tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35263620465008944162024-03-13T13:42:35.150-05:00Mom-In-ScrubsLife: we all get through it one way or another.Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-48506270380463063142013-12-06T01:55:00.000-06:002013-12-06T07:31:30.301-06:00Ridiculously Simple Overnight Oven Chicken or Turkey Carcass StockI'll start by saying I hate the word "carcass." It conjures images of road kill and vultures and grinning rotted skulls. However, it seemed to be accepted terminology for what's left over after a roasted bird is picked of its choice meat, so I'll use the word. Even though it makes me... Ew.<br>
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I've read many articles on stock-making. Everyone has an opinion. People will wax poetic about aromatics, clarity, "fouling" the stock by stirring or boiling or *gasp* putting in the wrong part of a vegetable, or breaking the bones. Entire litanies abound, and you could truly scare yourself right out of making one of the easiest, most magically rewarding things to ever come out of your kitchen if you let <b>THEM</b> get in your head.<br>
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Don't let THEM get in your head.<br>
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If you can roast a bird, you can make stock. Heck, even if you can't roast a bird: say it came out overdone, underdone, or you just picked up a rotisserie bird at the store; you can still make this poultry-infused liqueur of the gods.<br>
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The beauty part? You don't even need to dirty another pan. <i><b>You're welcome.</b></i><br>
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So, here goes: your bird (one turkey or two chickens) is picked mostly clean. Save those parts-es that no one wants: skin, bones, fat, wingtips, neck, gizzards. If you didn't use the drippings from your bird for gravy, pour those in too. Just leave out the liver - it's mushy and too bitter. Hack the carcass up Dexter-style so it'll fit back in your roaster pan. I just use an<i> el cheapo</i> Granite Ware turkey-sized roaster: you know, the porcelain-on-steel one your mom had, and your grandma, and your great-grandma... Probably blue with white speckles. Throw all those beautiful bird parts back in the roaster.<br>
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Now here's where you can get a little fancy. Or not. Your stock, your choice.<br>
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I like my stock <b>really</b> golden-brown. To me it tastes richer. But hey, some don't. No matter what, this isn't going to be the neon-yellow broth you get from bullion or a can, but if you wanna kick it up a flavoriffic notch, roast those bones at 400 degrees for about 20 min. They'll turn brown and start to smell amazing.<br>
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Or just skip the roasting.<br>
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Either way, the next step is to throw some aromatics in there. Now some will cry "BLASPHEMY!!!" because they think cooking the aromatics overnight "dulls" them and leads to "one-dimensional" stock. And hey, they're probably right. But I'm no stock connoisseur and I'm not trying to win $10,000 on Chopped. "Multi-dimensional" or not, this stuff is from a <b>totally</b> different dimension than store bought cans, cartons, or cubes. It's not gonna taste anything other than amazing.<br>
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<b>THEY</b> would wait to add the aromatics until an hour before the stock is done. That's great, but I'm not giving up an hour of beauty sleep to get up and add aromatics. So unless <b>THEY</b> are swinging by at 5am to do this for me, I'll be adding my aromatics with everything else.<br>
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Toss in an onion, cut in half or quarters, skin on is fine. You'll be straining it all later. Break a couple celery stalks into 3 or 4 pieces and chuck 'em in there. Also a couple handfuls of baby carrots or two regular carrots broken into a few pieces. Throw in a bay leaf if you like... it's not the end of the world if you don't have one. If you have other root veggies you like, add them too! I hear parsnips are good. Some people like parsley or even a <i>bouquet garni, </i>and that's probably where adding late in cooking would pay off the most. Me? If I want that stuff I'll add it when I use the finished product. Same for salt: add it when you use the stock for it's final purpose. You don't want over-salty stock.<br>
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Once you've got it all in there, just pour cold water over it all. If you're feeling fancy, use filtered stuff. Heck, use Evian if you want - it's your baby. Barely cover everything with water. Then stick the pan back in the oven - woah there, partner! First turn it WAAAY down. <b>180 degrees</b>. You don't want this goodness boiling (refer to above: "fouling")... <b>THEY</b> actually have an important point here: boiling all night will break your bones and veggies down to mush.<br>
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Now walk away. You heard me. No skimming or pot-watching required. Go watch tv or fold laundry or whatever you need to do. This magic is gonna take all night. How long? I don't know - 8 hours, 12 hours... How long do you sleep? You're not gonna screw it up unless you totally forget about it for, like, 24 hours or something.<br>
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Before you go to bed, take a little peek at your love-child. At this point I like to tuck the little snookums in (cover with the roaster lid or foil), but you don't have to. It depends on how concentrated and brown you want your stock. When I use a cover, I tend to end up with a little under a gallon of stock. Without covering, more like a quart and a half or so.<br>
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In the morning your house will smell incredible. Pull out your pan and strain that liquid gold! I use a fine mesh strainer, but if you're super picky you can line the strainer with a couple layers of cheesecloth and it will catch any bits. I'm not a person who tends to have cheesecloth just sitting around, but maybe you are (I want to be like you whe<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">n I grow up!). Either way, cover your container of goodness with plastic wrap or a lid or whatever, stick it in the fridge, and carry on with your day.</span><br>
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When you're ready to use, scrape off the fat layer and either set it aside for another use (it's delicious) or discard. You're left with what should look like chicken or turkey jello. That's from all the glorious gelatin from the bones, and it's gonna make this stock unbelievably silky. It comes from the super-slow cooking... Take that, store-bought stock!<br>
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Now, just use or freeze. If I don't blow the whole wad on chicken and dumplings (my family's favorite), I'll freeze some. I like ziplock freezer bags for this, but fancy/rich people with way more freezer space than me like to use glass jars. If you do, leave an inch of headspace for expansion during freezing (science!). Or you could put in ice cube trays and transfer the cubes to a baggie when frozen. Then you can pull out 1 or 2 or a few for finishing a sauce or something.<br>
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Look at you! You just made stock! You'll never look at a carcass the same way, now, will ya?<br>
<span id="goog_1570983105"></span><span id="goog_1570983106"></span><br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-tmS41EI8d7M/UqHRsKpOEQI/AAAAAAAAAiU/nl9Qh8eyXsU/s640/blogger-image-1191245623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-tmS41EI8d7M/UqHRsKpOEQI/AAAAAAAAAiU/nl9Qh8eyXsU/s640/blogger-image-1191245623.jpg"></a></div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-3392615562179662192012-05-19T21:01:00.001-05:002012-05-19T21:01:04.707-05:00Lulu's Birthday Cake, 2012Just had to share a pic!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q2JEiVj8HOg/T7hQLbqGZuI/AAAAAAAAAg0/aKkEof1OIvc/s1600/sushi+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q2JEiVj8HOg/T7hQLbqGZuI/AAAAAAAAAg0/aKkEof1OIvc/s320/sushi+cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Lulu wanted a "Sushi Cake" for her birthday... well, here it is! What fun!!!<br />
<br />Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-22488782907430575892012-02-20T20:51:00.000-06:002012-02-20T20:51:15.635-06:00Asian Sesame NoodlesTonight I just wanted something simple. Simple and tasty. I've always wanted to find a good asian sesame noodle recipe but every time I've tried I've been disappointed. Usually they're too salty or too bland... or, surprisingly, both. <br />
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I looked all over for recipes, took what I wanted from each and added my own twist - and I think I hit on a winner. These turned out just how I'd hoped; well worth the little bit of heartburn from all the lovely raw garlic in these. Just eat 'em with a couple of TUMS if raw garlic gets to you. <br />
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You can use whatever kind of noodles you like - just plain old thin spaghetti would work fine. I used Barilla Pasta Plus, partly because I'm trying to be healthy, and partly because I like the texture and chew. I might try these with some kind of an asian noodle if I run across some at the store. Even if I never do these are going to become a staple at our house!<br />
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Variations, if you're interested, are adding green onions, rice wine vinegar, or if you like things a little spicy, some red pepper flakes.<br />
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<u><strong>Asian Sesame Noodles</strong></u><br />
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1 pkg. Barilla Pasta Plus Thin Spaghetti - cooked, run under cool water, and drained<br />
2 Tbs. Sesame Oil<br />
4 Tbs. Canola Oil<br />
2 - 2 cloves garlic, minced very fine<br />
1/4 c. Tamari Soy Sauce<br />
1 Tbs. Hoisin Sauce<br />
1/2 Tbs. Oyster Sauce<br />
1 Tbp. Sugar<br />
2 Tbs. Sesame Seeds, toasted<br />
Few Tbs. Water (enough to thin out to thin consistency)<br />
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Whisk all ingredients except pasta together in a bowl, pour over pasta and toss. Serve chilled. Makes plenty for leftovers!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S66hbB9i_8o/T0MGk9olUFI/AAAAAAAAAgs/otNQ2nt2pQU/s1600/0930dinersjournalnoodles-blogSpan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S66hbB9i_8o/T0MGk9olUFI/AAAAAAAAAgs/otNQ2nt2pQU/s320/0930dinersjournalnoodles-blogSpan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-67589125141019233912012-01-29T23:44:00.003-06:002012-01-30T00:03:45.106-06:00Spaghatta Pah!!!Miss Lulu loves to cook. Actually both of my kiddos love to cook, and I love to cook with them. Yeah, it's messy. Yeah, it takes time. But these are precious moments, people. They will remember cooking with me and how much they loved it for the rest of their lives. <br />
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The other day we made Spaghetti Pie, Lulu and I. Where was Plato? Out back making a snow fort with the neighbor boy. That was fine, Lu and I got to have some quality girl-time. I wish my stupid camera hadn't been out of battery when she was up to her elbows in spaghetti, egg, and cheese... *sigh*. The visual will have to live in my memory. Or we will have to make it again. <br />
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She was so proud of herself when the pies came out. They tasted darn good too! This recipe makes 3 pies. You could easily cut it down if you don't need that many, but - like lasagna - these are freezable and can reheat in a jiff for another evening.<br />
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(Did I just actually use, "in a jiff" in asentence? yikes)<br />
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I took a pie to work and my coworkers raved. Wow. Who knew something so simple that a 7-year-old could make it could be so tasty?<br />
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Like many of my recipes, I created this from several I found online. I guess you could call it a recipe mash-up. I always have to write things down when I cook so if it turns out well, I can remember what I did! Only thing I might change about this is maybe add a ricotta cheese layer on top of the spaghetti and under the meatballs and sauce. You could add any pizza-y toppings you like as well (black olives, mushrooms, pepperoni). Sky's the limit here. Enjoy!<br />
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Here's the recipe:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Spaghetti Pie (makes 3 - 9” pies)</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">1 pkg. (14 oz.) of dry spaghetti, cooked and rinsed<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">3 eggs<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">½ c. grated parmesan cheese<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">½ tsp. garlic powder<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">½ tsp. salt<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">2 jars spaghetti sauce (like Prego)<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">½ pkg. frozen meatballs, reheated<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">1 pkg. deli-sliced provolone<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">1 c. shredded mozzarella<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">Beat eggs with parmesan cheese, garlic powder, salt, and parmesan cheese. Add cooked spaghetti. Here’s where the kids can use their (clean) hands and toss the spaghetti, with the egg and cheese mixture. Press 1/3 of the mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 9” pie dish, creating a “crust” of spaghetti. Repeat with 2 more pie dishes. Sprinkle 1/3 c. mozzarella over each crust.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">Quarter the meatballs and put 1/3 of the total in each pie. Evenly distribute the sauce over the 3 pies. Evenly distribute the provolone slices over the 3 pies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, until crust is a little crunchy and cheese begins to bubble. Serve hot, cut into wedges, with extra cheese or sauce as desired.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">At this point you can cool and freeze any uneaten pies. To reheat, thaw in the refrigerator overnight, then bake at 300 degrees for about 30 minutes, until warmed through.</span></span><br />
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</div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-31580927472180136642012-01-18T10:36:00.000-06:002012-01-18T10:36:45.399-06:00Peel and Eat Beer ShrimpI've been cooking more lately; my life is back on track and I'm feeling kinda inspired. I tend to look at a lot of recipes online and then sort of come up with my own ideas. The problem is, if I don't write them down I forget about them. The other problem is, if I write them down, I tend to lose the recipes!<br />
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So this won't be a fancy, photo-laden collection of recipes. It's just my e-scribblings; the blog seemed like a good place to jot 'em down because no matter how long I neglect it, it's always right back where I left it!<br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Peel-And-Eat Beer Shrimp</span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1 lb shrimp, about 24-ct size</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1 bottle beer (whatever you like; I used Michelob)</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1 lemon</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2 Tbs Old Bay Seasoning</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2 Tbs salt</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1/2 onion, halved again</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">water (if needed)</span><br />
<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">butter</span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Devein the shrimp but leave the shells on. This sounds like a lot of work, and it kinda is, but I used kitchen shears and just cut down the back of the shell and pulled out the vein. You might get lucky and get your meat counter guy to do it, or you might get REALLY lucky and find them already done that way!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a stockpot over med-hi heat, fry up the onion in a little butter. Leave the onion in big hunks because you're gonna get rid of it. Sprinkle in the Old bay and Salt, and when the onion is sizzling, juice the lemon into the mix, and throw in your lemon halves too. Pour in the beer and reduce the heat to med low. Simmer about 15 min. With a slotted spoon, remove the onion. You can keep the lemon in there. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Toss in the shrimp and cook them about 2 minutes. No more than 3. They overcook fast! Remove them with the slotted spoon and set aside (in the fridge if you want them cold). Crank up the heat on the broth, and boil it until it reduces a bit.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you want to eat them warm, ladle a bit of the broth into dipping cups and add a pat of butter. Start peeling and dipping. This is what we did. They didn't last long!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you want to eat them cold, forget the butter and cool off the broth, then pour over the shrimp (don't do this with hot broth - it will end up overcooking your shrimp). Store in the fridge until ready to eat - preferably the next day. Serve with lemon wedges and whatever sauce you like... but you won't need sauce!</span><br />
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Hot or cold, you could sprinkle a little extra Old Bay on 'em, and they would probably look something like the peel-and-eat shrimp at Bubba Gump's:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6asl2N4IQ3k/Txb0p8kFEhI/AAAAAAAAAd0/4sIl64ZUVX0/s1600/bubba_gump_shrimper_s_net_catch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6asl2N4IQ3k/Txb0p8kFEhI/AAAAAAAAAd0/4sIl64ZUVX0/s320/bubba_gump_shrimper_s_net_catch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">...but without all the gimmick. Run Forrest, Run!</div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-61076830878497811802011-02-10T16:14:00.000-06:002011-02-10T16:14:06.679-06:00Listen Up, Whirlpool...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Lulu was getting ready this morning with me, in the bathroom. It seems like most mornings that's where everyone ends up; 2 kids, me, 2 dogs... total insanity. Why? It’s the warmest room in the house!! Another on my list of Reasons I Can't Wait For Spring, right behind the fact that it was -16 degrees outside today. Fahrenheit. Without "wind chill factor."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">She was getting ready to put on her pants, some stretchy leggings, as per her usual. The child is a fashion Diva at the age of six; she rarely wears jeans or pants of any kind that aren’t “skinny.” As she was trying to decipher front from back, she stopped and held out the pants for my inspection. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“See these? Mom?” They were just leggings that were designed to look like painted-on denim jeans. “Do you know my other ones that look like this, but they’re sparkly?” I nodded, trying to simultaneously listen and not to burn my forehead with the curling iron. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“My other ones are getting bigger. They’re getting so big they don’t fit right.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">This was confusing to me. “Bigger? How?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Well, Grandma (X-MIL) is MAKING them bigger when I go to her house.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Now I was thoroughly nonplussed. “How in the <em>world</em> is she making them bigger?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“I don’t KNOW!!!" She actually stomped her little foot with frustration. "They're my favorite ONES too!!! I think when she puts them in the washer she pushes the “MAKE BIGGER” button!!!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Ah, well, that explained it quite nicely. “Oh my, honey... you’ll have to ask Grandma what kind of a washer she has… I’d LOVE to have a MAKE BIGGER button on my washer! Then I wouldn't have to buy you new clothes every month!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">She made a disdainful face; you know the one only a six year old girl can muster. The last thing I heard as she pushed past me to leave the crowded bathroom was her muttering: “I’ve GOT to stop letting her do my laundry...”</span></div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-10891221456917813152011-02-01T14:41:00.000-06:002011-02-01T14:41:30.987-06:00What Happened in 2010<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So it’s been awhile… quite awhile, really. And a lot has happened since I was last on here regularly. It’s been such a rollercoaster, my life, and the ride seems to be coasting toward the station… at least this part of it. Will I go around again? Or will I be able to get off this crazy thing for a little bit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only time will tell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">What I’m about to write is hard for me. It paints me in what could be seen as a negative light. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable to put it all down, but I think it will be cleansing in a way. Those who know me in real life love me, and I feel it’s unconditional love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My biggest fear concerning those who know me is…. Well, it seems stupid when I put it in writing, but it’s that they might see me as flawed, imperfect, weak. Pride is a hard thing to put aside, but in the interest of making peace with my past, I must squelch my pride and humble myself to tell this tale. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Mind you, I wouldn’t change a bit of this… really; I wouldn’t change any of the twists, turns, speed bumps or potholes on the road of my life. The road of my life has brought me to where I am, and where I am is where I am supposed to be… and it is good. Being human, I’m finding, means we are all weak in some ways, all imperfect, no matter how hard we try to be otherwise. For some of us, life just happens to put us in situations that prey upon our weakest points. The choices we make in those situations define us, and in my case the choices I have made have brought me to a new happier place in my life… but at the expense of my pride and in some ways, my self-image. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Heavy, right? Well, sit back and listen to my confessional... my “tell-all.” If I were a celebrity I’d be all over the cover of the tabloids. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I’ve been married since June of 1996. I married JeepMan at the tender age of 23, after a 2 ¾ year courtship… I used to joke that we would have never gotten married had I not told him when and where it was going to happen. In hindsight, that’s a rather bitter observation… but again, I wouldn’t change the course of my life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I used to say that I knew it was true love with JM because we could have arguments and I never once worried about whether those disagreements changed how he felt about me. I actually liked that he challenged me. We were intellectually compatible, and he had a will to match my own. So many other boyfriends I had just steamrolled with my personality. We were the very definition of “opposites attract.” Me: dreamy, abstract, emotional… Him: realist, concrete, logical. I felt we balanced each other out, and I was attracted to those things in him that I didn’t see in myself. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I came from a very harmonious home; he came from an impossibly broken one. I knew so much of love, of family… he knew so little. I felt sure I could teach him to love and trust and bring him the happiness that comes with having those things. He seemed to want what I had to offer. It wasn’t a pity thing. It was a desire to nurture and give, which is the core of my personality. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">And so we said our vows on that hot day in June 1996, and it seemed right. We hadn’t planned a honeymoon, as we were both still in college. We took an impromptu trip to Colorado as our best man had given us plane tickets as a wedding gift. We stayed in (essentially) a frat house for a few days and slept on a futon. It was fun, but we always said we should plan a “real” honeymoon someday. We never did. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The first 5 years passed fairly uneventfully. I worked as he went to school, then we moved and both worked. We had a lot of fun those years, and had our arguments too. I recall in particular when I burned my foot by spilling a pot of boiling spaghetti on the floor. Where a “normal” reaction to such an incident would be concern for my well-being, his first instinct was to be extremely angry with me. In retrospect this was a red flag – it was an ugly trait that reared its head time and again in our marriage, with me and eventually with our children. I still don’t know to this day where it comes from, but I suspect it is rooted in his need to have control in his life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Over those first years the subject of having children came up several times. I wanted them, he wasn’t ready. There was always an excuse: we aren’t financially stable, we don’t know if we want to settle down in this city, we don’t have a house… etc. Finally there weren’t any viable excuses left and I was insistent that we start a family if we were ever going to have one. I went off the pill and left birth control up to him… a month later we were pregnant. It was a wonderful time, but once Plato was born it went downhill fast. Plato was a difficult baby: colicky, cranky, loud, only wanted Mommy… he would turn blue and pass out if he got too angry, his head was flat on one side from an underdeveloped neck muscle and he had to wear a helmet… not the best experience for a man who had only ever held one other baby in his entire life. I think JeepMan felt rejected by his son in some way, and he also had this odd concern of showing too much affection to him, since he was a boy. It was a hell of a year. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">He made it quite clear at that point in time that he didn’t want any other children. I was dismissive because we had always planned on two, and I did not want to have an only child if I could help it. JM was an only child, but I had a sister and I couldn’t imagine growing up without a sibling. I used to joke that I had raised him already; I wasn’t going to raise another only child. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Only 2 years later did the seriousness of his position on more children sink in. It became a real point of contention between us: I told him that all children are different, that the chances of having another baby as difficult as Plato had been were extremely slim. By this time Plato had grown into a wonderfully easy toddler. The transformation was unbelievable. JM maintained, however, that even if the chance was one in a million, it wasn’t a chance he wanted to take. He felt he had been permanently scarred by the experience we’d had with Plato. I thought he was being a drama queen. He thought I was nuts. We were at a standoff. Then nature intervened. I switched brands of birth control pill and we got pregnant.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The pregnancy with LuLu was fraught with complications, which made the 9 months of anticipation all the more agonizing for JM.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end we had this beautiful, easy baby girl, with whom he bonded immediately. It was the experience he should have had with Plato. As she evolved into a headstrong toddler, however, it became difficult again. When things were crazy, he wouldn’t hesitate to remind me that he hadn’t wanted kids at all, and he especially hadn’t wanted a second child. He never said he would change things, but he blamed me when the going got tough.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">And it only got tougher the older the kids got. His temper got shorter, the outbursts got more frequent, and the blaming became a daily thing. I walked on eggshells in my own home wondering what was going to happen to set him off this time. We would go for stretches without any serious issues, but there was always the niggling thought in the back of my mind that those times were inevitably limited, that there was ALWAYS going to be another explosion, another argument, another colossal but unintentional trespass on my part that would set him off. In time even the kids were targets of his anger. Those were the times that really eroded my soul. It became my primary goal to protect them from his ire. I slowly but surely gave up pieces of myself, of my identity, to keep the peace. My self-esteem had whittled down to nearly nothing; I took pride in being a good mother and a good career woman. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I had taken a job that required travel. JM and I had both decided it would be difficult on the family but that the financial payoff and the great resume fodder were worth any hardship. It turned out that a job that had promised only about 25% travel ended up requiring about 90% travel. I was gone some weeks Sunday – Friday. It was hard on us all, but especially hard on JM. He had gone from being inexperienced father to inexperienced single father. I am sure he felt that I was out gallivanting while I was away… in reality I was horribly homesick and missing my kids terribly. I was, however, relieved and grateful for the time that I got to spend out of his line of fire, for the room to breathe… and for that I felt guilty, and I worried that the kids were my stand-in scapegoats. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">During the last year of my travel, I became increasingly lonely. The emotional abandonment that had been evolving for years at home had reached near-peak levels. Conversations on the phone were brief and cold. The days I was home it seemed I was just “passing though.” I made friends within the corporation with whom I became close, but they were in other parts of the country. I began spending more and more time online, and I discovered chatting. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I began chatting on Facebook, and because I had made “friends” that I only had for purposes of gaming, I met new people. Interesting people. I began to explore new FB apps and found some fun social games. Unfortunately some of these social games had a tendency to walk the line of being a bit questionable in content, but they seemed quite harmless and fun. Still, I didn’t want posts from those apps or people in those apps to be hitting my FB Wall, because JM would inevitably question my intelligence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So I created a new persona. I felt there was no harm in it… I was passing the time on the road and, frankly, I was in a better mood most days and in a better mood at home since I had an outlet for my creative writing and emotions. A safe, anonymous outlet. I met some fantastic people. I learned that there were many, many people “out there” who were like me: in failing marriages, feeling emotionally abandoned by the one who was supposed to love, honor, and cherish them. There were those who were leading double-lives, unbeknownst to their significant other. There were people who longed for love, for a companion, and simply hadn’t found “the one.” There were the curious, too, putting out feelers to test the waters of what could possibly be available to them should they take a chance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Of course there were Trolls and Pervs, but they were pretty readily identifiable and infrequent. Most of those types have fairly transparent ulterior motives. I considered myself savvy enough to see through them, and had formed a community of trusted “cyber-friends” who all looked out for each other. It seemed like a great set-up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Then one day I met “V.” He had seen something I had written in one of the games I played. It was a game where you could post your thoughts, poems, whatever you felt like sharing with people. He was impressed with the way I wrote, he said, and thought I was beautiful to boot. How sweet, I thought, but I kinda just blew him off. I began to notice that whenever I would write things in the game he would usually leave a nice comment on what I’d written, and soon curiosity got the better of me. I visited his page, and found that he was quite eloquent and well-written. Still, he was 10 years older than me and black, so I just figured it wasn’t in the cards. What else could we possibly have in common?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">As it turned out, a lot. Soon, he sent me a poem by e.e. cummings that happened to be one of my favorites. More followed by Pablo Neruda and Rumi. We tentatively began to converse, and found we had so very many things in common, and in areas that matter in a relationship. Particularly on the spiritual level… an area of my life in which I had been desert-dry throughout my marriage. V was the son of a preacher, for goodness’ sake. It was the beginning, I thought, of a promising friendship.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Then my world at home began to fall apart in earnest. I left my job under difficult circumstances (downsizing, anyone?), and I figured (wrongly) that a nurse of 14 years specialty experience would have no trouble getting hired. I ended up being without a job for 3 months. I was on unemployment, which was a supremely humbling experience. Recall that “pride in my job” was one of the 2 remaining shards of my self-esteem. It was now shattered. For the first time in our entire marriage, JM had leverage on me in the wage-earning department. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Rather than supporting me during this time, he chose to be demeaning and degrading, even insulting me and reducing me to tears in front of my friends and family. I knew that it had to be over between us. I had considered divorce, even threatened it, for several years… it was time to act. Obviously the “for worse,” and “for poorer” aspects of our wedding vows weren’t being upheld… and the “honor and cherish” had gone out the window long before. I can’t speak to the “love” vow; he has always maintained that he loved me; that he just didn’t know how to show it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">But how to go about it? Here was a man who was derisive to every decision I made that didn’t meet with his ideas of correctness or… Lord help me, sanity. If I said I wanted to leave him he would certainly counter that I must be out of my mind, that I wasn’t serious, hadn’t thought it through, or that I wasn’t capable of being on my own with 2 kids. How did I know this? I’d threatened before, multiple times, and he had always said as much. I truly couldn’t see a way out. I became desperate, and did my best to withdraw from him as much as I could. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">And who was there to witness the ultimate demise of my crippled marriage? V of course. We had become cyber-close. I felt that I was already beginning some sort of “emotional affair” with him. I had guilt feelings about that, but they were coupled with the conviction that I needed someone to lean on in this time of hardship. Why not my family? I didn’t want to burden them. I didn’t want to put them in the middle of the sordidness of it all. Besides, the man was so very understanding, and had a gentleness and compassion that transcended the limits of cyberspace. We had actually spoken on the phone by this time, only once or twice, but his voice was like southern honey and the emotion that came through the phone was like balm to my chapped soul.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Then it happened. He had a coaching conference coming up in Iowa City. I checked it out, it was real. I had also checked him out… I wasn’t stupid. No criminal record, and as he was a teacher, he couldn’t very well teach with a besmirched record. He asked if he could meet me while he was here for the conference. I agonized over the decision. In the end, I decided to go with my heart, which was telling me that I could be missing out on something wonderful if I didn’t at least meet this man. The plan became to give him a ride from the airport to his hotel, then have lunch. After all, I didn’t have a job or anything. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The rest, as they say, is history. It was love at first sight, and I’d never believed in that before. He didn’t end up making it to the conference. We spent the next 3 days together, during the daytime, and I was home evenings. I was more convinced than ever that I had to leave JM… and not to run into the arms of V, but to be my own being again. It became crystal clear how much JM was stifling me as a person, or as my mother later told me, “He just never allowed you to be the woman you are capable of being.” So as V returned home to Virginia, I began to make more concrete plans. I had to have it all figured out before I started the ball rolling, because I knew that when I made my announcement, the angry scrutiny would begin, and I had to have an impenetrable defense. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">As it turned out, fate intervened. About 2 weeks after I met V, JM found an e-card from him that I thought I had deleted. I was ever so careful about my electronic trail, since we shared a laptop. I honestly don’t know how he found it but he did, and though painful, it was what needed to happen. He confronted me, and I didn’t deny a thing. He felt broadsided, and claimed that he had no idea things had deteriorated so badly. I was offended that he hadn’t taken all my years of tears, letters full of feelings, pleas for counseling, and threats to leave and divorce him seriously. I asked what it was that I was supposed to do to make him wake up and change… to which he pleaded for another chance to make it right. Although he had had so very many second chances, I felt cornered into agreeing to make an effort. After all, this was 14 years of my life I was “throwing away.” But… how many years of my life might I be salvaging in pursuing my happiness?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I attended counseling. So did he. His counselor said I was behaving rashly. Mine said I clearly knew what I wanted and was quite emotionally detached already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I was… the wound that had festered for so many years was now numb. The cold and clinically obvious choice was to amputate. I was clear to JM that despite his pleas I would not give up communicating with V during this time; I needed someone to lean on. He took this as a clear conflict of interest (which it was) but I felt that by giving V up entirely I was being set adrift in a sea of sharks. Besides, I loved the man already, and couldn’t bear the thought of being out of touch with him. V was predictably patient and understanding of what I needed to do. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">At first, JM was overly willing to shoulder all the blame for our failed relationship, even though I didn’t ask him to. I think he thought that if he showed accountability it might soften my heart. In truth it seemed pitiable, and I knew he would hate to be pitied. He sent flowers. He bought cards, jewelry. He set up a weekend getaway for us. I tried; I really did, to believe in the sincerity of these acts. And although I do believe they were sincere, I felt in my heart that they were band-aids. So many chances he had thrown away to be a better husband to me. So many scars I had from the years of verbal and emotional abuse. He used to argue vehemently against that terminology, and I would always challenge him to look up the definitions and consider his actions in that light. I doubt he ever did. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">In the end, we are divorcing. I knew it would end this way… as I told him time and again, I can’t force myself to feel what isn’t there anymore. He has asked if I miss having him in the home. I told him to not ask questions he doesn’t want to hear the answers to. I don’t miss him in the home. It is now a place where I can feel safe and secure. Where I can be myself and not feel as if I am under a critical magnifying glass. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The kids are doing fairly well; they miss their dad and I am careful never to say a disparaging word about him. I don’t know if he has afforded me the same courtesy, but I am confident that my relationship with my children is strong and mere words won’t compromise it. I encourage their interaction with him, and offer an unbiased listening ear if they have feelings they need to discuss. Interestingly, Plato observed not long ago that although he misses his dad terribly sometimes, he is glad that the house isn’t full of arguing and crying all the time anymore. I shouldn’t be surprised… my Little Old Man is so very insightful. Lulu seems a bit more blithe about the whole thing, but she needs extra cuddles and gets them in spades. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">As for V and I? We are madly in love. It’s been almost a year and a half now since we first “met.” I cancelled my Alter Ego FB account shortly after we began communicating, and haven’t looked back. He has moved closer to me, and hopefully this summer will be able to move to the same town. We’ve discussed marriage; he’s never been married (though he’s had long-term relationships and even helped raise children), and has always wanted to. I am certainly not opposed to the idea. I have never felt this way about anyone, not even close… not even with JM in the beginning, when marriage seemed like a grand idea. Time will tell. The divorce has to finalize first. He has met my family; I’ve met his friends and will hopefully meet his brother and sister-in-law soon. Sadly, his parents are both deceased. He says they would have adored me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">And that, good readers, is my story. 2010 was a year of upheaval and change. I have never been inherently averse to change; I tend to bend in the current and trust in God, or Fate or whatever powers that may be to steer me to where I belong. I look at change as an opportunity, not as a force to be resisted. I am happy, for now. I am content and feel that I am where I am supposed to be in my life at this time. I truly believe that I cannot make a good life for my children if I am unhappy, and I want to be able to model a loving relationship for them, not worry that they might think that fighting and tears are a normal part of a marriage relationship. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I can’t possibly know where my road will take me, but I am on it and I am driving again. It feels good, real good. Maybe 2011 is the year where I reclaim “me.” </span></div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-40423047011722860332011-01-25T11:14:00.000-06:002011-01-25T11:14:25.091-06:00Plato's PlansAs I was getting ready this morning, Plato (now 9 1/2) was in a rather expansive mood... likely in part due to the sugar-high he was on from the Oreos he had eaten for breakfast. It was one of those increasingly infrequent mornings where he just talks and talks and talks... and I just listen, nod at appropriate intervals, and murmur, "mmmhmmm..." every once in awhile. <br />
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But I'm not ignoring him, oh no. I love to hear him talk. I drink in his words like they were the elixir of life; and I suppose in some way they are.<br />
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Lately Plato has been rather fixated on planning out his life. It is so like him; I have always thought of him as a rather old soul, and others have pointed this out from time to time as well. School has provided many opportunities for him to become interested in a variety of topics, which lead to his random announcements as to what he is going to be when he grows up. <br />
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Thankfully, he has outgrown the urge to be a garbage man... I mean, *ahem,* Sanitation Engineer. And I am not saying that because of the pay: I honestly can't imagine my little man working in STINK all day every day!!! No, his interests of late tend to lean toward more lucrative professions which puts me in a bit of a mommy-quandry: I don't want to push him toward working "for the money;" at the same time I know that working for little money can really suck rocks. So if he leans toward something financially appealing, and happens to LIKE it too... well, doesn't that mean I should nudge him in that direction while he is interested? That doesn't make me a bad mom, does it?<br />
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This morning he told me that he is going to hold down several jobs. He is going to be an orthodontist, a professional baseball player, an architect, and a chemist. All of which, he points out, pay well. I told him I'm just glad he is planning to do something that he loves when he grows up. He says he will. <br />
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He paused a bit and I checked his reflection in the mirror as I applied my mascara. He was in classic Plato "thinking stance:" head down, hands in pockets, rocking on his toes a bit as he studied them. I could almost hear the cogs turning in his little head. Something inaudibly clicked, and he suddenly looked up at me. "Mom?"<br />
<br />
"Yes?"<br />
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"Do people actually get <em>PAID</em> to drive a zamboni?"<br />
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It was really really hard to stifle a giggle, or to keep from poking my mascara wand into my eyeball. "...well, I mean... of course they do. They don't do it for free."<br />
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His shoulders dropped and he blew out the breath he had been holding. "Oh <em>GOOD</em>. 'Cause that's how I am going to help pay my way through college. I'll drive a zamboni part time."<br />
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Quite satisfied with himself, he turned to head to the living room. Calling back over his shoulder he reassured me, "See Mom? I've really got my life all figured out. It's gonna be <em>AWESOME</em>." <br />
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Yes, Plato. It <strong>is</strong> going to be awesome. You rock, buddy. Mama loves you.Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-20095994964430484472009-12-13T15:13:00.000-06:002009-12-13T15:13:06.935-06:00Lulu Out of Left FieldMy 5 year old blows my mind. I swear she's 5 going on 15.<br />
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Which scares the bejeezus out of me.<br />
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Now, we are fairly selective in the TV we let the kids watch; I even turn off some of the "kids' shows" on Nickelodeon because I don't think they're age-appropriate to a 5 year old. So I ask you, where the HELL did this scenario come from?<br />
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-----------------------------<br />
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I had gotten out of the shower and was standing wrapped in a towel getting my hair, makeup, etc done. We don't have much modesty in our house, so the bathroom door was open. Lulu wandered in and was watching me get ready. <br />
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Soon she walked over and said, "Mommy, you look beautiful." I thanked her (so sweet) and she then observed that my towel looked like a pretty dress. I laughed and said it kind of did, and that she had a good imagination.<br />
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She then pulled aside the towel a bit and said, "But you wouldn't really wear this as a dress 'cause everyone would see your naked, right? Well, except Daddy. Thats ok, right?"<br />
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I laughed again and said she was correct. <br />
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She was thoughtful for a bit. "Mommy?"<br />
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"What, Sweetie?"<br />
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"Well, um.... have any of your ex-boyfriends seen your naked?" she asked, the picture of kindergarten innocence.<br />
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After I un-swallowed my own tongue, I smoothly lied, "Oh, gosh, no honey!"<br />
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"Why not?" Again with the wide eyes.<br />
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"Well, I mean... because."<br />
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Blank stare.<br />
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"Well, because people don't show other people 'their naked' unless they're family or married."<br />
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She mulled this over and her little chin jutted out. "Well! That just makes me SAD," she said in her best 15 year old voice.<br />
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"Why would you say THAT?" I countered.<br />
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"Because I think all your ex-boyfriends should have gotten to see your naked!!!" <br />
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And with that she stalked off.<br />
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If I'd had the guts, I would have chased her down and interrogated her till she spilled. <br />
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But I'm a chicken, and I do NOT want to cross that road just yet. <br />
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(forehead slap)Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-4205000418501679602009-12-09T19:37:00.001-06:002009-12-09T19:41:55.408-06:00Overheard #1 and Lulu Pops The QuestionAs the kids get older, they keep each other company a lot. Plato and Lulu get along awfully well for a brother and a sister. Sure, they quibble, quarrel, and push each others' buttons. But most often they are laughing and playing together. Lately I've been lucky enough to overhear a lot of their private conversations. I can't believe some of the things they talk about! Above all, though, it fills my heart with that Mommy-love.... you know what I'm talking about Moms, that indescribable feeling of love, pride, blessedness, and something more that makes your chest feel like its going to burst.<br />
<br />
This afternoon as I was preparing the ingredients for our Snow Day Cookie Fest, the kids were parked in front of the TV ('cause I'm such a great mom). They were watching Tom and Jerry, the cat and mouse cartoon I grew up with in the 80's. They loved it!! Cracking up hysterically and chattering to each other about what was going on. Eventually Lulu made the observation, "I wonder why they don't talk ever?"<br />
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Plato had apparently alreaady figured this out, because he didnt even pause as he answered, "Because it's an OLD cartoon, Lulu, and they didn't talk in OLD cartoons!!"<br />
<br />
Guess that makes me OLD.<br />
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------------------------<br />
<br />
As I was tucking Lulu in to bed (remember, she's FIVE), we were going through our ritual bedtime kisses: Butterfly Kiss (eyelashes), Eskimo Kiss (noses), Regular Kiss (lips), and a Biiiiig Hug. <br />
<br />
She held me in our Regular Kiss longer than usual, and when she pulled away she grinned at me. "Mommy, we just had SEX!!!" she giggled.<br />
<br />
Rather than grabbing her by her little shoulders and shaking her, demanding to know WHO has soiled my baby's pristine little mind, I pulled on my Calm Mommy Mask, complete with Composed Voice Technology. <br />
<br />
"What makes you say that, Lulu?" I asked.<br />
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"Well," she began, fixing me with the toddler version of the teenage standard <em>'my god you're dumb'</em> look. "When you kiss for a long time that's called sex." <br />
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"No, it's not." I countered.<br />
<br />
"What's sex, Mommy?"<br />
<br />
I had not planned to have this conversation for a few more years; sheesh.<br />
<br />
"We can talk about it some other time, Lulu. It's time for you to go to sleep." I flicked on her princess-crown nightlight, which seemed suddenly surreal in the context of the conversation. "I love you, Sweet Pea," I told her as I walked out of the room.<br />
<br />
"You have to lay on top of each other while you're kissing for sex, right Mommy?" she called after me, her big hazel eyes and little upturned nose peeking up over her Dora The Explorer comforter. <br />
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I sighed and turned slightly. "No, Lulu. You don't have to." <br />
<br />
"But sometimes, right? Thats how Eva says you have sex" (Eva is her older 1st grade friend.... her mom and I will be having a chat).<br />
<br />
"Yes, sometimes. But not always. Goodnight Princess." I walked out and shut off the hallway light. From the recesses of her room I heard her muffled little voice:<br />
<br />
"Eeeeeewwwwww......!"Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-57884230470076733842009-12-07T09:16:00.001-06:002009-12-07T09:19:39.345-06:00Kid FunniesPlato and Lulu are now 8 and 5, respectively. They are both in elementary school, she in Kindergarten and he in 3rd grade. I watch them interact with each other with a fair amount of nostalgia for my own childhood. I have a little sister. I remember many similar conversations, and the dynamic between my two is eerily similar to the dynamic I shared with little sis. <br />
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No doubt there will be more to come on this subject, as they only become more <strike>frustrating</strike> fascinating as they grow up. For the purposes of this post, however, the theme is competition.<br />
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I suppose there's a natural amount of competition between siblings. I imagine it's even healthy, and in the end prepares them in some way for adulthood. Watching this dynamic evolve, as each becomes more sophisticated and skilled at "the game," is a real treat. When I'm not banging my head against the wall, that is.<br />
<br />
For example, one of their favorite new pastimes is "one-upping" each other. I picked them up from school last week, and our ritual conversation ensued: what did you learn today, who did you play with, what did you have for lunch, etc etc.<br />
<br />
This particular conversation itself has evolved, with them reciprocating by asking questions of me as well: what did I do today, what did I have for lunch, etc. I love this as I take it as a sign that they may be outgrowing (just a bit) their natural egocentricity. <br />
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On this occasion, I informed them that I had eaten a banana for lunch.<br />
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To which Plato replied, "Well THAT's not much!"<br />
<br />
And I confirmed that indeed, it was not.<br />
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"Well, the important thing is that you ate SOMETHING..." he wisely observed.<br />
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Not to be outdone, miss Lulu sat up straighter in her car seat and, in a measured (read: superior) cadence, pointed out that, "nooooOOOO..... What's IMPORTANT.... is that you didn't DIE!!!"<br />
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Smugly satisfied, she sat back in her booster, arms crossed over her chest and a signature Lulu smirk on her defiant little face. <br />
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And who can argue with that kind of logic? I searched the rearview mirror, finding Plato's eyes already seeking mine. I smiled at him. He shrugged and rolled his eyes.<br />
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That's my boy. Picking his battles already. <br />
<br />
And Lulu, her self-confidence ratcheted up a precious notch.<br />
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Hey, everyone's a winner.Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-11948212026895213802009-12-05T22:16:00.006-06:002009-12-05T22:51:28.863-06:00O Tannenbaum...Well since I'm home now, and jobless (for the moment), we went ahead and got our Christmas tree early this year. Last year? We didn't even go out and get a tree. We put up an old cheapo fake at the last minute and didn't take the time enjoy it at all.<br /><br />Our current tree stands proud in the corner of the living room, all 8 feet of real Fraser Fir. The kids are thrilled, the scent of pine fills the house, and the season seems to have begun.<br /><br />This evening we broke out the boxes of decorations and let the kids have at the tree. Of course only the bottom 5 feet or so got decorated, mostly in the front, but it was so cute!<br /><br />I was in charge of unwrapping the ornaments and telling the kids stories about each one. "What's THIS one, Mommy?!" they chirp, offering me an ornament, breathless with excitment.<br /><br />"This one is from your first Christmas, Plato...." I say, holding up a giraffe ornament with a little blue pacifier around its neck. His eyes widen and a smile of pure glee lights his face as he gingerly takes the ornament from me, handling it as if it is priceless.<br /><br />"Me! Mommy, Me!!" squeals Lulu, as I search for something of hers. I pull out a large foam snowman that houses a picture of her at 6 months, fluffy hair and adorable toothless grin on display. "This is you when you were a tiny baby, Lulu..." She claps and giggles, bouncing excitedly. "Look at my fuzzy hair, Mommy!"<br /><br />We compare Plato's hand size at age 5 months with his current size. We delicately handle homemade tatted snowflakes passed down through generations. The kids ooh and aah over ornaments dated years before either of them were born. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy DID celebrate Christmas before you two were born," I grin.<br /><br />Designer trees are beautiful, even gorgeous, with their coordinated ornaments and perfectly placed lights. And sure, someday I want one. Maybe as my "second tree."<br /><br />When I actually have a house large enough to accommodate a second tree. Which is hard to swing when you're jobless. But I digress.<br /><br />For now, my mismatched ornaments and homemade keepsakes make the most beautiful tree I can imagine. Its uniquely ours, and will provide precious moments for years to come.<br /><br />How about you, readers? Designer trees or memorabilia mish-mash? Do tell!Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-40841635001847966702009-12-01T08:32:00.002-06:002009-12-01T08:41:09.424-06:00Pink Glove Dance for Breast Cancer AwarenessOkay I couldn't NOT post this once I saw it - a whole hospital community coming together to support breast cancer awareness. Oh sure, the dancing isn't professional like a flash-mob, but the enthusiasm is real and these people are having FUN! Fun - in a hospital. Where all too often the "classes" are separate (administration, doctors, nurses, lab, foodservice, housekeeping) and the politics and drama can run deep. Its inspiring to see all these people throwing off whatever hats they usually wear and just having a good time for a good cause. I hope you enjoy:<br /><br />PINK GLOVE DANCE<br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OEdVfyt-mLw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OEdVfyt-mLw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-5348742735282214562009-11-30T21:03:00.002-06:002009-11-30T22:23:53.629-06:00A Door Closes....Well its official - those of you who have contact with me on Facebook already know, but I have lost my job. It's been a bittersweet week, as this job loss was completely unexpected. Well, I mean, hindsight is 20/20, and looking back perhaps there were signs.... but it hit me fast and hard.<br /><br />Perhaps that's a blessing.<br /><br />All in all, though, I have reached another milestone in my life. My first "firing." OK technically I didn't get fired, I was given the option to resign. Which when I look back maybe I shouldn't have done. Maybe I should have made them fire me? Believe it or not, there are perks to being fired! Who knew? All I knew was that being fired sounded like the greatest of evils and I wanted to avoid it at all costs. So I resigned.<br /><br />And since resigning I've had the best week I can remember in the past 2 years, vacations not included.<br /><br />I've tucked my kids into bed every night. Smoothed the hair from their foreheads, and kissed their soft, chubby cheeks. I've refereed their arguments. I've read them stories. I've cooked! Full meals, and even dessert!! I'm rediscovering my inner domestic goddess.<br /><br />Sundays are free of the "I've got to fly today" blues. I'm sleeping in a bed with my husband again. OK that's not all its cracked up to be: I have to fight for the covers and put up with his, ahem... odors. So a King Size Bed is probably in our near future, since LuLu tends to sneak in at night and she's the human equivalent of a baby squid, wrapping her limbs around the nearest body part - usually my head. <br /><br />Oh sure, I'm losing the company's property: the car, the laptop, the printer. <br /><br />The BlackBerry. Sweet Jesus, not the BlackBerry!!! <br /><br />Aside from the money, that's the only thing I'll shed a tear over. <br /><br />A door has closed. You know what that means, right?<br /><br />(~looks around for the one that's opening~)Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-34904652795609562482009-06-16T21:25:00.003-05:002009-06-16T22:16:25.068-05:00Preschool GraduationWell its official - my baby has graduated preschool. Put away your Kleenex, it's okay, really.<br /><div></div><div> </div><div>Funny thing is, I didn't know she was actually IN preschool. </div><br /><div></div><div>Come to find out, she has been in preschool for exactly 2 weeks. She turned 5 over Memorial Day weekend, and moved from the "4-year-old class" to Pre-K, aka Preschool. </div><br /><div></div><div>Two weeks!! And graduating already!! My Lulu, preschool prodigy. Takes after her mother, I'd say...!</div><br /><div></div><div>It was all very cute, in an eyerolling kind of way. The kids had fun, sang us some songs, pictures were taken, there was cake and punch. Most of the parents stood around and chatted, probably about their little geniuses. I was amazed at how many people seemed to be thoroughly caught up in the whole affair. </div><br /><div></div><div>We busted out as fast as possible. The fanfare was borderline nauseating.</div><br /><div></div><div>We had just endured what JeepMan calls a "Hallmark Holiday." An occasion made up for the sole purpose of selling a product. Now don't take this literally... I am not saying that Preschool Graduation was created for the selling of merchandise, but to me it illustrates the penchant for today's society to, as a friend of mine bluntly puts it, "glorify mediocrity."</div><br /><div></div><div>Some of you just gasped. </div><br /><div></div><div>You think I am calling my daughter "mediocre." Well, I suppose I kind of am. Webster defines it as "Of moderate to low quality," with a synonym of "Ordinary." Now I'm not calling Lulu "low quality," but in the vast spectrum of humanity, I suppose she is pretty ordinary. I mean, the kid is FIVE. Of course she's special and precious to us, and those who love her. But do I expect others to see her that way? </div><br /><div></div><div>You might say, "Of course!! Each child is precious and special and unique and wonderful!!" And I wouldn't argue with you. What you are likely implying, though, is that each child should be TREATED as special and unique and wonderful. And that's where I would have to politely disagree. I wouldn't presume for you to actively recognize and applaud my child's fabulousness with enthusiasm. The fact is, all children being unique, special, and precious... well doesn't that put them all on the same shelf? </div><br /><div></div><div>See? In the words of one of my favorite <a href="http://www.despair.com/viewall.html">Demotivators</a>: "Always Remember That You Are Unique. Just Like Everyone Else."</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348129557502646546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 173px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HDcqULpNxFY/Sjhffze2WRI/AAAAAAAAAdU/t-P-h8jqWHs/s400/Individuality.gif" border="0" />Call me a kill-joy, party pooper, whatever... I just don't see the point of celebrating all these so-called "milestones." Its not for the kids. Lulu doesn't have any clue what just happened, she just knows we took her out for a Frosty afterward. And guess what? She and all her friends will be right back at school tomorrow like nothing ever happened. Its for the parents, and looking around the crowd at this gala event, there were two kinds: freakishly enraptured and checking their watches. Not much middle ground.<br /><div></div><br /><div>To me a milestone should represent a pivotal point in the life of the person experiencing it. Birth, death, yes. Marriage, sure. </div><br /><div></div><div>Graduation... I suppose, but don't ask everyone and their friends' friends to celebrate with you. It makes people feel obligated and generally annoyed. Oh, they may come, but believe me, they are bored out of their minds. </div><br /><div></div><div>Now I don't assume I speak for <em>everyone</em>, but I certainly speak for many and likely a majority when I say that your graduation, or your child's graduation, is really only monumental to you, your child, and perhaps grandparents or very close relatives. To anyone else, it's 2 or more hours of life that they will never recoup. And be it known that I speak of high school graduation, or possibly college. </div><br /><div></div><div>Not Junior High. Or Primary School. Or Kindergarten.</div><br /><div></div><div>Or Preschool. Seriously, people. </div>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-43505940446348428112009-06-05T14:55:00.005-05:002009-06-07T01:14:11.801-05:00Alas, Poor Eggy... I Knew Him Well...A couple weekends ago I was inside, folding laundry - one of my most detested domestic chores - when the kids rushed in excitedly from outside. I knew it was a big deal, as their physical presences were preceeded by pounding footsteps and breathless cries of, "It's MINE!" "Dad said I could hold it TOO! You have to SHARE!!" This is really nothing new in our house but I WAS curious as to what could have captivated them so thoroughly.<br /><br />As they burst into the living room, tromping all over and scattering my neat piles of freshly-folded laundry, their heavy breathing and dilated pupils spoke to the true extent of their excitement. They stretched all four of their hands toward me, together cupping something that they obviously considered highly precious.<br /><br />In the makeshift "nest" of their four hands was a perfect-looking Robin egg. Blue with tiny brown speckles, not even a miniscule crack in its shell. It was a little miracle of nature, and the kids were entranced. They were also FULL of ideas.<br /><br />Lulu's concern was property ownership, and she kept admonishing Plato, "It's OURS, Plato. Dad SAID. It's OURS, right Mommy?"<br /><br />Plato's concerns were for the egg. He was making plans to incubate it and hatch it, checking all over for a secure surrogate "nest" and appropriate nesting materials.<br /><br />While they were making themselves busy fulfilling this mission, I was left to babysit the newly christened "Eggy." I looked at him warily, wondering why exactly he was found on the ground intact, as opposed to in the security of his nest or smashed to bits by a pillaging marauder. I gingerly sniffed it. Much as I was certain I'd smell a rat, Eggy smelled just fine. I've heard of mother birds ridding their nests of rotten eggs, but I would figure if little Eggy was rotten, I'd be able to sniff him out pretty easily. Nope - he smelled like fresh mown grass and that's about it.<br /><br />I let the kids make him a nest from a paper cup and some layers of tissue paper. They each wanted to take turns "guarding" the nest, so I indulged their creative ideas for awhile. Eventually though, I told them that Eggy might prefer to sit in a quiet sunny corner of our kitchen. After much pressuring, they agreed reluctantly.<br /><br />That evening at the dinner table, Eggy was the topic of conversation. I tried my best to encourage the kids' imaginations without getting their hopes up too high. I kept mentioning that we didn't know what was actually in that egg, maybe there was no baby bird at all, or maybe it had died. Just to prepare them.<br /><br />They were not to be deterred, however... I overheard them conspiring together about how to get Grandma to give them her bird cage, since Eggy would definitely be needing one when he hatched.<br /><br />That night, all slept peacefully, and in the morning, Eggy got special status at the head of the table as the kids ate breakfast together. JeepMan and I went about our usual getting-ready-for-work routine. Nothing seemed particularly out of place.<br /><br />The kids were fed and dressed, JeepMan was ready to go, and I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when from the kitchen came a loud "ARRRRGH!!!" of pure disgust. This was followed by several things simultaneously: the pounding of Lulu's feet as she ran full-tilt into the bathroom to wrap herself around my left leg, the roar of JeepMan yelling, "ALLRIGHT!! WHO DROPPED THE EGG?!?!" and the horrified wail of Plato screaming, "LULU!!! YOU KILLED EGGY!!!"<br /><br />Lulu had been on the verge of tears but this accusation from her brother could not go unaddressed. Jutting out her chin, she stomped back toward the kitchen yelling, "PLATO!! I DID NOT KILL EGGY!! HE WAS WOTTEN!!!" She got about three steps from the kitchen, clamped both hands over her nose, did an about-face, and ran back into the bathroom, mumbling nasally, "UGH, and he SMELLS BAAAAD!"<br /><br />Now I've heard that a rotten egg represents a formidable olfactory assault, but I have never had the debatable pleasure of experiencing the odor firsthand. There are about 5 paces from our bathroom to our kitchen. At exactly two-and-a-half paces, I walked into an invisible but solid wall of stench. There was JeepMan, God love him, on his hands and knees with paper towels and spray cleaner. I had to force back a gag and backpedal with haste. The smell? It was a nearly indescribably noxious mixture of sulfer and rot. For an egg no bigger than a Hershy's Kiss, that sucker delivered a stench that would rival an entire truckload of full-to-the-brim Port-O-Pottys. Man oh man.<br /><br />After opening all the windows in the house and praying for a nice all-day breeze, we piled everyone into the car to make school and work drop-offs. About halfway to daycare, I noted Lulu holding her wrinkled-up nose in the back seat. I asked her if her hands were still stinky even after she had washed them. She shook her head decisively, once, continuing to hold her nose. "Then what is it,?" I asked.<br /><br />She looked down at her dress, brow furrowed, and held up a few ruffles. "SEE!!! I've got Eggy all over my dress and he STINKS!!"<br /><br />Thankfully we keep a spare set of clothes at daycare... what a morning!!Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-15561004094258887762009-06-03T21:18:00.004-05:002009-06-03T22:13:45.160-05:00Okay, OKAY already!!!So I just deleted approximately 250 "friends" from my facebook page. Well they weren't really friends - most were just random people that were playing the same dumb games I was playing... where you need lots of "friends" playing too in order to get anywhere.<br /><br />Well I'm not playing anymore; it's a giant timesuck and the novelty has worn off.<br /><br />It's a symbolic gesture. I have allowed FB to occupy way too much of my time since discovering it in....January maybe? But I'm back. I will TRY to post at least once a week. Really, really try. So please, my ever-so-patient and faithful readers: won't you come back to me?? I was lead astray by that demon FB, but the prodigal daughter has returned. Won't you welcome me with open arms?<br /><br />To ease myself back into this blog thingy, I've decided to start slow and easy, with a meme.<br /><br />What? Don't groan!! Memes can be good brain-juice stimulators!! And don't worry, I'm not tagging anyone. I've decided I don't play THAT game anymore either!! If you want to do this? Go right ahead!! And hey, let me know you did it cause I want to know. I'm there for you like that, see?<br /><br />But otherwise, just read, and smile, and hopefully be glad I'm back. 'Cause I'm glad I'm back...<br /><br />-----------------------<br /><br /><strong>A, B, C, D, E, F . . .<br /></strong><br /><strong>A - Age</strong>: 36 (act surprised!!!)<br /><br /><strong>B - Band listening to right now</strong>: Days of the New (Weapon & the Wound)<br /><br /><strong>C - Career future</strong>: living it, baby<br /><br /><strong>D - Dad's name</strong>: Bill<br /><br /><strong>E - Easiest person to talk to</strong>: its a toss-up... either Gina or Nik<br /><br /><strong>F - Favorite song</strong>: ONE? I have to pick ONE?<br /><br /><strong>G - Gummy Bears or Gummy Worms</strong>: Chocolate<br /><br /><strong>H - Hair</strong>: Blonde naturally, curly artificially<br /><br /><strong>I - Ice Cream:</strong> Ben & Jerry's Magic Brownies<br /><br /><strong>J - Jobs</strong>: waitress, nurse, clinical specalist<br /><br /><strong>K - Kids</strong>: two - want one? (kidding... no really, I'm kidding)<br /><br /><strong>L - Longest car ride ever</strong>: oh Lord, the bus trip to Disneyland in high school. Hell on Wheels.<br /><br /><strong>M - Mom's name</strong>: Connie<br /><br /><strong>N - Number of people you slept with</strong>: oh lots... wait, what? Oh. They don't really mean "sleep..."<br /><br /><strong>P - Phobia[s]:</strong> Falling, Unfathomable measurements (infinity, eons)<br /><br /><strong>Q - Quote</strong>: "Of course I don't have my underwear. I'm definitely not wearing my underwear." Raymond, *Rain Man*<br /><br /><strong>R - Reason to smile</strong>: Love<br /><br /><strong>S - Song you sang last</strong>: Days of the New - Touch, Peel & Stand<br /><br /><strong>T - Time you wake up</strong>: when I have to, otherwise leave me alone!!<br /><br /><strong>U - Unknown fact about me</strong>: If I tell you, then it will not be "unknown"<br /><br /><strong>V - Vegetable you hate</strong>: onions (I hate the crunch *shudder*)<br /><br /><strong>W - Worst habit</strong>: nail-picking<br /><br /><strong>X - X-rays you've had</strong>: I get x-rayed nearly every day, folks.<br /><br /><strong>Y - Yummy food</strong>: Seafood or Sushi<br /><br /><strong>Z - Zodiac sign</strong>: Pisces - I'm a lover, not a fighter.<br /><br /><br />Okay, folks, we're rolling!! And if you have any post ideas, please let me know!!<br /><br />xoxoxoxoxoMom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-34295350229238288182009-04-26T12:35:00.002-05:002009-04-26T12:52:32.591-05:00Random Kid FunniesIt's been awhile since I've done any Kid Funnies - in part due to the fact that I'm around my kids a lot less. Nonetheless, they DO still say some hilarious things, and I sometimes have the presence of mind to write them down for publication! Here are a few of late:<br /><br />-------------<br />Plato had his half-birthday celebration at school last month. He is a summer baby so never gets to do his ACTUAL birthday at school. He got to be the "Star of The Week," brought treats, the whole 9 yards. When I asked him about his special day, he said excitedly,"Mom!! For my birthday? In Music? The whole class sang happy birthday to me and I got to hit a BONG!!!" <br /><br />I was speechless for a few seconds. Seeing the look on my face, he explained, "You know, like when we were at the Mongolian Grill and I put a tip in the jar and got to hit the BONG and make that loud noise?"<br /><br />"Oh!! Honey, I think you mean a GONG..."<br />--------------<br /><br />My dad sent us some pictures in an email of the President's visit to his hometown. He was involved in preparations for the President's visit, and got to watch the helicopters land and the president go to his limo, all from the roof of his work building. One of the pictures he sent was titled, "My Friends," and was a photo of 3 snipers posing with their "golf bags."<br /><br />Try explaining snipers to a 4-year-old. Plato got it, but Lulu was just confused. I used an example of a butterfly flying across the street. <br /><br />"See that butterfly? A sniper could shoot it with a gun and not miss it. They're really really good at shooting things."<br /><br />She processed this for awhile, then asked, "....sooooo, they like to shoot butterflies?"<br /><br />"No, honey, that was just an example!! Butterflies are small, and that one is far away, and a sniper can shoot something small from very far away, that's all I'm saying."<br /><br />She was not to be deterred. "But butterflies won't hurt you, so you SHOULDN'T SHOOT THEM!!"<br />----------------<br /><br />Another Plato-ism:<br /><br />JeepMan: "I brought you kids some gum, who wants some?"<br /><br />Plato/Lulu: "ME!!!"<br /><br />Plato: "What kind is it?"<br /><br />JeepMan: "Cinna-Mint"<br /><br />Plato: "Sediment? What kind of gum is THAT?!?"<br />----------------------<br /><br />And the not-s0-funny:<br /><br />Plato: "Mom? What does a boy have to do to help a girl make a baby?"<br /><br />GAH!!! He's only 7!!Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-58203147792679421622009-04-21T21:12:00.003-05:002009-04-21T21:36:31.355-05:0050 Lashes With A Wet NoodleOh my. <br /><br />I am so delinquent!! My blogging has taken a backseat. Taken a hike. Gone on sabbatical. <br /><br />I've ignored it horribly. <br /><br />There are all kinds of excuses: busy with work (extremely), busy with other things (working out - good!) (Facebook - bad!), lack of inspiration.... blah blah blah. But you don't care about the excuses. <br /><br />Some of you have told me you miss me; that's so sweet and I thank you so much. I've missed me, too. In a twisted way, I've sort of lost part of myself (the part you know here) in a quest to find myself (the thinner, inner me; the professional me). <br /><br />Nothing radical or wacky has happened in my life, really. And I spend so much time away from my kids that there isn't nearly as much inspiration there, either. I am hoping I'm just in a doldrums stage of my life. The past 9 or 10 months has been one long "transition period;" that is, I'm following my gut instinct and waiting to make a big family decision until it feels right. <br /><br />No, I'm not divorcing my husband (yet! lol). I'm deciding if, when, and where to relocate our little family for my job. See, I love my job. Really, truly love it. In 13 years as a career woman, I have never been able to say that. So I am loathe to give it up, but I also loathe the travel. The overnight stuff, fly in a plane, rent a car, stay in a hotel stuff. The travel issue is easily resolved: by moving. <br /><br />Moving, though, isn't such an easy decision as it may seem. I am one of 2 children. JeepMan is an only child. My sister doesn't have children (yet). Therefore, my children are the ONLY grandchildren on both sides of our family. We live, quite literally, in between the grandparents. An hour east or west will land us at their homes. A half hour further west puts us at my sister's front door. It's really ideal.<br /><br />We love our town. We love the kids' school. We love being able to see family whenever we want. JeepMan has almost 10 years at his job - which is good and bad. He doesn't love his job. He's just comfortable there. <br /><br />If we move, the obvious location for us would put us 3 1/2 hours from my folks', 5 from my in-laws. It would be a bigger city, but really it wouldn't offer us any great benefit other than the fact that I would be home most nights. No great recreation opportunities, no beautiful scenery, no family, higher cost of living, questionable job for JeepMan... <br /><br />But oh, the lure of being home most nights.<br /><br />Other options are hope and pray something amazing happens with my company closer to home, or say heck with it and grab a job with my company somewhere cool, like Colorado. Really, being 8 hours from our family wouldn't be that much different than being 4-5 hours!! And I've always wanted to live near mountains.<br /><br />*sigh* sorry to be a downer. I suppose this is why I haven't written in so long!!<br /><br />I'll collect some more kid funnies and be back in a bit. Thanks for sticking with me!! <3Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-75906673438344956122009-02-21T23:51:00.004-06:002009-02-22T00:07:20.327-06:00Kid FunniesA couple quickie kid funnies from this weekend:<br />--------------<br />Today I decided to exercise at home rather than at Curves. I changed into my yoga pants and tank top, and as I was changing Lulu said she wanted to "exter-size" with me. I said sure, and we proceeded.<br /><br />As we were stretching on the floor in Child's Pose, Lulu and I were making faces at each other from under our arms. We were giggling like crazy!<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305498883273011378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 175px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 117px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HDcqULpNxFY/SaDrH-W4MLI/AAAAAAAAAdE/6l7lNQ0Ml2o/s400/childs+pose.bmp" border="0" />As we rolled to our sides, Lulu asked me, "Mommy, why are you growing your hair so long?" I HAVE been growing my hair for the past few months, and was surprised she'd suddenly made an issue of it.<br /><br />"Well, honey, I want a different hairstyle. And when it's long, I can pull it back into a ponytail."<br /><br />She stared at me a moment with her brow furrowed, then seemed to grasp what I was saying.<br /><br />"No, Mommy, not THAT hair!! I was talking about your armpits!"<br /><br />Guess its been a while since I shaved. *blush*<br /><br />---------------<br /><br />Plato was snuggling in bed with me this morning. He was in a speculative mood. We were suddenly talking about life after death.<br /><br />"Mom? When we die we turn into angels, right?"<br /><br /><em>Right, honey. That's what I think.</em><br /><br />"Well, if you die before me, you'll be an angel first. When I die will I be able to see you ever again?"<br /><br /><em>Of course, Plato! </em><br /><br />"Well, how will I find you? Or how will you find me?"<br /><br /><em>Well, honey, when people love each other very much, their spirits can always find each other, no matter how far apart they may seem.</em><br /><br />He mused on this for a long moment.<br /><br />"Like how? <strong><em>Echolocation</em></strong>?"<br /><br />Holy crap. This kid is unbelievable!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HDcqULpNxFY/SaDrZJlQsGI/AAAAAAAAAdM/C0pIMbFlQoE/s1600-h/Echolocation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305499178343903330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 210px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HDcqULpNxFY/SaDrZJlQsGI/AAAAAAAAAdM/C0pIMbFlQoE/s400/Echolocation.jpg" border="0" /></a>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-67563876488225822302009-02-12T13:31:00.002-06:002009-02-12T13:38:46.740-06:0027,000 FeetI fly a lot. Several times a week, usually. Funny thing is, a year ago I hated flying. <br /><br />I didn't mind when I was a kid; it was exciting, adventuresome. But then I had kids. Somehow being up here, while everyone I love is down there, freaked me out entirely. I even had to get prescription medication to help me fly without fighting the compulsion to rip out the exit door and put myself out of my misery!<br /><br />A year and hundreds of flights later, I am at 27000 feet again. Behavioral modification therapy (entirely self-guided) has worked wonders, and now I am one of those freaks of nature that can sleep through all the pings and weather updates, pee during turbulence withouit getting my ass stained blue, and devote my entire attention to my book through the bumpiest takeoffs and landings. <br /><br />I'm a Frequent Flyer, officially.<br /><br />As such, I always want the aisle seat. Of course there's the legroom issue, but I can also get off the plane and make my connection, rental car, or home more quickly (really! 10 minutes can make or break you!). Mostly its because I'm just impatient. <br /><br />I used to request a window seat. Yes, REQUEST. I wanted to stare out the window at the scenery. Feel the sensation of the ground falling away and my stomach falling with it. Find shapes in the puffy clouds. <br /><br />That was the dreamer in me, and I've put her away a lot lately. I don't have the time.<br /><br />I found her again today. My case cancelled, and I had to get a standby flight. I made it, got on board, and the plane was nearly empty. The seats were nice and new, it was a comfortably warm temperature, and the air portals were blowing cool air gently on my face. The flight attendants were pleasant, and Captain Dan came out to greet us personally. <br /><br />I still got my aisle seat, but there was no one next to me and the windows were clean and scratch-free. <br /><br />I feel good today. Really, truly, good. And I'm headed home. Tonight I will be holding my children in my arms and kissing their luscious round cheeks. <br /><br />Basking in my contentment, I did not open my book. Instead, I watched out the window. Watched as the ground fell away, buildings shrinking exponentially. I gave myself over to centrifugal force and sank into my seat as the plane banked steeply but smoothly. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the warmth of the sun on my face as the plane burst through the heavy blanket of clouds. <br /><br />It's always sunny up there. I tend to forget that, or not care. Up there, there is no spatial reference. I could be giant or tiny. <br /><br />An airplane is a curiously intimate setting. I'm as alone as I want to be. But if the situation is right, I might make a brief new acquaintance.<br /><br />And the white noise is lovely, muting the ambient noise of conversation and allowing me to fold into myself and float gently and weightlessly in my head. Its almost as nice as silence. <br /><br />At 27000 feet, there is no stress. Phones are off. Computers are off. No one will fault me for being unavailable; I was on a plane. Of course.<br /><br />But all good things, as they say....<br /><br />Every flight ends in an airport. And airports are the polar opposite of 27000 feet. <br /><br />No wonder everyone is in such a hurry to board the plane.Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-34290376621016408762009-01-27T18:57:00.004-06:002009-01-27T20:26:25.530-06:00I Hate My HusbandSo I'm not into New Years' Resolutions. I think they're lame. I don't get why you have to have a special day to make commitments to change.<br /><br />That said, the timing of my commitment to get into better shape and lose some weight was, well... <em>coincidental</em>.<br /><br />I refuse to call it a New Years' Resolution because if I do, I will surely break it.<br /><br />For the past few years, as my metabolism has slowed and my diet and exercise regime has remained unchanged, the pounds have crept on. My recent goal for the dreaded "Holidays" has been to not GAIN any weight, and I have succeeded.<br /><br />Weight gain or no, however, I am always left with a "holiday hangover." Not the alcohol-induced kind, but the overindulgent kind. I love good food. I have a horrible sweet tooth. And in a social situation, it's very hard for me to monitor what's going in my mouth. So while I might not eat in <em>excess</em>, I certainly eat <em>poorly</em>. Fat after fat, carb after carb. By January I feel like a giant beached walrus. Every year.<br /><br />Well this year, I decided to make a significant change. Until recently, I didn't need to exercise to lose weight. Cut the portions, moderate the simple carbohydrates, watch the fats: PRESTO! 20 lbs lighter.<br /><br />Not so much this last year.<br /><br />Is 35 a magic number? Did my metabolism hit a predestined wall? Who knows. Who cares?<br />The end result is the same. Dieting alone wasn't working.<br /><br />I'm not stupid. I KNOW exercise is important. I have always done some form of core/strength training. I love resistance training. Isometrics. Yoga. Pilates. Abs, buns, thighs. Bring it.<br /><br />I <em><strong>despise</strong></em> cardio. Always have. Even in high school, in my prime, running track, I hated it. Hate the feeling that I can't catch my breath. Hate the burning in my lungs, the coppery taste in my mouth. The hammering heart. The rubber muscles. The lactic-acid buildup: the "<em>burn</em>."<br /><br />And conventional cardio is just plain <u>Bor</u>-<u>Ing</u>.<br /><br />I don't run. I won't ever run again...on purpose. As in - if I'm not being chased. My knees, hips, and ankles can't take it with my arthritis. It hurts my back when my, *<em><span style="font-size:85%;">ahem</span></em>*, <strong>ample</strong> bosom is bouncing along (trust me, they don't make a bra that can restrain these girls on a jog!).<br /><br />Treadmills, stair climbers, ellipticals, stationary bikes: dull, dull, boring, dull. Music? Not a distraction. TV? Book? Nope and nope.<br /><br />So I finally found the solution... <em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>SNEAK</strong></span></em> in the cardio. Get it with your resistance training!<br /><br />I joined Curves. 30 second intervals of intensive targeted-muscle-group resistance training, with 30 seconds of recovery (cardio) in between. For 30 minutes.<br /><br /><em>You get the cardio from the resistance training.</em> <strong>GENIUS!!</strong><br /><br />But this isn't an ad for Curves. Do what you want, I don't care. Whatever works for you.<br /><br />The point is, I'm proud of myself. I've been vigilant about my diet. I've been busting my butt at Curves. Hey, baby... I've lost SEVEN pounds. In three weeks. Not bad, you might say.<br /><br />What's the problem?, you might ask.<br /><br />It's HIM. JeepMan.<br /><br />My rat-bastard husband.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I love him.<br /><br />But I hate him too.<br /><br /><em><strong>That</strong></em> <em><strong>Man</strong></em> has not lifted a weight. He has not done any form of cardio outside of his daily routine. He has not changed a THING except his diet, which is essentially the same as <em>my</em> diet, just slightly bigger portions.<br /><br />And he has lost 20 lbs since Jan 3rd.<br /><br />Stab me in the eye with a fork. Push bamboo splinters under my fingernails. Put me in a roomful of chocolate that <u><strong>I</u></strong> <strong><u>can't</u> <u>eat</u></strong>.<br /><br />It's not fair. I hate him.Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-75966643491625024612009-01-25T19:06:00.002-06:002009-01-25T19:09:45.133-06:00AWOLSorry I've been AWOL. I've been swamped with work, trying to be a mom, and sticking to my new exercise routine. I have a big meeting coming up next week, ALL week, and I seem to be getting behind in everything, including blogging and visiting blogs.<br /><br />I've also become somewhat addicted to Facebook, and I'm trying to wean myself. It's a process.<br /><br />So please don't leave me. I will be back. <br /><br />Thanks. :)Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-56903047673610329982009-01-12T20:11:00.004-06:002009-01-12T21:47:19.664-06:00Christmas: The AfterwordSorry I've been away but I've been kinda busy with work and I actually joined a GYM! If you can call <em>Curves</em> a gym. It's circuit training, and it's kicking my butt. In a good way. I think.<br /><br />Anywhoo - I promised you a belated crappy Christmas gift story, so here goes. Coincidentally, this gift was also from "Unclue" Mike, the giver of the aforementioned stolen coffee. He got the kids each a book, one that you special order from some company that then inserts the child's name into the story as a protagonist. Sounds like something any 4 or 7 year old would be pleased with, right?<br /><br />Plato got one of these when he was 3, also from Mike, who spelled his own name throughout the book as "Unclue Mike." Plato couldn't have cared less, but it made JeepMan and I snicker-snort every time we read it.<br /><br />So I wondered, as these books arrived in the mail, if the same mistake would have been repeated. Plato would certainly notice now, and even Lulu might: she writes her name everywhere she can, and has even learned some other words to read and spell.<br /><br />The wail that erupted from her as she opened her book was pathetic. I tried to calm her and find out what was wrong, and finally just grabbed the book. He'd spelled her name wrong. Phonetically. As in "Loo-Loo." She was so mad that Plato got his own book and she didn't that she flung the book in the trash and had a temper tantrum right in the living room.<br /><br />Poor thing. All I could do was comfort her and explain that Unclue Mike isn't the best speller in the world, but at least he tried.<br /><br />She was having none of it. I think he's on her naughty list until further notice. That girl can hold a grudge, big time.<br /><br />--------------------------------<br /><br />The next Christmas epilogue involves MIL. You didn't think it would all just stop because Christmas is over, did you? Oh, no!<br /><br />It must be understood that MIL had specifically asked us not to get her the usual college-team apparel and knick-knacks that we usually get her (she's a knick-knack fiend), and instead asked for some music CDs and maybe a bottle of wine.<br /><br />My MIL fancies herself a wine snob. Because her friends fancy themselves wine snobs. So I suppose she is a wine snob by osmosis, because she certainly hasn't studied wine or had a wide range of exposures to wine. Regardless. By turns her self-proclaimed snobbery can be humorous (she calls "Riesling" "<em>Reasoning</em>"), annoying, or downright embarassing (complaining over a perfectly good bottle of wine at a restaurant).<br /><br />Well we got the CDs, and ended up getting her 2 bottles of wine. She only likes sweet whites. Recently she's begun to try reds, but only with ice in them, as she thinks they taste horrid at room temperature. Hmmm....her friends must be dabbling in reds as well...<br /><br />We didn't go too much out on a limb for fear her head might explode: we got her her favorite brand of Riesling, and a second bottle of the same brand's Late Harvest Riesling (sweeter). Reasoning (ha ha) that the sweeter the better, I figured we could introduce her to something new while not venturing too far outside of her, <em>*ahem*</em> 'area of expertise.'<br /><br />She seemed pleased with the wines when she opened them, and we had her favorite with dinner. I suggested she open the other so we could compare, but she refused. We told her to just let us know what she thought.<br /><br />JeepMan went to visit her the week after the holiday, after dropping me off at the airport. He'd actually forgotten about the wine, but he hadn't been in the door for 10 minutes when she told him, "That wine you got me? I had to dump the whole bottle down the drain. It tasted like VINEGAR."<br /><br />This is nothing new. A few years back, someone she hangs with poured a bottle down the drain for tasting like vinegar, and ever since that has been the fate of approximately 1 in 3 of the bottles she opens. I myself have been told by a sommelier that I have a discriminating palate. Who knew? But at a wine-tasting with a group, I was able to pick up on some qualities of the wines that many others could not discern. Cool. But the point is, of all the wine I have drunk over the years, I have only opened 2 bad bottles. And only ONE of them was actually vinegary.<br /><br />But here's the real kicker. She asked JeepMan: "Did you even look at the date on the bottle when you bought it?? It's from 2006!!"<br /><br />(forehead slap)<br /><br />(ow)<br /><br />Were I the benefit-of-the-doubt-giving kind, I might say, "Well, maybe she knows something I don't. Maybe 2006 was a really bad year for late-harvest Riesling in the Sonoma Valley..."<br /><br />I can't extend that sort of latitude here. She thinks 2006 represents some type of shelf-life recommendation. A "Use By" date.<br /><br />She thinks the wine was expired.<br /><br />So what do you think? Wouldn't a normal person just not bring it up? Or if pressed, lie? But she did neither.<br /><br />That makes me think she is:<br />a) self-aggrandizing;<br />b) condescending;<br />c) both.<br /><br />I'm going with c.<br /><br />And next year, I think I'll just skip the preliminaries. She's getting a gallon of distilled white vinegar. She can just dump it straight away.<br /><br />And hey, it'll clean her drain too!Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3526362046500894416.post-59426863045911253532009-01-04T16:07:00.008-06:002009-01-12T20:11:21.643-06:00Christmas With the In-Laws: A SynopsisI abandoned, years ago, the hope that whomever I married would be bringing me into a family similar to my own: full of harmony, love, acceptance, goodwill, and contentment. Those dreams were laid aside, albeit sadly, when I knew that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">JeepMan</span> was the man I would marry - <em>IN SPITE OF</em> his family.<br /><br />Part of the reason I love him has to do with the fact that he has overcome such a crummy childhood and forged his own path to his destiny of choice rather than stumbling blindly down the well-trodden path that so many of his family before him have chosen. You can read more here about <a href="http://mom-in-scrubs.blogspot.com/2007/03/story-of-jeepman.html">The Story of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">JeepMan</span></a>. For now, I'll move past that to this very Christmas.<br /><br />I am frequently reminded, not-so-nicely, about the stark differences between the family I was born into, and the family into which I married. But never so harshly as the annual debacle they call Christmas.<br /><br />Invariably, it begins with the fact that no one seems to be able to remember where our little family spent the actual day of Christmas the year before (we do "every-other-year" for Christmas and Thanksgiving). This year, it was Christmas with the In Laws, even though we did Thanksgiving with them as well, since they came on vacation to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Moab</span> with us.<br /><br />Did MY family complain? Did they act jealous? OF COURSE NOT. Their comment was, "Well, with Tiff's new job she doesn't get Christmas off this year anyway, so that should work out great! We'll have it next year!" God love 'em...<br /><br />Christmas at the In Laws it was: and so the Rube Goldberg Machine was set in motion.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287675618058524242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HDcqULpNxFY/SWGY9ZXfVlI/AAAAAAAAAcc/01M07xGpGOo/s400/Goldberg+WakeUp.jpg" border="0" />The task: get through Christmas without permanent harm, physical or emotional, being inflicted on any family member. Sounds simple, right?<br /><br />Well, HA!! I say... HA!<br /><br />It's NEVER simple when the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">InLaws</span> are involved.<br /><br />It started about a week before Christmas. A letter arrived at our house. Addressed to the children. FROM SANTA. Postmarked? you guessed it: the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">InLaws</span> hometown (forehead slap). The kids didn't seem to notice, nor did they seem to notice that "Santa" writes an awful lot like Grandma. The content was fairly benign, and the kids seemed to forget about it quickly. Until MIL mentioned it out of the blue a couple days later and I was on damage-control duty once again. </p><p>I am making the most of these very few years of Santa-Faith, which are numbered, I know. Plato is 7 1/2 and has already expressed doubts. Lulu is darn sharp, and it won't be long after he abandons his belief that she will follow. So who knows? This (and every year to follow) could be <strong>IT</strong>; <em>The Last Year</em>. I'm determined not to make any false steps and give it all away.<br /><br />MIL certainly has good intentions, but is severely lacking in the stealth department. The kids stayed with her for 3 days before Christmas as MIL had those days off and I was out of town. Rather then make the kids go to daycare we figured they'd have more fun at her house. Which they did...<br /><br />When we arrived for Christmas, Lulu ran into my arms screaming, "Mama, Mama!! Santa Claus called us at Grandma's HOUSE! Plato wouldn't talk to him. He was scared. But I did! I told him I was a good girl this year and I want a horse for Christmas!!" Aside from the obvious issue with the horse, I was instantly pissed. I looked at MIL and she was grinning smugly. I raised my eyebrows, she didn't flinch. I looked at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">JeepMan</span> and he was stunned as well. </p><p>But Lulu seemed happy, so I figured, whatever. Not worth ruining Christmas over something like that.<br /><br />Later Lulu whispered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">breathily</span> in my ear, "Mama, I don't think it was the REAL Santa who called us...it sounded like Grandpa! I think he was just teasing us." I told her she was probably right, but not to tell Grandpa she knew.<br /><br />We've told the kids that Santa only brings presents and fills stockings at <strong>our</strong> house; that at each Grandparents' house the Grandparents fill them. MIL will not go along with this. She <em>insists</em> that Santa fills her stockings (she also calls them "socks" which raises my hackles, but I grit my teeth and stick with "stockings"). As the kids plowed into the stocking booty this year, out tumbled unopened Happy Meal toys and multiple little gifts with Hobby Lobby price tag stickers on them. {{**<em><span style="font-family:courier new;">sigh</span></em>**}} </p><p>You know, because the elves shop at Hobby Lobby and have a contract with McDonald's for their overflow toy inventory.</p><p>Hopefully the kids are listening to ME about Santa not actually coming to Grandma's...<br /><br />Gift-opening proceeded without incident; in fact, I have to give props to MIL for not going completely overboard on the gifts this year. It helps that she bought us a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Wii</span>, so there wasn't much left over to create the usual piles of useless, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">cheezy</span>, lame gifts. One exception: the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">gymongous</span> gaming table she bought the kids. </p><p>It has pool! Air hockey! Foosball! Backgammon...! Ugh. It's big and cheap. And we have no where to set it up in our small house with no storage! And SHE <strong>KNOWS</strong> THAT. </p><p>I don't know why, but we get one of these types of gifts every year from her. They're in a pile in the basement, or at Goodwill, or in the landfill. What a waste.<br /><br />On to dinner. This is where it got interesting.<br /><br />JeepMan's cousin Shawn has been in and out of the family's lives for years. He's my age; read: "old enough to know what's right and wrong." He found out a few years ago that he has a son, who is now 9 years old. The poor kid lived with his mother, who is dumb as a rock, for years. Shawn is smart, and managed to get custody of his son. Great, right?<br /><br />Well, being smart does not mean you make smart choices, or live as a productive member of society. Here's the picture. Shawn has been in and out of jail in several states over the years for drug possession. Finally, he moved back to his hometown, found out he has a son, found himself a stripper girlfriend (ahem, "cocktail waitress in a strip bar," says she), and proceeded to father two more children. They've never married because the welfare (or whatever) is better if she's a single mother.<br /><br />In the meantime, they've managed to purchase motorcycles for the whole family, drive a Cadillac <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Escalade</span>, breed pit-bulls, and move to a 3000 sq/ft home on an acreage, brand new. All on the salary of a cocktail waitress and on-again-off-again construction worker....<br /><br />Doth my nose detect a rodent?<br /><br />Well, the shit hit the fan a few months ago for them: Shawn was arrested for drug trafficking, the kids were taken away, his girlfriend was arrested but the charges were eventually dropped, everything they own except their home was taken away, the 2 kids of theirs were returned to the home, and his son was sent back to his mother. </p><p>"Dumb as a rock" trumps "drug-lord" any day, I guess.<br /><br />So he's currently in jail for (presumably) a long time. Now if I were the girlfriend, would I show up to the Christmas festivities of my imprisoned-boyfriend's family? No way!! I'd be so <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">freakin</span>' <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">embarrassed</span> I would want to crawl in a hole and die. Not this woman. Nope! She trucked the kids right over and made herself at home. And guess who got to sit by her at dinner? Moi. I heard all about how he's innocent, how hard it is without him, how she has to get home by 4pm to catch his Christmas Day phone call, blah blah blah. Just shoot me, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ok</span>? With a tranquilizer dart would be nice.<br /><br />Also gracing the Christmas table were: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">JeepMan's</span> grandma, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Unclue</span> Mike, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">JeepMan's</span> cousin LT, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">LT's</span> girlfriend.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">JeepMan's</span> Grandma is a bitch. I don't use that term lightly. She truly is mean-spirited, manipulative, and consummately negative. When she walks into a room, she just drains all the good energy right out of it. She never talks to anyone, just sits in a corner and glowers, occasionally rising with a dramatic showing of strain and pain, and shuffles out to the garage to smoke. What a wonderful role model for my children, huh? They can't stand her.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Unclue</span> Mike [<em>sic</em>] (that's how he spells his name, really!) recently moved back to be near MIL. He's her brother and he basically exhausted the Workman's Comp system in several states before deciding to come back home and see what he could mooch off his family. He's the one that gave us the <a href="http://mom-in-scrubs.blogspot.com/2008/12/top-3-worst-christmas-gifts-of-all-time.html">Stolen Coffee </a>for our present. He's friendly enough, but is so full of shit his eyes must be brown. A few years ago he had hatched a plan about how he was going to come to the Midwest and find him a bunch of <a href="http://www.nyworms.com/eurocrawlers.htm">night-crawlers </a>(for free) and drive them back to Colorado for a profit. He's a real thinker, that one! Also a smoker, and suspected former client of his son, Shawn, details above.<br /><br />The cousin I mentioned is the one <a href="http://mom-in-scrubs.blogspot.com/2007/05/quiet-house.html">MIL decided to give a new life</a> a couple of years ago. It was a rocky situation then, but has turned out as well as could be expected. The cousin and girlfriend are as close to "normal" as any of the family gets; mostly because of the influence of the girlfriend. She comes from a stable and caring home, from what I can gather. They're young, their relationship is volatile, and I suspect they are up to their eyebrows in credit card debt...but they can function socially for the most part. They were an hour late to dinner with no excuse, which severely irked MIL, and they later had some kind of major argument (with lots of obscenities) during which I hustled myself and the kids from the room.<br /><br />After dinner, all the negative energy had me exhausted, so when Lulu went down for a nap, I fell asleep beside her. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Ahhh</span>, bliss. When I got up, half the clan was gone. We left not long after, to go see what Santa left at our house. MIL was all atwitter, telling us not to give any stuff to Goodwill (she hates that), and that she would be checking with the kids and would find out if we did...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">oooh</span>, I'm a-scared.<br /><br />We made it out exhausted but unscathed. The kids had a great Christmas at home, and at my folks' house. I guess if nothing else, the kids are getting to witness the dichotomy between families, and they can make their own choices with this valuable knowledge, right?</p><p>Next up: A belated crappy gift and the story of my MIL, aspiring <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">sommelier</span>.</p>Mom In Scrubshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14763331231675950021noreply@blogger.com10