Random Thoughts

I'm having writer's block tonight, but I don't want to ruin my running blogging streak, so I'm going to present some random thoughts floating around my brain tonight.

1. I am in love with Scrubbing Bubbles automatic shower cleaner. It used to take me an hour to deep-clean my bathroom (an improvement from the two hours it took during my pregnancy with Lydia) and this neat little invention cuts out about 20 minutes of that time. I am a tad disappointed that there are just normal soap bubbles and not the cute cartoon ones from the commercial.

2. If you make dinner that includes crescent rolls, children will gobble it all up with no complaints. You can make crescent pizza, crescent dogs, and crescent mexican rolls. I've never tried the generic brand- are they just as good as Pillsbury?

3. I am determined that by January 2012, I will be making nearly everything homemade, and buying nothing prepackaged or processed- all the way down to no more boxed cereal or pasta. (Which creates a dilemma for random thought #2.) I'm taking it step by step- if I do too much at  once, I'm afraid I'll just give up. My plan is to eventually take one day out of each week and spend the entire day cooking/baking/freezing, so all the week's meals are ready to go. I'm getting some great tips from the book Miserly Moms.

4. I have a secret that I'll finally be able to reveal in a few days, but I'm ready to burst in the meantime. And no, I'm not pregnant. And neither is my sister.

5. When I think toward the future, I don't get nearly as sad thinking of my daughters growing up as I do when I think of my son as an adult. I know my girls will always need me for "girl talk", but what if Isaac decides he doesn't need me? Bill says that is ridiculous, and deep down I know he's right. I won't be the type of mother in law who believes her daughter in law has stolen her son (frankly, that is just gross if you really think about it) but I do hope he will always want to be a part of my life. I pray for my children's future spouses all the time, and I'm doing my best to raise him to be the best husband and father he can be.

6. I'm just days/weeks away from weaning Lydia. (She doesn't know this yet; Bill asked who was going to let her know, and I told him he could.) I say all the time how I'm just ready to be done with it, but a small part of me knows how much I will miss that piece of our relationship. It's something only the two of us share, and there's really nothing else like it.

7. Nearly every Sunday I have someone ask me how in the world I manage to get all the kids ready and out the door- the question is raised more so if Bill happens to be at work that day. In a nutshell: 1. I give all glory to God because without Him I would be a crazy loon. 2. The girls pick out their own outfits and dress themselves. This is a mixed blessing in that I never know what they will come up with. Also, showers are always done the night before. 3. Isaac doesn't usually care what he wears, and I can dress him in a minute flat. His hair is kept short enough I don't have to do anything with it. 4. The kids watch an episode of a tv show while I shower/dress/makeup/hair. I have it down to a science, and yes, can accomplish it all in a half hour. 5. Breakfast is kept simple, and no fooling around allowed. Each child cleans up their own dishes and wipes down their part of the table. 6. In the last 15 minutes before we are out the door, I wake up Lydia, dress her, nurse her, and feed her cereal. She eats fast. While she is eating her cereal, the older three get on their coats and shoes, and get inside the car. The entire process is like a well oiled machine.

I think that's enough random babbling. If you have an idea for a next blog post, please tell me. Tomorrow is another snow day, so I hope my kids say or do something clever.

What is Your Facebook Personality?

*Disclaimer* No real names have been used in this post. Any resemblance to you or someone you know is purely coincidental.

If you are on facebook (by now, who isn't, really) you have a fb personality-whether you want to admit it or not. This diversity is part of what makes social networking so much fun. Here I have listed a few of those personalities, in no particular order.

1. The Energizer Bunnies
These are the facebookers who are so busy they have zero time for punctuation in their busy schedule they have so many ideas that need to get across to their friends and so many places to go that taking even a nanosecond to use any sort of punctuation is not possible so why even bother to take a breath and insert it in.

Whew. Lost my wind there for a sec. Ok, ready to move on.

2. Ole' Yellers
IT IS TOO FRUSTRATING TO HIT THE SHIFT BUTTON EVERY TIME A CAPITOL LETTER IS NEEDED. LEAVING THE ALL CAPS BUTTON ON IS SO MUCH EASIER. TOO BAD IT LOOKS AS IF THE WRITER HAS A SHOUTING PROBLEM- WHAT MAKES IT EVEN FUNNIER IS THAT THIS PERSONALITY IS USUALLY OWNED BY SOMEONE WITH SUCH A SWEET PERSONALITY, THEY WOULD NEVER HURT A FLY, LET ALONE YELL AT IT.

3. Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens
Just as reminiscent as the song, so is this personality. This is the facebooker who takes time to see beauty in all things, at all times. It is rarely taken to the double rainbow level, but posting pictures of kittens and baby ducks is not out of the realm of possibility.

4. Oscar the Grouch
While this personality is rarely owned on a daily basis, all of us from time to time use facebook to oust our frustrations. (Some more so than others.) Rants can range anywhere, including cell phone carriers, annoying traffic violators, disobedient children, and gross sinus infections.

5. Mommy's Angels
This is the facebooker who has dedicated her profile solely to her children. She feels guilty if her profile picture displays anyone else, including herself. Statuses must always include cute quips from her darlings, and photo albums must be uploaded on a monthly basis at minimum. Facebook serves as a giant car bumper to display all of her babies' accomplishments and milestones. Social networking is also what keeps her sane in a child-consumed life.

6. The Gamers.
You know who you are- facebook serves little else than a place to do your farming, mafia hits, and inquiries on how many children you will have one day and which celebrity you most look like.

7. The Spies
I'm not sure what percentage of the fb population makes up this personality- it's impossible to know-but these are the ones who never post anything on their profile, yet silently probe into everyone else's business.

8.  Play by Play
Just like a sports announcer during a basketball game, this personality must alert all friends of daily activities- when they eat, shower, even go potty.

So, what personality are you? I own at least a couple of them myself. And if you have taken any offense to anything in this post, pleae remember the above disclaimer. Happy social networking!

Painful Miscommunication

Over the past few weeks, flowering weeds have overtaken our front yard. Bill is usually in charge of the "outside things", but lately his time has been consumed with building our backyard deck. So, last night we had a discussion in which I told him that  it really bothered me that the front yard didn't look as nice as it could, and I asked what we could do about it. After a 2 minute discussion, I walked away with this conclusion: that there was some expensive yard feed we could buy, but his preferred method would be to hand-weed the yard.

Waking up motivated this morning, I took all four kids outside at 8am so I could get started. In nearly five hours I only stopped to feed Lydia and lay her down for a nap. Brooke would make quick runs inside the house for snacks and drinks. Ironically, during this time the neighbor's lawn service came to maintain a beautiful picture perfect yard. I came very close to walking across the driveway and hiring him on the spot, but instead I buckled down and kept right on, one weed at a time. I finally had to quit for a break and feed my hungry children at 12:45pm. Here is what I was able to accomplish in that amount of time.

Not too bad, right? Especially considering the lawn is less than a year old.

Now here is what is left untouched thus far in the front yard:

According to my own estimates, this leaves about, oh...another 10 hours of physical labor. Though patience is something I struggle with, I tried not to be frustrated, and instead happy with the progress I'd made while simulaneously entertaining four children. I even sucked up the fact that my fingers were red,swollen, and throbbing, and that I had small cuts and a painful rash all over my forearms. Yes, I had worked hard and should be proud of myself. Then, I had a conversation with my love. And I tiredly told him what I did this morning. And his response? "Oh, did you not want to buy the lawn feed?" what did he just SAY?? Seriously? Did I just waste nearly five hours outside for nothing? Apparently, even after nearly twelve years together, and seven wonderful years of marriage, we had two completely different conversations yesterday. He re-explained that he was actually fine with buying lawn feed, but that he had just made a comment that if I wanted immediate results (he knows me well) that the only solution was to hand weed. Bill reassured me that my work wasn't necessarily for nothing, but my balloon of motivation was already leaking air. Fast.

I don't know if this job will be completed or not. I'm all for some good exercise, but back-breaking outdoor work isn't usually my preferred way of spending my time. At any rate- we are on our way to a good-looking lawn, sooner or later. Now it's time for a hot shower before one of my angels wakes up from a peaceful napping slumber. Does anyone have any Icy Hot by chance?

Sports Fanatics

Amy and I have a long history together. We've talked on the phone for approximately 1/5 of our lives, passed fascinating notes back and forth between classes, giggled until we've peed our pants (seriously; it just happened again today), and shared a strong passion for sports. It all started one year at the beach when we were teenagers. Amy didn't know how to swim, and though not professionally trained, I thought I would try to teach her. By the end of the week, she was able to stand in the four foot deep section without drowning. Here's my favorite picture of all that we accomplished that week.

Notice the quick reflexes to block any water from touching her face.

After high school, I decided to expand my love of sports to cross country. Not only did I find my future husband from the team, I was also able to earn $1000 in an athletic scholarship that year.

 

Look at that long, graceful stride. I'm so fast that those women in the background look like they are standing still.

After the season was over, I decided to take a well deserved break from sports for the next several years. Then this past March, while on a visit to Amy's house in Alabama, the two of us rediscovered our love of all things athletic. We were having so much fun, we had her husband Stephen document our skills.

We started the night with a little baseball.

I think I could have been a star quarterback if girls were allowed to play in school.

Amy has a dunk shot like no one else I know.

Wearing flip flops adds to the challenge. Seriously, try kicking a soccer ball in those shoes. It takes skills.

 I can't remember if there was any peeing in the pants in this moment. Safe guess says there was.

I love you, Amy. (Hopefully after this post, you still love me too.) I can't wait until next month when we get to share our love of all things athletic again. Let's hit up the local swimming pool; maybe we can find a professional to share his skills with us.

Sad, Bizarre, Disturbing, and True.

After years of pleading, crying, and begging, my parents finally brought us home a "real" pet when I was in third grade- a black and white cat we named Felix. We'd owned other pets in the past- numerous goldfish, hamsters, turtles, and even a duck. But you can't love any of those animals like you can love a dog or a cat. After we brought Felix home, I slept with him on my bed at night, fed him tuna and treats, and always tried to give him love and attention. I didn't even mind that he never really returned the love, at least not to me or my sister. And he definitely had a distinct personality. If he brought us home a gift- a live mouse, bird,etc. and we didn't appreciate it like he thought we should, he would ignore us for days. If we gave him a bath, he'd immediately run outside and roll in the dirt. And even though he was neutered, he could beat up any cat that came his way.

While I was home for Christmas break my freshman year of college, Felix became very sick. Though there is no proof, we think that a cranky neighbor down the street who didn't want our cat walking through his backyard had set rat poison out for him to eat. In any case, we ended up rushing him to the only vet in town open late at night. The vet told us he would keep him overnight to monitor him, and call us in the morning. My mom, sister, and I drove back home crying.

The next morning, the vet called to say that our pet had died, and that we could come pick him up. Bill and I were newly dating, and I emailed him to let him know my cat had died. My mom and I arrived at the vet office soon after, and they handed him to us tied up in a garbage bag inside a brown box. Mom started to put him in the trunk, but I wanted to hold him on my lap on the drive home. Through town, we sat in silence, and I  kept wishing that he hadn't died so soon. I even imagined that the bag was rustling and  that he was moving inside. Wierd. Then, I imagined the tiniest meow. I looked at mom. Again I heard, "meow." Ok, really wierd. Then, as we were driving over the bridge toward home, the bag moved. "AHHH!!!!" I started screaming. "MOM, he's alive! He's alive! He's alive!" I ripped open the bag, and there our cat was staring back up at me, weakly meowing. I was so freaked out my entire body was shaking. Mom pulled the car over, and we both just looked at him. I started laughing and crying and gently picked him, cradling him.

When we got home, mom called the vet to tell them that, um, duh. Our cat wasn't dead, he was alive and breathing. The only explanation they could give was that he was over-oxygenated, giving the appearance he was dead, and that being tied in the bag brought the oxygen levels back down. I was so excited I called Bill to let him know our cat wasn't dead after all. Mom, my sister, and I all took turns holding him that day, and I kept picturing us featured on one of those evening entertainment shows, holding up our cat renamed Lazarus. Then, later that night, he quit breathing. For good this time. We took him back to the vet one last time, even though we knew it was over. Dad buried him in the backyard that night, and made him a little wooden cross. I once again called Bill to let him know our cat died again, and wondered if my new boyfriend thought I was a little unstable.

Felix was a good cat, and I still miss him.  He wasn't always the friendliest of pets, but he was ours, and I think it's pretty neat that even though he left us before his time, he gave us a pretty good story to tell in the process.

How to Not Show Your Kids a Good Time

Since my previous post on how not to make applesauce seemed well received, I decided to continue the theme for tonight's post, in what I call How to Not Show Your Kids a Good Time. This un-fun-filled day starts at 5am sharp with all the smoke alarms in the house simultaneously screaming, while your husband leaps from the bed to try to find the mysterious fire. Thankfully there was no fire, but we may have a ghost according to my best friend Amy (who by the way, makes amazing chocolate balls. Check out her recipe here on her blog.)

Next on the agenda is to spend the rest of the morning trying to keep four cranky, too-early-awakened children happy, only to give up at 11:00am,sending them to naptime immediately after a quick lunch. They need to be well rested, because after naptime comes the best part. Think of the one place in the entire world that makes getting a root canal without anesthesia seem like a better way to spend your day. That's right- we are headed to the good old Department of Motor Vehicles!! I told the girls we were going to the car store, and they started to jump up and down for joy. No, no, I said, shattering their precious little dreams. Where we are going is not fun, but it is boring, and will require us all to sit still, be quiet, and do nothing.

To continue making sure that no fun is had by anyone, it will not even cross your mind to pack anything fun, like Leapsters, or CD players, or even paper and crayons. No, you will leave with nothing to occupy tiny hands. You will even throw in one more round of those possessed smoke detectors randomly going off, and making your traumatized two year old run around screaming in pure terror. (I also made sure that I was talking on the phone to Amy, who may have permanent hearing damage at this point, I'm not quite sure. )

You will make sure to pack the tandom stroller in the back of the SUV. This is supposed to be the day of no fun, not the day of complete and utter insanity. You then say a prayer as you pull out of the garage and onto the road.

At the DMV, you get in a long line in a hot, non-air conditioned building packed shoulder to shoulder with other motorists, some of whom you pray are not on the road at the same time as you, either by their extreme youthful appearance (and therefore, inexperience behind the wheel) or by an overall look of instability. The ticket you are handed at the end of the first line will look something like this.

Notice the estimated wait time of two minutes. Oh, optimistic computerized printout- how funny you are! Thirty minutes later, which included Isaac growling at the man behind us (my son decided he was a bear today), Madeline making up a song for the elderly lady sitting next to us (she didn't appreciate it as much as I think she should have),  repeatedly explaining to Brooke why she could not hold the precious piece of paper with the numbers on it, and keeping a five month old happy and entertained, it was finally our turn at window number two. After a relatively pain-free exchange to renew the car's license registration, it was time to head to Grandma's. Oh, but not before Isaac decided that, even though we were just a few feet from sweet escape, it was time to become impatient and refuse to sit back in the stroller. I took a deep breath, and wrangled him into the seat in front of dozens of watchful eyes who had nothing better to do than watch this crazy mother with four children at the DMV on a crowded Friday afternoon.

The day of no fun is finally complete after a standstill on the interstate due to a wreck. Thankfully it didn't look like a fatal accident, and we were soon on our way to wonderful relief at my mom's house. But before I conclude this how-to blog, I'd like to send a message to Mr. Impatient Acura. Sir, it seems that your life would be so much easier if you would slow down, stop tailgating a mother with precious cargo, and weaving in and out of traffic. You can only go as fast as the cars ahead of you, and I guarantee that your business is no more important than the rest of ours.

And so ends the day of no fun. I will say that any day ending with my family safe, healthy, and intact is considered a success, but I think that a day at the zoo tomorrow sounds like an awesome idea to me. Hopefully this will conclude the How Not To series, though I seriously doubt it. I'll now leave you this evening with a few more images from the day.

How Not To Make Applesauce

Before I make a trip to the grocery store, I usually ask Brooke and Madeline what they would like me to buy. For my trip last week, Brooke asked me to buy applesauce. I remembered her request- while loading the SUV with groceries. Two days and no applesauce later, I got the bright idea to make her some at home. Why not? I had the apples; what else would I need?

I checked some recipes online, all relatively similar, and compiled my own version using the ingredients I already had at home. The kids were so excited to help, and I decided to take pictures for a future blog posting like this.

First step was to slice the apples, leaving the peel and core intact. Next, we squeezed a lemon and poured in the juice, and then sprinkled cinnamon on top.

The girls loved squeezing the lemon, and then all three of the kids spent the next hour licking and playing with the remaining lemon peel. (Yuck.)

The next step usually calls for apple juice, but all I had was Lydia's pear juice, so I assumed that would work just as well.

I brought the ingredients to a boil on the stovetop, then reduced the heat to simmer. I wish the computer had smellivision, because it was one of the best aromas in the world. Yummmm.

After simmering for about 20-25 minutes, the apples were ready to be mashed. I was supposed to push the apples through a mesh drainer, but after about 2 minutes of this, I realized I lacked the patience in this department, plus Lydia would be waking up from her nap at any second, so I did the next best thing (so I thought) and put them in the food processor.

It was at this precise moment that my camera shut off and blinked that the battey needed charging. So please use your imagination for the next paragraph.

After pulverizing the apples (skin, core, and all) for several minutes, I realized that the applesauce would not appear nor taste like the store-bought kind. I knew I would have to convince the kids that this really was yummy stuff. Madeline wouldn't even taste it. Isaac ate a few bites (he'll usually eat anything) but decided he didn't like it either. Brooke ate several spoonfuls, but I think she just didn't want to hurt my feelings, because when I told her she didn't have to eat it, she jumped up and ran from the table. I tasted it too, but I don't like applesauce so I'm not sure myself if it was good or not. The pear juice threw me off- just a little wierd.

By this point my camera battery charged enough that I could take a shot of the final product.

Please don't judge my culinary skills based on this dish alone. I promise my family doesn't starve from my cooking. If I had to do it over (not sure I will, but if I did) I would change these few things:

1. I would have the right ingredients on hand; for example, apple juice instead of pear.

2. I would add patience for the straining process.

3. I would not imagine my three precious children devouring the applesauce only to be jolted back to disappointing reality.

When all was said and done, the kids had fun playing with a used-up lemon, and I learned something new about cooking. I was even called a cool mom on facebook (thanks, Michele.) But in the end, I was left with crushed apples nobody wanted, and this:

Oh, and I got great suggestions from facebook on what to do with the leftover applesauce; too bad I read the tips about five minutes after dumping the sauce in the trash. Ah well, better luck next time.

There's a Rooster in my Crockpot

Here is part two of the poultry saga just as I promised. If you missed the blog that day, here it is. It would have been brought to you yesterday, but Mr. Rooster decided to take an extra day to thaw in the fridge. He must have been as scared to be cooked as I was to cook him. Besides, I still hadn't decided on an exact recipe. I was unable to get a hold of my sister or brother in law for their input (who, now that I think about it, still have not returned my call...ahem.), so I decided on a lemon herb crockpot recipe. l could have put him in the oven, but that would have meant hauling out my turkey pan since he wouldn't have fit in anything else I had. So the crockpot it was.

Here is what I found after removing the bag from the fridge.

Notice the lovely bright red blood and greasy yellow fat. This didn't help my squeamishness at all. Step one was to get him out of the bag without touching him. Funny- my first job ever was at Chick fil A in which I touched raw chicken on a daily basis, and here I was terrified of this rooster. I'm proud to say I was able to accomplish the next several steps without ever touching him with my bare hands. And let me tell you, this was not easy.

Here we are post bag removal and the rinse cycle. Are you imagining him with a head and feet? I know I am. Next step- the spices. I used garlic powder (feeling too lazy to mince the real deal), oregano, lemon pepper, salt, and pepper. The oregano and and garlic powder are sprinkled into the cavity.

Down the hatch.

Next step was to sear the outside in a large pan on the cooktop. Using butter would have tasted better, but the health nut that I am, I opted for olive oil.

I'm not a chef, obviously. I couldn't get "all sides browned" when he was so bumpy. It must have been all that running after the girls that beefed up his legs and got him in this mess to begin with. Next was seasoning the outside. After placing him in the crockpot, I sprinkled lemon pepper, salt, freshly ground pepper, and lemon juice all over both sides.

I then added water to the pan that he browned in, and poured the heated juices into the crockpot.

Here we are four hours later.

Yum. It smelled so good at this point I felt like I could stop referring to it as "him".

Here it is ready for carving.

And whalah- the finished product.

Served with an apple spinach salad, green beans, baked potatoes, and buttered bread.

It tasted pretty good, and the ultimate test of success- the kids didn't even ask for ketchup! So sis, if another rooster decides to misbehave, send him up our way- after beheading and skinning of course.

Off with his head!!

I have a rooster in my freezer. Beheaded, plucked, and ready to be basted and roasted. But I can't bring myself to thaw him out. Him. Maybe that's part of the problem. I'm referring to the poultry like I know him on a personal level. Like he's a relative of mine. Well, he is in an odd sort of way. He came from my sister's house. She and her husband live in beautiful middle-of-nowhere, deep in the Appalachian mountains, where they have a dog, two cats, a couple bee hives, and of course, poultry. My frozen friend lost his head after he and a few of his buddies wouldn't leave the women in the coop alone. They were continually harassing the poor girls- chasing them around and plucking their feathers. So across the chopping block they went. Now that's what I call justice. Imagine if that's how it worked in our world. You are walking around the mall and an annoying member of the opposite sex starts heckling you and your feminine assets. "Umm, hello, mall cop? Yes, this man is harassing me. Could you please take him downtown for beheading now?" I think that sexual harrassment would immediately come to an end across the nation.

Back to my freezer dilemma. Mr. Rooster/domestic violence convict has been in my freezer for nearly a month now. I know he will be tasty once he's cooked, but I'm scared. If I mess up the dish, it's personal. I can't just chuck him in the trash- that would be wrong, and I'd see him in my nightmares. I have to get this right the first time. My brother in law has told me the best way to cook him- rub the outside with olive oil and herbs, and roast him- I mean it- in the oven. (This is wierd- I've never referred to my raw chicken as "her" before.) I think I'll set a date for the big thaw. Let's say---- next Wednesday. I'll work up the courage, and let you know how it turns out. Meanwhile, have a great weekend, and thank the little animals in your own freezer for their contribution to your next meal.