mama in mayhem

That time of year- again.

2010-08-29T21:40:00.005-04:00

I've been different things throughout my life some changing, some remaining constant; but one thing I've been for most of my years is a writer, a journalist, a person habitually scribing life as it happens before me. Since my kids have graced me, it's become nearly relentless.
But here my blog sits untouched for months. My personal journal has been unscathed collecting dust upon a pile of other journals I use to write to my boys. All of them without writing. And it's not even like I'm without material in the least.
Time is my nemesis right now, and writing forces me to just deal with the fact that life is moving so much quicker than I realize, and certainly much too much for my liking. So I just avoid, because somehow stifling the emotions is easier that way.
However, now school is upon me. Jason and Justine start tomorrow, probably a mundane act for one and partial social excitement for the other. I am agonizing over all of this while trying to smile through what I know will arrive in a blink of one eye.
Two weeks from now, I'll drop off Mason for his first day of preschool. I keep faking my excitement, because he's timid and shy at best so I am doing my best to give it the college try at being happy for him leaving home officially for the first time. I'm even doing a crappier job facing myself in the mirror.
I knew this time would come. Four years ago it seemed so far off for me to even fathom. It was light years away, and I told myself I would do everything I could to make certain I did the most with the time I had with my kids. It's been hard. It's been challenging. Mothering has brought me to my knees on more occasions than I can recollect. I've been at the mercy of my kids temperament but also to their candid hearts.
I've selfishly had them all to myself for four years. Now I have to accept that opening their world a little more means letting go ever so gently, and it is inexplicably difficult. Opportunities abound for Mason, and I can't wait to see how his mind will fill with questions and curiosity; growth will be a strong factor for him this year for certain. I also know school will obviously continue from here on out until he's ready to leave home.
Letting go is a principle of motherhood I constantly struggle with.... and for an avid reader and google searcher, for the life of me I cannot find a book to support me through this transition. I want a quick fix. If I can find that book entitled something to the effect of "Mending your heart when your little one goes to school: a How-To Manual for restructuring your own identity apart from your child who is growing up", I would be good. It would give me solace in knowing there are so many other women and men out there channeling the same emotions of letting go, so many in fact, it was necessary to publish a book about coping with the aftermath.
I guess I'm just looking for a way to get past this... this idea that I still hear the words of Louis Armstrong crooning "Wonderful World" over the stereo of our living room while I rocked Mason in his newborn swaddled blanket a few days after we brought him home from the hospital, a day that was nearly four years ago, but is crystal in my mind. I remember that exhilarating, unparalleled feeling of being a mom for the first time as clearly as I recall Mason chasing me with the football this evening attempting to tackle me.
I am loving this age, and all that approaches in the bright future for these crazy, unruly boys, but I would be oozing with lies if I told you I didn't miss their baby days, or that I didn't want to transport back to their time of crawling and babbling for just a moment. I know I have quite a while until I have to let go... like, really, cut the cord.
But for now, Mason tells me his college is going to be right next to Daddy's school, so maybe it won't be so bad after all.

...And found.

2010-05-05T06:52:00.005-04:00

It's weird how much I avoid blogging anymore. What used to be a period of time devoted to my kids has become a thorn in my side.

I'm not without material by any measure. My kids are amusing at the very least, and would provide daily jargon for me to share. I'm just... not.

And so the guilt comes. I used this small corner of the internet to validate my life as a mom; to share the maddening yet adoring moments of my children; and to combine those two things so upon their departure from my nest in fifteen years that I will have documents, journal writings and sentiments of my crazy yet treasured times with Mason and Peyton. But oddly enough I'm finding it difficult to sit down and write more about them when I'm not with them.

See, as I've written before, motherhood has a way of rearranging your thoughts about what you thought parenting was about, and even in the course of real-time parenting kids have a way of misconstruing those ideas forever changing you. I've read recently that we often think of ourselves as the most important teacher to our children, which I still support, but on the flip side our kids, in turn, happen to be the greatest teachers to us. Patience and humility are tested when, oh I don't know, Peyton turns his milk-filled sippy cup upside down and creates his own masterpiece upon the table and floor [just-cleaned now milky floor] with a look of pride and mischief upon his six inch wide grin. Do I want to fasten him somehow to the ceiling in our basement? Yes! Do I wish to yell at him profusely for making yet again, another mess? Undoubtedly!

But I digress. I talk calmly. Firmly. Almost too faint to hear in a whisper. And when he begins to apologize to me I notice he is responding in the same calm faint whisper. My mind starts to wander and I pause to think what his reaction could have been had I yelled instead?

Before Mason was but a little gummy bear in my uterus, I had all of the intentions of being a working mom. I was not down for diapers every moment of the day, I thought. Baby talk before water cooler talk? I thought not. And yet here I am, a proud translater of toddler speak; though I don't do diapers 24/7 anymore, it's still something I repeat at least three times over in a day. Motherhood tweaked my brain.

And that is all well and good. Really! But my working mom mentality was influenced in part by the idea that I was not ready to forfeit Steph. I was not ready for Steph to take one for the team and lose out on her career, and quite frankly her identity. But I did... And since the beginning of 2010 I have realized the notion that being at home with my kids does not mean that all things that made me Steph pre-kids does not have to cease existence until they are grown up warped teenagers moving onto college. I can still exist simultaneously-- mom, and Steph.

So, oddly enough, I guess that's why I haven't been frequenting here... not that the world is missing desperately my posts, but I've been taking time out for me. And for me that means, kicking up my feet to study my books for personal training, or reading RealSimple outside in the patio, or any reading material not revolving around my kids. Refocusing on myself has been a daunting task, because somewhere when that umbilical cord separated my boys from me I have instilled the idea that I must forever keep one eye open focused on them so as not to miss a thing. In the process, I've lost myself.

However, an amazing thing I have found is that it's truly possible to be found again no matter how long you've been amiss.

Fad Pie. Er something.

2010-03-31T14:34:00.017-04:00

Yes. It was decided last night that their dinner was going to be called Fad Thai after repeated attempts to tell the boys it was "Paaaaaad Thai, not Fad Pie." Another battle lost.

This is the second time I've cooked this recipe from scratch and it continues to improve. Pad Thai is one of the most recognized Thai dishes in the US, and I happen to love it. If you ever find yourself ordering it when dining in an Asian bistro, it's just as worth it to make it at home.

My recipe is based on a few different variations I've found. Two months ago our family jumped on the vegetarian band wagon and admittedly LOVE it. This spin off is obviously as such, but any meat could easily be substituted for the tofu.

Pad Thai

Serves: 2-4

8 oz. Pad Thai noodles [rice stick]

1/4 c. vegetable oil [or peanut]
4 cloves garlic, pressed or minced
3-4 scallions, sliced [divided]
12-16 oz. extra firm tofu [drained & pressed]
2 T. fish sauce [vegetarian or splurge for regular]
1/4 c. hot water
1 T. tamarind paste
1 t. brown sugar [packed]
1 t. crushed chili pepper sauce
1/8 c. tamari
1/8 c. lime juice
1 t. peanut butter
1 c. fresh bean sprouts
1 c. steamed vegetable [snow peas, broccoli, etc.]
1/4 c. fresh cilantro, chopped

To begin with, place uncooked noodles in large pot and cover them with cold water. Let them sit for at least 30 minutes. As they sit, I occasionally swish [very technical I know] them through the water to separate the noodles. Drain pasta when complete and return to the pot.

While noodles soak, take your drained & pressed tofu and cube into desired size. I usually opt for a 1/2" cube myself but whatever floats your boat. Season the tofu with salt & pepper. Heat a large skillet with 1-2 teaspoons of oil and when hot add the tofu and cook until golden on all sides.

As the tofu cooks, in a small bowl combine the hot water with the tamarind paste. Once it dissolves, push it through a sieve and add the brown sugar, peanut butter, lime juice, tamari, fish sauce and remaining oil. Stir to combine and set aside.

When the tofu is just about finished, add 1/3 of the scallions to the pan and all of the garlic. Saute for another minute or two and remove from the heat. Place the pot containing the drained noodles back onto the stove top at medium high heat. Add the sauce to the noodles and the tofu mixture, and cook for another two minutes. Add bean sprouts and steamed vegetables, the crushed chili peppers and remaining scallions to the pot, and toss to combine. Remove noodles from the heat and place into a serving dish. Garnish with chopped cilantro and chopped peanuts if desired.

***

I know there are a ridiculous amount of ingredients, but I'm finding the more often I make it the easier it becomes. And the big payoff is the amazing flavor of this dish. I honestly could eat it three days a week indefinitely and not get sick of it. There are many "instant" Pad Thai boxed up meals in the grocery stores, but there are so many added preservatives that I find the stuff made from scratch cannot be beat.

A Tale of Twigs

2010-03-12T14:54:00.003-05:00

Although the content of the whispers and giggles was uncertain from down the hall, CurlyLocks could hear the quiet hum drum of a conversation flowing out of TweedleDee and TweedleDo's room. The two boys settled into bed about a half an hour earlier and yet still they continued with their banter late into the evening.

CurlyLocks entered her bedroom which was adjacent to the TweedleBoys' room. She set her alarm for the early gym wake up call at 4:55am, and paused when she heard something perplexing coming from the conversation in the room next to hers. The wee little boys are toddlers and so the content was a bit surprising to say the least, but at the same time she shook her head remembering who their father was, and acknowledged also they are a species to which she cannot fully understand: they are boys.

"TweedleDee, you know your twig and berries?" shouted TweedleDo from his crib.

"My twig and berries, TweedleDo? Yes I know."

"Oh. Ok-aaaaaay." Long pause. "Can I see?"

"You want to see my twig and berries, TweedleDo?"

"Ummm... yes please!"

"See that TweedleDo. See my twig and berries?"

"Ummm... no. Where TweedleDee?"

"It's right there, TweedleDo! See it?"

"Oh, ok-aaaaaay! Thank you, TweedleDee! I not show you my twig and berries. I keep my jammies on." Long pause, again. This must have been a moment of intrigue for them both, but a moment of utter shock for CurlyLocks. "TweedleDee, you see Daddy's twig and berries?"

"Yes."

"Mommy's twig and berries?" CurlyLocks held her breath ever so gently and quietly gasped. In fact, it was most certain that the entire session of eavesdropping was accompanied by a long, progressive gasp.

"TweedleDo, Mommies don't have twig and berries. They have... they have... sumpin'."

"Yea. Sumpeeen awright... um, TweedleDee?"

"Yes, TweedleDo?"

"You like red trucks?" And so the conversation drifted away from the gutter banter and continued toward discussion of innocent topics like firetrucks, rain puddles, and marshmallows. And within a few moments CurlyLocks lifted her jaw that dropped to the floor, planted a smile upon her face, a giggle under her breath ready to share the story with her hubby, Mr. Clean, who would undoubtedly feel a sense of pride for his young brutes.

Mr. Clean did not disappoint, and they all fell to sleep peacefully ever after.

Twenty-seven

2010-01-29T13:51:00.005-05:00

Something about Miss Swift's latest single, "Fifteen" has me humming a tune of nostalgia. It's not so much the entirety of the song about the issue of high school drama, but more about the underlying notes of hammering out one's identity.

"I've found time can heal just about anything, and you just might figure out who you're supposed to be. I didn't know it at fifteen." Well, hell, I didn't even know it at twenty-five!

I didn't really know who I was supposed to be until a few weeks ago really. I'll be twenty-eight in a few months. Sigh, but I'll get to that later.

But as I've droned on before, motherhood has had its way of interceding the thoughts I thought I had about me, and what the heck I'm "supposed to do in life", or what I want to be in life in addition to the domestic guru I've come to be over the past few years. It's not as if I was in "the know" of my direction in life before kids. They just seemed to slow the progress of figuring that out if it were to ever happen.

Taylor Swift crossed my mind while I watched early home videos of Mason and Peyton this morning with the two of them nestled in my lap. They're both sick right now, as am I, but that's not really important. We watched and they both thoroughly enjoyed viewing their former selves on the TV; the stories I tell them from my recollection are not as entertaining as it is to literally watch Mason shake his butt on camera. I think in the three years of film I appear on camera all but a four times. I am behind the lens, but my voice is still audible.

Besides my pudgy lil' babes, my husband and stepdaughter grace the camera often. They were so natural with the boys. Happy. Overjoyed. Ecstatic. My kids adored them, and it was evident in the footage how much my boys loved them too. They were enamoured with each other.

And then there was me. Frantic, exhausted behind the camera. Happy, but I could just hear the discomfort I had in my own skin. As mom. I didn't know who I was supposed to be at twenty-five.

I trace through my journals and I know how abundantly my heart flowed with love for my kids and obviously I do more now twenty-fold than when the boys were infants. But most of the time when I was with them, I wanted to be someone else. Because I wasn't so sure how to do the mom thing. And I didn't want to admit it-- who acknowledges those things when you're a mom!? You're supposed to be a strong, all-knowing, life-giving being who instantly tames the crazy emotions and physical demands of being a mom the moment your child takes its first breath of air... but I wasn't.

I was totally disconnected, present physically but emotionally I was all over the place, and unfortunately my kids were left with a mom who was quite confused a lot of the time. Three years and a steady dose of counseling has given me time to settle and wrap my head around parenthood. With a clear mind now, I wonder in the cliche term that Swift sings about, if I knew three years ago what I know now, would I have enjoyed my kids a bit more?

Preschool registrations are rearing their head. Reviewing kindergarten regulations are not out of the question now. Both things are nearing quicker than I anticipated and I realize how fast the days have passed me at light speed. And so I wonder to myself could I do a better job tomorrow than I did today? The answer is always yes.

So thank you Taylor Swift, you savvy eight-Grammy nominee, entertainer of the year. All nineteen freakin' years of you gave insight to a stay at home mom. Imagine that.

As for figuring myself out, as I mentioned earlier-- that may be just as important as evaluating the time spent with my kids developing their roots, so to speak. I'm studying to be a personal trainer. While a part of me wants to drift into thought wondering how much happier of a person I would have been for my kids three years ago if I knew both how to be a mom and enjoy it, AND how to be happy with my purpose in my life trying to help people train and fulfill healthier lives... I won't.

I'm just thankful I figured it out now.

Smoky Chicken Pizza with Lemon Artichoke Pesto

2010-01-11T11:24:00.003-05:00

Hello delicious.

Yes I've bailed out on blogger for a month and I'm sneaking back in with a mere recipe and no stories about the kids.... I'm not even going to talk about the Lake Tahoe a la Urine that Mason made two days ago. That can wait.

Instead I have an awesome pizza recipe for you to splurge. The pesto makes a ton and freezes well, and add it to a pizza dough with smoky chicken and caramelized onion and you have yourself a free pass to wear those stretchy sweatpants and chow down until stuffed.

I grant you the picture I took is not terribly appetizing, but I promise the resulting taste is awesome.

Smoky Chicken Pizza

Serves: 4-6 [depending on appetite for sure]

Ingredients

2 chicken breast

1 T EVOO

2 tubes of pizza dough [recommended: Pillsbury]

lemon artichoke pesto [recipe to follow]

1 small red onion [or half of a large], thinly sliced

handful of chopped cilantro

1/2 t of liquid smoke

1 t smoked paprika

Salt & pepper

1 cup Italian blend shredded cheese

Directions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees, and then begin to prepare the chicken. Season with salt, pepper, smoked paprika, liquid smoke, and a drizzle of EVOO. Rub seasonings over both sides of the chicken. Add the chicken to a heated skillet and cook chicken over medium high heat about 4-5 minutes per side or until cooked through completely. Once the chicken is cooking, place the sliced onions off to the side of the skillet with a drizzle of EVOO and saute until caramelized. Season onions with salt and pepper. When chicken is finished cooking, remove from heat and cover with foil.

While the chicken and onions are cooking, spray two baking pans with non-stick spray and roll out each pizza dough tube to fit the pan stretching to edges as needed. Use a few heaping tablespoons of pesto per dough and spread within 1/2 inch or so of the edge to leave room for a crust. Thinly slice the cooked chicken on an angle into bite-sized pieces and spread over each pizza. Scatter the caramelized onions over each and top with cheese. Bake pizza for 15-20 minutes or until the crust is golden. For an extra garnish, top pizza with chopped cilantro.

Lemon Artichoke Pesto

Serves: 8
Ingredients
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
2 large/4 small garlic cloves
4 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tsp. lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 cup walnuts/pecans/sunflower seeds
1/2 cup canola oil
1/2 cup olive oil
salt to taste
1 (8 ounce) package frozen artichokes, thawed and chopped
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Directions
Place the cilantro, garlic, lemon juice, cayenne pepper, walnuts, canola oil, olive oil, and salt into a food processor. Pulse until smooth, then pour into a large bowl. Gently stir in chopped artichokes and Parmesan cheese.

Oh, Lucy.

2009-12-09T14:57:00.006-05:00

Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep I was stuck in that frame of mind where odd thoughts pop up out of nowhere when all you really want to do is zone out for eight hours.

Sometimes those thoughts range from attacking the boys mountain of laundry that needs folded in the morning or finalizing those pesky holiday cards, or any other annoying trivial mom-related thing I need to accomplish upon waking to my bright eyed little boys.

But you know what, it wasn't about that at all. It was dreaming of what's to come in three months... my first little niece, Lucy.

My brother and his fantastic wife are expecting their first baby sometime in March, early March for Colleen's sake. And like any expected baby brings, there has been much anticipation over meeting her. In the past, I never got sucked into the excitement because I guess sometimes I found it difficult to bubble with enthusiasm over someone I haven't met.

But, now, I can't wait. And, even more, I can't wait for Josh and Colleen to meet her.

There is something completely indescribable about meeting your child for the first time. And all of the other first moments that follow. Will Josh fumble around cutting the umbilical cord because he's so stifled with unexpected tears and jitters? Will Colleen take the scissors out of Josh's hands and do it herself? Yes and probably yes. She is a strong independent woman who will make an amazing mom, and I know Josh will be right there with her earning his much deserving title of daddy.

When Mason was born, two months later Josh met him for the first time with Colleen over Christmas. While Colleen's maternal instincts kicked into gear, Josh and Mason kind of stared at each other one bobbling head eyeing the other not really certain what to make of the situation. But the months that followed their visit, I remember hearing the excited phone calls to our house asking about Mason. He laughed at my stories asking regularly about the stages and milestones of each nephew. The way they've shown love to my kids is more than I could have expected, and show so much eagerness and excitement over being an Aunt and Uncle. Together I see the keen instincts that are about to debut when they meet their little girl.

Half of a country stands between our homes as they are Austin-ians and Long Horn aficionados in the great state of Texas. While their town is UH-mazing it brings me some sadness I can't see up close how Lucy grows. But in the light of skype and digital photography I know we'll keep up.

And even though distance will keep us from experiencing those small moments together as family, I share in the joy in knowing what they'll be feeling for Lucy. Her cry that belongs to them. Buckling her up in the car for her first ride home from the hospital. That crazy first night home that never seems to begin or end. I will share in my fair share of sympathy for the inevitable sleep deprivation. Once the whirlwind stops after a few weeks [er months] I can't wait to hear about how tears came to their eyes as they checked on her sleeping before they went to bed for the night and they couldn't believe how damn lucky they are to have such a happy, healthy, beautiful baby girl of their own.

I am delighted to shop for a girly Adidas warm-up too, and maybe a cute dress or two, and I will abstain from over abundance of pink. But mostly, right now I can't wait for Josh and Col to join the parenting ranks, the bittersweet but nonetheless amazing club to which they are forever indebted. And absolutely, to meet Lucy-- I can hardly wait.

Stop the clock, please. No, really. Stop it.

2009-11-29T14:48:00.013-05:00

One huge overindulgent poultry feast complete and here I sit. I've spent the last few weeks gathering up the necessities for a Stewart-esque Thanksgiving appeal for my home and have quite frankly not had the time to write.

I guess that's partially true. I have a bunch of recipes I'd like to post and I really was embarrassingly busy making my own centerpieces out of recycled goods for a green approach to decor, bordering on the line of questioning my own sanity it was taking way too blasted long.

But really, I think- I know- a part of me has been avoiding the idea of writing like the plague of all cliches. Every night I go to sleep ignoring my journals beside my bed, and every day I see the computer I avoid blogger for no other reason than absolute denial of the pace life seems to travel these days.

Every school year begins the chaos of celebrations around our house. From the beginning of October, every two weeks is a birthday or a holiday which finally ceases after New Year's Day. Right now, I'm avoiding the day my baby turns two which is quickly approaching in two weeks, now that Thanksgiving is behind us.

There are times when I grip the reality my kids are growing up and I accept it with a decent amount of grace bestowed upon me. Now, however, is not one of those times. I'm fighting off baby fever daily, but as I've mentioned before I feel our days as parents of infants are long gone.

Peyton turns two ten days before Christmas. He was an indecisive, stubborn little guy who could not choose quick enough for my liking whether or not he was ready to meet me- not that I blame him. I was in and out of triage at the hospital a lousy three times before the fourth admission finally was the charm. From that day until now I sometimes feel like Peyton stood in the shadow of his big brother and sister. I was consumed with the responsibilities of mothering a not-so-toddler-14-month old and a teenager, so this lil' newborn was very alien to me. I think somewhere inside he knew he'd melt my heart sooner or later.

For a long time I struggled with that uncertainty a new child brings to the picture, questioning whether or not I could possibly love this new baby as much as I did my other. Falling in love with him did not happen over night as it did for me with Mason. But it did. Eventually, and I can't tell you the moment but now I see him becoming his own little person with his white blond straight hair that sticks in every which direction haphazardly, the way in which the subtle roundness of his cheeks match the tiny curve of his nose, his bright blue green eyes adorned with curled eyelashes, and the subconscious habit of grabbing my finger clasped in his hand while he sits on my lap sucking his other thumb.

And he's finally standing up to Mason sneaking in a sucker punch or two to his brother's rib cage when my eyes are diverted from him. At times his incessant need to verbalize everything gives me no sense of solace in a day, but just when my patience is maxed out he utters one of his favorite things to say: "Hold you!" with his arms outstretched to me.

Up he'll climb onto my lap with his blue "bankie" and his stuffed black lab puppy. He gravitates toward me in ways that Mason never did, and of course it made it quite simple for me fall so deeply in love with him. He's quick, feisty, ill-tempered, and yet gentle enough to sit on my lap playing with individual locks of my curly hair for 17 minutes yesterday. I sneak into my sons' bedroom every night and while they drift off into dreams I etch in my brain the way my angelic devils look at peace and how Peyton still sleeps the way both boys did as babies.

The way he tucks his little arms under his belly and scoots his butt up into the air just oozes innocence I sometimes forget when they're pulling out each other's hair by the root fighting over who gets to play with the fire truck.

So I guess two sounds mighty old to me but truly is just the beginning of the sand dropping in the metaphorical hour glass. So cheers to that little bit of sand that's dropped for you dear Peyton, so for all the 723 days that passed us by I'll just tuck them away for now, and hold on tight until they too are just other faded memories of yesterday.

Uh-uh, no he didn't.

2009-11-10T14:35:00.010-05:00

In a recent effort to dumbfound their parents, both Mason and Peyton have picked up the pace a bit in the world defining toddlers.

Last week I sadly regretted leaving Peyton for five minutes too long while I threw the wash into the dryer downstairs as he remained seated in his chair at the kitchen table. Jason always warns me that Peyton is a Jason-in-the-making kind of kid. My husband, who was not your run of the mill little boy, turned every one of his parents' hairs gray by the time he turned 18 months. No, no, I say-- Peyton has a smile that will melt you in 2.8 seconds if you ask him if the whelt on his big brother's back came from his tiny little fist.

So back from the laundry room I came, and there was that little smile again. He already has his gig down pat. As I slowly walked up the steps I peered at his heartbreaking smile and I swore he batted his eyelashes a few times, something he may have learned from his father. Sitting between his tiny hands was my mug. Full of coffee. That he retrieved off of the table with his disproportionately long arms, also something he inherited from dad. Good for basketball. Bad for reaching anything without his name on it.

"Maaaaaamee! Yook it's cooopee!"

No, buddy, you finished that mug of coffee. Bone dry it was. All that remained of my Peppermint Mocha Cream with a touch of Columbian fresh ground coffee was the trace amount on Peyton's upper lip. He was a little wind-up toy well past lunch. Lesson from Peyton: keep ALL beverages at unattainable heights until he has entered into college.

The second mini-lesson was merely a vicarious experience through Jason a day later. Thank God.

Mason, the potty training guru of the house has become, well, stagnant in his porcelin throne degree. The process is difficult for all parties involved, it goes without saying. Often by evening hours Jason takes reign of the duties if you will.

Not surprisingly, Mason was reluctant that evening and so Jason took the wee one upstairs. I secretly smiled at the bickering I heard overhead thankful that I was not in the potty tantrum whirlwind at that moment. More screaming from Mason resisting. More retorting back from Jason. He tried calming Mason. He tried raising his voice. Rewards. He conceded to stay in the bathroom all night if need be.

Then, "MASON, what are you doing?!" More crying. Then silence. Toilet flushed. Out scampered Mason's little feet so fast I'm certain he left a trail of smoke in his path downstairs to me. It reminded me of the same fearful expression I would see on my dog's face when he did something like, oh I don't know, pee on the carpet.

Jason came thundering down the steps next muttering something under the paper towel he was blotting upon his face.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Pee! He peed on me! No I mean he really peed on me," almost as if I couldn't understand just exactly what that entailed he continued. "I said 'Relax Mason,' and he leaned back on the seat, screaming and crying, and out came the pee. On my clothes, on the floor, and as I yelled at him in response it... it went in... my... mouth!" Lesson from Mason: face masks may be an upcoming trend for swine flu prevention, but also for deflecting the offshoot of my wayward potty trainer.

Lesson three: never doubt what a toddler can consume or what they can regrettably serve.

Eyeing the bigger picture

2009-10-18T13:47:00.008-04:00

Can I just say I have moments where I actually pity myself? Can moms do that?

I mean, I'm past the covered-in-puke motherhood stage of raising infants where the cycle of feeding baby, changing baby and putting baby to sleep occur an exhausting twelve times a day. I've moved onto the toddler stage, which is tiring in a different state of mind where it's absolutely downright expected to play "158 Questions" fifteen times a day. With each child.

So can I have reflection of self pity? I have three healthy kids. I have a doting husband who is a good man, and a compassionate father. I can stay home with my kids. I have a house, food in my pantry, running water, and heat occupying the rooms barricading us from the too early wintry weather. In all those senses I am beyond fortunate and should not feel jealous or envious of the business woman walking downtown in her fashionable shift dress, posh knee high boots, and oversized hobo bag. Doing something important. By herself.

Yesterday was my moment of glory. Grocery shopping. By myself. In a stained sweater. With a frizzy rat's nest of a hair 'do, and a walking coat two sizes too big now. "Must be nice to be by yourself today, huh?" said the deli clerk who noticed I was missing the obnoxious toddlers, and husband who normally pushed the cart.

Clarity struck me. Where did that fashionista of a business woman go that I knew three years ago? This -grocery shopping- is now my important something.

At times, being a mom makes me feel like my brain is rapidly shrinking. I tire of wearing the same jeans day after day with the same shirts I bought on clearance two years ago at Marshall's. My hair always looks... scattered... to match my mind.

Yesterday, I got Justine ready for her first high school Homecoming. She came into our bedroom, and peeked into my closet. "Can I see your red stilettos? Not to wear, I mean, they just look so fun! I want to see if they fit me yet." A part of me twitched inside. Yes, I thought, you probably would have somewhere fun to wear these. Sure enough, they fit her perfectly and I envisioned her wearing them out to dinner with girlfriends or something like that. Maybe not. She's fifteen. And they're 3.5" spiked heel stilettos.

"Don't worry, Steph," she said noting my wistful expression. "You'll find something to wear them to soon. Something will come up, I'm sure!"

Sigh.

Like I said, I know it sounds dreadfully petty. But no matter how much important "stuff" I know I'm doing every day with my kids, don't you think it's difficult to stifle the notion that somehow I want to feel I'm doing something important too.... selfishly enough, something important to me? When I say that last part, my voice shrinks a bit and becomes small.

Becoming a mom is amazing on numerous levels; I've lost track of the benefits being at home brings our family. Staying at home vs. working are personal to each family and for us the former works better than the latter. But with each decision we make, there are gains and sacrifices.

It goes without saying that, at times, I think -no- I know moms are too proud to admit they miss having an identity a part from their kids. Because of the above- they have so many overwhelmingly wonderful blessings that should not be taken for granted, so why complain about the voice inside that wishes she had somewhere to wear that cute belted boho dress that she saw at TJ Maxx yesterday? So she doesn't complain, but the more she looks into the mirror every night after her shower, she begins to wonder if pieces of her identity wash away little by little down the drain.

And truthfully, it has less to do with the boho dress, and more with what I would do or where I would go looking so glam. And I guess this is why women started at home businesses and thrived in the spotlight of Mary Kay and Tupperware. It opened up professionalism in the home while still offering the possibility to be with kids at the same time. Somehow, there are moments when Mason and Peyton aren't yelling as they sprint seventeen times across the basement carpet and I can actually quietly think to myself, and I wonder what I would be doing if I weren't at home at this moment?

So if I could, would I trade it?

Perspective, along with my mind, is something I have lost over the past few years. Because on the flip side, I look down the road four years and it's a glaring reminder that right now it's just a different season of my life, as I reflected during a dinner out with friends last week. And it becomes obvious that I need to make the best out of now. Right now.

When I'm tearfully waving good bye to Mason going to first grade, Peyton starting kindergarten, and Justine stepping through the doors of college how am I going to reflect on my time I spent home with them? Will I be painted with regret for not enjoying them totally and completely in the time I spent during their early years?

Enjoy it now. That has become my mantra of sorts. Although I know there will NOT be a bystander considering me a business fashionista in passing as I walk with a stroller downtown, at the very least I have two sons in tote who fill my heart with more pleasure. Sometimes the small opinions matter more, I realize while I'm looking disheveled in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee to open my eye lids one more quarter of an inch. Wearing my pjs with dried oatmeal pasted to my camisole strap, my oldest little boss looks at me over his cup of milk and says with wonderment, "Mommy, you're boo-ti-fool."

Guess I don't need those stilettos after all. They can wait.

Two years, 364 days

2009-10-10T16:37:00.007-04:00

I've been mustering the strength for about a week now to come to grips that Mason's days of being referred to as two are numbered.

Here it is. His last day, as I promised him this morning.

There are moments in my life, as a mom now, when a milestone takes place or a birthday arrives seemingly out of the blue and I'm forced to acknowledge the notion that life speeds quickly out of our control when we want it to slow to enjoy the simplicity a bit longer.

Three years ago I sat right now uncomfortably awaiting my first epidural. I had been in labor since 11 am that morning, and wouldn't meet Mason until 3:22 am the following day.

Sometimes I feel like I've been a mom forever but it's only been three short years. How strange it feels that my life has spun on its side a hundred times over in those 1,094 days. What was life before motherhood? It was predictable. It was extra sleep time on Saturday mornings. It was planning my dinners at a whim in the grocery store, and if I couldn't summon the energy to cook Tuesday through Friday- I didn't. I wasn't putting out fires every hour on the hour between two unruly toddlers. I had no gray hairs in sight.

And then he happened. Mason Paul. His pink pudgy skin, tiny button nose, and rosy cheeks to match his plump baby lips was all it took for my heart to just double over in size. His cries stood out over the other twelve babies in the hospital nursery and the newborn cry was mine to respond, and I couldn't wait. He belonged to me, his heart forever a part of mine, and my life was forever changed.

I absolutely miss Mason being a baby. Have another? Not likely. It's my babies being babies that I miss and surely always will. But I also love the stages they're in now. In honor of Mason I absolutely love listening to him talk passionately about every object somehow relating to trucks. His swing, his bed, the IKEA chairs in the basement-- they are all trucks, big big trucks. And when he says anything in reference to a truck, his small voice drops an octave sounding too masculine for a toddler. But in his mind, he's growing up to become a man every day, another step closer.

He tells me about every other day that when he's soon fifteen he's going to be on the football team. He's going to become a firefighter or a teacher like Daddy and someday he's going to go to the big big school like his older sister- and again his voice oddly becomes purposely and unnaturally deep. Incessantly, he fixes things that needn't be fixed but still insists the chairs are broken, the pipes need tightened or the screws in his tricycle are loose. His tools in nature are twigs, and he can honestly decipher among the 57 twigs of debris in our yard which one exactly he played with yesterday afternoon. And off he goes into the dirt pit of the jungle gym making power drill noises with his mouth telling me he's fixing the broken house.

And it is a chapter book I continue to write by the hour with my kids that truly causes me to question how exactly I ever considered my life fulfilling before the gray hairs, a small cosmetic infraction, of motherhood bestowed upon me. After all, that is just a minor problem, and nothing that can't be covered quite simply with a box of Clairol.

But this book of motherhood, could obviously not exist without my boys.

And so, with that, I tip my hat and my heart to you Mason. Happy Birthday little man.

I love you to the moon, over to the sun around the stars and back.

Bring on the chowda... a la butternut squash

2009-09-30T12:15:00.007-04:00

Ok. So I know I have been fairly inadequate in keeping this blog humming. I'm in a blog lull, so I'm throwing out a recipe I created for the fall. Not to sound conceited, but it is so delicious. Tested and approved by parents, the in laws, and the tough toddler crowd of the house this chowder is packed full of flavor. My only regret is that I didn't take a picture.

In any case, this was inspired in part by Emeril Lagasse who created a Winter Squash Chowder, but I thought it lacked some flavor [like I have any validation in the fine cuisine department]. So I focused solely on the butternut variety, added carrots and celery and extra herbs.

Butternut Squash Chowder

Serves: 4-6
Ingredients
1/2 cup chopped bacon
1 cup sliced leeks, rinsed and drained in colander
1 cup diced red-skin potatoes
1 cup carrots, sliced thin [or shredded]
3 celery stalks, sliced thin
2 cups diced butternut squash
1 quart chicken stock
1 cup cream
1 tablespoon chopped sage
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
Salt and pepper

Directions
In a large soup pot cook bacon slowly to render fat. When bacon is crisp and brown remove with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain; set aside for garnish.
In bacon fat saute leeks for 3 minutes. Add potatoes, carrots, celery, and squash. Cook, stirring, 5-10 minutes. Add stock and bring to a boil; reduce heat and simmer 30 to 40 minutes or until vegetables are tender. I used my immersion blender at this point to thicken the soup a bit, but that's purely optional.
Add cream and herbs. Season to taste with salt and pepper and stir in bacon bits. To serve, spoon into hollowed-out squash or warmed tureen with crusty sourdough bread.

Bon appetit!

Confessions of a stay at home drama queen

2009-09-14T13:26:00.007-04:00

Maybe Jason is right.

Maybe I just have way too much time on my hands to just... think. I've always thought of myself as an analytical person, and I would be ashamed of myself if I weren't candidly honest that YES I have always thought way too much, analyzed far too often, and scrutinized the details of my life for as long as I can remember.

Exhibit A would be the collection of ten journals paging through my life since second grade when all I could account for was recess flirting episodes with Jordan. Exhibit B would be the dozen parenting books I've accumulated over the past three years that I don't think my mom acquired in 30 years of raising me and my brother. I guess my hyperanalytical tendencies also reveal my English major in college when I was down right expected to pick everything apart into deep thought.

So what is it this time?

Embarrassingly enough, again it is the damn vampire saga that has its grips on me. Was. Yes, Twilight, books one through four. Over the summer I submersed myself in the writings out of pure curiosity, and was engaged enough to read it at a painstakingly fast pace that emptied my ibprofen bottle to aleviate headaches resulted from reading four-hundred pages a day.

Why then? Why now? I'm addicted to what some have noted as girl porn. Hilarious, right?

Well allow this romance novel phene to elaborate. I was halfway through the third novel this past week when I found myself stealing time away from the kids stacking blocks or going-to-school-to-visit-daddy pretend play so I could return to Edward Cullen's monologues to Bella Swan declaring his chivalrous idealizations.

"You see, Bella, I was always that boy. In my world, I was already a man. I wasn't looking for love-- no, I was far too eager to be a soldier for that; I thought nothing but the idealized glory of the war that they were selling prospective draftees then-- but if I had found... I was going to say if I had found someone, but that won't do. If i had found you, there isn't a doubt in my mind how I would have proceeded. I was that boy who would have-- as soon as I discovered that you were what I was looking for-- gotten down on one knee and endeavored to secure your hand. I would have wanted you for eternity, even when the word didn't have quite the same connotations."

Sigh. Reading this completely fictitious literature from an idyllic character such as Edward Cullen left me phening for more. A modern day Romeo. While reading through this my stepdaughter made mention, as she did this summer, that she and her friends didn't want to date in high school unless the guy was a glimmer of Edward. I was stunned for a moment and absorbed her thought. Edward is the quintessential romantic man comprised of countless alluring attributes so hey, why not pass up the normal warped high school boy until Mr. Edward comes along? Perhaps she had a point.

On the other hand is there a self destructing prophecy here? Are young women deluding themselves with "something with no literary or artistic value other than to stimulate desire” which is what pornography simply is according to the Webster’s dictionary definition? Except the difference here is women are being misled by female escapism, vicariously seeking a romantic fairy tale of our own when in reality fairy tales are fictional. Purely. Are women setting themselves up for failure searching for a new standard of the ideal man?

I'd be lying if I said I wan't stunned by the idea of Edward. I am certainly not alone [as you sit there shaking your head at the computer screen in disagreement]. Really-- there are Facebook pages devoted to people who have unrealistic expections of relationships now as a result of becoming addicted to Twilight [I write that as if FB is quantifying anything]! I mean, this is female escapism on a completely different level, and it's one thing to obscure my own mind with hopes that Jason would one day recite lines of Romeo and Juliet as easily as he normally would recount the first five plays of Penn State's last football game. But he is not Edward and he would not watch R&J with me nor have the knowledge to whisper the lines to me like Edward, a la New Moon. And that's okay... because Jason is a real live man and most men I know don't suck blood either, so I'm fine with that.

I'm not proclaiming chivalry is dead but I am trying to reign in my thoughts a bit about the reality of expectations in relationships, and maybe trying to unveil them to my stepdaughter too.

Okay maybe more to myself.

Just as soon as I finish Breaking Dawn.

Can't get no satisfaction.

2009-08-31T13:57:00.008-04:00

No not in terms of the Mick Jagger reference, but more in terms of kids. And the sketchy debate surrounding them with regard to vaccinations.

Since Friday, Jason and I eagerly awaited for the Dateline investigation "A Dose of Controversy" airing last night over the long-held debate of vaccinations and their relationship to the rise of Autism.

In short I felt NBC did a botch job on uncovering answers to links, should there be any between the two. The interview was set mostly between Matt Lauer and a doctor from the UK, Dr. Wakefield, who made claims in the nineties that the MMR vaccination had some type of impact on children more suseptable to developing autism. I felt they focused too heavily on the skeptical investigative journalist, also from the UK, Brian Deer who has uncovered ethical claims about the doctor over the past decade. There was little discussion over vaccine safety, ingredients, the Vaccine Court or anything else relevant really.

When Jason raised his daughter, Justine, as an infant of the nineties the biggest parental fear was SIDS. It was blasted through the media waves and it brought back those same fears for him when our oldest son, Mason, came home from the hospital. It took all of his willpower to let the baby sleep in peace and often times crouched into Mason's crib inches from his face to feel the air exhaling quietly from his tiny button nose. When Mason turned three months young, an infant a month younger than him tragically died of SIDS next door to us at our neighbor's daycare. Yes it was terrifying and bewildering; it pulled my heart out of my chest and summoned empathetic pain in my soul for my caregiving neighbor and the bereaving parents.

A year later Mason summoned a similar terrifying bewildering heart breaking pain in us too. See, for most parents today, as I earlier mentioned, SIDS is not the worry. It doesn't have its own awareness month, and you often fail to see magnetic ribbons proclaiming its non-profit organization on the bumpers of cars on the road. There really aren't marches in support of the cause of SIDS.

It's autism that lives in the tiny part of a parents' mind hopeful that someday we won't look at our kids and see that light dim in his eyes. It was me and Jason, who at every vaccination appointment since January 2008, feared and loathed the needles. Immensely.

Mason turned 15 months on January 11, 2008. On the 14th, he received the MMR vaccine while I winced by his side. He toughed out the shot screaming momentarily and the days that followed resumed his usual boisterous self. The Friday following his shot, he was slightly feverish and lacked energy. Saturday the 19th of January, he woke up with a fever, crying, which was unusual for him and I gave him some Tylenol. By lunch his fever reduced minimally to 100, and the day went on administering fever reducing meds. Before bed, he felt like he was burning up, and his fever rose to 103. More Tylenol. Cool bath. Bedtime.

I called the doctor at our family practice and left a message with their after hours assistant. With no response I waited and skimmed through some parenting books looking for answers. Like when the hell I'm supposed to take him to the ER if nothing changes here. No more than 90 minutes after I gave Mason Tylenol he was up screaming. Jason went back to the boys room and Mason was absolutely hysterical, like I've never heard him. His body was limp. His coloring bordered on a literal definition of beet red. I retrieved our digital ear thermometer and it read 105.9 degrees.

I panicked and with my hands shaking I called our doctor again and demanded to speak to some body immediately as we readied to drive to the hospital. I next phoned my parents who sped to our house in two minutes flat in their pjs to care for our newborn Peyton who was only 6 weeks old. A minute later a very presumptuous doctor called back and barked at us to take him to the ER as we were heading out the door, like I even questioned it.

For the first time in our marriage I failed to nag Jason for driving 65 in a 40 zone, and for the three red lights he sailed through as I watched Mason's eyes slowly roll back and forth in the carseat behind me, moaning in pain. I quietly wondered in my mind if children died from fevers as high as his.

The ER staff took us in quickly at the sight of Mason and when the nurse calmly talked to us about his condition, her tone changed with the thermometer inserted into Mason's rectum continued to climb past 106. Suddenly I heard STAT called over the phone and four nurses rushed us to an examination room. They brought in a concoction of Tylenol and Motrin to reduce the fever immediately. We stayed in there for four hours watching the Animal Planet on the TV while people shuffled in and around us swabbing his throat, drawing blood, gathering phlegm samples from his nose and stopping short before the catheter was needed for a urine sample.

A frustrated doctor talked to us after the results of all of Mason's tests revealed: nothing.

"Well he DID have the MMR shot on Monday," I suggested, exasperated.

"No, no, that shot wouldn't have any reaction, really," he quickly retorted.

A few months later when I noticed a stagnant development if not a regression in Mason's speech, Jason and I began digging deeper. For anything. And we stumbled upon a great degree of research suggesting a relationship between the Austism Spectrum Disorder and the MMR shot in conjunction with the other 36+ shots given to most children the their first two years of life. Why the hell wouldn't there be some type of profound affect when all of these chemicals are injected into tiny, vulnerable bodies that even 10 years ago were not required?

And why and how would my very healthy son, acquire a fever of 106, bordering on seizures without ANY other symptom to show for it, nor a diagnotic cause? I later read months after our ER trip that Mason was in the .03% who can obtain the possible seizure inducing fevers post-MMR vaccine. Fortunately he netted no seizure but it sure as hell made me question the methodology of the vaccination schedule and the safety of my children.

Mason's not autisic. And I'd like to say we really dodged the bullet.

I'm not clinging to a man like Dr. Wakefield, as suggested by his critics, because he's standing up for parents of autisic children who have no one else who listens to their outcries about vaccines. As he emphatically stressed last night in the interview his concern is about the safety of the children, and that if so many children are affected after any shot then perhaps it's something worth investigating.

My God, have a witch hunt for all the parents out there questioning the CDC, the AAP and all of the other government backed groups also in tie with Big Pharma of America! How dare parents of the US question their legitamacy for the safety of their kids!

But, wait, I think I have a parental doctrine around the house somewhere spouting off something about that.

Yes, here it is: my kids' safety is my job.

post edit note: on the advice of Jason, yes we do continue vaccinating our children and will not be responsible for any outbreaks of whooping cough in the Greater Phila Area. Also, he insists he only dismissed one red light en route to the ER.

Family vacation. An ultimate oxymoron.

2009-08-23T15:14:00.012-04:00

Hold off on plunging tomatoes at my head or stoning me to a state of unconsciousness. I have very fond memories of my family vacations as a kid, but in hindsight it is from the perspective of a child and I have a new found perspective of being a parent. Of toddlers. And a very hormonal teenager. All of whom I love.

But now I need a vacation.

It was a week of beautiful weather. I scored a bronzey tan which I'm totally gloating about like I'm a 13 year old pool rat again trying to gain bragging rights to a summer tan before going back to school. And I caught some sweet waves. On my body board. Conceal the snide laughs; I haven't tested the surfboard on Jersey waves for God's sake.

Our family of five ventured to a gigundous beach house shared with my parents, my in laws, my grandma and my youngest teenage cousin who contributed to keeping the balance among the teenage population. I cooked four fantastic Rachael Ray meals that will be added to the bangin' foodie list. But it was beyond exhausting on many parts, mostly because of the kids. I've realized how much energy is put into them even more so on vacation because as a parent I want them to enjoy the aura of the beach as much as I do.

I want them to point to every obnoxious advertisement being flown overhead by the puddle jumper planes, the military jets that rip past us, the tug boat too close to shore, the sand crab pinching my toe, and the dolphins jumping beyond the waves. But they don't yet, so I act as the motherly tour guide for the majority of the time. Sorry folks, it's tiresome. Especially if your kids want nothing to do with the above and really only want to eat piles of sand by the fistful causing ungodly sights and stenches in their Pampers, thank you very much.

Add to that: a week of spoiling, limited structure and discipline and you have yourself a picture of childhood anarchy.

I was sad to see the week end mostly because through it all we had a great time, but Jason and I were eager to get home. Half way through the trip home we were busy crooning along to Bob Schneider, Barenaked Ladies, and Dave Matthews incessantly when our SUV began sputtering on the Schuylkill Express outside of Philly. It's not our vehicle, but was graciously borrowed from Jason's oldest brother. The Yukon died in transit on the Schuylkill three times before we literally stopped 500 yards before the Conshohocken exit.

A lot of things went through my mind at that point, mostly all of them referring to dangerous statistics about highway fatalities to stranded vehicles. Every tractor trailer that passed in a blur of motion sent chills down my spine as its sheer power sent our 7-passenger vehicle rocking subtly. The view out my window led to a steep hill bordering Amtrak lines. I am a catastrophic thinker, and all I kept seeing in my mind were headlines about a family's vacation ending tragically on the Schuylkill.

I began retracting the thoughts I had about my kids. The "seriously isn't it bedtime for you kids, yet?" thoughts. I still do regret thinking them. Well most of them anyway. The teenager's request for a pink bra, no I'm sorry a Victoria's Secret PINK bra, was still not happening during day two of vacation and will not happen now either, mind you, and I don't regret the internal expletive thoughts I had after that little proposal. And I don't regret my reaction to my toddlers' baffling stunt where they managed to score dad's electric shaver out of the wall, shave off pieces of each other's hair, dismantle the mechanism, all in about ten minutes after I put them to bed for naptime on day three of vacation.

But all of the other grumblings I said under my breath out of exhaustion... yea those I totally regret.

And I still need that vacation. As if it were in question.

Lost in translation. And then found, again.

2009-07-30T14:39:00.009-04:00

Prior to motherhood I used to think it was borderline ridiculous when I overheard families in public deciphering toddler speak as if it were as eloquent as my literature professor second semester Junior year in college.

Does it ever strike anyone else how indeterminable kids can sometimes sound when they are learning to speak? But to the child's parent[s] it's no sweat off the back to understand that Maddie just wanted to have her Elmo cup and some grapes please. Wow, that mom needs to get out more I would think with pity.

Now I am the resident toddler interpreter.

Prior to summer when Jason arrived home after a day of teaching and coaching, the kids eagerly wanted to talk to him; and it was fairly normal if not expected for him to look at them cross-eyed, shrug, and then look to me for a translation.

As the school year began to wind down I excitedly told him, "Just think: before the end of the second week you're home, you will be able to decode the babblings of the toddler ramblings."

How exciting!

I was looking forward to have some peace in knowing that someone else could spring to his feet when Peyton said "Buh buh" at the kitchen table while pointing to his cup, and could then get Peyton his milk. Buh and cup sound nothing alike, I realize. But tiny utterances that somehow I managed to decode these past three years, I was looking forward to Jason understanding too.

Then about a month ago we were getting the boys ready for bed. Each of us takes one of the boys and preps him for bathtime, then assists with the last chug of milk for the day, scrubbing the teeth, and a nighttime story. That night, Jason had Peyton, my mommy's-boy-until-daddy-came-home-this-summer boy.

"Listen to this, honey," Jason urged me while holding Peyton in his arms before tucking him in for the night. Jason leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

"Yah yew," Peyton said beaming at me.

"What's yellow, buddy?" I asked curious. Yellow is the new blue, his former favorite color. Every single object is yellow even if you tell him 57 times it was red with absolute certainty.

Another whisper in Peyton's ear.

"Mommy, yah yew," he said again smiling.

"Thank you?" I asked shrugging my shoulders in question. "For what, sweetie?" Yellow and thank you sound so much the same. Okay not really, but when he says it there is a subtle distinction between the two. I must have missed it the first time.

Jason smiled at Peyton and looked at him in the eyes and then over at me, still confused. I was beginning to feel out of place in my own job as a mom.

"I love you, Peyton," Jason said softly.

"Yah yew, Da-doo," he returned with a smile stretched across his face and gleaming at me looking for approval.

My first "I love you," and I was lost in freakin' translation. I conceded to squealing and showered him with kisses for a solid 45 seconds.

Jason earned his linguistics badge this summer, and though I missed the boat on a few occassions like the above, every now and then I have a moment when I'm reminded I still understand the kids. Pretty well.

Because this morning as Jason got the boys up to start the day, I heard Peyton following Jason from their room to the kitchen.

"Dodo! Dodo!"

"Yes, Peyton, daddy is here."

A minute later, "Mew, mew! Meeeew!"

"A cow? What cow, Peyton?"

I smiled to myself knowing that Peyton's first request was for his favorite stuffed animal dog that sleeps at his crib side "guarding" him nightly.

And the second remark was asking for his favorite book, Goodnight Moon. One that I happen to love reading to him. Maybe a little rusty, but I still haven't lost my touch. For now.

Oh, to be 14. Or pregnant. Just not both. Or either really.

2009-07-14T14:56:00.007-04:00

I don't know why it is that when you become pregnant for the first time that suddenly any tiny tid bit of personal information regarding the little peanut growing in your uterus becomes public domain.

Cart blanche on Twenty Questions? Can you really see yourself asking a woman in the grocery store, who is by no means pregnant, how much weight she's gained in the past forty weeks? Put a prosthetic belly under her shirt and suddenly the gloves come off.

No, I am totally not with-child. Not in the least. I'm loving the idea of sporting a bikini for the summer even if it does invite questions like, "Aren't you, like, Justine's stepmom?" Teenager for "Are you stoned out of your mind? Where do you get off thinking you can wear anything besides a moo moo to the pool? Enter motherhood, exit mid-drift revealing clothing."

Over the past few days I've exchanged conversations with people who were thinking of becoming pregnant, and so were curious about my two-fold journey down that lane. How much weight did I pack on? How did I manage to get my little darlings to sleep through the night without having to stuff a pillow over their face? Did I swell up like a balloon at the end of my pregnancy? What kind of birth did I have? Did I tear? Drugs, did I use them? [Yes, quite heavily as a matter of fact.]

But I think it's the most absurd yet equally amazing thing that pregnancy and kids can truly tear down the walls of ambiguity, and break out the sentiments of brutal honesty. When you enter into pregnancy, you become a part of this secret society of motherhood where you realize you all go through similar journeys to bear children, your hearts bleed the same as you experience heartache together, and likewise can totally relate to the necessity of scrutinizing your child's poop for about the first four years from infancy to toddler. Unbelievable.

Then I sit next to one of these grown up babies at the pool yesterday. A clan of teenagers, in fact. Something I fear and loathe my boys to become. Worse yet: something my boys will like.

As the valley girl clique readied to sunbathe beside me, I stumbled through Sense & Sensibility, while one of the five vixens bared her bikini body for all the rest to see. I didn't look up. Their squeals pierced my ears and made me burn my eyes deeper into Austen's novel even though I cannot get past the nineteenth century lingo.

"OOOOOOOooohmigod. Seeeery-us-leeeee, your boobs look huge!"
Eh, what?

"I know, right? Aren't they uuuuh-may-zing?!"

Then I revert in my mind back to the cart blanche mode, that I also inherited since having children. And I realize that she's not pregnant and so I can't ask her a brutally honest question like, "Sweetheart, if you only knew where your leopard print bikini, 32DD boobs, navel ring, and naivete are going to take you in life you would be so inclined to keep your nose in the books instead of the help wanted ads for the adult film industry, right?"

No, no. She's something far different than a pregnant woman. She's a teenager, and unfortunately she's quite the opposite. Her demeanor invites all the questions like the former, but she however is more cunning and will deliver no answer.

Hello, [salad] lover

2009-07-11T20:42:00.012-04:00

Ok. So even though all I really want to do is continue my rambling of why Edward Cullen is an amazing, chivalrous, quintessential romantic who I wish could just hook up a few pointers to my husband now and then [and possibly recite some lines from any four of the Twilight books to yours truly] I will digress. Cool off a bit... and just munch on some salad.

Not as much fun, BUT this salad is bangin' if there ever were such a description of rabbit food. It has a little kick, a whole lotta gah-lic, and it's healthy so you don't have to feel guilty licking out the bowl. Not that I do that.

I cannot take credit for this Rachael Ray creation, but it's still my go-to salad and being that it's summer and I miss Austin Texas yet again, cheers to this fine Caesar.

Tex-Mex Grilled Chicken Caesar [serves 4]
2 T chili powder
1 teas. Ground cumin
½ cup EVOO
1 ½ lbs. boneless, skinless chicken breast
5 garlic cloves, 1 clove cracked from skin, 4 cloves finely chopped
3 cups cubed sourdough bread (half around loaf)
1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
3 anchovy fillets, drained, finely chopped
½ teas. Crushed red pepper flakes
1 ripe avocado
Zest and juice of 2 limes
1 T Dijon mustard
2 teas. Worcestershire sauce
2 T chopped fresh cilantro
Coarse black pepper
2 large romaine lettuce hearts, coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, and preheat a grill pan or outdoor grill on high.

In a shallow dish, combine 1 T chili powder, the cumin, 2 t of the EVOO and some salt. Add the chicken cutlets and coat in the seasoning. Transfer the cutlets to the grill and cook for 3 to 4 minutes on each side. Remove from the grill and slice into very thin strips.

While the chicken is grilling, rub the inside of a salad bowl with the cracked clove of garlic. Set aside. Then place the cubed bread in a clean bowl with the garlic clove and drizzle about 3 T of EVOO and the remaining T of chili powder over the cubed bread. Toss with about ½ cup of the grated cheese and toss to coat thoroughly. Spread the croutons evenly on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until crisp and golden, 10 to 15 minutes.

To make the dressing, place the remaining ¼ cup of EVOO in a small pan with the anchovies, red pepper flakes, and the finely chopped garlic. Stir together over very low heat until the anchovies melt. Remove from the heat and cool.

To prepare the avocado, cut all around the circumference of the ripe avocado, lengthwise and down to the pit. Twist and separate the halved fruit. Remove the pit, scoop the flesh out in one piece from both halves, and cut into bite-size pieces.

In the bottom of the reserved salad bowl, combine the lime zest and juice, mustard, Worcestershire, cilantro, salt, and pepper. Whisk in the cooled EVOO with the anchovies and garlic. Add the romaine to the bowl, followed by the croutons, avocado, and the remaining ½ cup grated cheese. Toss the salad to coat, adjust the salt and pepper, and top with sliced chicken.

Like I said... bangin'.

Enjoying the ride

2009-06-30T14:28:00.009-04:00

Delayed as ever, I decided to take up the offer to join the Twilight band wagon and began reading the saga series last week.

I've never read Harry Potter or other mythical series like Lord of the Rings or Percy Jackson. I just don't really "do" fantasy-like books. Nothing personal against J.K. Rowling, but I'm just more acclimated with tragic drama and romance to really take up the idea of fiction beyond my imagination [or reality for that matter].

So why not read on some vampires and werewolves, right?

I'm currently finishing the third novel, Eclipse, in the saga series which should indicate that it's suspended my disbelief in fantasy fiction having any deeming qualities.

I have one confession, however, but I'll get to that later.

As I mentioned I am a fan of romance and usually reread one of my Nicholas Sparks novels and become indulged in the twisted fate of a couple who fall in love and likely ends in tragedy. I'll admit that some end happily, but mostly always end tragically; regardless, I read these tear jerkers repeatedly with the same result. Another trip to Costco's to replenish the tissue supply in our house. So why do I do that?

I asked myself the same questions about the Twilight series, but the question was phrased more like... why do I like this stuff?!

My step-daughter is also a pretty big fan of the series, being that all I've read is borrowed from her Twilight shelf of her bookcase. She'll be fifteen this Fall. When I was her age, I definitely focused on falling in love and looked for it everywhere, to put things mildly. I don't know that her thinking is quite as warped as mine was. I suspect she wonders what the love fall is all about too.

She forwarned me the second book in the series was a bore to her before I started the book this weekend. I finished it on Sunday and realized her boredom was due to the absense of details pertaining to the passion of falling in love that are exemplified in book one and three. I'm sure it's all over the final book as well, I just haven't reached that point yet. Without saying it, she too was drawn to the acute details of the two people falling in love-- the sheer physical, emotional and mental states that are completely overpowered by nature. Perhaps that intrigued her in a way of not having experienced that euphoria, the same way I would have viewed it at fifteen.

Enter: confession. At twenty-seven, I still look at it similarly, but in a way of nostalgia.

In a way of totally and completely missing it.

We lucky ones who have made a journey in our life and managed to fall helplessly, sometimes blindly, in love can remember the unbelievable array of emotions resulted from that first trip.

I was well into college when I realized that I was helplessly in love with a coach, yes my coach I met the last three months of my senior high school year, who I kept in contact with after graduating. I remember the visits to my dorm, our dinners out to local restaurants and the electricity that seemed to flow from him to me, and how the cheeks on my face would blush instantly when I thought about being around him. To say I had butterflies in my stomach with or without him in my proximity was a vast understatement and just one of the many physical results I felt after crashing head over heels in love.

I remember the first time he kissed me and how it literally left me breathless. When he returned to his home after that visit I remember replaying that kiss in my memory leaving me without oxygen again and again.

Poetic conversations, and lofty ideas of what the future could hold. I repeatedly thought of these words endlessly over in my mind during the time we spent a part. When I wasn't with him, I was completely out of myself and loathed the idea of feeling incomplete. Without any reservations I was overpowered by the notion that he was the one I would spend the rest of my life with, unquestionably.

The journey of falling in love is a profound, albeit an amazing experience too. I feel dismayed right now as I'm staggering through these vampire novels because it acknowledges that the high of falling in love is a temporary state, something I obviously knew before now. At the time, you feel compelled the emotions could last forever, and when it fades I think it's safe to say you miss it. Being in love is quite different and soon follows "the fall". The former almost always requires a commitment of faith and unlike the latter is not necessarily an amazing act of nature.

Regardless of the literature that gets me to relive those early days of our relationship, to be able to recount and revisit that experience vicariously through fictionalized characters, even vampires dare I say, is totally worth it.

Surrendering to the daybed

2009-06-21T15:49:00.016-04:00

In the past month I've managed to do very little for myself, in terms for writing. Ob-viously.

Jason and I did manage to throw a cocktail party Friday night. So every last nook and cranny of the house was investigated, fixed, touched up with paint, six scoops of mulch spread around the house, and our square foot garden appropriately decorated with flag stones. Just so... ya know... his friends don't think we're sloppy home owning parents of some toddlers and a teenager with oodles of free time that is not spent on our humble abode.

That was fun and I intend to post some delish recipes I tested at a later time.

Right now I sit here a bit more stable minded than I was eight days ago. It started a few days before that too. Suddenly my oldest son, Mason, discovered that hurdling over the crib railing was incredibly similar to that of the bathtub, a new trick he recently mastered. Lo and behold my future Army grunt began sneaking out of his crib and tiptoeing over to the basket of stuffed animals only to create plush chaos all throughout the room until he burst out laughing at the madness.

It's just a phase, I told myself the next day, as I wiped the mulch off of my hands, when my stepdaughter came out to tell me Mason just came downstairs to visit after he was seemingly napping. No naps for the next two days. I was going out of my mind. Finally on Saturday I conceded to the idea of converting his crib. Being a crib railing hurdler was one thing, but him forgoing an afternoon nap was just about as awesome as beating my head against a brick wall.

The rest of Saturday, since he wasn't napping Mason helped me spread mulch which meant really that he picked up every last piece in front of him and directed his new favorite question to me, "Mommy, what's that?" In between repeated questions I repeated to him that tonight was the last night he would sleep in a crib. Tomorrow, I continued, you'll be in a big boy bed.

I took pictures that evening. He looked so proud standing beside those crib rails. He stood off to the side a bit and propped one foot on the rail and it reminded me of the stupid soccer poses we would do as kids when it was picture night with our feet posed on top of the ball. He defeated that crib, and I succumbed to letting go of it.

That night, I wept in the shower, on Jason's shoulder, and also on Mason's baby quilt that was temporarily stored in our bedroom hanging on the extra pack in play. I wrote in Mason's journal and as the tears stained the pages my mind retraced back three years when my Dad and Jason put together the new glistening cherry crib. Now, teeth marks remain literally everywhere and it looks "lived in". But that's what I love about it.

Sometimes I feel guilty that a larger portion of this blog site is dedicated to the realization of Mason growing up, and not collectively shared between the boys. An entry struck me sometime back in December which is entirely about Peyton, but somehow because Mason is my first babe, I seem to get choked up quite easily because I am letting go of him first while somehow still holding onto Peyton. Or maybe I just know that some day way too soon Peyton will also become a crib hurdler so I'm preserving the tears for a later date.

When I step outside of myself to reflect on this, it is obviously just a crib. But it's more than that. It's a close to a chapter. He's growing up. I know that time marches on and is most certainly one of the only constant factors in life, but it still leaves me a bit misty-eyed and my heart aches a little. Okay really misty-eyed, and my heart aches a lot.

But if there is a silver lining in any of this, it's that right now-- he's napping.

Identity in check

2009-05-28T14:54:00.007-04:00

For as long as I can remember writing has been my outlet, my private time, a moment to reflect and sort my thoughts.

It's therapeutic. At times it is poetic, and others it is just plain psychobabble. But it's there for me whenever I need to use it which has always been a comfort, and since I've been home with the munchkins I've found moments of solace when I'm able to retrace through steps of time transforming into a person of another moment as I reflect on my journals, all eleven of them to date.

I picked up my tenth journal a week ago and thumbed through pages documenting my pregnancy with Mason and shortly after he was born. It was a pile of endearing transcrptions about the newfound love I had for my first child. Suddenly when he was about four months old the newness and wonderment tapered off.

Maybe it was post-holiday blues. Maybe it was the encroaching Spring track season when I knew Jason would be gone for 60+ hours a week. Maybe it was both.

Maybe I was also beginning to struggle with a new identity. Women don't talk about how hard that is- to go from professional extraordinaire to diaper changing guru. It is a change. To go from water cooler talk to goo-goo-ga-ga one sided conversation is equally different.

Sometime in February 2007 I honed in on an urge to reconnect with old friends. So me and Google became good partners and I managed to track down a few. I was home with a baby who I loved so unconditionally, yet I felt so alone in every sense. I yearned for connections, and starved for good conversation that so lacked in my daily life.

"Yet more than finding these connections [with old friends], I desperately yearn more than anything to find myself," I wrote.

Those words made me ache inside because although I know it's something I still struggle with, I'm doing much better. But that initial shock of... loss, I suppose, was a feat to overcome. I have since acknowledged this identity issue in the same regard as an ongoing acne problem. It's there. It's not very attractive, but it comes and goes as it pleases. I know it's an inherant problem that constantly remains. I just deal with it.

I reconnected with friends.
I became a huge fan of Rachael Ray cooking. And that's a delicious reward itself.
I took up the position of chief landscaper at my house.
I dove into books. Good ones. Not parenting magazines. Good plot thickening books.
I gave birth to this here blog.
I succumbed to the relaxation of power yoga.
I commit to my 5am gym compadres five days a week.
I take pride in being the photographer of the family.
I enrolled in an art class at our local musuem.

Just last week, I picked up my brand new pack of charcoals and put my fears aside that this new sketch would NOT turn into a stick drawing of my kids but something decent. After two mediocre attempts I got something down that was workable and I went with it. Unforgiving and challenging, charcoal is something that is truly difficult to work with but when I finished this morning it felt amazing.

Do I still struggle with who in the hell I am? Absolutely. I shared drinks with some good friends from high school last month and one of my fellow moms shared a quote with us about just this topic.

"Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still
brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired. For nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own." [Marguerite Kelly & Elia Parsons]

Whatever length of time it is before you arrive at the conclusion that you don't know who you are anymore besides Mom, I can say that finding some well-deserved time for you is both priceless but necessary.

It might keep things in check for some of you, but for me it's been a saving grace.
Your husband and your kids will thank you for it. And more importantly you'll thank yourself.

Just in case you forgot

2009-05-26T13:58:00.007-04:00

I am a Jon & Kate Plus 8 naysayer.

Most of the time when a friend asks if I watch it, I groan. I have three of those things I call offspring and so no, I steer away from shows devoted to the chaos "they" bring after they are in bed.

But yes, I have seen the above show. Sometimes in desperation I watched for a mere two minutes until Kate mouthed off to her husband or snapped at her kids then passed a knowing eye-roll to the camera crew. I avoid it because they've created a brand out of their family. Don't misunderstand that I just have a vengence for Jon & Kate, because I also scrutinize the Duggar's and other crazy Octomom type charades blasted over the vicious channels of media these days.

But last night I shamefully sat on my chair watching the overly publicized season opener of Jon & Kate Plus 8 which may have been the kiss of death for the show. And rightfully so.

The parents are just like me and Jason. No, well, not really. I just mean that they are a mom and a dad trying to raise their kids who are just numerically beyond the norms of society. And they've been taped by a camera crew, coached by a producer, and assisted by publicists but otherwise they are just parents.

And so to people like me, who mostly live under a rock when it comes to reality television, I understood in advance that there was some type of speculation of adultery going on off-camera as I watched last night while they danced around "the topic". If you've shopped at a grocery store in the past six months you could not have avoided their pictures plastered across the tabloids in the check out aisle. It was out of the question to avoid this topic on their own show.

I watched the train wreck as their premiere went from happy-awkward children's birthday party to estranged Barbara Walters style interviews focusing on each parent separately who discussed their point of view on the demise of their marriage currently dissolving before American family room TVs.

At one point, Kate pondered how their marriage got to this point, and how to fix it. You've got to be kidding me.

This is what gets me. As a mom and a wife, I completely understand how things can get skewed in a marriage making life at home a bit uneasy. I totally get that.

But to be baffled after signing over the privacy of your life to mainstream media that one day it crumbles at your feet? This is basic decision making 101. Pros and cons weigh our every day decisions, and if it was an afterthought that maybe turning family into celebrity may be a hefty con then at least while you're tumbling down hill in a hurry with your marriage and kids in the crux of the fall make a daunting escape to salvage what you may.

Before having kids I think we are all misled a bit. Friends and family promise you that the parenting gig is a priceless but difficult one. It's exhausting, but if you knew now what you knew then you would still do it all over again. And so I know that the peaks, valleys and mountains that me and Jason have faced already is only a picture of what's to come in our hopefully long journey together. But those are quasi-normal difficulties without the added influx of fame, money and media overexposure in our lives.

But I certainly hope and damn near expect that if a decision we made as a couple began to unravel our family I would make a graceful exit. Pronto.

It comes down to our priorities. Like I said, I know things get clouded when you're parenting. But turn off the damn cameras and focus on your family. My heart bleeds for these kids who are in the center of this mess. It's a sick twist in irony to see how a show that began because of the multiples, all eight of them, are now going to ultimately suffer as a result of it.

And any parent no matter how clouded their vision can plainly see that.

Don't step on my toes

2009-05-14T14:39:00.006-04:00

"Maaaa-meeee! Watch me slide all by myself!"

Little blond curls blurred in between the railings and feet in motion paced over the grid lined stairs to the top of a winding slide at the park behind our house. Looking for my eyes, Mason yelled for me again.

"Mommy, are you coming?"

I snuck around the side of the slide out of his eye sight and I jumped up in the air where he quickly looked over, his eyes lit up and he began squealing in laughter.

His laugh has always been one of my most favorite attributes, and when it's a genuine giggle, his cheeks round like apples causing his blue eyes to squint just so. Like most parents, I am susceptible to a fit of laughter when I hear him, and it's a sound that I love.

I continue playing this age appropriate peek-a-boo game with him each time his laughter getting louder and more intense. I hide and bang on the slide which he finds amusing and hilarious that a thunderous sound is coming from his mom without the slightest idea where I would appear.

While I continued this game with him, suddenly everything around me was slowing in motion as my mind flooded with two and a half years of memories. The laugh, his sparkling eyes. My little boy standing before me who is quickly becoming the master of the playground seems like only yesterday showered me with the same contagious laughter at four months of age laying under his hippo play gym while I played a more traditional peek-a-boo for the same amusement. I was befuddled. Stunned. The laughter remains but my God he has grown up.

A knot briefly formed in my throat and I quickly chased it away by just absorbing the moment of fun exploring with Mason and discovering new levels of our relationship. It becomes obvious that my kids continue to reinforce the simple notion that motherhood is a priceless yet bittersweet journey; it is joy and love, but it is sadness and heartache.

Finally after another minute or so Mason takes a plunge down the slide and proudly sits at the bottom. When I offer a hand to help his feet reach the mulch he reminds me, "No, Mommy. I can do it by myself."

Sorry to impede, little man. Sometimes I just try to ignore how quickly you're growing up.

The trivial Mother's Day confession

2009-05-12T13:09:00.007-04:00

I wish I could inject some humor into today's writing.

But it's not here.

I haven't, in fact, been here for a bit. This spring has been hectic in the most modest of terms. I have a love-hate relationship with this season as it is finally an end to cabin fever, but it also resumes to the craziest time of year because Jason is a track coach and spends 86% of the week away from home which I realize is still less than some.

With the toddler boys and a teenage lady of the house it makes my world spin on its side a little longer. Coincidentally I also find that I tend to appreciate my kids much less these three months out of the year which only furthers my bittersweet sentiments toward spring.

To add to this Jason has been going through a whirlwind of sorts too. Nine years ago, he met various doctors and underwent second opinions of a diagnosis doctors conceived was Multiple Sclerosis.

Jason at his very core, is an intense athlete and exudes the physique of an Olympic runner, in my very bias opinion. He's very inward about his diagnosis, and rarely talks about it to people mostly because I think he wants to avoid the very stereotype associated with MS-- disability. After trying two different medicines over the past nine years and without any physical episodes since the original in 2000 and his MRIs only showing improvement we decided to speak with a neurologist closely focused on MS instead of a doctor dealing with a dozen different neurological ailments.

The search to find someone at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital was not difficult. So about a month and a half ago we set out on a new journey with a doctor who is on the cutting edge and directing the neurology department at UPenn. His resident who spoke with us for 45 minutes even seemed to allude to a misdiagnosis.

"Most people I see in here are female, or unfortunately overweight. You seem to miss both of those characteristics, I see," he said making light of the situation.

We even spoke with Jason's doctor for another half an hour but his feelings seemed to be more realistic I suppose. "Your father has MS, too, correct?" he said grimly. We nodded in agreement and he resumed to order more MRIs, an eye scan, and a lumbar puncture [LP] which Jason never opted to do nine years ago which also happens to be the most critical diagnostic test used in pinpointing MS. I could see Jason cringe in his seat squirming at the thought of a nine inch needle entering his spine.

What Jason feared most ended up happening... probably in most senses of what he imagined being the worst. He never complains. He never appears to be scared of anything. He leads the optimistic conversation in our home and in his classroom, yet I knew he was scared of the possible migraines to follow the LP. He was in the 3% who earned the god-awful migraines that tapered off after two weeks.

I never wavered in my support. For the first time in years I mowed the lawn- several times, in fact. With a freaking reel push mower. On a half acre. After a week of rain. Complaints were out of question when I would think of what Jason was going through. The boys were out of control as we were stuck inside while all the rain in our backyards kept them caged, and with Jason in such pain he had no "Daddy Energy" for them either and I come nowhere close to that level. I have a new found respect for single moms who do it all and do it well. Because I was exhausted.

Then last week we met with the neurologist who confirmed the second fear.

"You still have MS, Jason."

I don't think I remember so much of the smaller details of that conversation. Eye scan was great. MRIs showed growth in lesion quantities in the brain and the spine. The LP was positive for MS.

"But isn't there a benign MS," I retorted. "Because I've read about this new category of MS," just in case he missed that on the latest Google searches.

"Jason hasn't relapsed in nine years, so couldn't stay in remission--"

"His MS is active. His brain is just keeping up with the growth and he doesn't show the physical affects of it," the doctor said cutting me off.

The hour and a half drive home was pretty quiet. I'm pretty sure that those words were chilling to me. They burned in my mind as we drove home. What does this mean? It means he is back on the shots and continues training and fighting it like hell. Because it means he doesn't know if and when it will show up again and if it does how strong it will be or if it will go away quite as easily as it did nine years ago.

That night I retold the facts of the appointment to family repeatedly as Jason tried to relax for the night probably running the months' events over in his mind without mentioning it to me.

A few days later I was looking forward to a day. Selfishly enough I was looking forward to Mother's Day. I'm a believer in age old selfish events like my birthday and new indulgent ones celebrating my new found love of being a mom.

The embarrassed part of me admits now how hurt I was when I walked out to the kitchen on Sunday only to find two cards from my kids. They were sweet and endearing, and Jason printed pictures on the outside of the envelopes which I carefully opened with a steak knife for safekeeping. I secretly hoped that my card from Jason was hiding somewhere in the house with a bouquet of flowers or something. As the day wore on, it became more obvious it just wasn't happening.

It was a huge conflict of emotions. A part of me felt so hurt that I didn't even get a "Hey, Wifey, I love you for all that you do and what you've been through with me this past month and all those before... and for everything you do at home 24/7. Oh and enjoy the wildflowers too."

The other part was thinking, "You idiot, how can you expect that? Your husband is in a tornado right now! You can't be in the forefront of his world, when he doesn't even know what end is up."

So there, I admit it. I was swindled by Hallmark, 1-800-Flowers, and the five-star hotel down the road a bit who hosts a lavish Mother's Day brunch. So when the kids napped, I painted our bathroom with Jason and then I prepared the grilled feast I was serving to my in-laws for the occasion. A drained mother I was, and I felt resentful for it. Our evening ended on a more dramatic note than I had hoped as all of my emotions guiltily surfaced. It was what it was.

But this husband of mine is the same one who took inspiration from my favorite book, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, for Christmas this year and built me my very own art easel, purchased some canvas, a set of brushes, and oil-based paints. He also accompanied all of this with the movie.

So he gets a free pass for this Mother's Day because I know it was certainly out of character for him to bypass a holiday attributed to his hormonal emotionally-charged wife. In the end, I realize to appreciate what I have as he suggested. To him, he meant the cards with my kids' pictures printed on the envelopes.

To me, I realize that I've been given much more in these past five years of marriage, and much more than what could be wrapped up in a holiday. He's okay, right now. I certainly hope the MS continues to avoid being physically present in my husband's nervous system, but for the nine years it abstained from harming him and the many more years I hope it continues in that same manner... that I've realized, is exactly what we need.

When the binky, blankie, or irreplaceable monkey are MIA

2009-04-29T13:31:00.006-04:00

It was bound to happen eventually.

I was doomed the moment his sister handed her mint condition stuffed animal to Mason that I knew I would eventually one day regret condoning the gift.

It was from his sister, the one whose name he could utter before "Ma-Ma". [Okay, so it was abbreviated, and simply is just "Dee". But regardless, Justine could give Mason a used Kleenex and he would probably sit it up on his dresser with other eclectic treasures.] And to my previous point it was his favorite animal: a monkey.

So it went, for the past nine months, his "comfort blanket" is his one and only monkey, so affectionately called Monkey. He's two and a half. Seriously, what would you expect? Before he decided on Monkey, it was "Ooooh oooh" in imitation of the animal's sound, then it moved up to "Mun" and now is officially Monkey. His fur is matted, with excessive saliva from Mason's eternally wet thumb he sucks, or it becomes his portable and reusable tissue. Most of all it is his go-to buddy.

He pretends with him, he tells me daily that "Monkey is funny, Mommy!" as he sits there playing with the animal beating itself in the head. I realize his sense of humor is sick, but his father is the type of person who will laugh until he's wheezing at the guy on "America's Funniest Home Videos" who just unexpectedly received a blow to the family jewels by his son aimlessly swinging the Louisville slugger intended for the pinata.

Oh well. So yes, Mason is attached to his Monkey and clings to him throughout most of the day. And in nine months Monkey hasn't been misplaced for more than five minutes. I remember my own animal as a child, my lambie [which by no means resembles anything close to a baaaa-ing creature]. It is so mangled and is probably crawling with some distant virus strain destined to sicken my family should I ever take it out of storage. [Lamb flu beware!] But this critter was lost on a weekly basis by yours truly, and to avoid that I've been pretty anal in where we keep Monkey to avoid heartbreak.

Lunch time arrives today. I am ready to kick up my feet, and I know the homestretch is in sight with the boys quickly approaching their afternoon snooze. I glance around quickly looking for his stuffed primate and fail to locate it. Our home is a rancher. It is 1500 square feet at best. The toddler duo are permitted to frolic in about half of that. Monkey is MIA. Emergency lock down.

When a screaming fit ensued after I put Mason in his crib without his BFF, I shut the door while he screamed "Monkey" repeatedly at the top of his lungs. I cursed at myself for being an unfit parent and continued looking under every cushion, behind every curtain, and even in the toilet. To no luck avail I looked outside too. Something clicked, and I realized that maybe it was left at Target this morning as I happily perused the isles in search of some gym duds to replace ones I currently wear that are nearly half my age. [Sick and yet also sad.] Worse than leaving him at Target certainly picked up by a monkeyknapper by this point, I recalled when I worked many moons ago I had a knack for leaving random items on the roof of my car when I loaded my gear in the mornings.

I had terrible visions of monkey's appendages being torn apart by the passing steady traffic beyond our driveway if I managed to leave him on the Jetta roof. I briefly contemplated scouring the road and digressed to going inside once more to look. Blasted scatterbrained mom!

Kicking myself in the ass the whole way into the house I envisioned some way of making it up to him. I didn't care about the cost... just to make up for my ill intentions in lieu of losing his best friend.

As I sulked into the house ready to scan Amazon for their monkey stock pile, I spotted his beloved in a glass cabinet where I store extra diapers.

Oh glory be, I never thought I'd be so happy to see that snot-ball of a primate in all my life, and if there were room to do cartwheels [and had he the know-how] Mason would have done five in a row when I brought that lil' bugger back into his arms.

BUT, I still plan to check out Amazon for the day I really do accidentally plunge the little furball into oncoming traffic.

Curiosity killed it

2009-04-16T14:21:00.009-04:00

After gleefully ending my very nonchalant previous entry about how loopy and downright psychotic I was for scheming a pregnancy in my mind, my good ol' friend I look forward to seeing approximately every 29 days decided to be a "no show" last week.

Yes, I just finished writing doting comments about missing the sheer innocence of my toddler boys who it seems only last Tuesday were cooing sweet nothings in my ears. But then panic began to stir inside and I began to wonder if I really was, indeed, pregnant.

The day I came to this realization, was also the day that for the first time in a very long overdue time Jason and I were making a night of hanging out with friends and a few, if not many, adult beverages without the slightest sense of fear that the more intoxication and time that went by the wayside the closer we were to toddlers banging on their cribs at 7:30am. I am still cringing as I think of the glorious hangover headache that followed that evening of fun. However, it was Good Friday, and as I mentioned I vividly remember the positive pregnancy test I took on that very same day two years ago when Peyton was just as little as a gummi bear.

I imagined this as God's little plot against me: never speak too soon, Steph. Damn you, irony! Off I went to kill my curiosity like a shamed teenager holding a pregnancy test amid the horrid grocery store check out lines. I raced home and took the first of four tests [bearing in mind I knew I was going to do this all over again to make sure]. When only one stunning line appeared I was ready to bound out of the bathroom doing cartwheels. So the plans went on as usual and we indulged in a night of fun, and discovered how old we really were when 10:00pm began to feel like we were going to hear the last call bell toll in the bar.

One hangover later, and a few days passed and my friend still did not appear. Infuriated by this I continued to feel completely wiped out, and I felt the urgency to be sick at a moment's notice... not that my sharade with Kettle One had anything to do with it. By all accounts I was still convinced I was pregnant, so I took another test which again was negative.

Even with two negative tests, worry continued to settle in my mind. It was no longer an ideal I wanted as I knew it was just not feasible for this to happen. We are a family of five. We have three bedrooms. Two toddler boys plus another baby on the way- in one room? I can think of more entertaining ways to torture myself than considering that. At this point we are a two car family driving with three in one, two in the other because we cannot fit all of us together in one sedan. How would I get anywhere with three astronimcally large infant seats? I had visions of pushing a triple stroller all over town to get anything done. Worse yet, staying home literally every minute of the day for lack of any transportation. It sounds, admittedly, presumptuous to write that as I know there are families in just that predicament. Like, right now. And it's a helpless feeling in all seriousness.

Another day later, I woke up to find remnants of Jason's breakfast scattered among the kitchen. He left a mess from where he packed his lunch, used silverware remained unwashed, and the milk was left out, which sounds like no big deal but he has a breakdown if the milk sits out unused for more than two seconds and hunts for the perpetrator immediately. He called a few minutes later and said, "I have it all figured out."

"Eh what?"

"I decided that if you're pregnant, we'll just covert the family room back to a bedroom, put up some new walls, buy two door frames-one for the hallway and one by the kitchen, toss the furniture in storage, put the TV in the basement and keep the baby in that room until Justine goes to college. It'll work out just fine. I took the room measurements and have everything with me in school. I'm good now."

Well that settles that, I thought. Relieved that at least we would have somewhere to put this unnamed child besides the attic, I let the worry go.

It would have been fine. Really. A place to put a crib was a biggie. The car thing? It would have worked out. Food?! Heck we're growing our own veggies this summer, green thumb style, so at the very least we would have rabbit food for this baby en route.

Once we had our "ah hah!" moment, my friend showed up within a few hours knocking loud and clear. And just like that, we remained once more a family of five.

So with that said, motherhood to infants is officially one chapter that is closed for me. But hey, I like my family room as it is, so I suppose that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Retiring from the club

2009-04-06T14:06:00.008-04:00

Although time at home marches at a snail's pace on a daily basis, when Friday is upon me I suddenly realize that another week has gone by and my kids are becoming little boys and only trace amounts remain of anything baby.

Okay. So Peyton is still regarded in age by months, and in the big picture is still a baby, but not baby in the sense of cooing-and-yearning-to-be-held-in-my-arms baby. And Mason, is nearly 2 1/2. He is definitely of the age when "half" is a mighty big deal, and so on Saturday he will officially be 2 1/2. But, frankly, they're aging too quickly for my liking.

The other week I caught up with a friend from high school who just welcomed his second baby girl to his growing family. His first daughter is not quite two, and thus has joined a club I formerly understood well: 2 under 2.

While I know that having two mini me's under twenty-four months is a not a large feat in light of octomoms and quadromoms and families exceeding any normal standard in terms of offspring. For me, however, it was a big deal.

Two years ago, after adjusting to the perks of normal clothing, the joy of being able to see my feet again, and bypassing the maternity section with confidence, I learned I was pregnant again on Good Friday. Mason was all but five months old. Out came the same blasted maternity clothes that I so happily packed away, and with it came the nausea and exhaustion that only arrives with a little human growing inside.

When the time came for Peyton to be born, I felt Mason was this ridiculously mature and independent young boy, but really was only two months younger than Peyton is now. Their births are separated by 14 months and 4 days. Now Peyton is nearing his 16th month and I can no longer wear the "2 under 2" badge.

I sort of despise that.

But my friend can wear that badge proudly [and quite groggily], and I'm sure he and his wife are doing fabulously at it. It is draining, and tiring and I need not emphasize so much of this because if you are a parent you are sitting there nodding your head in agreement. But once you get past the incessant exhaustion your infant becomes more mature and you hear of a friend's new baby, or you see a little newborn nestled in her stroller, and you know that though your kids are still relatively young they are in fact no longer in that newborn camp.

And I guess I honestly miss that. Peyton is no longer content sitting on my lap or playing patty cake. Hello? He's a toddling boy who is nearing his one-and-a-half birthday. Why would he want his crazy, emotionally wired mom ogling at him in his face wishing he were still young enough to enjoy this pastime? But I do so miss the tiny onesies, and swaddling, and iddy-bitty hands that grasp onto my pinky making it look of gigantic proportion.

I've been treading over this beaten path for a while now, knowing that we are 99.985% certain there will be no more babies in this home [of the human variety]. Two weeks ago I threw up out of the blue without any signs of flu or food poisoning. Then I was drastically tired thereafter wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Things started smelling incredibly pungent to my nose and I kept myself up for a few nights with my mind running a thought marathon as to what we were going to do with this imaginary baby growing inside of me. What else could explain all of the peculiar pregnancy symptoms? My rational brain cell intercepted this fantasy and concluded that my menstrual cycle is like clockwork now and I haven't missed my friend for about 16 months so I avoided the $15 cost of a home pregnancy test and accepted that no matter how much I am willing that tiny miracle again, I am not pregnant.

It's the process of retiring my "2 under 2" badge that has gotten to me. First, it was the empty, unused bassinet that sat in our room for months until my friend needed it for her newborn, since Peyton quickly outgrew it. It's the long overdue haircut that I just gave Peyton who was bordering on the ownership of a toddler mullet because I didn't want to have to do that first cut; because his first haircut meant the last time I would see his fine baby hairs. It's the pack 'n play that continues to sit in our room now, where the bassinet formerly resided, that Peyton once used to nap. But he hasn't slept in there for four months. It's a void I'm choosing to fill because moving it will be another reminder that, yes they're growing up.

Don't get me wrong. I love all of the new things they're doing now. I love the degree of quirkiness that Peyton shouts "Ma-meeeeee!" with a proud little grin on his face. And the full sprint colliding hugs I get from Mason out of the blue with a kiss landing smack dab on my lips. I enjoy the forward roll that he continues to practice daily, and the 5-word sentences he's putting together.

However, retirement by its very nature can be a bittersweet accomplishment. It's a celebration of working so damn hard, but I think retirement can also mean closing a chapter that is often times missed down the road. And I know the forfeit of my "2 under 2" badge is one of small magnitude but I haven't underestimated the challenge that club brought. I am proud to be an alumn. I don't yearn for baby puke, twelve feedings a day accompanied with equivalent diaper changes, or the shrill ear piercing newborn cry.

But the aforementioned good stuff? Yea. I miss that. And most certainly always will.

Chicken noodle soup: take two!

2009-03-28T15:13:00.006-04:00

Last week there were a few seriously gloomy, wet n' sloppy days after an early warm gorgeous [and addictive] Spring day. The tease of mother nature inspired me to make some soup, but I was in the mood for something crave when the weather makes my joints ache: vietnamese pho [pronounced fuh].

Pho is delicious and has so many layers of flavor and I cannot get enough of it when it's cold. So this Fall, when I tried a Rachael Ray taste-alike recipe I fell in love with the possibility I could make something similar to pho at home. Not the same, but very similar. The key ingredient to the flavor in this dish is the ginger [duh] and the Chinese five spice powder. If you make this DO try to locate the powder, because it is difficult to duplicate at home a la Martha Stewart style. Also, it's not listed in the original RR recipe, but I use fresh cilantro as a garnish and I think it adds more to the overall flavor.

Ginger Vegetable Chicken Noodle Bowl
[serves 4 very large portions]
Ingredients
2 T vegetable oil
1 lb boneless skinless chicken tenders/breast/thigh cut into bite-size pieces
4 garlic cloves, minced/grated
1 [2-inch] piece ginger, peeled and cut into thin matchsticks or grated
1 cup shredded carrot
Salt & Pepper
2 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons Chinese five spice powder
6 cups chicken stock
1/2 lb vermicelli [i.e. thin spaghetti]
4 scallions, cut into 2 1/2 inch lengths then cut into matchsticks 2 cups fresh crisp bean sprouts [do not try using canned... they are slimy, salty and mushy!]
Cilantro, chopped [optional]

Directions
Heat a medium sized pot over med-high heat and add the vegetable oil. Add the chicken, and cook until lightly browned, or about 3 minutes. Next, stir in the garlic and ginger. Add the carrots, season with salt and pepper, and add the cumin and five-spice powder.
Add the stock and bring soup to a boil. Drop in the vermicelli and decrease heat to a simmer and cook for 3 minutes.

Lastly, add the scallions and bean sprouts. Turn off the heat and let the soup stand for 5 minutes. Adjust seasonings, garnish with cilantro [if using] and serve.

Nothing can make you feel better than the cliche hot bowl of soup. Well maybe a cosmo can do the trick [for me]. Or a day on the beach [for me]. Or a massage. Okay maybe no other comfort food can make you feel better like the affects of a hot bowl of soup. Next time, give this Asian inspired noodle bowl a try and I promise you will come back for more.

Quips from a SAHM

2009-03-24T13:32:00.020-04:00

If you're rereading that title sounding out SAHM, then perhaps you should read past this post to find something more applicable to you. I'm not making lofty assumptions, but it would be safe to say if that acronym is over your head, this entry will probably induce a yawn session. SAHM spills over into a world of domestic engineering, or otherwise known as a stay at home mom.

Perhaps it should be SAHP: stay at home parents seems to have a bit less of a gender bias.

Nonetheless, I recently became irritated [not that this is anything new], when someone commented on my assumed oodles of free time as a director of stay at home affairs.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, I have joined Facebook and in light of that, I have caught up with many former classmates. As I might have ventured before registering I have rekindled feelings, both good and borderline irritating, concerning some of my former equals. I made the error of commenting on my wall one day last week how glad I was to have my computer back in a working condition, and that low and behold I was connected to the world wide web once more. Technology is great, but when it turns against me, I take a short drive to crazy town.

To this comment, a friend inquired what I "do" besides the internet these days, with the full understanding I am at home with my kids.

This, is the be all end all statement that gets under my skin like nothing else. Prior to this tornado of a life as mom, I worked in a semi-chaotic corporate setting.

I had deadlines. I had a business card; although I could make one again, I don't know that I want to advertise surrogate motherhood any time soon. I had a desk, my own private extension, and secretly felt important to be paged on the intercom [unless it was my boss in which case I was a sitting duck]. Daily, I wore dramatic stiletto heels that give me painstaking cramps in my calves now after wearing them to, I don't know, get the mail. I made press releases and drafted business correspondences or marketing proposals for review of executives. I created streamlined presentations given throughout the state by our executive branch. My creative juices flowed freely, and I ate up the notion that I played a vital role in their creative department. There were nights I would get home only to scarf a salad, shower and get up at 5:30am only to do it all over again with pleasure.

With a pat on my back, and a paycheck wired to my account every other week I saw the fruits of my labor on a regular, or at least occasional basis. [I need not recount the instances I took a quick rest on the hot seat. It wasn't all glory.] But at least when I spoke to people outside of my profession, I wasn't questioned. I never confronted, "So, no, really. What do you do all day?"

My kids don't thank me for changing their diapers or fixing them baked oatmeal. I don't earn brownie points for reading to them, though I know this will pay for itself in the future. A monthly bonus doesn't fall into my lap for making certain the bathrooms don't smell like a urinal, or that the tumbling dust bunnies are vacuumed on a weekly basis. I do receive pats on the back for the weekly Rachael Ray delights, but really I won't be adding any of this to my working resume.

On a side note, I am in no way knocking the working moms. Because all that I do with my two toddlers [29 and 15 months young], I am puzzled to imagine how I could possibly function while also operating an adult, non-mommy related, brain cell. Something for me, or for my family, would suffer. I know how curt I was at times while I was working, and step-mommying, and later pregnant while step-mommying and coaching and being a wife, etc. It was crazy, and I know that some women can master that; I, however, was not up for the challenge.

But this, too, is crazy. Prior to my kids' boisterous awakening, I rise at 5am to get to the gym where I complete a rigorous 60 minute cardio slash weight lifting work out before Jason goes to school to teach by seven. From the time my kids are pounding their wooden cribs at 7:30am ravenous for food, they are on edge like little wind up toys and don't stop until lunch is over and scattered among the linoleum kitchen floor roughly by 1pm. After I get them settled for a nap I clean up, make a half-attempt at lunch for myself, and thereafter I prep dinner which then usually leaves me about an hour or so of uninterrupted time to myself if I don't have laundry to fold, bills to pay, furniture to dust, floors to mop, dishes to put away, shirts to iron, bathtubs to sanitize, rooms to vacuum, or toilets to defunk.

Until you become a parent you have no understanding how much that time of solace is to survival, and so be it if take an hour to peruse the internet or write a blog entry for all six of my readers to enjoy. Before I can breathe another second the boys are up and ready for more action by 3:30pm. In rare form, since they are refreshed with the energy reserves of marathon runners, ready to conquer the basement in search of another toy explosion until dinner time when Jason usually walks in the door. The energy levels kick up a notch at the sight of Dah-DEE and they are wild like banshees until 8pm after which point, Jason and I collapse on the family room chairs and exhale in relief for having made it through another draining day after shutting their bedroom door for the night. Aside from that, half of the week we increase our parental stamina after the toddlers are in bed to get Justine, our resident teenager, through the rest of the day with the remaining amount of tact, love and patience we reserved for her.

I need not validate with the other at home parents how draining this job is, and how downright undermining it can be at times. Do I really need to validate my life at home? I suppose not. I knew before taking this job offer that motherhood at home 24/7/365 can be a thankless job at best. It's demoralized by ignorant twits who scoff at the idea of it being anything remotely difficult.

But, ya know what? To each their own. Each of us working humans face the difficulties on the job, and while I don't see professional careers on the domestic front becoming slightly prestigious any time soon I have to say that I have respect for myself. When the latest headlines these days relate to how many more billions of dollars corporate giants are managing to smuggle away from the little guy, I have to say that raising a new generation of kids is a mighty fine gig.

Crazy guacamole cravings

2009-03-19T21:06:00.006-04:00

While I realize some people don't appreciate the delicious addictive spread of guacamole, I have become increasingly hooked on it since my brother and sister-in-law have become residents of the most delectable Texas town: Austin.

They've lived there for four years now, although with my mushy mom of a brain I could certainly be way off base. Regardless, the foods of Austin are awesome, and as it nears the ten o' clock hour and I head off to bed, I normally tend to fantasize of wonderful snacks I know I will not eat right upon going to bed [and getting up for the gym at five am-- those late night snacks earn you every last one of those five pounds that refuse melt away].

So with that in mind, I'd like to pass on a recipe for some serious kick-ass guacamole if I do say so myself... to eat -ya know- in the normal dining hours of the day. It's mostly inspired in part by my bro, but I have read up on a couple of guacamole recipes and adopted a tip to add chilled cerveza to the mix and I must say it makes a delish difference.

Without any further adieu:

2 large or 3-4 small hass avocados, pitted [obviously. did i need to write that?]
1 small onion, grated or minced
1-2 cloves garlic, grated or minced
1 plum tomato, minced
1 jalapeno, seeded and minced
1 lime, juiced
Cilantro, large handful finely chopped
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 T beer [optional]
Hot sauce [optional]

Mash the avocados in a large bowl. Don't be afraid to "git in there and git messy" as Josh would say in his nearly southern Texan drawl. Oy. Next, I like to use a microplane to grate the onion and garlic so you have the taste without the chunks. Add the tomato, jalapeno, cilantro, lime juice and remaining optional ingredients. Season with S&P to taste.

Serve this up with tortilla chips to your heart's content. I never met a bowl of guacamole that I didn't like and didn't disappear in a long weekend.

Keep those mints handy post-guacamole as the gah-lic and onions will keep away most humans.

In which case, you have all the more reason to eat UP on this goodness if you want your children to leave you alone long enough to indulge on the fruits of your labor and then some.

Ole!

Lip rings, motocross and other reasons I don't want my boys to grow up

2009-03-17T14:51:00.010-04:00

Sigh.

It's been long over due to write, but my computer has become my ultimate nemesis depriving me of my only private time to write and has all but blown up its useless microchips on the basement floor. In fact I wish it would. At least then I would have physical evidence to prove our need to purchase a Mac.

Over the past week or so I've continued to reinforce the notion of how elated I am that I have two tiring, drain-the-energy-reserves-out-of-me-before-I-even-crawl-out-of-bed toddlers.

Last weekend I went out for a drink with some friends, and while we danced around small talk at a casual birthday bash for a newbie-21-er, I made note of the wallflowers scattered around the room who were somehow related to the birthday girl. The boys, older than her, were the epitome the art school stereotype. The long, shaggy hair, and black skinny pants tighter than my own might I add. A Pink Floyd shirt was adorned by one of the guys, while the other had a shiny black lip ring that he kept fiddling with either out of habit or as a perpetual attention grabbing technique. Audrey and Denise, my fellow drinking comrades, sighed and said how "It seemed like yesterday they were cute little boys."

Gasp. What? You mean they weren't born this way? Didn't they just pop out of the womb with black nail polish? Weren't the parents forewarned that their innocent boys would eventually become... their own person?
I went home that night, a little rejuvenated for not having to bathe and put the boys to bed, and to have the unique opportunity to apply make up and feel girly. However, I restrained myself from not creeping into my boys' room to peer into their cribs and silently thank God for their innocence and if possible that they could just remain as such for longer than humanly possible.

The next day, as I was putting away my laundry, I received a subdued phone call from my sister-in-law to hear my nephew, my nearly 19 year old senior in high school nephew, just crashed for the second time while racing at a motocross event. She described the event in horrid detail, and I think I held my breath for about two minutes until she uttered "But... he's okay. Just a concussion."

With each passing day, my kids grow with more independence and although I eat it up and love to see Mason barreling down the driveway on his tricycle, or Peyton learning how to walk haphazardly like the Tin Man from the "Wizard of Oz", I admittedly dislike the bittersweet journey.

I loathe the bullheadedness that I see in both of my kids who come by it quite honestly. Jason and I have our own horns that have been in tact for many years and have a way of locking upon confrontation. It's only natural that our children would too bestow their own little horns. With those horns come an innate desire for independence, and I fear my little boys whose diapers I change right now, could be some day way too soon blowing me off with the aloof mannerisms of a teenager who doesn't care if mom thinks he looks like something out of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show".

I know that change is one of the inevitable things in life, but seriously. Really, motocross? Does this face really look like one of a boy who will do anything [including a lip ring] to pull the wool over dear mom's eyes?

Yea... I know. I'm screwed.

Measuring up: facebook and the uprise of my post-high school insecurities

2009-03-02T14:34:00.012-05:00

Ok so maybe I'm the last twenty-six year old to register for facebook. Probably not, but I just caught up with the rest of my class and joined the conformity movement that is this new social networking era. When I realized that even some of my former coworkers old enough to be my mom were slapping comments on walls and poking their friends, I made a mental note that I've had my head head stuck in the ground far too long.

Amazing, I thought, that I can really snoop and silently check in the lives of former classmates, some of which I admit I could go without seeing for another ten years. It's great for other things too, like catching up with those true friends you did manage to find and for that reason it's highly addictive. However, it's uncanny that I'm able to follow the road maps of these people's lives. I tally up the number of grad students, those who are pursuing their PHD or their JD and I am left feeling pissed that there are no prerequisites or fancy abbreviations at the end of my name for the sake of my profession: stay at home mom.

Feeling I fell short of my own expectations was one thing, but it was quite another to feel it was like high school all over again to have to "ask" to be one's friend with the tiny voice whispering "What if they IGNORE me?!" Embarrassment. Shame even! It conjures too many old emotions of passing through those old, deteriorating, cafeteria-spaghetti-smelling hallways not knowing if the person I smile or wave at will do the old "turn, and look the other way" while I point my face straight at the floor nearly toppling into the locker bank. Not that I haven't let those old feelings die.

But doesn't it perpetuate that stereotypical high school dance? The messy tango involving you vs. the rest of the school. I mean, by the end of high school I was fully prepared to leave that dance behind and not look back, and I feel I walked to my own beat and didn't conform to very much [with the exception of FB]. I was fairly well received, but don't think I still didn't care what the quote-en-quote popular crowd thought of me. I did. I just succeeded at fooling most people.

I would like to think it is somewhere in our DNA to strive for acceptance. I guess I have ceased to remember that for a few years since my biggest critics now are not yet old enough to turn their noses up at me or baulk their opinions in retaliation. Not that they don't have the kahunas to do it, they've just got a few years [thank God] until they reach the alien stage of adolescence.

It's this ongoing feeling that I have, one that is fleeting but always causes me to question if I'm doing the most with my life. If I'm making my kids proud or does my stepdaughter quietly utter that her stepmom is "just" a mom with nothing more to her resume. Will I return to work when my boys are elementary school bound, or if I hack a part time job in lieu having latch key kids will they too feel embarrassed their mom doesn't "do" much? Perhaps, instead, it is the question most in my mind: am I measuring up?

My husband, my wise wise husband, often points out to me the handful of his colleagues who would quit teaching in a heartbeat if their family could afford the sacrifice to stay home with their kids. Don't get me wrong. I KNOW that staying home is something I will never regret.

Moments I spend negotiating with Mason that he may not run around "naaaaay-ke" in his diaper all morning, or telling Peyton again that shoving the square lego in his iddy-bitty mouth will always result in a discomforting feeling of it being lodged among his teeth. Seriously! My boys bring humor into what would be an otherwise dull day, and I have the pleasure if not the pride of being able to permanently write about them in a corner of cyberspace for all three of my readers to enjoy; it's awesome! But does that make me successful? No. Does it have to? I suppose not.

And I certainly don't want my kids to look back at my writings only to think their mama is a martyr. Because there is nothing I love more than my current passion of being a mom. It is many many things and the hardest thing and yet the most important thing I'll ever do. But regretting to do this job on the home front 24/7 is not on my list of greatest disappointments, but instead one of my best decisions I've made.

Touché, facebook. Touché.

Pictures of your kids with your fave Grandma... Priceless.

2009-02-25T13:15:00.007-05:00

I know it's ridiculous to say I'm in a rut for writing.

Hi. I have two followers! Who is really going to protest with torches and charge my back door if I don't deliver more entries? [Enter protesters, now, please.]

So anyway. I'd like to think that most people with a creative brain cell tend to have periods of time when they are on fire, and ideas come pouring out of their minds. Other times the juices dry up, which is in my case, [but I have to say I would enjoy the former happening more frequently].

Yesterday I was catching up on some reading from the few blogs I do read, and I stumbled upon an entry written by Mom-101 who is hilarious altogether and I love her style of writing. Her most recent entry to date sparked something in me as well. The title was Four Generations of Separation. So cheers to her for reminding me of some of the important small things in life.

This week, Jason just downloaded a 700-something picture DVD of the past six months from my camera. Yes I am a bit neurotic about photography when it comes to my kids. I just don't want to miss anything in their life that could be captured on film. Like Peyton discovering how much of his fourteen month old finger can discreetly fit up his nose. Or Mason feeling so proud of himself wearing my dusty-but-still-stylish-old-work-Ann-Klein-stiletto pumps. Sigh. Or the look of astonishment on Justine's face as she watched the half demonic Elmo Live doll talking on Christmas night.

There are tender moments too. Like the photos from a June vacation our family took last summer to Florida to visit my grandparents. It was a trip unlike any other captivating emotions I had not yet known. I touched on these emotions before when I would engage in Skype conversations with my grandparents which was used so they could see their great-grandchildren in the flesh, even if only over the internet connection at my parent's house. I remember shortly after Peyton's birth we Skyped my Grandma and Grandpa, and prior to signing off my Grandma dabbed her eyes and thanked me. Thinking back on this I still feel the knot enlarge in my throat. Being a world a part from my grandparents was always hard growing up, but even more so now that I have kids of my own because I want them to know my grandparents and love them just as I do.

I know how unique and special they are, and to be able to have my kids know them is so important to me. When we flew to Florida it was a draining ordeal, with a six month old and 20-month old, but it was worth the efforts of traveling. We had heavy duty back ups: my parents and step-daughter who all could trade off with one of the kids if Jason and I needed to, like, pee or something in the airport.

It was the first and last time my kids ever got to meet my Grandpa. He died four months later after his kidneys failed, and he graciously bowed out of the endless cycles of dialysis. My Grandma, is amazing, in all of her might to move on and accept her life as it is now. After sixty one years of marriage, two quadruple bypasses, a valedictorian honor, raising five kids, a lifetime in the medical community, a hip replacement, and a forty-lap swim every day I believe I have a bit much to live up to when I look at her in all her glory.

Prior to the trip, I didn't know what to anticipate. But I was able to capture some precious moments. My Grandma's tender hands on my baby's feet, which shows an amazing contrast in the years. But my Peyton is squeamish with new people. I swear he didn't move from her gaze or the comfort of her lap for 45 minutes. It was those moments I was happy to record one after the other until my memory was full in my camera.

I think kids sense our hopes sometimes. Because there were some touching moments I was able to catch with Justine, playing cards with Grandma-- gently leaning over on my grandma's shoulder to accept some tips on the game. And Mason, who received a stuffed Cookie Monster doll on the floor from Grandma, I was able to catch him signing thank you to her with a small gentle smile across his face, and my Grandma's smile beaming across her with the evident visible connection between their two eyes.

I agree that it's not just precious for our loved ones to meet the little ones in our lives, but it's equally if not more amazing to see our kids open up a piece of their tiny hearts to love them in return.

Sgt Pepper's, Torchy's and eight other reasons I loved Austin

2009-02-10T14:56:00.017-05:00

I think it was literally after I unbuckled my "safety belt" in the plane in Austin that I could feel a different vibe of the city, and began to take on a new persona myself: Steph, and no longer Mommy. Half a country away from home, but I strangely felt at ease knowing our new home-away-from-home was only five minutes from the terminal with a cold Mexican beer and smokey homemade fajitas steaming. But wait! Our kids were not attached to our hips! My arms felt empty without a stroller to push, or diaper bag strapped to my back. My voice was not hoarse from its echoing mantra of "Mason. Stop. Peyton. No." Justine is a self sufficient teenager and requires little beckoning unless it includes a checklist of, "Homework? done. Dirty clothes? laundered. Showered? smelling like a rose." It's a broken record but doesn't require a droning voice and draining source of energy needed for toddler boys. How could this new place feel normal? Quite simply, I learned.

Yes. A second honeymoon. That idea could easily be followed by a third... fourth... maybe fifth honeymoon anytime soon. Just as soon as that stimulus check in debate could kindly float into our mailbox I would gladly hop a plane to Austin with Jason at a moment's notice.

Austin was awesome. And really, as a fellow Austinian commented to me and Jason as we awaited our flight in Baltimore, "Five days is plenty of time for y'all to fall in love with Austin." We certainly did. It wasn't even warm-- freezing by their accounts [all 60 degrees of it which is a heat wave to us Northeasterners].

Here are just a few reasons why you should book a trip to Austin and when you do try to hit up some of the recommended spots as I became a Tex-Mex junkie before leaving to come back to cow-pie country.

Citizens of Austin are just friendly. It's borderline weird to me for complete strangers to start talking to me in public as I'm wary of what they might sell me or how easily they pick my pockets only to find dryer lint. They are really just that nice.
You will soon realize how far behind your own community is in becoming a green town. Their recycling "bins" are as large as my trashcans, and their trashcan is as small as my recycling bin. Their roads are only littered with a few sparse SUVs, and the traffic is jammed with economy cars, and hybrids. Smaller is better and most people opt for that. Recycling is everywhere; farmer's markets abound with fresh-from-the-garden awesome food finds. Gardens are fairly common, and this leads me to number three...

East Side Cafe is unbelievable. It's a small restaurant based out of an old converted home. They have a large garden that produces a host of fresh veggies that make their way to becoming features on the menu when they're harvested. The flavors are fantastic from appetizer to desserts, and their adjacent gift shop has wonderful one-of-a-kind finds. It also happens to be the employer a favorite sister-in-law of mine, so perhaps I'm a bit biased.

Okay so a lot of the trip revolved around food. They have some uh-may-zing places that are great but won't break the bank. My favorite place was Torchy's. I insisted going there for round two after we ate lunch one of the days and I tasted the Fried Avocado Taco. Who knew you could fry avocado? The next day I enjoyed the Baja Shrimp Taco which was the best in my opinion. Hands down-- great bite to eat, and it was worth every penny of my ten dollar bill.
Bob Schneider. Need I say more? In addition to fabulous food, my brother and sister-in-law have found some of the best music in Austin and Mr. Schneider is the top of the list. Now, whenever I put his music in the stereo of our basement, it takes me back to Austin despite the toy-littered basement and two toddler maniacs running around me.
Going to the movies these days is enough to break the bank, but it was completely worth the money to see Seven Pounds [which I totally recommend] at The Alamo downtown in Austin. Obviously this has nothing in common with the infamous battlegrounds of the historic Alamo in San Antonio other that its shared name. This movie theater doubles as a restaurant, and serves up some delicious food. The lighting is dim, but worth the extra effort of focusing on food-to-mouth action and that on the big silver screen in front of you. Order up drinks, appetizers, and dinners as often as you'd like until "last call". Could it get any better than that?
Blue sky. Yea I know this is abundant just about anywhere, except for perhaps the smog-ridden areas of the good ol' USA, but the sky in Austin just seemed to stretch on forever. Colleen remarked to me one day that when they moved there, she couldn't get enough of the sky. It was so blue, and encompassed such a vast area that wasn't polluted with gray skies and smog. And I had to agree. Maybe not worth a $200 ticket to fly there, but I definitely enjoyed the perk of seeing it every day.
As mentioned a few numbers up, I fell in love with the fresh farmer's markets. The massive Whole Foods store was enough to be stifled by, but I thoroughly enjoyed walking from tent to tent at one of the farmer's market locations in town. We went at ten in the morning, but that didn't hold me back from enjoying some fresh Thai vegetarian egg rolls, red curry sauce, or chipolte pesto. The last on my list has become my obsession or sorts. Sgt. Pepper's pestos are fantastic. I purchased four containers, froze them, brought them home safely, and currently I am contemplating contacting the owner to send me more if I pre-pay in advance. From roasted jalapeno, to Serrano cilantro, to the less spicy black olive pesto, the flavors are amazing. The New Mexican red chile pesto lasted all but about four days in the fridge before I was tempted to lick the container clean. I wish there were an easier way to obtain it. GO GLOBAL Sgt Pepper's!
It was an odd feeling to literally feel like the oldest 26 year old on the Longhorn campus, but as a proud sister of a Longhorn graduate student we graced the UT grounds. Despite my insecurities, the college town is beautiful, as much as it is a tight knit community. I went to a small university, so really any campus over 15,000 students exudes an unparalleled camaraderie that I'm unaccustomed to experiencing. I would have loved to go to school there, but it was just as cool going there as a visitor.
Lastly, the best parts of Austin were hanging out with Josh and Colleen, and Jason. Reconnecting with my husband was long overdue, but just as much was missing out on my brother and his wife who at times just seem two damn far away. But that type of bonding can take place anywhere. It was just much more worthwhile to do this out of the proximity of our lovely darlings and instead in the comfort of their beautiful surroundings.

Cheers to Austin, finding family and regaining a marriage.

Roasted Winter Salad

2009-02-09T15:12:00.008-05:00

Roasted Squash Salad with Blue Cheese Vinaigrette Salad [serves 6]
Salad
1 [3lb.] butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1" dice
1 small red onion, cut into 1/2" slices
EVOO
Salt & Pepper
6 oz. package of baby spinach [8 c]
½ c. pecans, toasted and roughly chopped
1/3 c dried cranberries
Vinaigrette [yields ½ c.]
3 T Blue Cheese
1 T White Wine Vinegar
1 ½ T EVOO
2 T water
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
Dash of salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. While your oven is preheating, throw pecans into a roasting pan to allow them to toast and bring out flavors. In about 10-15 minutes you will smell their fragrance which is when you'll want to remove them to cool. Transfer and reserve pecans for later. Place diced squash into roasting pan, and liberally drizzle with EVOO and season with S&P in a single layer. Stir to coat and combine. Place onion on same sheet and season in same manner with EVOO and S&P but keep separate from squash since the onions will finish first.

While the onions and squash roast, add all dressing ingredients in the bottom of a large salad bowl and whisk. Add spinach and toss to combine. Set aside.

In about 15 minutes your onions will be complete when they begin to look translucent. Remove onions and transfer to a medium bowl to cool. Continue to roast squash for another 15-20 minutes. Place squash together with onions in the bowl, lightly mix, and allow the flavors to combine while they cool. I prefer to cool the mixture so the salad does not wilt.

When the squash mixture is cooled, lay it over the dressed baby spinach. Add pecans and cranberries over top for a gorgeous presentation. Admittedly this recipe is my version of my boss' salad [Riverdale Manor]]they serve and it's awesome. She recently told me it was their own version of a recipe found on Southern Living which is where I retrieved the vinaigrette recipe which I could not decipher on my own. I would eat it any day of the week over any cut of cow. Well maybe not over a filet, but it is just that good.

Enjoy!

Cheap, hot date ideas... okay maybe they're just cheap

2009-01-30T10:50:00.005-05:00

Flat line the bank account or grab dinner with my husband to escape the craziness of parenthood for one night? What a quandary.
Unfortunately I’m afraid this is the sentiment of all too many people in recent months as it seems fraudulent CEOs are just about as plentiful as the steady decline in personal stocks, checking and savings accounts nationwide.
While maintaining some gross income for the family to eat and stay warm for the week are the top of my priority list, so too is the priority of my marriage. But how to do date night on as little cash as possible has become a challenge of sorts. Perhaps you too are thinking how it is possible to get out of the house to breathe away from the kids, pile of laundry, mountain of junk mail, and never-ending overly ambitious to-do list that popped up post-New Year’s.
Below find some cheap if not completely do-able date ideas as we approach the hallmark-y holiday of holidays: Valentine’s. [If you’re a VD-hater, opt any choice below for any time other than feb 14!]
Most would require you to find a babysitter which also implies more money spent which may leave you digging in the couch cushions before you head out the door. Instead, if you have friends with kids, trade off. One week is your night without kids as they watch your darlings and vice versa for the week after.

Make a thermos of hot cocoa [perhaps with or without irish cream] and go for a scenic walk or drive
Cook-in with each other AFTER the kids go to bed, and do a dinner with movie inside the comfort and warmth of your own home… perhaps even in your pjs. RedBox is now available in many grocery stores nationwide for as little as $1 a day for a DVD rental! [check out www.redbox.com to find a location near you!]
Enjoy some local music at a coffee house, or the like, over a cheap cup of coffee, tea or chai
Rise early on the weekend and visit the local farmer’s market, where fresh food, free samples and sometimes music abound
Physical activities are always free, healthy and beautiful. Dust off the bike, slip on your running shoes, or pack up some hiking gear and do something together.
After eating dinner “in” go out for dessert to share. Whether warm apple pie a la mode or crème brulèe.
Visit the galleries of local art schools during year-end shows
Volunteer for something together-- whether its an event for disease awareness or helping out at the soup kitchen once a week
Post-bedtime for the kids, turn on some music and dance together. Okay so maybe I couldn’t take myself that seriously, but we can’t afford dance lesson so self-taught activities will have to suffice.
Adult beverage on order? Mix your own cosmo and throw it in a mug, with your hubby’s Corona and take a walk down town, or around your neighborhood if you’re not that thrill seeking to drive with alcohol in the car. Who’s going to pull over your mini-van any way, in search of open adult beverages?

When in doubt, there’s always just good conversation on a comfortable cushion in the family room couch, but I do dare to live on the side of wild from time to time.

Go ahead. Be crazy, and indulge in the romantic life of a thrifty Juliet.

Winter Protest

2009-01-28T16:01:00.007-05:00

I hate the winter.

Not just because of the ridiculous expense of heating oil. Not because I wear three layers so the thermostat can comfortably sit at 65 degrees to save energy. Not because of the condensed wet snow that waited so patiently to be shoveled today.

I agree that upon a new snow there could be nothing more beautiful. It’s tranquil-- especially in the midst of snowfall at night or upon daybreak when few cars loiter the roads. The snow is still white, and looks beautiful as it dusts the evergreen trees lining the park in my back yard.

I think the reason I mostly hate winter is the pent up energy that resides in my house. The testosterone levels that gradually build up in my little sons’ bodies every day, and the ungodly cold that offers them no release outside. Peyton is only beginning to crawl and it is uneventful bringing him out into the cold. Mason would probably last until frost bite occured before wanting to come inside.

With the normally high toddler energy levels matched with the normally mediocre mom energy levels it makes for an interesting battle every day to keep them occupied and with all appendages attached. Occupancy is key, and I usually run out of ideas shortly after Elmo and prior to snack time.

This morning I began to wonder if the boys’ dislike for winter came to rise to the surface too. They appreciated the “snooo” as Mason described the frozen matter outside while he and his brother peered outside their bedroom window. But lately since we’ve been cooped up inside they’re aggression has increased way too much for my liking. Mason has ceased hitting his little brother for the most part, but instead now turns his little fist toward himself. Self-hitting is beyond my understanding to the degree at which they do it. I can identify with, You idiot, Steph! You locked yourself out of the house again for the third time today without your spare. Off to see hubby at work again. Won’t he be thrilled, as I turn my palm to my forehead in a quick “duh” realization.

Peyton, all 14 months of him, started hitting himself and creates a deja vous moment for yours truly upon every thwap to his tiny little head. Mason started this vicious cycle shortly after Peyton was born when he was 14 months old too. Jason and I assumed the cause was two fold: frustration and lack of verbal capacity to express his feelings. His physical motor skills are finely tuned, but his verbal skills are slowly catching up. Recently we’ve seen a rise again in this self-hitting for Mason when we thought it abandoned him for several months.

It’s not only frustrating [and seemingly painful to onlookers], but as parents it’s upsetting to watch this. Upon finishing the workout of clearing our snow-paved driveway I sat down on the computer chair to google, or wiki-search anything involving toddler self destruction.

I became aware that there are at least 100 other people responding to similar cries for help. Parents cited similar findings: lacking verbal expression. I was unable to find, however, any resolutions. Many parents stated they saw vast improvements with elevated physical activity and that it was a release for their child [most of which were boys that were in the 2+ year old category]. Snow snow go away.

I’m not terribly naïve enough to think that with the quickly approaching early spring crocuses and daffodils that my sons will cease their destructive behaviors but my god I certainly have hoped for crazier things in my life.
Like my driveway shoveling itself.

Savory Spreads

2009-01-27T14:43:00.007-05:00

I had great intentions to indulge all of the fabulous findings of my recent trip to visit my bro and sister-in-law in Austin, TX with my hubby but quite honestly my mind cannot escape food right now. Nor do I have the time.

I will further detail the 18,745 things I loved about the city at a later time but at the present moment Mason is exercising his lungs for his brother to wake up, and testing my willpower not to exercise my own lungs for his insistence to pound Elmo's plastic eyeballs off of the headboard of his crib. He's only two. He's only two.

So for the time being I want to share a great personal hummus recipe I have become addicted to since Christmas. [Number one thing I loved about Austin was the degree of amazing FRESH, unique foods, so this is in lieu of my travel entry.]

This is my own lil' diddy to a black bean spread.

Smoky Black Bean Hummus
2 15oz. cans of black beans
1/4 c. tahini paste
1 lime, juiced
1/2 t. cayenne pepper, ground
1 t. cumin, ground
1/2 t. chipotle pepper, ground [hard to find, but I use McCormick's Gourmet version] or use one chipotle in adobo sauce
1/2 roasted red pepper
2-3 T juice from jar of red pepper
Fresh cilantro, to taste [I use a handful or two, but use more or less to liking]
Salt & pepper, to taste

Combine all ingredients in a food processor, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Allow to stand for a few hours if you can resist, but this is some great stuff. I've made this similarly with garbanzo beans [with hulls removed] and it was equally as amazing. Add more juice [another lime perhaps, more pepper liquid, or perhaps water] to thin if the consistency doesn't suit your likings. You really cannot screw it up. I've frozen this in smaller portions and works great. I love hummus but I can't ingest the amount this makes before it spoils.

Jason, however, would have no qualms with the challenge.

My oldest son, Mason, will eat the hummus alongside tortilla roll ups [with cheese melted inside] or just about any vegetable. It's great with pita, and is just as delish as a condiment alternative to improve the dull turkey sandwich.

All that said, I can still hear Elmo getting a beating upstairs so perhaps that's my cue.

When in doubt, and it's cold: roast!

2009-01-26T14:50:00.009-05:00

Ok. So not a pot roast. No no. Although the meat lovers out there would salivate over a juicy pot roast done to perfection, my idea of a fabulous roast includes vegetables.

Slide over carnivores, and feast your taste buds on this not so traditional method of roasting, but in my opinion offers a far greater taste than a hunk of meat. No offense.

Charred Tomato Soup [adapted from Rachael Ray]
6 ripe plum tomatoes, halved
1 small red onion
2T EVOO, and extra for drizzling
1/2 t crushed red pepper flakes
3 garlic cloves, chopped
1 quart chicken stock or broth
1 cup heavy cream (or half-and-half, regular or fat-free)
20 fresh basil leaves, shredded or torn

Preheat the broiler to high.
Arrange the plum tomato halves skin side down with the onions on a rimmed cookie sheet. Drizzle EVOO on the vegetables and season with salt and pepper. Broil for about 4 minutes, flip and continue to broil for 3 minutes or until the tomatoes and onions are slightly charred.
Place the tomatoes and onions in a blender or food processor, and puree until somewhat smooth.
Preheat a soup pot over medium high heat. Add the 2T of EVOO, garlic and the 1/2 tsp of red pepper flakes. Saute the garlic for a minute, then add the pureed veggies and the chicken stock. When the soup comes to a bubble, add the cream, then season with salt and pepper. Simmer the soup for 8 to 10 minutes.
When ready to serve, turn off the soup and stir in the basil. Adjust the salt and pepper.

This soup is amazing. It actually calls to be served with pesto-prosciutto stromboli's, which I admit are equally delicious. However, posting a recipe with meat would defeat the purpose of my intent for this to be vegetarian-minded. But really. This soup is awesome and perfect this time of year. It also freezes really well. I often double or triple the recipe and freeze several containers.

Enjoy. No filet but just as delish!

For the Last Time

2009-01-06T14:53:00.007-05:00

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too
swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who
rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” Henry Van Dyke
When I began this entry my family was celebrating my baby boy‘s first birthday. Leading up to his big day I was surprised at my strength, and that I hadn’t yet shed a tear. I had Mason’s birthday in October; Justine’s birthday in November. Between those two celebrations my Grandpa died. I made Thanksgiving for 14 people. Then I was preparing for the holidays. And of course, I was getting ready for Peyton’s first birthday. Perhaps in the midst of chaos I didn’t have the chance to dwell, and maybe for that reason I was avoiding the inevitable bittersweet feelings.
On the eve of his birthday, I sat in our living room and began to write in Peyton’s journal. I started individual journals for each of my two sons in hopes of preserving my memories as a mom for them when they’re older; however, I don’t know that I’ll honestly be able to part with them. Regardless, as I opened the book, I leafed through its brief history. Before I started a new entry, I read through the book sitting next to me I got him for his birthday.
Let Me Hold You Longer.

If you’ve never read it, grab some tissues before indulging and don’t expect to be able to muster the strength to read it aloud to your children without your throat constricting around the enormous knot that is bound to form. The author included a forward prior to the story that detailed how she realized how little we celebrate the last things our kids do but almost always remember the first. What if I knew it would be the last time my son played in the sandbox. Would I let him run his tractor until the sun set through the tunnels of sand? Would I ever put him down if I knew it was the last time my son would run into my arms wanting to be held? Yes and yes. The book is entirely about that.

From birth to empty nest, and it’s beautifully illustrated book. What got me was the things that have already passed for my kids. The “last” things that already happened. While I realized there are many pages that haven’t been covered with them, it will approach all too quickly. After all, our “lasts” with Justine take us nearly to the end of the story which caused the knot in my throat to become larger.

And so I finished reading that book, put it aside to be wrapped, and picked up my pen to etch another piece of history for Peyton in his journal through my blurred eyes, and tear stained paper.

Peyton’s birthday was wonderful. It was a beautiful day, and we spent wonderful time together. His first Elmo doll. How much better does it get? Not much, my older son would admit. The following day, my older son, Mason, was playing in front of me while I fed Peyton his bottle. As he nearly finished the milk in his bottle I noticed Peyton’s eyes becoming increasingly heavy to hold open. Peyton and Mason were both “babywise” babies, which means they learned early to go to sleep on their own with a fairly strict schedule at my very-type A discretion. They don’t fall asleep in our arms, or in the car, or in a rocking chair. It’s their cribs on their own time that they rest to sleep. This is a huge blessing to have a babe learn how to fall asleep on their own but in two years I’ve learned to deprives a mom of holding her still, soundly sleeping baby in her arms-- a gift unlike any other.

Peyton finished his bottle, and began whimpering for more. I put the bottle down on the floor, and he turned toward me with his eyes shut and put his thumb in his mouth and nestled against me. He slept on me. My little baby. As I sat in awe for a bit, it dawned on me that perhaps this too was the last time my baby would do just that.

Tears began to stream my face, and yet at the same time I continued to recite over an over again how fortunate I felt to remember the last time it happened.

Loosening the Grip

2008-12-16T13:54:00.001-05:00

“One of the most difficult responsibilities of a mother is the process of letting go… As
mothers we have this incredible desire to be with them every step of the way. We
know we need to let go, yet we want to walk with them just a little longer. We
feel torn as we recognize new levels of independence. We struggle with our
identity as they take steps away from us. It is a bittersweet experience at
times knowing that their independence is the ultimate goal of motherhood, yet
wanting time to slow down.” jill savage, professionalizing motherhood

Over two months ago, I read this quote as I endlessly searched for writers and authors who documented similar feelings I was experiencing as my older son’s second birthday quickly approached. I needed some type of affirmation that the rollercoaster upon which I was riding was a frequent ride in the journey of motherhood. For the longest time I invested conversation in my husband begging for empathy that he too felt dismayed with our children growing up so fast.

“Sure,” he would agree with no further details. “But that’s life.”

So simple, I would think to myself. Isn’t there more?

“But doesn’t it make you sad?! To see how quickly the kids are growing?” I would plead. With each question my voice became more desperate. Sensing this, he again would agree with nothing further discussed. I persisted.

“Well, I mean, Justine is now fourteen. Obviously you must also feel a larger array of bittersweet feelings, Jas, right? How do you deal with it? The sadness you feel to acknowledge how quickly your life is traveling and the light speed at which your kids are growing, how do you make that pain go away?”

He paused, and his quiet response was simple, yet genuine as I realized that he also feels the same, but just responds to the pain differently.

He sadly replied, “You can‘t. You just accept it.”

With that last comment before drifting off to sleep, I quietly stained my pillowcase with tears that this feeling is real, and that even a human with concentrated levels of testosterone can experience this bittersweet ride although maybe fathers deal with this differently. However, I had to acknowledge and continue to struggle with the fact that the principal of letting go is something I must begin to practice regardless of how unwilling I am to do it.

Perhaps, instead, someday I’ll figure out how exactly we can slow time.

Mindful to Moderation

2008-12-01T14:29:00.000-05:00

“Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing
succeeds like excess.” Oscar Wilde

As we near the time of year when is excessive is usually the operative word [e.g. over the top blow up decorations in my neighbors yard, ridiculous pounds of butter in the family shortbread recipe, or the back to back jewelry commercials sounding their bull horns through the TV], it’s nice to consider the idea of moderation.
I’m not a nutritionist but I do have some applicable ideas in helping you cut back on the calories this holiday season. It’s certainly as simple as common sense.

1. Give plenty. If you’re going to spend hours baking those non-low fat cookies that have been around since Great-great-great Grandma’s time, [who used lard, shortening and butter to make them taste sinfully delicious], make sure you pack them up to spread the tasty holiday cheer with others. If you plan to make eight varieties of cookies at two dozen a pop, keep a couple from each batch for your family. Otherwise, pack the rest in sealable, air tight containers and freeze them until needed for others.
2. Socialize with Conversation. Everyone does more visiting and socializing during the holidays, and where there are parties there is food. Where there is food, copious amounts of adult beverages, rich appetizers and creamy chocolaty desserts linger, and unfortunately there are boundless calories to be consumed. Enjoy yourself at holiday events, but be mindful of where you keep your company. Try to avoid standing over the buffet table, and make an effort to talk more and eat less. When socializing, avoid eating until you’re able to sit and truly enjoy your food, which is when you will be less likely to overindulge.
3. More water please! Whether you’re baking for Santa’s stop on Christmas Eve, or preparing a feast for twelve guests, keep the water pitcher handy. People are more apt to pick at food consuming extra calories when prepping food in the kitchen. Water, albeit a tasteless substance, will keep your stomach feeling full and less likely to indulge in the test tasting, and less likely to overeat when the meals are served. Also, if you need a fixation in your mouth while cutting the crudities, unwrap a five calorie piece of sugarless chewing gum to satisfy your needs.
4. Smaller is better! During mealtime or party time, rather than fill an oversized dinner plate with food, opt for a salad plate. Common wisdom would suggest that the less food on a plate would also suggest less food consumed… less calories… you get the idea.
5. Move. Literally. Just exercise, and if that’s not feasible, then just do the much contemplated but rarely followed idea to take the furthest available spot at the shopping mall, or walking up four flights of stairs to your doctor’s appointment instead of taking the elevator. If you have the energy, then go outside for a walk, run or even hike if the mood strikes. Whatever your pleasure, try to take advantage of your down time and do something productive. There certainly is a connection between physical activity and the serotonin levels in your brain. The more you move, the better you will feel, [and the less guilty you will feel for eating the last piece of Aunt Kay’s Pecan Pie].

When in doubt, take on the daunting task of preparing a holiday feast. I can tell you that having recently cooked a fantastic, borderline gourmet Thanksgiving feast for 14 people, the last thing I felt like doing was consuming more than a custard cup full of food. Take my advice with a grain of salt [or sugar], but when you do indulge in the delights of the holiday season, do so without feeling regret. Enjoy, but take heed: everything is best when done in moderation.

The Beaten Path

2008-11-30T15:03:00.000-05:00

“The greatest barrier to success is the fear of
failure.” Sven Goran Eriksson

Prior to writing this entry I searched for my quote, and decided to look in the appropriate category of fear. The number of fear quotes on this website [thinkexist.com] was nearly as popular as friendship or family quotes. It’s not surprising or at least comforting to some degree that many people have their own phobias. My phobia just happened to be listed as numeral uno on the list.

Perhaps fear of failure is one common to many people, but suffice to say it is my greatest nemesis. However, my fear is as much a phobia lurking inside of me as it is something of my own conscious decision: I choose to be afraid of failing.

Last weekend, as I drove to work which I do part-time on the weekends as a banquet server to an upscale facility in my hometown I again began to feel the sinking notion that I’m doing nothing with my degree. And it’s not as if I “never did” anything with my bachelor degree. For four years I worked in public relations, copywriting, editing, page layout and design, and basic graphic design for an alternative energy company. Two of those four years I worked while attending school part-time so I could finish my degree in my four-year goal, and pursue my career full-force. After graduating, I stayed with the firm and traveled quickly up the ladder to be working alongside the CEO, vice-chairman and several VPs of the company doing pertinent projects to the mission of their ground workings in alternative energy.

Then… kids happened. Well my kids didn’t just happen. Since the get-go of my relationship with my husband I inherited the step-mom badge, but after a few years of marriage I finally got pregnant and later determined that I wanted to stay home to raise them. And so for the time being, in light of our ever-fabulous economy I am working part-time in the restaurant industry’s ever draining environment on the weekends so my husband can stay home while I work, and vice-versa.

After working for a couple of hours last Saturday, at least a dozen times I passed the table of name cards for the two-hundred plus wedding we were catering. Normally I scour over these names, although I rarely ever know any of the guests. A half an hour passed and the guests arrived. I passed a woman chatting to another guest who appeared to be mother of the bride or groom. I did a triple take as I noticed I knew this woman as the mom of a girl I graduated with from high school. I dashed back to the card table, and scanned the names of the guests. My stomach began to churn and my hands sweat profusely as I realized that literally over a third of the people would undoubtedly know me. Even worse, they were the “people you could do without seeing until your 25th reunion, but even then it’s too soon” classmates.

It was an awkward night of doting over my guests and serving or clearing the plates of the irritating twits I graduated with over eight years ago. It was the continual “So you’re a… waitress now?” My confidence fizzled when I uttered “Well, I stay home with my boys.. Full time. And I do this on the weekends.” Stabbing myself in my eye with a red-hot poker was more inviting that being present. Although I have the utmost respect for anyone who commits to the restaurant industry and does it well, I cannot continue loathing the fear of failure. I am not saying that being a server is beneath me. I’m just through being too damn scared to pursue my writing career on my own. Sadly enough, it’s far easier to travel on the beaten path of ease than it is to take a trail of greater resistance. And if it’s nothing but the squeamish feeling I had from seeing old classmates again then fine, but it’s time for me to face my fears head on and pursue my career.

Meeting on Middle Ground

2008-11-04T14:48:00.000-05:00

“This is the true nature of home -- it is the place of Peace; the shelter, not only from injury, but from all terror, doubt and division.” John Ruskin

With Election Day finally upon us I think most living individuals are breathing a sigh of relief. Unfortunately all of the vacant ad spots so densely filled with campaigning efforts will soon be snagged by every major toymaker, jeweler, florist, and grocery store enticing you to overindulge for the holiday season upon us. After all we are five days past Halloween, so we are behind the eight ball to get things focused on materialistic crap to purchase for that special someone.

Despite all of things to come on our TVs I have to say that I'm mostly glad it's Election Day so our country can finally unite. Honestly regardless of the outcome there will certainly be parties hurt across the country that their vote did not make their candidate of choice to office, but for the most part I hope an overwhelming majority will just move on. Personally I cast my vote for Obama/Biden this morning, but if you chose McCain/Palin, kudos to you. My aunt is a die-hard McCain/Palin fan, so much so that we in my family have cast her as the crazy McCain fan satirized in the SNL skits this fall. There is an uncanny resemblance. But unlike the aloof manner of the character on SNL my Aunt Joyce has no qualms in telling you why you are ruining the USA if you vote Obama. She is so far out in right field it's hard to stomach listening to her. I'm not a left-wing loon either. I just agree with Obama's points that are most important to me. Period.

I just want to reach a middle ground. Sometimes conflicts, like the divided differences in this campaign, drive people a part instead of uniting. I'm truly looking forward to some peacetime although as I mentioned earlier I have a feeling it may take more time to achieve that.

In my own family there has been undoubted division as we have a teenager, who is just about as foreign as they come to the human race. Justine has gone through significant changes in the past two years. An only child for 12 years, and suddenly is a sister to two boys in the period of 14 months, we are finally able to get back to her. I've realized how much it has been a black and white issue with Justine-- between my husband and I, and then Justine. It was classic right and wrong, but the error in that was how we looked at it. We didn't budge from our point of view for much of anything and likewise for her. As a result it has been a long time since the middle ground was even visible.

About two months ago there was a breakthrough. We finally met somewhere in the middle of this pothole infested road of our family and agreed to just both let go of our grips ever so gently so that we could both back out of our corners. Suddenly a different Justine emerged, and I have to say two different parents emerged too. Of course the horns will continue to lock as she is at an utmost difficult age that I would never want to return for all the money in the world. But I feel such a sense of relief to be content in the middle of this crooked path.

For the first time in a long time Justine and I just watched a movie together this weekend. Baby Mama. To me, a mom, it was hilarious and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing Justine laugh as much as I did the movie itself. I helped her redecorate parts of her room the next day, and the following day got her ready for a Halloween Party. Though she left the house looking like a streetwalker, in the most subtle of terms, it was a kickback to the 80's and makeup was synonymous with being hooker-like. It was fun, and it was on that middle ground that we met.

While I realize a comparison of my teenage stepdaughter to the Presidential Election is a huge stretch, I think it's important to remember that sometimes we are so outspoken about our opinions and righteousness that we divide and segregate ourselves instead of coming together. And at the bottom of things, as human beings I think all of us want to unite so with the close of this long arduous race upon us I hope the great majority of us will slowly make our way to the middle of the road. And for the divided families among us too, the middle is out there somewhere no matter how foggy it is to find. It's there you just have to look in a different direction to find it again.

Raking Leaves

2008-11-04T07:19:00.001-05:00

“Parents are often so busy with the physical rearing of children that they miss the glory of parenthood, just as the grandeur of the trees is lost when raking leaves.” Marcelene Cox

I was thinking this past week about the extraordinary autumnal colors taking full effect around our home. I watched over a few days the maple tree in our front yard make an amazing transformation in its foliage. My favorite part was not the deep burgundy color it developed before dropping to the ground, but instead the mid-transformation when the veins of the leaf were still green, and the color progressed outward to yellow, orange and then red. It resembled something I’ve never seen before, as if I was seeing fall for the first time this year. It was so striking to me, in fact, that one day during the boys’ nap I collected some tie-dye leaves and scattered them throughout the various rooms of our house for an autumnal feel inside.
That same day when he came home from work, Jason looked at me more intensely than usual saying very non-verbally “You’ve really gone off the deep end today,” when I explained to him how amazing leaves are as if once again this was a new discovery to be documented on Wikipedia. Then he verbally uttered, “Haven’t you ever raked before, Steph?”
“Of course I’ve raked, Jason, but I’m too busy staring at the brown carpet of decay on the grass to have ever realized this process before.”
“Oh.”
I’ve thought lately about maybe how many other things I’ve missed out on because I was hurrying through life, and dreading the raking. Probably too much to count. And I’ve relayed that to my life as a parent.
Mason just turned two yesterday, and it was a fantastic day. It was reminiscent of the very early Wednesday morning he was born two years ago. Absolutely crystal clear, and seasonably warm outside with the colors of fall all around us. Standing misty-eyed in our driveway as he rode his brand new tricycle for the first time I was saddened not only by the rapid pace my life has moved since his birth but regretful for any moments I wanted to speed up in the midst of their difficulty.
The early infant days that felt like eternity. The constant feeding. The constant crying. My negative energy levels. My toothbrush that would go unused for a day. But then it got easier and he grew and became mobile, and suddenly the infancy stage was packed up in the storage bin in our basement. And now I no longer will ever refer to him in terms of hours, days, weeks or months old. He’s a toddler now and he’s two. Two.
This entire week before Mason’s birthday I told myself I was going to be over the top for the boys. To just enjoy them. Four out of the five days I was at the gym at 5:15 am as usual, and though I knew my energy levels would be depleted before Sesame Street [at 9 am], I wanted to have fun. Regardless. I worried less about picking up around the house, vacuuming, or scrubbing toilets during Elmo’s World. And amazing results came. Peyton has always been enamored with me, so I saw no change in his personality. But Mason, my tried and true Daddy’s boy, parked himself on my lap while we watched Cookie Monster scarf his favorite snack. It was Mason draping himself around my neck, yelling “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” trying to ensue a wrestling match. And suddenly I knew it wasn’t just the leaves I’ve abandoned the past 26 years, but I’ve wasted so much energy doing the daily crap and griping, that I haven’t enjoyed as much of my children as I should have. And thus, another life lesson learned at the mercy of my kids.
I feel heartbroken for the people walking past me on this earth who have had the sudden wake up call in the face of terminal illness, who quite abruptly view life in a different light, and who learn to appreciate the changing colors of the maple tree outside their living room window. Thankfully it didn’t take the floor being pulled from beneath me to open my eyes and appreciate the autumn leaves or the blooming spring irises, or the simplicity of enjoying the art of sidewalk chalk. My kids, my ever-draining but endlessly giving and teaching bundles have given such clarity to my life, and although I certainly don’t always appreciate the little moments I have learned to love each of them for too soon they will fade away. So instead of grumbling over the hardships every day brings with the ungodly energy of two mobile toddler boys, I’ve learned it to be more draining but far more rewarding to enjoy the gift of being a parent.