Dipping Sauce

I've been pretty quiet lately, hence the lack of posts. I wanted to get in at least one more post for March, as it charges out 'like a lion' so here it goes:

Tonight, for dinner, I served my family the most healthful, organic, locally produced farm-fresh foods...what? You don't believe me? OK, I admit it, it was frozen fish sticks, but here's the fun part, and, as you can guess it involves children, or specifically the boy child:

Chubbs is smacking away at his fish sticks and noisily slurping his milk, blowing bubbles intermittently for good measure, when I notice that he's dipping. My chubber loves to dip his food. I don't know what it is, but I think most kids have the same affinity: food is just somehow better if you can dip it into something before cramming it into your mouth. Chubber is my 'little dipper' and tonight was no exception. He chose to have a small blob of ketchup on his plate, sort of a little decorative garnish (heaven forbid he ever actually use his ketchup for anything other than a viscous substance with which to 'drive' his 'food-car' through as a means of vicariously living the life of a monster-truck driver...), but fish sticks just aren't as good if you don't actually dip them into something.

Well, tonight, folks, the Chublet has reached a new echelon of grossology: he devoured his fish sticks after liberally dunking them (repeatedly!) into his apple sauce.

Y-U-C-K-Y!

Can you even imagine a more disgusting combination than frozen fish-sticks dipped into organic (for real!) no sugar added apple sauce? That was just way too nasty for me. Ranks right up there with the Scottish delicacy of a deep-fried Mars bar. (shuddering in revulsion, here)

So, tell me, what's the nastiest thing your sweet little offspring has decided to 'dip'?

Feeling lazy, feeling blue

I have really been lacking the desire to post lately. So, obviously, I haven't posted much. Duh. I know.

Good news: With my renewed efforts toward a healthier lifestyle I have almost made my first 10% weight loss goal. In my first week (which included quite a few flub-ups, and an unplanned trip to Izzy's to celebrate a birthday--yikes!) I managed to lose...drum roll please...a whopping 5.5 lbs.

Whoo-hoo!

I'm .5 lbs away from my first 10% goal: 6lbs.

I have a lot of weight to lose. If I look at the WHOLE-Bigger-than-life picture I'd just give up and sit down with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and mope while watching some sort of ultimately brain numbing chick-flick. So, to keep me from 'relapse' (as in succumbing to the FTW attitude, and fatalistic thinking that gets me stuck on the fast-track to increased fat cells and binging on whatever high-fructose, sodium laden, deep-fried concoction sure to make my serotonin levels even with those of a meth addict...) I'm looking at my first goal as losing a 'total' of 60 pounds.

Much more doable than the other number that I really am striving for.

5.5 lbs. isn't a whole lot. It wouldn't keep me above the yellow line on "BIGGEST LOSER" but it is a firm start. I'm also managing to maintain the attitude of 'get back on the horse' when I 'fall off' rather than subscribing to fallacious all-or-nothing thinking.

Chalk one up to me.

Now, on to the darker side of life.

Mentally, I'm struggling with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I've not received an official diagnosis of S.A.D., however, I suffer many of its symptoms. The peak of my 'blahs' coincides with the winter solstice--the shortest day of the year. I feel like a plant deprived of sunshine: I've withered (emotionally) into this lifeless, shapeless (figurative and literal--unless you count round for my shape. Ha!), blob who is lacking motivation most days to do anything. I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I don't want to do anything with anyone. I am just hoping to hit the 'fast forward' button a la Adam Sandler's movie CLICK. I go through this ever year. I have since I was a child...just my mother and I always chalked it up to missing Florida and the winter sunshine and flowers. Sigh. I can hardly wait for May sunshine and more daylight.

On the Autism spectrum: We've definitely been having our fair share (dare I say, more than fair share....as in the Lion's Share) of 'Autistic moments.'

Peanut has been irritable, defiant, tantruming, and tormenting her brother (and me) without end. I know it isn't her fault, and her psychiatrist concurs, the hoopla and lack of structure over the holidays put her over the edge. Heck, it puts typical kids (and most adults) over the edge. So, how could I expect anything different from someone with cognitive and sensory processing difficulties? Still, it doesn't make it any easier to deal with her. Even though I have a 'special needs child' it doesn't give me super-human strength, the ability to see through walls, or any more patience than having a typical child gives to any other parent. My patience still wears thin, and the decibel level of my voice soars ever heavenward. In truth, I've been ready to murder her. (only in thought---the same way we all say 'I'm going to kill you if you eat the last cookie, candy, chip, etc." ). One of the mentor moms at a MOPs meeting I once went to said something to the effect of:

"You're completely normal if you have the feeling that you'd like to
huck your child out the window. Every one of us feels like we would love to
just toss them out to escape the tantrums and difficult times. You're
normal. You're only abnormal if you never get frustrated with your child
or you actually do toss you kid out the window. Don't do that.
(all while smiling)."

This simple statement has saved me much guilt and shame. I'm normal. Lord, I'm so utterly normal, I'm the poster-child for normal. Ugh.

Chublet has been two. He acts two. He IS two. I don't really need to say much more. I remind myself, often, 'this too shall pass.'

Some introspection:

Going back to the lifestyle change, I have realized I am completely and totally obsessed with food. I figure I think about food approximately the same number of times a day as a red-blooded teenage-boy thinks about sex. Really. I think I am obsessing. Maybe that's one of the reasons why my weight has soared so high. I wonder what Freud would say (I'm glad he's dead...Dr.Phil is bad, I can only imagine how wonderful Freud would be...).

Things I'm looking forward to:

The return of normalcy to our daily schedule, and with it the return of a more sane and less psychotic little girl.

Continuing to renew my commitment (daily, hourly, minute-by-minute if need be) to my new healthier lifestyle.

Chublet eventually aging three-years-old (and my survival through his 'terrible two's').

Spring is coming. It is a long way out, but eventually the crocus will pop their periwinkle and opalescent heads though the snow and frost and herald the coming of new life and the return of sunshine.

Pinkeye

The boy has pinkeye. Again.

He got it this July when we were on holiday in Sunriver. I have no idea how he contracted it or from whom, but he did. We were there a few hours, took the kiddos to the playground, and voila! the next morning the Chubber woke up with a green, goopy, crusty eye. And, of course, it was on a Sunday. After a trip to the urgent care center in Bend he had some nasty antibiotic eye drops, and 5 days later he was good as new.

Now, this go around he started to have a bit of redness in his left eye on Friday. I didn't think much about it--the poor kid is a walking allergy, and I figured it was nothing. Saturday his eye is a bit more red looking. I still wasn't concerned, again, I figured he's a little boy---they're destructive--and he likely poked himself or something. Sunday shows up and his eye is really red, and he's grumpy. I think to myself, "Oh, no. Not again. I bet he's got pinkeye."

So, being the semi-decent mother I can be, I phone the pediatrician and leave a message with the answering service. About an hour later I get a call back from the triage nurse saying the on-call doctor can see the boy. Yay!

I must say, I really like our pediatrician, and the clinic we go to. From this Sunday's events I found out that they are open from 9:30am-7:00pm, weekdays, 9:00am-4:00pm, Saturday, and 9:00am-12:00pm on Sunday. What amazing hours, huh? I'm fortunate in that my kids are rarely sick, and because of it I don't necessarily (before yesterday) have the clinic hours memorized. I remember the days when you only saw the pediatrician during 'banker hours' and you could forget about weekends--if you were sick over a weekend you had two choices: 1) lay around the house and 'die' waiting for Monday (and hope there's an appointment open), or, 2) go to urgent care downtown and have a better chance of dying of whatever illness you had while waiting, or worse, contract whatever other awful disease from the guy who passed out on the couch next to you after a week long alcoholic-bender (I'll never get the olfactory memory erased from my head: the smell of unwashed transient and booze puke that emanated from the urgent care center).

So, clearly, compared to the 'old days' we're living in the lap of luxury.

Today I'm home from work and have the Chublet with me since he's not quite out of the contagious (24 hours on antibiotics) period. Peanut is at the sitter. I felt kinda bad dropping her off, but I don't want to risk her catching pinkeye (though, if she were to get it she'd probably have it by now). To prevent the rest of us from getting it I am on a mission to sanitize...well, pretty much everything. Chublet touches everything, so I need to clean everything. Oh joy. But, I suppose the alternative is getting pink-eye. I've never had it before, and I don't really want to find out just how fun it is. So, I've got my work cut out for me.

1,000 words and more...

...And I want a computer for Christmas, Santa.


...the award for grumpy face goes to...


And, if all else fails, cuddle your mommy

Family Portraits

Yuck.

I mean,truly, it was a horrible experience. Wardrobe malfunctions aside, usually family portraits are at worst OK and at best a lot of fun. Our family portrait, for this year, sucked.

Yep. That is the best diction that I can muster to describe it: it sucked.

We didn't do a family portrait last year because I truly did not have the energy or the need for a new picture in my living room. This year, since the Chub is not an infant, and you can't tell who it is in the picture (well, any reasonable human being with two brain cells to rub together can...but I digress) it was time to get a new one done.

Oh, yay.

The kids' outfits, as I said yesterday, matched perfectly. (I'm so completely jonesing for my Nikon--that still isn't back from the shop yet) If I had the capability, I'd post a pic of their cute little outfits. You'll just have to trust me. I'll eventually be able to post. B.J. and I did not go shopping for a new outfit for pictures. Why? I don't know. Chalk it up to lethargy or cheapness. Either would work. Amazingly, B.J. rummages though his closet and finds a pair of black slacks and a purplish dress shirt that coordinates nicely with the kids' clothes. That left me. Oh, joy.

I have had a continual wardrobe crisis for about the past 8 months or so. I lost enough weight that my clothes got too big. A good thing, right? So, I did the Dr. Phil thing and promptly got rid of all my too-big clothes (Dr. Phil says get rid of them unless you plan to fit into them again...I do NOT plan to fit into them EVER again). And, because money is always tight, and time even tighter I have not really gotten around to replacing my wardrobe. My poor co-workers must be sick-to-death of seeing me in the same 5 outfits; I know I am. Back to pictures: I have a purplish sweater but it didn't work, along with just about every other thing in my closet. I finally settled on (through barely contained tears) dark wash jeans and a (too embarrassing to admit) old black velvet top. I resolved that we'd just have our portrait 'from the waist up'. WRONG!

Whatever the photographer was thinking, I'll never know. Clearly, the whole family, except mom, looks great. Dressed up, color coordinated, picture-perfect. I tell her about my 'waist up' theory. Fat lot of good it did. She poses us, on the floor, mom (me) in front sort of leaning over to the side full body shot, B.J. squatting behind me, Peanut standing behind me on the other side, and a cranky, screaming, whiny chublet in the front of me. This is just the beginning.

Internally I'm groaning to myself, what part of 'from the waist up ONLY' did she not understand? And, to make matters worse, she is trying to get chubber to look happier than someone marching to the guillotine (his current pose) by making silly noises, playing peek-a-boo through an empty box. Normally, this type of activity makes little kids giggle and smile. Or, at least snap out of their funk. It succeeds grandly in making Chublet more and more angry. He actually becomes incensed, complete with more screaming, and, my personal favorite, throwing himself on the floor in the 'rug' pose. Can this woman simply not shut up? Can she not see she's not helping, but making things worse? For all intents and purposes, she cannot.

So, we scream our way through the family shot. When we reviewed the pictures, there was only ONE shot where we were all looking the same direction, and Chub was not openly screaming: the picture with me, full-body in front. With B.J.'s white sweat socks showing. Classy. I think we'll be the modern equivalent to a Norman Rockwell...

Family portrait done, we proceeded to torment ourselves and the kids some more: sibling shots. Let's just say that went over like a lead balloon. For a change, Peanut was compliant, smiled on cue, tilted her head 'just so' and sat still. Who was this child? On the other hand, there was the chublet: cranky, angry, flopping in the floor. The proverbial little kid pitching a fit in the grocery store. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

The kids' photos were so horrible, I didn't buy even one of them. Even the photographer who reviewed the proofs with us covered up Chublet's face and said, "these would be great if we could cut this out." I agreed.

So, the moral of the story? I don't know. All I do know is that my wardrobe malfunction will be immortalized in our 2007 Family/Christmas portrait. I'll forever remember how entirely two years old Chublet was, and that the Peanut was proportionally angelic to Chublet's evilness.

We have rescheduled the kids' portrait for next weekend. Let's hope it is less of a toddler rodeo. Please.

The Gridiron, part 3

Once we got into the game, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the tickets that we had turned out to be our old season ticket section. I thought that was kinda cool, it definitely added to the feeling of nostalgia.

See, B.J. and I went to the games while I was an undergrad/grad and 'sat' in the student section (a.k.a. the section with seats that never sits down!). After I graduated we had season tickets in Section 17. Our tickets for Saturday were Section 17, row 43, seats 11 and 12. It was such a treat to be there, and it took us back to a less dramatic time in our lives: pre-children, when both of our mothers were still happy, (relatively) healthy, and still alive.

Saturday's game was...interesting. By far not the best game I'd ever been to--that would have to have been when Joey Harrington was playing (I heart Joey!), the 2000 game against Stanford. It went into overtime. What an adrenaline rush. I lost my voice at that game, that's how good it was. Ah, what warm fuzzy feelings thinking of old games brings up. Back to the point, the November 3, 2007 game. The first quarter ducks came on strong. They had a reasonable offense and a great defense (they always have a good defense). They scored 14 points in the first 4 minutes. What a rush! The Sundevils had about equal possession time of the ball. It looked dismal at the end of the 4th quarter, but then Dennis Dixon does the rockin' fake-out pass type move, where he didn't pass, and rushes it down the field for a TD! Man! that was a-some.

Then came the second and third quarter. SNOOZE! What the heck the Ducks were thinking...I'll never know. Good thing, too, I don't think I'd ever be the same if I actually knew what 19-22 year-old college football playing men thought. That would probably (definitely) earn me a trip to the state mental facility...hmm...come to think of it a nice vacation wouldn't be too bad. I'd get to see Oprah, uninterrupted! Well, except for the other crazies in there with me probably wouldn't ever shut up. Maybe I'll stay here...I digress.

In the second and third quarter the only good play, according to moi, football expert extraordinaire (hee hee) was at the end of the second (or third, can't quite remember) where there was only one minute left on the clock and, somehow, some way, they managed to rush the end zone for an actual TD--not a field goal, or a two-point conversion, an honest-to-goodness TD. Pretty hot stuff.

The game finished out with a little more pep in the fourth, but let's face it, it wasn't what you'd call great football. We won. Against a previously undefeated Arizona State, but the victory was Luke-warm.

After the game, and helping my FIL break down the tailgater (all of about 5 mins!) we had a choice: wait in the 500+ person long bus line to get a ride to our car, or walk to the car. We decided to walk. It was a good walk--wound up being 4.5-5miles. A bit longer than I guessed it would be, but that was fine. We enjoyed the crisp autumn air, the relative quiet, and just time together, alone. B.J. and I used to go for walks in the evening all the time. I hadn't quite realized how much I missed those walks until then. Of course I love my children, more than life itself, but sometimes I don't realize just how much they have re-ordered the flow and ebb of my life until quiet moments like these. We didn't talk much on our walk. We just were. Sometimes the best times are those that aren't spoiled by unnecessary chatter.

Once we got back to my Dad's house we were regaled with how well both children did. Peanut ate and Chub did not (whoa!? That was weird). They were happy, well behaved, minded my Dad and his wife, and generally did not wear out their welcome (praise the Lord!). However, my Dad showed us a bandaged finger that resulted from watching my kidlets.

A bandaged finger? Yup. My Dad had a bandaged index finger.

I asked my dad, "So, how did that happen?"
He replied, "Well, I had some work to do on the roof with the gutters to get finished up, so I climbed up on the roof to knock it out. The next thing I know I'm moving the metal around and I catch something out of the corner of my eye."

At this point I'm thinking 'oh no.'

"And I turn and look, and there's Kai! He's on top of the roof, just standing there, watching me! I couldn't believe it. The baby is on the roof. Well, I'm scared to death that he's going to fall or get hurt, so I tossed the gutter aside quickly, and in the process sliced open my finger--a good inch-and-a-half. Probably should get stitches. Blood was spurting everywhere."

I'm a little green around the gills right now, thinking of my dad gushing blood--he bleeds like a stuck pig--and having visions of my little man on the roof.

He continues on, "I went right over to him and grabbed him. He was sure interested in watching my finger spurt--I don't think I got any on his clothes--and I carried him down the ladder. What I couldn't figure out," and he gestures here with his hands to indicate 14-16" space, "is how he managed to climb up the ladder. He's just a little guy...it scared the hell out of me."

I, on the other hand, was not the slightest bit surprised that my Chublet managed to shimmy up the ladder. He's part monkey, I swear. Didn't mean I wasn't mildly FREAKED OUT that my 2 year old managed to climb up a ladder and find himself standing on the roof, but I wasn't even remotely shocked that he could climb up there.

In the end, no harm, no foul. Dad's finger will be OK. Chubb-chubb was just trying to 'help'--he is my helper-boy, to a fault. And everyone had a good time.

The drive home was uneventful--I passed out just as we were leaving town, and woke up about 2 miles from home. What a great day.

I just love college football.

Yippee-ki-yay

Life with small children is never dull. In fact, life is always a surprise, and you never really know what type of surprise it is going to be.

Sometimes, the surprise is: Look at me! I learned how to take my diaper off and finger-paint with poop! (that is one unpleasant surprise I walked into after my 18 month old daughter woke up from nap...eugh, that was awful). Other times the surprises are like: Wow, I'm a big boy now! I learned how to climb up the ladder to the BIG slide at the park and I can now go up and slide down all by myself (yet another, more pleasant, surprise I had with my son...at the age of 13 months old (a mite scary, truth be told). He was so proud of himself).

Life is always interesting, especially with my little rugrats. Take for instance, the morning toddler rodeo. Toddler Rodeo? you say. Yes. Toddler Rodeo.

Every morning life gets extremely interesting anywhere between 6-6:45am (oh, joy, I just love early morning adventures...NOT). Chubbers wakes up with what my husband and I have come to call "monster pee-pee pants"--super soaked and fully filled wet diapers--and needs to be changed immediately (or there are...shall we say, nasty repercussions). Chubbers doesn't like to have his mega pee-pee pants changed. I don't know why he'd like to stay in them. If it were me, after a good 10+hours of marinating in my own urine, I think I'd like a fresh pair of diaper pants to, well, soil all over again. That is not the case with the boy. At least you can't say we don't get our money's worth out of the before-bed diaper.



The toddler rodeo begins with parent A or B walking into Chubber's room and saying good morning, giving him hugs, and gently telling him he has wet pants (we're trying to get that association with potty-wet pants for toileting...it may prove to be futile...) and needs to get his pee-pee diaper off. It is at this point in time that Chub defiantly (and definitely) shakes his head and protests "NO!!". Then he squirms to get down, or performs my all time favorite pose "the dead fish" (where he gets extremely heavy and limp, while simultaneously 'melting' out of my arms).

Once those tried-but-true tactics fail, he proceeds to allow us to lay him down to change him--but it is all a part of his carefully crafted master-plan of escape (too bad that the two-year-old don't realize that when you apply the same tactical strategies every morning, the unsuspecting victim (parent A or B) anticipates your moves...). He looks sweet and innocent laying there, until you start to remove the wet diaper. Then, a la salt water crocodiles from Australia, he begins performing death-rolls. It is amazing just how incredibly difficult it is to pull an angry-doesn't-want-a-diaper-change-toddler out of a death roll.



At this point in time whichever parent is changing him employs his or her own strategy to whip off the sodden (2lb. +) diaper and reposition the boy onto a clean diaper. I, personally, like the technique where I plead, pathetically, for the boy to be still followed up by getting him more or less spread-eagle and pinning his arms and legs with my legs so that I can complete my task.



Changing Chubbers in the morning is one of those tasks that I don't even attempt without at least one cup of coffee in my system. I just don't.



Now, the Rodeo wouldn't be all that awful, really, except for the fact that Chubbers has his own cheering section: The Peanut (heh, heh...like a 'Peanut Gallery'...). Peanut, likes to wander into his room as we're changing him and loves to watch her brother flip and flop around like some sort of game fish landed on 20# test line. She grins with glee while chorusing "I want to see the poop!" regardless of whether or not there is any fecal matter. I can already see visions of my sweet little girl on the playground in the future, being the one to instigate the chanting of "Fight...fight...fight" when Johnny and Isaac have a little tête à tête on the first grade playground. Lord, help me.



By the time that the monster pee-pee pants have made their way into the pee-pee bucket (the Diaper Champ) the elapsed time is approximately 10 minutes, parent A or B is thoroughly exhausted, and the boy toddles off to start his glorious, brand-new day.



Parenting; never a dull moment. Nope.

Busy, tired, ugh

I feel like I'm flying around here like a loony-toon. I have about 2 weeks left until I go back to work, and as usual, the time starts to go by fast. Like, someone hit the x32 fast-forward button. Like I'm in the movie 'Click.' It is going by even faster due to Chub-chub and his new bed.



Chubbers is out of his crib and into a toddler bed (or the floor)--on a good day. He can't seem to handle the freedom of not being in a 'cage' (crib). It is kind of like parents who haven't had a day to themselves in months, and they're so excited, nervous, scared, elated that they just run around in circles bumping into objects and walls not knowing what to do with themselves, or how to handle it. Chubbers is the same way. Just without a crib.



Last night B.J. was putting him down to bed (that's his job) and I left the house for some much needed retail therapy. When I got home I found out that Chub-o had been his typical nightmare self. He didn't want to go to bed, so he popped up and screamed, alternately, for about an hour before conking out. Then, he decided that mommy really did need to experience the joy of an angry, over-tired toddler, and woke up screaming at 11pm, 2am, and 3:45am, finally waking at 5:45am.



Oh, what joy. I feel like I have a newborn again. I think I got, maybe, 2 solid hours of sleep last night. At 5:45am I decided, blearily, when it was clear that my offspring wasn't going to sleep, that I'd lay in bed and the boy could crawl into bed with me (which he did, and then proceeded to poke me in the face and randomly on my torso, just for giggles and grins--ANNOYING!!) or run amok in the house tearing things from the shelves, walls, and whipping out a can of Krylon for some preschool art--I DIDN'T CARE!! Let me sleep, please! This system of apathy and loving neglect worked until 6:15am, when the automatic coffee pot began brewing and I finally gave up trying to sleep and succumbed to the draw of my caffeine addiction.



When will it end? This is what I get for having a daughter, whom when we put her int a big-girl bed (directly into a 'Full', not a toddler bed) she laid down for bed, popped up only one time, and thereafter slept peacefully through the night. Oh, sweet Lord, when will the boy simply lay down and sleep peacefully, like a little angel, again?



Thank goodness my coffee maker decided to work this morning. I don't know if I could have faced the world if it hadn't.

Cake Decorating & Other Forms of Torture

I'm becoming so domestic these days.

Times were, many moons ago, that I was a young independent woman who worked a simple little job and lived alone in her own house, and rarely touched a pot or pan. In fact, my friends from 'once upon a time' used to complain when they came over and tried to raid the 'fridge only to find no real food to speak of. I had been accused of having a 'bachelor's refrigerator' and I'd heard many refrains of: 'you have every condiment known to human kind in here but no food. That's messed-up!" (One of my co-workers, if she reads this, is going to throw up at that particular phrase--sorry! Just tellin' it like it is)

These days, I often cook. In fact, some months I cook nearly every night except "left-overs" night. Don't get confused, I still have those weeks where I still have every condiment known to human kind and no food, and well, we simply go out to eat. Yes. It is expensive, wasteful, and causes my waistline to creep further and further out latitudinally. However, for the most part, I cook. Healthy-ish meals, from scratch. I hate boxed 'convenience' food--it all tastes the same to me (bad) and let's face it, anything with a 3 year shelf-life shouldn't go into our bodies (note: I conveniently forget this piece of rhetoric as I order our dinner at the golden arches.)

So, along the lines of my newly donned domesticity, I have decided to take a cake decorating class with my friend, J. J. and I go out for walks on average of 2x a week. We're getting in shape--something other than round, preferably. And on one of our walks J. asked me if I'd be interested. Sure. Why not? Sounds fun. So I have officially signed up and attended my first Wilton Cake Decorating I class.

The tuition was $30.00. Not bad. Especially compared to some of my Grad School classes. On the syllabus it says that an additional $25-50 dollars in supplies may be needed. No biggie. Well, after the first class I purchased the 'essentials' and to date my total investment (not including gas for transportation) is around $90.00. Pretty spendy for a hobby. Or, I'm just a cheap-o.


The first class was great. Friendly people (around 15 of us in all), and a nice instructor. The instructor made everything look like, well, a piece of cake. At the end of the class she gave us our supply list, and our first assignment: bake a cake, frost it using the recipe for butter creme frosting Wilton requires, and bring in frosting for decoration in a differing color than what you use to frost the cake. Easy, right? Well, this is me we're talking about. Heh heh heh.

So, comes the day after class. I'm bored and decided to root around to find all the ingredients I need to make butter creme frosting. Turns out, I have it all on hand, and the Peanut and I whip up a batch of the icing. Super fast, really easy, everything is cleaned up and taken care of in 10 minutes. My kind of project. However, I tried to make blue (we're going to make a 'Rainbow cake' at our second class), since I liked how the blue looked in the demo. picture. I found out that if you use 'butter' flavored Crisco (hint: it is yellow-Hell-o!!) what would have been blue icing is actually...you're gonna love this...preschoolers know how to use the color wheel...GREEN!!! Hahahah. Moral of the story? Use white Crisco, that is unless, you like actually want to have off-colored icing. Anyway, I figured I'd still be able to work with my green-not-blue-icing. I'm resourceful, like that.

Now, today (Friday), I'm stressed because the nearly-two-year-old is being fussy and doesn't want to cooperate (will he ever want to cooperate, at any time during the rest of his life? Magic 8 Ball says: Signs point to no.) so I decided we all need a project to entertain us. We'll bake a cake! I thumbed through my 1940's era McCall's Cookbook (only the world's best cookbook, ever. It was my mom's, so I'm very sentimental about it) looking for a good cake recipe. There's a bunch of them, too bad I was feeling lazy. I stuck a post-it note in the cookbook, and proceeded to get out a red-velvet cake mix (the box kind, yes, I know I'm totally contradicting myself, here) and we slap that together, and bake it.

At class the teacher said that we could use a box cake-mix, but it would be harder to frost because of the crumbs. The teacher is right, box cakes make LOTS of crumbs. Frosting a cake using the decorating tools the right way is much harder than it looks. I did my best to frost my cake. That doesn't mean I'm gonna take home a blue ribbon at the county fair.

I'm glad I 'practiced' tonight. I'd hate to have brought my FUGLY green frosting red-carpet-cake with red crumbs in the frosting lopsided cake to class. How embarrassing! But, it was a good learning experience.

Peanut will wake up tomorrow and see a hideous crumbs-in-the-green-should-be-blue-icing and she will squeal with joy, because, this cake will be her 'birthday' cake that she's been asking for since Thursday, when we made the icing. So, even though it is ugly, and not at all professional looking, it is worth it because I know it will make a certain 4 year-old some one's day.

Once I finished admiring my abstract art and thinking of how much Peanut will like it I was really good. I cleaned up my mess right away, rather than wait until the morning and hope the magic husband fairy would come along and clean it up (never happens, but I can hope, right?). Holy cow! Butter creme frosting is a pain to clean; in fact, it is just plain icky. Let's just say, if you ever want to stop eating sweets, make a batch of butter creme icing, wash your utensils by hand, and look at the residue left in the sink. I now know exactly what the insides of my thighs look like--it ain't pretty. Yech!!! A good thing, though, 'cuz now I won't eat frosting.

Chubbers re-enacts 'A Christmas Story'

From the Christmas movie classic: A Christmas Story

"Now, Randy, can you show me how the little piggies eat? How do the little
piggies eat?"

"That's my little Piggy!"

*Chubbers dove 'head first' into his refried beans. Apparently, he likes them.

I've lost my Chub-chub

Chub-chub is gone. I've lost him.

I can't really say exactly what day or time of day it happened, but he's gone. I miss him so much, I'll likely never get over it.

You see, we went to Winco this afternoon to do the requisite grocery shopping (yag) and I had Peanut and the Chub-chub with me. When I went in I did my 'pre-trip check': kids: check, money: check, shopping cart: check, grocery list: check. All things set to rock and roll, and get my least favorite chore (after cleaning the floors) taken care of.

It was an uneventful trip. I managed 8 grocery bags worth of meat, fresh produce, spices, and various canned/frozen goods for a mere $87. I was feeling pretty good.

Then it happened: I realized I lost my little Chubber. Somewhere between putting the groceries in the back of the van and depositing my cart in the shopping cart corral my baby was no more.

You see, I had my boy wrapped in my arms, his silky little blond head resting heavily on my shoulder, hair tickling my cheek, with his strong little body melding itself bonelessly to me, his brown leather shoes banging into my legs just above my knees. When did this happen? When did my baby turn into this cuddly and beautiful sleepy little boy? He really is turning into a little boy. He's most certainly a toddler who will be 2 years old this August.

Looking at him in the rear view mirror on the way home I watched as the lids of his sparkly cerulean blue eyes became too heavy to hold up, and the dust the sandman had sprinkled upon him took him to the land of nod. I wondered: how much longer will he be even this little? I have so completely enjoyed his babyhood. I, for once, am not guilty of 'wishing away' his little years. Quite the contrary, I've wished I could keep him little for just a while longer. I'll never forget the first seconds I saw him when he came to see me in this world; I'll never forget the bliss I felt as I nursed him at my breast or breathing in his sweet milky breath as I rocked him before bed.

My mother and dad always told me that as you get older that time starts to go by faster; they never told me that when I had my own babies that if you so much as blink that a season goes by. And, that no matter what, they don't stay small: 'babies don't keep' is what a picture frame I have says. I have never heard such an understatement.

I will cherish all the time I have with my boy (and my girl) while they are small. The time is so fleeting, and only the Good Lord knows how much longer they'll want to snuggle down into my neck and wrap sticky fingers 'round the tendrils of my hair. How many more little wet kisses have I been granted? I'll never know until they're gone.

For now, I'll hold tight to my little ones while they're small and while I still can.