she read Harry Potter 1-4 last week), I am ultra-plus confident that she can and will learn whatever she wants to.

So why are we gazing longingly at the bins of Elmer’s glue and plastic pencil keepers? The stacks of freshly-cut paper and the Barbie backpacks?

The truth is, Sally needs other adults to love/emulate/admire. The longer she’s at home all day with me, the more needy she gets. I was teaching her Sunday school class at church until recently, and she always wanted to sit right by me, kissing my arm and distracting everyone.

Last June, Dick came home from a business trip on the last day of school. I picked him up at the airport and then we went to Sally’s school. I thought she would be ecstatic over seeing her beloved, fun, tolerant father. But she barely looked at him. She was inconsolable for a couple hours because she wouldn’t be seeing her teacher anymore: Mrs. Machol had announced that she was switching schools next year.

We reminded Sally that we were hoping to move too before the next year, and that she would be in second grade anyway. “But I won’t see her ever again,” she wailed.

Honestly? I was a bit miffed. Wasn’t she excited to see Daddy? Wasn’t she delighted about getting to be with Mom all the time? I promised to take her to the library (like kid crack) and swimming lessons (more kid crack) and Grandma’s house (ultimate kid crack), and, nothing.

Of course she bounced back, and this summer has been pretty good. But I want you to know that I am buying school supplies tomorrow, and next week I’ll call the school to see who she gets for second grade.

As long as her teachers are like Mrs. Machol and not Principal Mao, public school is best. For mom AND for Sally.

Don’t forget to go share your Things That Must Go. The LLBean Tote Bag giveaway ends tonight at midnight.

p.s. I don’t think Sally’s autistic. For one thing, she’s very affectionate and, for another, Grandma, despite all her other perfections, is not a trained psychologist. I’m sorry Sally was so crazy at the Little Women musical, Mom, but I don’t think autism was the problem.

ShareThis

A couple days ago, my only friend who lives near enough to swap babysitting with moved. We’d like to move too, but haven’t found the right house to buy.

I’ve lived in at least 23 different places, and I confess sometimes I ignore my neighbors, because, well, they probably won’t be my neighbors for long. Other times, though, friends are just there, ready to mock you when you fall off the treadmill or to bring chili when you’re afraid you’ll miscarry.

Blogging, for better or worse, fills a lot of that friendship need (except the babysitting). I joined the BlogHer Adnetwork because June said she’d gotten new readers through the headline circle thingie. I’ve gotten new readers, and new blogs to read, and, most important, new friends who sometimes I wonder if we were separated at birth, as Tara and I were.

Blogging’s also about writing, and I wonder how many bloggers hope to write something different or something more some day. Blogging’s great for developing writing habits and getting instant feedback, but is it the only thing you want to write?

I’m not exactly sure where BlogHer fits in there. Is it friendship or writing, or both? And how serious do you have to be about blogging to actually go to a conference about it? How serious about making friends and writing do you have to be to join a party about a conference that you’re not attending? I’m not sure, but I do know that whenever I meet someone (in real life or online) who speaks to me, I’m compensated, a million times over, for the worlds not conquered and the kids still whining.

Which is why I’m excited to join Pensieve’s BlogHop ‘08. If we were getting together for real, I’d make these Molten Lava Cakes for you:

If you seemed approachable and chummy, I’d mention my weekly Things That Must Go post, and encourage you to go share your Things That Must Go because this weekend I’m giving away an LLBean Tote Bag. And if you were really sympatico, I’d probably confide that I recently wrote my first fiction post, called WonderWoman Meets Her Match.

And before the evening was well over, I’d be anxious to get home so I could check out your blog and see for myself, in pixels and in words, who you really are.

ShareThis

Welcome to Things That Must Go. This week’s giveaway is a custom L.L.Bean Tote Bag, but first, here are a couple of my favorite entries and the winner of the iTunes giveaway from last weekend.

Almost-Wons:

Robyn of Robyn’s Online World: Long drawn out pauses on reality shows announcing winners of the challenge, event, show, etc. Thank goodness for TiVo so I can skip that, but geez folks come on! (At first glance this might seem a tad superficial, but, really. Do they need that seven minute cliffhanger before revealing that Kherington and Gev are going home? Not that I watch So You Think You Can Dance or anything. No. I can wait ’til American Idol is on again for my reality show fix).

Celena Metzger: hmmm definitely those cloth hand Towels in public restrooms where everyone and their mother has used with goodness knows what kind of germs! (I think we’ve touched on public restrooms before, but the fabric hand towels. Yes. Those must go!)

And the winner is:

EMama: Fish pill burps. Like being pregnant isn’t nasty enough on its own. (I’ve been thinking about pregnancy lately, and no, I’m not pregnant, nor am I WonderWoman. But also? If anyone ever tells you that castor oil induces pregnancy? A) It does not, and 2) It tastes awwwwwful, and 2.5) It is a laxative. Lax-a-tive). Congrats to EMama. I shall be emailing you shortly.

And now, (pause) (pause). My

Things That Must Go

False Confessions. Recently I read a post* inviting people to anonymously confess their darkest secrets. Several commenters made absolutely painful, heartbreaking confessions, and I hope that doing so allowed them to envision making more meaningful confessions and figuring out how to fix whatever needs to be fixed in their lives.

One of the confessions was just a bit off, though. Here it is, in my words:

All right. I’m going to be brave and not go the anonymous route. Of course, anonymity is fine for you cowards with such bizarre problems, but here’s my terrible, hideous secret: Once I worked for a very mean man. He said I couldn’t read [insert literary classic] at work, even when all my work was done to perfection. But I can’t go even a day without reading, and so I read, and . . . sniff . . . I LIED to him when he asked me. This was terrible, because I am NOT a liar, and even if my boss was as bad as Hitler burning books in Berlin, I should have told the truth. This weighed on my sensitive conscience for years, until I broke down and wrote him a letter confessing all and apologizing profusely. Even though he was a very, very mean man. Who didn’t like to read.

This is like saying in a job interview, when they ask you what your biggest flaw is: “Sometimes I work too hard.” Or, to a fellow-PTA Mom: “I just love my family too much, I guess.”

False confessions, while understandable in a job interview (Make your weaknesses sound like strengths!) or in any highly-volatile situation like a PTA meeting, are just one of the many Things That Must Go!

I hope you’re ready to share your Things That Must Go. This week’s giveaway is a custom LLBean Tote Bag (small or medium, shipping to the U.S. only). You can design it any way you want (including monagramming, though that does seem a bit . . . hmm). My mother-in-law gave me an LLB tote several years ago, and I can definitely recommend it — with the long straps, outside pocket and zip-top. Mmm-mmm.

Simply leave a comment with your Things That Must Go before midnight Monday July 21st.

 *I’d link to the post, but if my mom knew I was reading posts (and comments!) like those, she probably wouldn’t let me use her laptop ever again.

ShareThis

Question: Did you ever get over your miscarriage? You are the only person that has ever really talked to me about having one, so I hope it’s ok that I ask, but I think I think about it too much, like I was supposed to have a baby last month. My baby would be one month old this week . . . you know, am I totally crazy for thinking about it this much?

I recently exchanged some emails with a friend I haven’t talked to in several months. We had a lot to catch up on, but the miscarriage was a big part of it. Another friend of mine is now waiting, at 18 weeks, for her non-viable fetus to die. Once you have a miscarriage, you find out that almost everyone else has too. Yet we don’t seem to share the stories of them like we do our birth stories.

Here’s mine:

It was December 22, 2003. I was studying for my linguistics final at the American University in Cairo. Sally was three years old, and it had taken me that long to think that maybe another baby would be a good thing. My first prenatal appointment was scheduled for the next week. I was eleven weeks along, and I noticed a trail of reddish-brown blood when I went to the bathroom.

I screamed for Dick, which is what I do whenever something scares or angers or thrills me. I couldn’t get a hold of Dr. Hamza (whom I hadn’t met yet), and we frantically called other doctors, without success. Living in Egypt would have been a punishment worthy of the Spanish Inquisition if not for the friends we met who were like family.

Josh, one of those friends, ran to our house (not even stopping to hail a taxi), when he couldn’t get through on our line to give us a doctor referral. He and his wife (and their two sons) took Sally overnight so we could go to the hospital.

In our hurry and agitation we forgot to take any money. I think we did take our letter of introduction/guarantee from the University (Dick’s employer), but Dick ended up taking a taxi to get our credit card. I should have gone with him, because the admitting people took pity on me and let me into the ultrasound room after a nurse checked my cervix and found it completely closed.

I think most women remember how quiet the room gets when the technician or radiologist looks at the screen, finds no heartbeat, and wonders how to break the news to the anxious woman on the table. It was like that, only my technician had to figure out how to say it in English too. But I knew. And I cried, in that dark room, while Dick was rushing to get money.

My baby, who we were hoping would be a boy we would name Simon had been dead for three weeks. I was admitted to the hospital for a D&C the next day. (I don’t know if it would have been fine to go home and wait for things to happen naturally, but with the baby already long-dead and the language barrier, I stayed at the hospital).

My mom had three miscarriages between my first brother and my second sister. I don’t think I spoke to her on the phone while I was at the hospital, so maybe I was just remembering her experience. I know that her advice was that I needed to see the body of my baby in order to get closure and aid the healing process.

The one good thing about miscarriage (and Egyptian hospitals) is that they can give you some fine drugs, as there are no other considerations. I drifted to sleep in my bleak hospital room feeling pretty groovy.

I woke in the night to use the bathroom. Perhaps the worst thing about Egypt as a country is that you have to baksheesh (bribe) the nurses in order to get toilet paper and handsoap in your room. We were unaware of this cultural quirk, and so the unresponsive (and understandably resentful) attendants were very frustrating.

As I sat in the bathroom, I felt the baby coming out, and I panicked. The thought of the baby falling into the toiled was horrifying. I raced back to the bed and rang for a nurse. She came in, sullen and impatient, and I tried to explain what was happening. She checked me and pulled out a large blood clot. Looking back, I don’t know why Dick didn’t stay with me at the hospital, and I don’t know why the nurses weren’t just a bit more sympathetic.

I never saw the baby’s body, and I didn’t want to. I still have the pictures from the ultrasound, and they make me sad enough.

But most of the time I don’t even think about what happened almost five years ago. It was a quiet Christmas. We spent Christmas Eve with just Josh and Suzy’s family, instead of the noisy party we’d gone to the year before. When I came home and we got Sally back, I sat on the floor just inside our apartment and held her.

Suzy asked me if I wanted her to tell our friends what had happened so I wouldn’t have to talk about it all the time. That sounded like such a relief to me.

A few things helped me heal relatively quickly. First, of course, were the loving, generous friends we had, including the women (esp. Alyson F.) who shared their own miscarriage stories with me. I guess it could seem like you’re trying to minimize the grief of each individual situation to say that it “happens all the time,” but for me it’s a comfort to know that others have experienced similar things and gone on to better times.

Another thing that helped was my belief system, but in a perhaps-unconventional way. In the Mormon church we believe families can be together forever. I grew up thinking I had three brothers waiting in heaven to join our family after we all died. After my miscarriage, which the doctors told me was due to a chromosomal abnormality that was incompatible with life, I wondered what my church’s doctrine really was about this sort of thing. Nothing I found in my research dictated anything conclusive about when the spirit enters the body or whether children miscarried are part of families. In short, it bothered me to think of my baby in heaven, when the fetus could be described as a “biological mistake.”

I’m not saying that any woman (Mormon or not, Christian or not, religious or not) would be wrong to believe and to feel comforted in the belief that her baby is happily awaiting her in heaven. But this is not what sounds right to me in my situation. (If I’m wrong, I just hope the baby is growing up, at least past the potty-training stage.) It comforted me to think/believe that, while God allows mistakes to happen, it was definitely for the best that my baby did not survive with whatever completely debilitating (I mean, actually incompatible-with-life) chromosomal anomalies were present.

And the biggest healing aid (which is not a possibility for my sweet friend who is still thinking of her baby) was that I got pregnant again a month later.

Of course, fears of miscarriage never leave you once you’ve had one, and when I started bleeding copiously at 16 weeks with my next pregnancy, I feared the worst. This time the blood was a bright, bright red, and an ultrasound showed that a blood clot had formed and broken between the membranes surrounding the uterus. I was on bedrest for a couple days and took strange suppositories with scary side effect warnings and Katherine brought me chili and talked to me. Five months later I gave birth to Susan in Florida.

My heart aches for my friend who still thinks of her baby who would have been one month old this week. And for my friend who went from being excited about her second baby, to worrying about Down’s Syndrome, to mourning a baby who most likely won’t survive the second trimester.

But to answer your question, Danielle, I don’t think you’re thinking about your baby too much. As long as you’re able to care for the child you do have and to take pleasure in everyday things and to sleep and eat pretty normally, I think you’re healing, slowly. If you’re not able to do these things, or if you feel sadder now than you did six months ago, it might be a good idea to get some counseling. There are online support groups, but I think an actual, drive there and see people face-to-face sort of thing might be even more helpful.

There’s nothing wrong with mourning for a life and a baby, so long hoped-for and loved already. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what being a mother is all about. That, and the rejoicing when things miraculously do go right.

ShareThis

Actually, I’m surprised I haven’t posted this recipe before. Of course, if you’re rich (or have been to the grocery store recently) you can add minced garlic and onion instead of the powder. I think my friend adds Oregano, too, only that sounded vaguely Italian when I was writing up the recipe.

I made a batch of these last night and took some pictures. I don’t know much about photography (an understatement), but I’m thinking it’s kind of like real estate, only, instead of location being the most important thing, it’s all about lighting, so I’ve been taking more photos outside. I don’t actually cook on my apartment balcony, though. And I don’t let the girls dip their fingers in the pot unless they have SCRUBBED THEIR HANDS right before. That red stuff is indelible marker, formerly known as “Crayola’s Washable Markers.”

I guess it’s a good sign that the kids like these. When they get squeamish about other sources of protein (and show me a girl who doesn’t go through at least a phase of soft-hearted vegetarianism), we’ll have the beans to fall back on. And hot dogs (show me a kid “vegetarian” who doesn’t like hot dogs).

One of my favorite things to do with leftover refried beans (it doesn’t get more recession-friendly than leftover homemade refried beans, I tell you), is to fry an egg over a bowl-full. This is especially great after a hard workout. Oh, the cheap and delicious protein.

And if you need even more protein, you can add cheese (or bacon or sausage. Since I’m not vegetarian, in case you couldn’t tell). These are also delicious with homemade flour tortillas.

And that works for me whether we’re in a recession, or not.

This weekend’s Things That Must Go giveaway is a custom LLBean Tote bag. Can’t wait to hear what’s bugging you this week!

Thanks to Messy Vegetarian Cook for the beautiful recipe card templates!

ShareThis

“Not a buh. A baby.” He smiled encouragingly.

“You’re sure? Like seventy percent or eighty? I know you doctors love percentages.” Please-oh-please let it be eighty-five or ninety. She could cope with ninety percent.

“‘Fraid not. Pregnancy’s one of those 100-percent things.” He frowned. “This isn’t so terrible, is it? It says here you’re married, and you’re as healthy as any woman I’ve seen in twenty years of practice.“

A strangled sound escaped WonderWoman. “How pregnant am I?”

“Very. Close to one-hundred percent.” His eyes twinkled in a professional manner. See? Didn’t she say doctors loved their percentages?

“Haha. I mean, how far along?” She sat still, no fidgeting. Don’t let them see your fear. Maybe she’d rather chase a meth junkie down a dark alley, but no doctor was going to scare her.

“Well, you’re about ten weeks, so I guess if you’re sure you don’t want the baby . . .“

“Oh, it’s not that I don’t want it. I mean, I don’t want it, I think, but I don’t not want it either.” What would WonderHubs think? Were they ready to be parents? Was she ready to be WonderMom?

The doctor sighed. “I know this is a big change. But relax, you’ve got six months to prepare, and no one expects you to turn into SuperMom overnight, either.

A wry smile. “No. No one expects SuperMom anymore, do they?”

“One decision you need to make soon is whether you want me to refer you to an obstetrician or a midwife or – who’s your regular doctor?”

“You’re my regular doctor.”

“But I haven’t seen you in ten years!“

She shrugged. “Like you said, I’m pretty healthy, and I get a lot of, uh, exercise.”

“Good, good,” he said. “Some women compare labor to a marathon – it’s not a stretch to say that you should definitely be training. Your visible muscle tone is fabulous, but you’ll want to get started on your Kegels right away.”

“Kegels?”

“Pelvic floor exercises. They help with the urinary incontinence associated with labor and delivery.”

“Gee, doc, you’re making this pregnancy gig sound really good.“

“ Sorry.” Again with the twinkle. Bet he wouldn’t laugh if someone signed him up for incontinence duty.

“Now, nutrition: here’s a list of banned items.”

“Oh, I know: No alcohol, right?”

“Right — along with shellfish, soft cheese, excessive caffeine.”

“Excessive — that’s another joke, right?”

“Sorry, no.” He smiled again. “Any other questions before we see you next time? Don’t forget your vitamins, only not in the morning – iron’ll aggravate the morning sickness. Extra sleep, liquids (not caffeine), sleep on your left side, Kegels morning and night, nothing spicy, especially before bed. Oh, and remember you’re not really eating for two – more like for one and a tenth. But most of all, relax. Enjoy it. That baby’ll be here and needing you well-rested before you know it.”

“Thanks, Doc. I guess I’ll, uh, see you in, uh . . .”

“For now it’s every month. See you then!”

WonderWoman stumbled, heroically, to the receptionist’s desk.

“Ok, hon. You’re going to be coming regularly, so is one day of the week better?”

“How about Tuesdays?” Good idea. Most people were still recovering from their weekend crime-sprees, so Tuesdays were usually slow. But with hurricane season approaching. . .

“I should have asked the doctor – do you know if I should not be flying?”

“Flying’s okay for now. Ask next time about when you should restrict your travel. Okay, then. We’ve got you down for Tuesday the 12th at ten. Take care!”

WonderWoman nodded. Maybe she’d take the rest of the day off. Let WonderHubs save the world for once. It would still be there tomorrow. Today there were Kegels to be done and vitamins to take. And naps to be napped. She hadn’t felt this tired since Fiji. And WonderBaby here sounded a bit more disruptive than some puny monsoon.

—-

Special thanks to Marianne of Writer-Mommy for inspiring me to try some fiction. Though I guess you can’t really blame her for this. Also thanks to the Write-Away contest for the topic.

—-

Even more special thanks to all those who entered this weekend’s Things That Must Go iTunes Giveaway. This coming weekend the giveaway is a custom LLBean Tote bag. Can’t wait to hear what’s bugging you this week!

ShareThis

Of course he does this completely wrong, letting Spot play for “five minutes” in the big girls’ room before being banished to her lonely crib, but I accepted that it was a nice gesture.

We celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary and recounted our highlights, which consisted mostly of remembering fights in exotic locales (remember that discussion in Hyde Park when we went to Iceland and England for Spring Break at Columbia? There’s a reason people head SOUTH for Spring Break).

Then this weekend we went to my parents’ to celebrate my sister’s birthday. My dad got a little upset when I volunteered Dick for some outdoor labor, saying I shouldn’t “take advantage of his good nature.” I think my parents have spent the past ten years living in fear that my shrewish nature might finally push Dick over the edge, and I suppose now they’re really worried: What if Dick decides to follow the Prince of Darkness’s example and leave his innocent wife and three kids?

Well, I got news for you. First: I want Dick to know that if he ever left, I wouldn’t fight him for custody of the kids. It’d be a sacrifice, naturally, but he can have them all to himself. And second, I cannot imagine a person more different from my more-selfish-and-self-centered-than-Lindsay-Lohan-and-Bill-Clinton combined PoD brother-in-law than Dick. Whereas the PoD has both a Bentley and a Mercedes, Dick would like to buy a bike. From DI (like Salvation Army). Because riding a bike would be better exercise than the train.

I could go on, (I could mention our connubial life, and how superior Dick is in that area as well, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think that my sister and I compare notes on that sort of thing. But we do, and Dick is. Much.)

Mostly I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I am blind to Dick’s flaws. He does have a few.

Number one being that he is, in all honesty, a dork. I should probably look in the urban dictionary for a term from this decade, but “dork” just fits. Here he is, pretending to drown. How inappropriate.

dick pretends to drown, susan swims the length from jane on Vimeo.

Just ignore those pet names we have for each other.

And here is Sally doing underwater somersaults. I am afraid that I might be a dork, too. At least I didn’t attempt a Michelle Obama-style bump. It’s humiliating enough to have your high-five go unacknowledged.

sally doing flips in the water from jane on Vimeo.a>.

Dick thinks I should get the kids in swim team. I think he should try driving them everywhere before he starts inventing new activities for them to do. I know, Nana and Grampa, Dick was a star in swim team. But, remember how annoying it was driving him to all those practices?

What? You say that sort of hands-on parenting is what produces such wonderful, dorky grown-ups? Argh.

Well, swim lessons start again on Monday, and I’m planning to keep my dorky husband, and that’s what works for me this week!

Things That Must Go and an LLBean Tote Bag giveaway are this weekend!

ShareThis

Thanks to all who shared their Things That Must Go! The comments are now closed. I’ll be listing (and linking to) the winner and a few favorites on Friday evening. Check back to see if you’ve won, and to share some more Things That Must Go!

Phew! I was feeling a bit frustrated without my weekly therapy session of Things That Must Go. Our server was upgraded and we’re giving it one more chance, but the first time it comes home with non-herbal tea on its breath, we’re outta there.

First, a few great Things That Must Go from last weekend:

Jenna’s “Tanorexia. Once your skin starts looking like a leather saddle bag, it’s time to get out of the sun.” (Tanorexia inspired an entire post on Sit. Stay. Good Blog).

Heather’s “People who talk on their cell phones, or text on their cell phones while placing an order or talking with a sales clerk.” (I totally agree that everyone else should stop doing this. But I only do it when it’s important, okay?)

Tracey’s “Water (?) on the toilet seats of a restroom by the pool. I mean, COME ON. I know it’s probably WATER, but how can I be sure? If you use the toilet, please wipe it off if you drip ANYthing onto it. PLEASE.” (Tracey got an amen from EMama, and frankly, I think all public restrooms must go. Or, we could pay a small amount (as you do in many countries) to the attendant, in exchange for cleanliness, and actual toilet paper.)

And now for my Things That Must Go

1. People who air-kiss me (Zat’s how Austrians say Goodbye) before they’ve told me their name. After introductions, sure, let’s go find a dark corner. But, in general, I like to get a person’s name before we start with the Eskimo hugs. (Und zis is how ve say Goodbye in German, Dr. Jones).

2. Men criticizing mothers who multitask. A deejay on the radio shared a TTMG about a mother he’d seen at the pool. This mother was talking on her cell phone while her kids swam in the shallow end, and when one of the kids went under, she reached in with ONE HAND and fished him out and KEPT TALKING ON THE PHONE THE WHOLE TIME. Oh, the nerve. The kid survived, didn’t he?

3. People who blog, who, on hearing that I blog, say all of the following in a five-minute conversation:

“I just have so many friends who blog.”
“I just already read so many blogs.”
“Seriously, I just have so many real friends who blog. And now that we’ve moved from Washington, I have another twenty blogs of real friends to keep up with.”

Um, if you don’t want to read my blog, that’s ok. Really. You don’t have to explain.

4. Soda. Oh, how I love your fizziness, your zest for life, you syrupy sweetness balanced by the life-giving jolt of caffeine. But you’re making me fat. You must go. Maybe we can make arrangements for regular, supervised visits, but you cannot live in my fridge anymore.

iTunes Giveaway: Share your Things That Must Go to be entered in the iTunes $15 giftcard giveaway. I only ask that you promise to download either Coldplay’s Lost or The Killer’s Read My Mind or MGMT’s Time to Pretend (the not-explicit version) if you win. Just kidding. It’s a free country. You can download whatever you want. I guess.

Deadline: Midnight Monday.

ShareThis

He might be a little young, but he is agile and nubile and such white teeth on that boy. Here he is again. I am so, so sad that I didn’t just march up to the stage and get a real picture, but I don’t know if Dick would’ve believed it was only for Marcy.

So Gray is forever blurry, but oh-so-beautiful. (Those shoulders!)

I’m thinking this could be a regular feature around here: A Man for Marcy. Only for my favorite sister (Happy Birthday, Marcy!), would I do something like ogle strangers.

—-

p.s. We’re moving servers this weekend, so apparently our sites will be down forever. Or hopefully 24-72 hours. Which is basically the same thing. I had some great plans for Things That Must Go, but this server has been a giant fuse short of a motherboard for awhile now, so, what can you do? Hope to see you again soon! Things That Must Go: Computers, Computers, Computers. I know I’d be lost without them, but really, they’re bad for my blood pressure. Apparently our servers got upgraded, so we’re not moving. And after I had packed all my china so carefully.

ShareThis

I wanted to thank all you nice people who commented on my Afraid to Call Yourself a Writer? post. I was hoping to share the great news that I’d won the $250 prize for most pageviews. But alas, someone who has mastered StumbleUpon got more pageviews — like 14,000 to everyone else’s 500.

StumbleUpon. Hmmm, Dick and I look at each other like, Wuh? Reminds us of the time we refused to learn how to play the 2-player card-game version of Settlers of Catan because it seemed way too involved. Turns out it’s not that complicated, not like Rook, or anything. StumbleUpon, though: that’s inaccessible.

Sometimes I think it might be nice to keep a list of all the kind things people say about my blog/writing/chocolate cake. Then I think it would probably be a good thing to keep a list of all the mean things (and, in bold, the running total of my ad revenue, which would surely keep me humble).

But I have gotten a couple of awards in the past month, and I wanted to acknowledge them here, in the vein of showing gratitude (As opposed to bragging. Really. Because wait till you see what the awards were for).

First, a confession: I lied to Toni when I told her that the Arte Y Pico Award was my first bloggy award. Because I remembered that Marie gave me an award for Biggest Mountain Dew Fan. And what a great award that was. Not too hard to live up to, so if fits my goal of having low expectations.

Toni was nice enough to say that even if my blog is not an art blog, I have created some pretty special (her words) art named Sally, Susan, and Spot. I feel a bit ambivalent about calling my children my art because, after all, any crack whore can have children. And I’m pretty sure that if when my kids turn out relatively well, it will be due to luck, good genes (from their father), and a benevolent, forgiving God.

One of the requirements for winning the Arte Y Pico award was to pass it on to five of my favorite art blogs, and here I have to make a second confession. Not only do I not even contemplate aspiring to art or design on my own blog, I don’t even really read (look at? peruse?) art or design blogs. Besides Dooce and The Pioneer Woman, and my giving them an award would be a little like Whitey’s drunk dad congratulating Fred MacMurray on being a good father.

I like Toni’s blog because it introduced me to quilling (and an interesting woman). And, wait! I do look at A Little Sussy sometimes (beautiful photography, clean, simple design, yum). So, Nicole, take this Arte Y Pico Award, and go in peace.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, please go read Why a Recession Might Be the Best Thing for America. Thanks!

ShareThis

Dick and I were married in the Manti temple ten years ago, and the temple is a symbol of our marriage and our family, of our belief that we can be together forever. Even on the days when that sounds more like making license plates with my bare hands for seventy years than a heavenly blessing.

Mary Poppins is a bit more secular than that, and apparently feels she has to compete with those Disney Princesses. So she called her craft:

Sugar Cube Princess Castles

When planning a war campaign craft, the most important thing is gathering the correct supplies.

A box of sugar cubes is just over a dollar. Glitter, glue sticks and tin foil are cheap at the dollar store. I cut up a cereal box to get the cardboard for the bases.

Sugar + shiny stuff = serious enthusiasm. When we ask Susan what she wants to be when she grows up, she says, “Just like Sally.” It’s only a matter of time before Spot realizes that she, too, wants to be just like Sally, and also that sugar tastes better than glitter.

Wrap the tin foil around the cardboard for the base, like so. And stop eating the sugar!

What?

While they concentrated on their castles, I pondered the fact that Sally now has freckles on her chin, and her ears are still elf-pointed, just like her daddy’s. We got her to think positively about the birthmark on her arm by telling her that it was how I knew I was taking the right baby home from the hospital. My sister asked me today if we’d be letting Sally get her ears pierced soon. Probably for her eighth birthday, but only if she realizes she wants it done. So far she hasn’t mentioned it, or the fact that she has Spock ears. Wonder how we’ll make her feel good about those.

Here’s Susan with her finished castle. Mary Poppins forgot to buy the right kind of glue (plain old school glue is best), and some frustration was expressed when trying to get the dang cubes to stay stacked, so we did squares and triangles, and built a house.

Here’s our best rendition of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. It’s a castle just like the house we’re hoping to buy before summer ends or Mary Poppins loses all patience (whichever comes first) is a castle.

Subscribe to What About Mom

ShareThis

And that is not me screaming.

ShareThis

Now, I know that there are no vows in blogging. And the stakes are much lower than a presidential election. Why, some people blog for fun. But other people view their blogs as businesses, and many are quite good. I enjoy their posts on blogging, especially, because I vacillate between seeing my blog as a “letter to the world, That never wrote to me,” and something that could provide income in a million years.

So my question is, on blogging: Does following the rules matter?

If you discovered that a blogger you admire appeared to be engaging in some shady practices, would that change how you viewed their blog?

Would you ask them to clarify the situation, hoping there was a good explanation for the apparent shady-ness?

Have you ever asked a question and then wish you’d never asked?

Last week my link on RIMD’s Works-for-Me Wednesday (WFMW) was deleted (long story, my fault, not the point). I was a little upset because my server was down, but the bottom line was that I hadn’t followed the WFMW guidelines, which clearly state that a post-specific url is required.

But it got me curious about Shannon’s enforcement of WFMW guidelines, especially when a friend pointed out to me that a blogger we both enjoy had not been following them. Have you ever asked a question and then wish you’d never asked? Here’s some advice:

For those who wish to continue in happy ignorance: If you see what looks like shady practices, ignore it. It doesn’t matter.

For those who wish to continue to appear honorable: Don’t lie about something that I can check on the internet in approximately four seconds. Especially if it’s something small, something that doesn’t matter.

Because here’s the deal. I don’t care what you do. I mean, I do care, especially if you’re someone I’ve practically idolized up ’til now. But I care even more that you would not be honest about it.

In blogging: Does honesty matter?

I explained this whole situation to my family over the weekend (sorry!), and my younger brother said, Who cares, it’s a BLOG.

True. Who cares?

One part of me wants to write a big expose piece, because DANG IT. SHE LIED. The other part of me (the better part, the part that reminds me I am far from perfect, the part that listens to Dick, who says we should ‘reprove in private and praise in public’) knows that there’s no way I wouldn’t sound like a jealous, petty tattletale (I prefer whistle-blower).

So I’m trying to forget it. I’m trying not to care. But here’s my take on blogging (and life). Following the rules matters. Honesty matters. The end.

ShareThis

BUT. I gotta say that I love the United States. I’m guest posting next week at Politics for Mom, so I’ll save the rest of that spiel for then. I just want you to know that I’m happy to be an American, and that I have never pretended to be a Canadian, even when that seemed a more diplomatic option. (And even though I would love to be the same nationality as L.M. Montgomery).

One of the great things about America is the freedom we enjoy on the internet. Freedom from government censors. Who knows? Maybe the government is censoring things left and right; maybe “they” have taken down a website that would tell me how to build a cluster bomb in my garage. Maybe I should be picketing some agency about that and about the Patriot Act. Of course I don’t know everything the government does (and if I did, I’d probably be upset).

BUT, I do know that I have more internet freedom than the people in Egypt and China (for example), and for that I am grateful.

Also, I have the freedom to write whatever I want, which is why this post is now going to segue quite abruptly into Things That Must Go.

Things That Must Go

1. Tight black jeans and emo hair cuts. Just stop. Please.

2. The Fight The Ugly ads that are supposed to be anti-smoking. I can’t find an image online to save my life (Aaack, the internet has failed me!). Have you seen these? They have the word “Allure” or “Lover” or “Charm” and then an image of a cigarette positioned in the middle of the word. Do “allure” and “lover” have negative connotations that I am unaware of that somehow make this ad convey the message that cigarettes are bad?

3. Cheating, lying, and hypocrisy. Nobody’s perfect. I get that. I am very, very far from perfect. Still. Just don’t go there.

I’m sorry to say there’s no giveaway this week. To be honest, I’ve spent a lot of time and emotion in the past couple days on something that has left me with a very sour taste in my mouth about blogging, and especially about viewing blogging as a business. I don’t ever want to be in a position where making money or increasing my blog’s traffic or promoting my blog is more important to me than sharing my thoughts and experiences with anyone kind enough to read.

So I hope you’ll share your Things That Must Go this weekend, but only if you really want to. Not because there’s a prize to win (there isn’t) or because it’ll make you famous or rich (it won’t), but because you just want to share what’s been bugging you in a way that’ll maybe make us laugh or make us think.

ShareThis

This year I thought of fun 50th birthday stuff: black balloons, black roses in a coffin. Luckily I’m a procrastinator, because a week before her birthday she told me she was going in for a biopsy.

Black balloons seem a bit inappropriate when someone’s in the middle of a cancer scare. Chocolate, however, is always a good thing (especially if you’re my mom). Food is a comfort when we’re worried or sick and a way of rejoicing when we’re not.

Mom’s biopsy came back benign, and we celebrated her birthday with the usual summer fare: hamburgers on the grill, corn on the cob, and chocolate. I offered to make her whatever dessert she wanted, and she requested brownies and ice cream. Now, you know I have NOTHING against a good brownie (i.e. one made from Duncan Hines mix), but there are one or two things in life that are even better than brownies.

And since Mom is just about my (counting on fingers) 5th favorite person on earth, I wanted to make something just a little extra-special. So I called up Tara and asked her what she’s made that’s special, and chocolate, and has easy-to-find and cheap ingredients. She read me this recipe from Allrecipes.com, and the rest is . . . chocolate bliss!

I had to take extra photos, because in the first ones I put the actual amount of whipped cream we like, and then you couldn’t see the cakes. So this picture is highly misleading, dairy-wise.

Here’s what “cakes puff but centers jiggle” looks like:

The first time I made this I accidentally used 4 tablespoons of flour, and they were still good, but they’re better with the right amount. The original recipe calls for making this in a regular muffin pan with jumbo-size liners, but I’ve been wanting some ramekins for baked custard (and I don’t have jumbo liners).

I’d tell you these were a big hit, but that’s pretty obvious, right? The best thing is that you can mix up a batch and then refrigerate the batter for up to three days (maybe more, but we’d eaten it by then). Just bring it up to room temperature before baking.

The best, best thing is that I think Mom will be around for another 50 years to enjoy these with us.

Natural Mommy’s Recipe Swap.

Things That Must Go is this weekend.

ShareThis

But the best part of swimming lessons?

Don’t forget Things That Must Go this weekend.

Brought to you by Jacki.

ShareThis