About three days ago, I ran out of Sweethearts. As I have mentioned this coming doom in several posts, you may have sensed my desperation.
Originally, I purchased three bags of sweethearts PURELY as decoration for my mantle. The decorative nature of these candies lasted for .0001 seconds, at which time I realized that I am unable to resist the super-human powers of compressed sugar.
The glass jars containing the devil's voo-doo magic candy were filled at least 3 times before Valentines Day. Yes, I am now convinced that God is going to need to use diabetes as a tool for curing me of my sugar addiction.
Anyway. For the past couple of weeks, I have noticed that my mouth kind of hurts. Achy-like, all the time. As this occasionally happens due to hormonal surges, it wasn't overly alarming. Yes, I am not kidding, but one of the first signs that I am pregnant or ovulating is gum sensitivity and bleeding.
No, I am NOT pregnant. Despite the rumors my husband likes to spread. He thinks it's funny when people come up to me after hearing that false truth (which he starts). I think it makes me panic and instantly dedicate myself to losing 10 pounds. Which begins, coincidentally, by eating large amounts of SWEETHEARTS.
But this mouth pain lasted for a few weeks. And as I was beginning to get nervous about receding gum lines and general mouth disease, I ran out of Sweethearts.
And miraculously, my mouth healed.
It appears that while the candy was rotting my teeth, it was also stabbing and scrubbing and puncturing my gums with all kinds of gusto. And as I haven't gone more than 8 hours (while sleeping) without popping these mini-daggers in my cake hole, it also seems that there was no time to heal the open wounds in my mouth. Until, I ran out of edible razor blades.
It turns out that God was using mouth sores to cure my sugar addiction.
Didn't see that one coming.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Photographic proof that I am losing my freaking mind.
You might say that at this point every year, we begin to get a little bit stir-crazy. It *might* affect our sanity and better judgement.
As witnessed by the fact that I paid money to strap blades on to the feet of my four children. And then I set them a float upon a sea of ice.
Until they all went whoosh and boom. Think classic Curious-George-banana-peel-biff. Within 10 seconds. It was SO funny (to me, not so to them).
Did I mention I was by myself?
It took almost two hours to strap each child to their sharp knives. Slight exaggeration. However, it became quite obvious that I would be lucky if Big J didn't break his ankle simply by WALKING to the rink. Think intoxicated frat boy without ankles. As if his legs connected to his feet with only a layer of wobbly skin. And then put that drunk-no-ankles-boy in heels made of knives.
It was SO funny. And very, very scary.
So, the ice rink near us provides large buckets for beginning skaters...when you turn the buckets upside down, they have a nice, flat surface to lean upon. It looks like this:
I would like you to notice that the children are positioned so that they are looking straight down. They circled the ice rink with reckless abandon, with absolutely no ability to see the people/obstacles before them. SO Funny. Very, very dangerous.
Once we got the feel for it, I would skate ahead, and turn around to yell little bits of encouragement to my kiddies. Go Little J! Great job! Lookin' good G! You've got it L! That's it Big J! And then I would get the hell out of the way, because those kids had ZERO control over their bodies OR the sharp knives attached to their feet. I felt like a mama duck, guiding her babies with encouraging quacks! While simultaneously worrying that her young may accidentally filet her....
Here is an action shot of Little J and his bucket:
Also, when you factor in the height of my children and the angle at which they had to lean on these buckets, they were somewhat forced to skate the ENTIRE time, upon their toe-picks. I can't believe that to be an effective way to skate with any kind of speed or coordination.
I do believe, however, that we single-handedly provided job security for the Zamboni driver, with those kind of ice-chipping shenanigans. And, I think I may have spoken too soon when I stated that little kid bowling is the funniest thing EVER.
Little kid ice skating rules.
As witnessed by the fact that I paid money to strap blades on to the feet of my four children. And then I set them a float upon a sea of ice.
Until they all went whoosh and boom. Think classic Curious-George-banana-peel-biff. Within 10 seconds. It was SO funny (to me, not so to them).
Did I mention I was by myself?
It took almost two hours to strap each child to their sharp knives. Slight exaggeration. However, it became quite obvious that I would be lucky if Big J didn't break his ankle simply by WALKING to the rink. Think intoxicated frat boy without ankles. As if his legs connected to his feet with only a layer of wobbly skin. And then put that drunk-no-ankles-boy in heels made of knives.
It was SO funny. And very, very scary.
So, the ice rink near us provides large buckets for beginning skaters...when you turn the buckets upside down, they have a nice, flat surface to lean upon. It looks like this:
I would like you to notice that the children are positioned so that they are looking straight down. They circled the ice rink with reckless abandon, with absolutely no ability to see the people/obstacles before them. SO Funny. Very, very dangerous.
Once we got the feel for it, I would skate ahead, and turn around to yell little bits of encouragement to my kiddies. Go Little J! Great job! Lookin' good G! You've got it L! That's it Big J! And then I would get the hell out of the way, because those kids had ZERO control over their bodies OR the sharp knives attached to their feet. I felt like a mama duck, guiding her babies with encouraging quacks! While simultaneously worrying that her young may accidentally filet her....
Here is an action shot of Little J and his bucket:
Also, when you factor in the height of my children and the angle at which they had to lean on these buckets, they were somewhat forced to skate the ENTIRE time, upon their toe-picks. I can't believe that to be an effective way to skate with any kind of speed or coordination.
I do believe, however, that we single-handedly provided job security for the Zamboni driver, with those kind of ice-chipping shenanigans. And, I think I may have spoken too soon when I stated that little kid bowling is the funniest thing EVER.
Little kid ice skating rules.
Friday, February 26, 2010
A 47-pound rooster.
I must confess.
I select wine based purely upon the creativity of the label. The story told in a 4x4 inch square.
I don't really care if it tastes oak-ey. Or fruity. Or dry. Or full-bodied. I don't even know what that means. Because I'm never really in the mood for a fat, tart, smoothie that tastes like my furniture.
I am, however, a packaging fanatic. And if I have been known to choose Superbowl winners based on player hairstyles (furry packaging), then it really should come as no surprise to you that I believe the quality of a wine is determined by its cute name and logo.
Hear that France and Sonoma? Cute Name. Logo. Buy the darn grapes at Kroger (or Piggly Wiggly or Star Market or Whole Foods) for all I care. Just slap a polka dot on it. Somewhere.
Now once, when we threw our first (and only) tacky Christmas party, Mike and I did buy wines sold SPECIFICALLY in boxes, or jugs with large handles. That is not an ordinary, required trait of our wine purchases, but I would like to put on record that it did, indeed, happen. In case you are checking up on my history with cute wine packaging. I did not inhale the box.
Anyway.
This week, I picked up some new, fun, cheap wines. And I almost passed this little baby up, because I had seen it before, and the name didn't instantly pop out at me.
Anyway.
This week, I picked up some new, fun, cheap wines. And I almost passed this little baby up, because I had seen it before, and the name didn't instantly pop out at me.
Until I studied the label for a sec.
A wine named for a (perhaps) fictitious 47-pound rooster? Named Rex-Goliath. I get it now. Rex-Goliath as a name for wine was kind of *meh* to me, but for a 47-pound rooster, I likey. I likey a lot.
And I like the story that a 47-pound rooster would tell me. I mean, is he happy. I don't know. I don't know what it means when you are poultry and your face appears on wine. Is that weird? You know, for roosters? And the cumber-bun--do the medals imply that he is a military man? And is it odd, as a rooster, to be in combat without the ability to hold a fire-arm. Or is this an arm of chickens that I should be nervous about? Just curious.
Rex-Goliath, prepare to bear your soul. Perhaps over two (or three or four) glasses of wine. We are gonna be real good friends.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
How to make friends.
Quick post. Where I will share my easiest and most crowd pleasing dessert...ice cream sandwiches.
Let me preface this by saying that I usually BUY the cookies that comprise the top and bottom of the sandwich. Our grocery store sells small sized cookies in containers of 20-30...perfect for little sandwiches. Even if you buy the cookies and the ice cream (do any of you MAKE your own ice cream? Impressive.), it will still look homemade, which is a bonus.
However, I had left over dough that was going to be thrown out (or, I was going to consume 25 cookies, all on my own). Either case, not ideal.
So start with cookies. I did yesterday's batch in two sizes, but QUICKLY realized that the normal sized cookie made a large ice cream sandwich. As I only own one size of round cookie cutter, I made the smaller sizes using the top of a baby bottle.
Ingredient #2: Ice Cream. As implied by the name, ice cream sandwich. Yes, I was only making 12 sandwiches, but I say, go big or go home. Hence, I might have been better off just eating the 25 cookies and calling it a day. Now, I will consume this vat of ice cream.
You want your cookie to be pretty solid, as it has to be able to handle a lot of pressure/pushing of the ice cream upon it. A fragile cookie will result in breakage, which will be sad and frustrating. And, coincidentally, will also result in the consumption of 25 cookies, at one time (if you're like me, and you tend to eat the non-functional pieces). If will power is not an issue for you, disregard this advice.
I put a solid scoop of ice cream on each big cookie. No need to make it pretty, but don't pile it all the way to the edges, or you will have spillage when you push it all together. Once you add the second/top cookie, you'll smoosh it to even out the ice cream lump. Also, it will help if the ice cream is more on the soft side, for easy smooshing.
For prettiness, add sprinkles. Or M&Ms. Or whatever makes you happy. I love spam, but would not recommend it here.
I put mine in a pyrex dish, covered it with saran wrap, and popped them in the freezer until 5 minutes before serving (again, it helps if the ice cream isn't rock hard when attempting to eat these).
Enjoy!
Let me preface this by saying that I usually BUY the cookies that comprise the top and bottom of the sandwich. Our grocery store sells small sized cookies in containers of 20-30...perfect for little sandwiches. Even if you buy the cookies and the ice cream (do any of you MAKE your own ice cream? Impressive.), it will still look homemade, which is a bonus.
However, I had left over dough that was going to be thrown out (or, I was going to consume 25 cookies, all on my own). Either case, not ideal.
So start with cookies. I did yesterday's batch in two sizes, but QUICKLY realized that the normal sized cookie made a large ice cream sandwich. As I only own one size of round cookie cutter, I made the smaller sizes using the top of a baby bottle.
Ingredient #2: Ice Cream. As implied by the name, ice cream sandwich. Yes, I was only making 12 sandwiches, but I say, go big or go home. Hence, I might have been better off just eating the 25 cookies and calling it a day. Now, I will consume this vat of ice cream.
You want your cookie to be pretty solid, as it has to be able to handle a lot of pressure/pushing of the ice cream upon it. A fragile cookie will result in breakage, which will be sad and frustrating. And, coincidentally, will also result in the consumption of 25 cookies, at one time (if you're like me, and you tend to eat the non-functional pieces). If will power is not an issue for you, disregard this advice.
I put a solid scoop of ice cream on each big cookie. No need to make it pretty, but don't pile it all the way to the edges, or you will have spillage when you push it all together. Once you add the second/top cookie, you'll smoosh it to even out the ice cream lump. Also, it will help if the ice cream is more on the soft side, for easy smooshing.
For prettiness, add sprinkles. Or M&Ms. Or whatever makes you happy. I love spam, but would not recommend it here.
I put mine in a pyrex dish, covered it with saran wrap, and popped them in the freezer until 5 minutes before serving (again, it helps if the ice cream isn't rock hard when attempting to eat these).
Enjoy!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
You are not going to believe this.
I almost don't have the words. Almost.
Because many of you had very encouraging words for me after yesterday's post. And truthfully, after my grand plans were out there for the universe to read, I felt relief. Like I just attended some sort of meeting geared toward addiction, and admitted that I was, in fact, an a writer.
Gasp. Sob. Breathe.
I have begun to see EVERYTHING in terms of what this means. Particularly, my time commitments, as last I checked, books don't write themselves in a period of 10 minutes. The second part of accepting this plan is knowing that some things need to go. Which isn't so bad, as I can tell you precisely what those are...but I hate to say no to anyone. Or to go back on my yes, and make it a no. I have a serious God-complex, in that I like to be the savior that rescues frantic, over-stressed adults from their problems. No, that's not true--I am the go-to gal for those who know how to delegate. Delegaters (is that how you spell it?) don't stress...they know, in fact, how to delegate.
Anyway. Today was my day! And the world was my oyster! And there was no where to go but up! And all kinds of cheesiness like that! And I was about to go on living with the same insecurities and needs and inabilities to say no. Just like always.
Until.
I got an email from Gabrielle Blair, aka, Design Mom. Do you read her? If not, I think you are the ONLY person on the planet. Go. Run. Sprint. Jump the laundry basket. HERE is the link.
She is the first "major" blog I ever read...I like her eye for great design, I like her style, I like her attitude, I like her big (and growing) family. I LOVE that she can wear a men's tie as a belt, while preggo. And as she is expecting her sixth baby, she has been featuring different birth stories from women of all walks of life. I have been reading them since she started posting them. Laughing, crying, relating.
And then it dawned on me, that I have a pretty great birth story to tell! I emailed her, maybe 6 weeks ago, she responded with kind words, and that was that.
Until. Today.
When she told me she was posting a link to my blog, to our story. To HIS story.
Which happens to come, without coincidence, on the day following my announcement to write a book. My step of faith.
A tiny, small step that the good Lord responded to with the greatest affirmation I could ever hope for. Not because of a craft, or a recipe or anything I have done...but simply for the story of my precious triplets and the lives of my surviving babies, which I had ZERO hand in. I was not capable of breathing life into lungs that were weak like tissue paper. It isn't an amazing story because of any effort on my part, I can guarantee. Hell, even that blog post is not the most well crafted piece of writing. I could pick every inch of that story and that post apart, based on my involvement in it.
But it was ALWAYS God's story to tell. In his timing, by his design.
Yes, having the attention is great. By what seems like an amazing coincidence of timing, no doubt. But knowing what a big deal yesterday's admission was, and then having it met with such a purposeful, out-of-the-ordinary and unrelated response...I don't know that I could ever express the absolute awe.
It was affirmation I could never have expected. My blog traffic today exceeds what I would normally see in 10 days time. Which makes the next step all the more exciting.
I can do this. God is telling me so.
Thanks to all of you who have visited today from Design Mom, who have encouraged me with comments, who have prayed for my sanity. It has done more for me and my simple faith than anything I could ever imagine.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
His story of my life.
(image courtesy of chocovision.com...though I HIGHLY doubt this is their image, as it is a site devoted to chocolate, but whatever. A Yahoo search pulled it up, blame them. Whoever shot this, thank you, I give you all the credit. It's a great shot. Perfect for illustrating my point. Please comment if you happen to read this random blog.)I am writing a book.
There, I have officially said it. With the hives and sweat marks to prove it. Because this admission, to anyone other than my husband and closest friends, is a huge step for me. One I'm not even sure I want to make. But as I mentioned yesterday, I don't really feel there is any debate about it. I feel 100% certain that this is what God is leading me to do, the thing he created me for, specifically.
Six months ago, I wouldn't have told you that I was a writer. Even though my parents paid A LOT of money for me to claim that. Honestly, how many people graduate with English composition degrees? TONS. How many of them want to write a book? TONS (or else it was a big, fat waste of money and time). I graduated from college with the desire to write a book, but none of the confidence to think I had any ability to do it.
Seriously, that is the attitude I entered the real world with. It is AMAZING that I didn't become CEO of a Fortune 500 company with that kind of confidence.
From the very start of our life together, Mike has ALWAYS told me to write a book. Which is funny, as I would never let him read anything that I had written (in college...in the 7 years following graduation, I wrote not one, single thing). I am GUARDED about what I put to paper--maybe you didn't know that, as I currently write a daily blog for all to see and critique?
Mike's encouragement to me was what I considered "expected" behavior. What you do when you are married to an English major. You assume she likes to write and you run with it. I would easily admit it was the desire of my heart, but quickly follow that up with a healthy dose of self loathing that included not having the time or inspiration or single ounce of talent to actually accomplish that pipe dream. In my mind, being an "actual" writer is comparable to being an astronaut or a movie star. Big, fat, morbidly-obese chance.
That changed slightly when we had our triplets. I knew I had a story to tell. Their story. I realized it early on and processed every experience with the understanding of a chapter outline. I needed the time, but the idea was there.
And wouldn't you know. I tried, on several occasions, to begin writing that story. I even gave Mike 10 pages of it for Christmas one year. But I could not make it work, I couldn't find the words. Not because I was being a perfectionist, but because I just had no focus, no voice, no point. Which of course, led to more loathing about how much I sucked as a writer (and human being in general).
There are a lot of little factors that point me toward taking this up again. All seemed pretty insignificant. The blog did wonders in luring me out of my hole, building me up. I love this little blog, I love the attention it's getting.
But I keep being encouraged with the idea of a book. Not just a book, but a Christian book, maybe a devotional.
I DON'T want to write a devotional. I want to write a potty-mouthed epic that will become a screenplay. And eventually win an Oscar. I want to cling to the things that aren't acceptable to Jesus, but are totally relate-able with people. I identify with my DEEP faults. So much so, that I am not willing to part with them.
That, right there, is the root of my issues. With writing, with life. Because the story I want to tell, is not the story he wants to tell. I assume his story is bor-ing! Oh! And I tend to think that I need to know everything about the bible, and use words like "transfiguration" and dress in a a wardrobe channeling the 1800's American prairie/Duggar family circa 2010. Oh my God! Do you HEAR the ridiculous-ness in that? I am writing it in all honesty and without censorship, because THAT is what part of me believes Christianity to be. And I claim to be a part of that! I believe in Jesus as Savior and yet tend to think this translates to everyday life in the form of hemlines and modesty and prudish-ness and no fun.
Seriously. It's no wonder that non-Christians have a terrible view of believers. If believers (like me) happen to have such a hideous impression of what it means to follow Christ on a daily basis. Rules and dress codes. REALLY?
I believe in Jesus, but SO WHAT, if I don't follow him in faith. This plan, this book, for me, is like choosing his path, or walking away with a see ya later. And at this particular moment, he is opening the door to my biggest dream, and I stubbornly debating it, as it is being offered on his terms, and not mine.
He is not asking me to be Mother Theresa. Or Billy Graham. Or Tammy Lynn Baker. He is not asking me to rewrite the bible. He is asking me to write his story, of my life, as he reveals it. Not for it's perfection, but for it's need.
Consider this my first step in faith.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Where I *kind of* tell you my hearts desire and how God is handing it to me on a plate.
I made it until 8 p.m. without a sip of Diet Coke. And so, I am feeling like a failure, as it pertains to artificial sweetener consumption.
It's such a true picture of my standards for success. Which mostly hinge on totally insignificant things.
And my six week love affair with Sweethearts is about to come to a heartbreaking end. Unless, of course, someone happens to know where I might get my hands on a bag (or 2 or 50) of large sweethearts. So this is what it's like to kick an unhealthy addiction.
Truth be told, I am all kinds of restless. And that manifests itself in a general frustration with every insignificant thing in my life.
Have you ever struggled with purpose? Wanting more, but not knowing what MORE is? I know most of you reading this are moms. Did you always want to be a mom? And now that you're there, does it fulfill you?
I always thought I would be a mother. Not out of burning desire, per se, but because that's what girls do. They get married and they pop children out (that part is NOT a fairy tale, more a bloody comedy). Thankfully, I was raised at at time where the choices available to me also included college (which I LOVED, did you know that) and career (which I HATED, passionately). But then came the kids I was supposed to have, which sent me into all kinds of uncontrolled chaos and new identities. Everything changed.
Do you miss where you came from?
What I really wanted, was to marry the love of my life. Which I did, when I was 23. And two years later, we were having a baby. Recently, I am so thankful that we started our family when we did. Not because I had more energy or wisdom (please, refrain from laughter), but because most of my choices up until that point were pretty unfulfilling, aside from my choice in a husband. I wasn't giving anything up, I wasn't trying to balance two lifestyles, I was simply following the plan. And if that "plan" had to fight against a real desire for anything else, I am 100% certain my children would have suffered. I'm not sure I would have adequately chosen or balanced the vomit and the NICU and the tantrums and the discipline with any other option that was *slightly* more glamorous.
I did not choose my family by default, in the absence of other options. I truly believe that God removed the distractions that would have easily pulled me away from them. I embrace my role as mom, I love it and struggle with it, and desire to be better for them. To do this job WELL. I understand THIS as my purpose--to raise them with conviction and faith, to change the world through them (no pressure). I am happy in that. I am challenged by seeing God's bigger picture through them.
But what if there's more? Lately, I am struggling with "more". Since having my children, I've never been enticed by more, as we've had quite our share of tragedy and struggle, and that has kept me on my toes, learning to be a nurse and a neonatologist and a variety of therapists. It has been challenging on all levels--emotional, physical, spiritual, occupational, parental. And it has been COMPLETELY fulfilling to see your miracle babies thrive, and to appreciate in your healthy children the things most parents don't see apart from tragedy.
Only now, I feel with CERTAINTY, that I am being called to more. But I am fighting it. I am confident this is God's plan--that it's been his plan for me, my ENTIRE life. But I am totally unconfident in my ability to do it. Which is ridiculous, as he is the God who inspires and equips me. But I am use to the praise and affirmation of men (and women). God's confidence is "great" and all, but I live in a world of human beings and I need their feedback. Wow.
Up until this point, I always saw my life as a series of events. I processed everything that way. Particularly once I became a Christian and really tried to decipher God's plan for my life, I would pick things apart to understand what he was teaching me, where he was leading. I would look back at struggle and find the purpose in it. I wrote in a post a couple of weeks ago, that I could see God as I looked back and analyzed...but rarely recognized him in the moment he was working.
Well. Prayers answered. I know specifically why I was created. SPECIFICALLY. Every single ounce of my being was created for this, I am certain. Revealed within the month that I have prayed to know him intimately. And I'm not sure I'm ready to pick up what he's throwing down.
The eagle has landed and I am keeping him caged with a chain that is practically strangling him? Make sense? Yes, I know, I am being cryptic. But saying it out loud (which I have done just a couple of times), opens me up to the encouragement of men that I so rely upon. And yet, it also invites the criticism and judgement I am unprepared for. So give me 24 hours, and maybe I'll clue you in. Maybe.
Your prayers for confidence will greatly affect my desire to spill the beans. FYI.
It's such a true picture of my standards for success. Which mostly hinge on totally insignificant things.
And my six week love affair with Sweethearts is about to come to a heartbreaking end. Unless, of course, someone happens to know where I might get my hands on a bag (or 2 or 50) of large sweethearts. So this is what it's like to kick an unhealthy addiction.
Truth be told, I am all kinds of restless. And that manifests itself in a general frustration with every insignificant thing in my life.
Have you ever struggled with purpose? Wanting more, but not knowing what MORE is? I know most of you reading this are moms. Did you always want to be a mom? And now that you're there, does it fulfill you?
I always thought I would be a mother. Not out of burning desire, per se, but because that's what girls do. They get married and they pop children out (that part is NOT a fairy tale, more a bloody comedy). Thankfully, I was raised at at time where the choices available to me also included college (which I LOVED, did you know that) and career (which I HATED, passionately). But then came the kids I was supposed to have, which sent me into all kinds of uncontrolled chaos and new identities. Everything changed.
Do you miss where you came from?
What I really wanted, was to marry the love of my life. Which I did, when I was 23. And two years later, we were having a baby. Recently, I am so thankful that we started our family when we did. Not because I had more energy or wisdom (please, refrain from laughter), but because most of my choices up until that point were pretty unfulfilling, aside from my choice in a husband. I wasn't giving anything up, I wasn't trying to balance two lifestyles, I was simply following the plan. And if that "plan" had to fight against a real desire for anything else, I am 100% certain my children would have suffered. I'm not sure I would have adequately chosen or balanced the vomit and the NICU and the tantrums and the discipline with any other option that was *slightly* more glamorous.
I did not choose my family by default, in the absence of other options. I truly believe that God removed the distractions that would have easily pulled me away from them. I embrace my role as mom, I love it and struggle with it, and desire to be better for them. To do this job WELL. I understand THIS as my purpose--to raise them with conviction and faith, to change the world through them (no pressure). I am happy in that. I am challenged by seeing God's bigger picture through them.
But what if there's more? Lately, I am struggling with "more". Since having my children, I've never been enticed by more, as we've had quite our share of tragedy and struggle, and that has kept me on my toes, learning to be a nurse and a neonatologist and a variety of therapists. It has been challenging on all levels--emotional, physical, spiritual, occupational, parental. And it has been COMPLETELY fulfilling to see your miracle babies thrive, and to appreciate in your healthy children the things most parents don't see apart from tragedy.
Only now, I feel with CERTAINTY, that I am being called to more. But I am fighting it. I am confident this is God's plan--that it's been his plan for me, my ENTIRE life. But I am totally unconfident in my ability to do it. Which is ridiculous, as he is the God who inspires and equips me. But I am use to the praise and affirmation of men (and women). God's confidence is "great" and all, but I live in a world of human beings and I need their feedback. Wow.
Up until this point, I always saw my life as a series of events. I processed everything that way. Particularly once I became a Christian and really tried to decipher God's plan for my life, I would pick things apart to understand what he was teaching me, where he was leading. I would look back at struggle and find the purpose in it. I wrote in a post a couple of weeks ago, that I could see God as I looked back and analyzed...but rarely recognized him in the moment he was working.
Well. Prayers answered. I know specifically why I was created. SPECIFICALLY. Every single ounce of my being was created for this, I am certain. Revealed within the month that I have prayed to know him intimately. And I'm not sure I'm ready to pick up what he's throwing down.
The eagle has landed and I am keeping him caged with a chain that is practically strangling him? Make sense? Yes, I know, I am being cryptic. But saying it out loud (which I have done just a couple of times), opens me up to the encouragement of men that I so rely upon. And yet, it also invites the criticism and judgement I am unprepared for. So give me 24 hours, and maybe I'll clue you in. Maybe.
Your prayers for confidence will greatly affect my desire to spill the beans. FYI.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Wee-wee.
In our house, this is called a wee-wee ball. I don't know, I don't claim to know, I didn't name it. But when someone says wee-wee ball (or occasionally spikey ball), I know it is in reference to this.
Big J HATES this rubbery, stretchy, soft-spikey ball. If you were to send him one as a gift, it would be the equivalent of presenting him with a severed head.
I am not kidding.
Sometime, maybe 3 or 4 months ago, Big J awoke with a SCREAM. Not an I-peed-the-bed-scream or an I-have-a-fever-scream, but an I-am-going-to-die-a-torturous-death scream.
When we responded (okay, when Mike responded...I was a few minutes slower), Big J was breathing HARD. He was still frantic. And he was searching for the wee-wee ball that had come to kill him in his sleep.
It didn't really make sense to us, at that point. As there had never been a conversation had in our home that referenced the terrifying nature of a rubber ball that went by the name of wee-wee. But weeks later, when we happened to find this thing hanging around in a random corner of our playroom, Big J went ball-istic. And all the pieces fit together.
Some random nightmare altered Big J's relationship with rubber, spikey, ball-shaped toys. Forever.
Since then, we have attempted to reintroduce Big J to the quiet, sweet nature of wee-wee. He no longer screams in fear, but nervously watches to make sure he knows where it is at all times. He will not touch it. He won't even walk within 5 feet of it.
So for L, gut-wrenching terror is equal to humans in costume. For Big J, it is a wee-wee ball.
Just a small glimpse into the irrational fears of five-year-olds.
Big J HATES this rubbery, stretchy, soft-spikey ball. If you were to send him one as a gift, it would be the equivalent of presenting him with a severed head.
I am not kidding.
Sometime, maybe 3 or 4 months ago, Big J awoke with a SCREAM. Not an I-peed-the-bed-scream or an I-have-a-fever-scream, but an I-am-going-to-die-a-torturous-death scream.
When we responded (okay, when Mike responded...I was a few minutes slower), Big J was breathing HARD. He was still frantic. And he was searching for the wee-wee ball that had come to kill him in his sleep.
It didn't really make sense to us, at that point. As there had never been a conversation had in our home that referenced the terrifying nature of a rubber ball that went by the name of wee-wee. But weeks later, when we happened to find this thing hanging around in a random corner of our playroom, Big J went ball-istic. And all the pieces fit together.
Some random nightmare altered Big J's relationship with rubber, spikey, ball-shaped toys. Forever.
Since then, we have attempted to reintroduce Big J to the quiet, sweet nature of wee-wee. He no longer screams in fear, but nervously watches to make sure he knows where it is at all times. He will not touch it. He won't even walk within 5 feet of it.
So for L, gut-wrenching terror is equal to humans in costume. For Big J, it is a wee-wee ball.
Just a small glimpse into the irrational fears of five-year-olds.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Doing nothing and everything.
Before G (our oldest) was born, Mike and I spent most of our free time out of the house. We liked to eat out. We liked spending time with friends. We liked to roam the mall. We were not home bodies.
And then our girl was born, and as best we could, we tried to keep that lifestyle. As I was pretty crazy and hormonal for the seven years that followed this blessed event, outings out of the home were somewhat of a conundrum. I loved being outside of the prison I call home....but I was all sweaty and nervous with the thought of the baby CRYING. In public. The horror.
Mike and I figured G out pretty quick (she was a great baby), and outings became easy and predictable. I spent EVERY moment that she was awake out of the house. Once, I decided to stay home between naps, and almost died. Seriously.
And so we ate out and road tripped and went to friends houses and resumed life. And I was SO self-righteous in my ability to introduce my child to the world. I could handle it! I was awesome! And G was learning all kinds of good habits, as it pertains to public behavior!
Which of course, was total crap. Because I was REALLY selfish with my time and my lifestyle, and she was just along for the ride. And I could argue that learning to tolerate shopping at Target is a necessary life skill, but really, at the core of it all, I was so content to keep living my life without having to crawl and read and snuggle and clean up after her, all the time.
That stage of new parenting was so raw, and I was so defensive about my choices, that I probably could have argued that clubbing baby seals was a beneficial way for infants to relate to society, if that's how I chose to spend my days with her. Instead I justified putting myself first, under the guise of her best interests.
G was way too easy on me. Had she thrown a good tantrum, or vomited a hot dog during a shopping trip to the Gap, I would have stayed home until she reached school age.
And then came three more children. Thirteen weeks on bedrest. Two sick kids who lived in a hospital for 6 months and were massive pukers. For a while they were connected to oxygen tanks and nuclear bomb alarms (heart rate alarms, but the sound was VERY similar). Then I was pregnant again and in the hospital on bed rest. All of it just leading me to desire simplicity.
My point being, that today I realized we now like staying home. The kids know their space, they have their favorite toys that never get old. They can ACTUALLY play board games! They are beginning to play imaginary games together where they flee scary witches in the shelter of their bunk beds (still the BEST investment we ever made). It's becoming harder to leave home, than to stay.
It also didn't happen with bitterness or regret or disappointment. Somewhere along the line, I chose this. Willingly. And I really don't miss that old me.
And then our girl was born, and as best we could, we tried to keep that lifestyle. As I was pretty crazy and hormonal for the seven years that followed this blessed event, outings out of the home were somewhat of a conundrum. I loved being outside of the prison I call home....but I was all sweaty and nervous with the thought of the baby CRYING. In public. The horror.
Mike and I figured G out pretty quick (she was a great baby), and outings became easy and predictable. I spent EVERY moment that she was awake out of the house. Once, I decided to stay home between naps, and almost died. Seriously.
And so we ate out and road tripped and went to friends houses and resumed life. And I was SO self-righteous in my ability to introduce my child to the world. I could handle it! I was awesome! And G was learning all kinds of good habits, as it pertains to public behavior!
Which of course, was total crap. Because I was REALLY selfish with my time and my lifestyle, and she was just along for the ride. And I could argue that learning to tolerate shopping at Target is a necessary life skill, but really, at the core of it all, I was so content to keep living my life without having to crawl and read and snuggle and clean up after her, all the time.
That stage of new parenting was so raw, and I was so defensive about my choices, that I probably could have argued that clubbing baby seals was a beneficial way for infants to relate to society, if that's how I chose to spend my days with her. Instead I justified putting myself first, under the guise of her best interests.
G was way too easy on me. Had she thrown a good tantrum, or vomited a hot dog during a shopping trip to the Gap, I would have stayed home until she reached school age.
And then came three more children. Thirteen weeks on bedrest. Two sick kids who lived in a hospital for 6 months and were massive pukers. For a while they were connected to oxygen tanks and nuclear bomb alarms (heart rate alarms, but the sound was VERY similar). Then I was pregnant again and in the hospital on bed rest. All of it just leading me to desire simplicity.
My point being, that today I realized we now like staying home. The kids know their space, they have their favorite toys that never get old. They can ACTUALLY play board games! They are beginning to play imaginary games together where they flee scary witches in the shelter of their bunk beds (still the BEST investment we ever made). It's becoming harder to leave home, than to stay.
It also didn't happen with bitterness or regret or disappointment. Somewhere along the line, I chose this. Willingly. And I really don't miss that old me.
Here's our day at home:
Doing the dishes...and yes, that is a diet coke can he is washing.
I do bathe them. I do.
Smoothie lunch.
And in case you missed it, that is ice cream.
Banana bread.
I Spy Spooky Night. I got schooled by a certain four year old.Happy Weekend, friends...hope it's a good one!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
My energy source is insufficient, at best.
I'm just wondering if any of you impose time limits with homework?
Because this evening, it took G just short of 60 minutes to think of 5 things beginning with the short "o" and short "u" sounds. Mostly because I was not sitting next to her, guiding her through magazines and prompting her when I saw potential items that fit into these two categories.
I am forcing myself to learn the balance between helping her and over-helping her. Sometimes, I am not confident in her ability to understand and follow through with the directions--but today's task seemed pretty straight-forward.
I didn't press her, I didn't stay on top of her. I simply cleaned the kitchen while she went about her business, and at the end of 50 minutes, no progress was made. And so, T.V. privileges hung in the balance.
And wha-da-ya-know? 5 items containing the short o/short u sound were identified.
Suspicious.
I know the problem is in her attention span. She wasn't focused on the homework. She began looking for short o sounds and then quickly became distracted by some shiny piece of glitter the fairies must have left last night when they flew in on magical unicorns.
I don't know how to teach focus without being mean. And I'm also trying to figure out how much beautiful princess/happy dwarf dreaming is acceptable during the homework/school hours. Although, let's face it, the homework/school hours are her entire life right now, and I'm not really keen on the idea of fractions and phonics being her only interests, either.
Part of the problem is that it's Thursday, and I am mentally and physically run ragged on this day, every week. Coincidentally, it's also the last night of homework, and I am OVER IT at this point. Plus, I ran 8.5 miles today and I've had 600 calories, mostly of the Sweetheart candy variety. See photo above.
Oh relax, those of you on eating disorder high alert! I am gearing up for an easy 1,000 calorie dinner. I like to hoard all the goodies until night and just WAIT! to see what fun places my body is going to try to hide it. Body, I am on to your sneakiness with the ass. Might I suggest a new hiding place, maybe the chest?
So, come 4:00 p.m., after the run and the shower and the carpool, all children are home and the house is a mess and dinner needs to be considered. I am consuming sweethearts at Olympic speed (new sport!), but the amount of energy they provide is burned in .5 seconds, while simultaneously creating a new dimple in my thighs.
By 5 p.m., I'm kind of exhausted, I'm hungry and I am creating new fat sculptures with my skin. And that makes me kind of grumpy. And then I have to explain why "uh-lot" of dots (translation: a lot of dots) is not a proper example of a short u sound.
I know it sounds like a short u, G. But really it's an "a" that is all twisted up in American dialects.
Olympic update: It has been decided (by Mike and I, the Olympic peanut gallery) that double luge is officially the most awkward sport in the entire Olympic games.
One day 'til the weekend. Finish strong, friends.
By 5 p.m., I'm kind of exhausted, I'm hungry and I am creating new fat sculptures with my skin. And that makes me kind of grumpy. And then I have to explain why "uh-lot" of dots (translation: a lot of dots) is not a proper example of a short u sound.
I know it sounds like a short u, G. But really it's an "a" that is all twisted up in American dialects.
Olympic update: It has been decided (by Mike and I, the Olympic peanut gallery) that double luge is officially the most awkward sport in the entire Olympic games.
One day 'til the weekend. Finish strong, friends.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
How Shaun White managed to lose the gold medal awarded to worst hair at the Olympics.
I am a woman without a holiday.
Insert idle finger tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I'm thinking about Easter, and I have no plans for elaborate outfit sewing, BUT in the absence of an ongoing project or holiday celebration, I'm feeling pressure to take on something big. Which I am kind of dreading, as all of the projects I have taken on in 2010 have been one-nighters and that has worked out well for me and my short attention span. Oh, and my need for instant gratification. Sounds like a recipe for cocaine addiction.
However. G has been asking for a superhero cape, and I was thinking of creating a couple of THESE (link here) for the girls, because they are really into drawing and journaling and such. A couple of webkinz and a crap load of candy that I will secretly eat and store in my ass/thigh region, and I think we can call it a day on Easter for the girls.
There is also the Olympics. Meh. I'm thinking I'm kind of luke warm on the Winter Olympics, but then they go and combine sharp shooting and cross country skiing, and I am sucked in by the sheer, random genius of it all. The appeal is so strong, in fact, that I am researching the ages at which it becomes appropriate to strap fire arms AND skis to children. Or perhaps, I should just pioneer a new sport and combine mogul skiing with target shooting. That would be bad assssss and it would take a big set of *something* just to be a spectator in that event.
Wait. I am watching women's downhill skiing, and am being reminded that sprinting on snow and ice up the ante for disaster. This based on the 55 head injuries I just witnessed on primetime television.
Insert idle finger tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I'm thinking about Easter, and I have no plans for elaborate outfit sewing, BUT in the absence of an ongoing project or holiday celebration, I'm feeling pressure to take on something big. Which I am kind of dreading, as all of the projects I have taken on in 2010 have been one-nighters and that has worked out well for me and my short attention span. Oh, and my need for instant gratification. Sounds like a recipe for cocaine addiction.
However. G has been asking for a superhero cape, and I was thinking of creating a couple of THESE (link here) for the girls, because they are really into drawing and journaling and such. A couple of webkinz and a crap load of candy that I will secretly eat and store in my ass/thigh region, and I think we can call it a day on Easter for the girls.
There is also the Olympics. Meh. I'm thinking I'm kind of luke warm on the Winter Olympics, but then they go and combine sharp shooting and cross country skiing, and I am sucked in by the sheer, random genius of it all. The appeal is so strong, in fact, that I am researching the ages at which it becomes appropriate to strap fire arms AND skis to children. Or perhaps, I should just pioneer a new sport and combine mogul skiing with target shooting. That would be bad assssss and it would take a big set of *something* just to be a spectator in that event.
Wait. I am watching women's downhill skiing, and am being reminded that sprinting on snow and ice up the ante for disaster. This based on the 55 head injuries I just witnessed on primetime television.
Hold up. Now I am watching Lindsey Vonn after winning the gold medal. And I'm pretty sure she just simultaneously bawled her eyes out and said "shit" on national television. The bi-polar natue of that combination is simply awesome.
Also. I am starting to see all kinds of hype about this Shaun White guy. Blah, blah, blah. I see his flowing red hair and it both frightens and confuses me, in that I have a little tomato-top myself and I just have no idea what I will do with myself if our family portraits from ages 14-22 include this child with a hair-do anything similar to Shaun White's locks of love. Wait. Little J has ZERO curl or wave to his hair, which means that his "do" is more likely to look LIKE THIS (click the freakin' link) if he were to grow it out.
Over my dead body.
Anyway, I was able to get over my deer-in-headlights-stare that happens everytime I see Shaun White's hair, and I actually caught an interview with him. And that guy is freaking cool. And funny (which leads me to believe that perhaps the hair is part of his comedy schtick?)! I see why Red Bull built him his own half pipe that is accessible only by helicopter. I guess he's kind of a big deal.
Quick note. I just noticed that the snowboarders listen to music as they compete, which leads me to wonder what my Olympic song choice would be? I think I'm going with Hanging Tough by New Kids on the Block. Classic.
WAIT! I just caught sight of a Japanese guy with dread locks! NOOOOO! Officially, Shaun White does not have the most ridiculous hair at the Winter Olympics.
Stunning upset.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Outlaw or parental genius. You decide.
It finally happened. Today I got a ticket for having license plates that are almost 2 months expired.
Damn it. Having to get a safety inspection AND drag myself (and a variable number of children) into a government office in December is a sure recipe for delinquency. If you added the post office to that equation, I'm pretty sure there would be a warrant out for my arrest.
Anyway. I got pulled over for the second time in a month, and this time was given a ticket. Although, I *think* it was a ticket, as the officer kept referring to it as a court date, and I wasn't even aware that me and the cop had taken our relationship to that sort of serious level of offenses. Nor was I aware that the words "ticket" and "court date" were not interchangeable, PLUS, there is no dollar amount associated with this piece of paper, which leads me to believe that hard jail time may be in my future?
It never pays to procrastinate, kids.
Though. I might be for the slammer, if: it is the county jail we are talking about (vs. city), AND I am allowed to bring reading and/or crafting materials. Totally kidding. I'm sure scissors and needles are still considered jail house contra-ban.
But then I got to thinking about how I drive a gold MINI VAN, for goodness sake, and didn't this cop have more productive things to do with his time than pull over a woman who has no time to worry about the safety of her vehicle/promptness in meeting state deadlines, when she is in fact trying to make sure her children don't break every bone in their bodies when they attempt to fly from their bunk beds?????
It's always the children's fault. Every responsible bone in my body is solely focused on their survival. So perhaps the real crime is procreation in general. Just a theory/general defense that I am working on in preparation for my "court date".
At which time I will be charged with many counts of child abuse for general insanity AND driving an unsafe vehicle/toxic waste dump. I will probably be court ordered to have my tubes tied by the jail house physician.
However! My healthy parenting habits will win them over! It's not something I share very often (because honestly, it's kind of embarrassing), but I have a hard time convincing my children to eat junk food. After several years of trying, I still can't get G to drink soda.
I know, I know. Cry me a river. But HONESTLY! I have a hard time believing they are actually MY offspring in the absence of a deep and soul-wrenching love for bad and unhealthy foods. It's a level we are failing to bond on. And it saddens me.
At the core I know it is not a dislike for lard and sugar and preservatives and such...but rather, a disinterest in eating in general, combined with a heavy resistance to any kind of change. All foods take at least 20 introductions before it can even be considered tolerable. But still. McDonalds should not take 2 years of persuasion.
My point.
This weekend when Mike made homemade donuts, he mixed up a combo of sugar/cinnamon/nutmeg to coat the donuts. And he might have been a little over-zealous in his mixing, as we had a large amount left over. Being ever thrifty, he saved it and found THE PERFECT use.
Apple slices. Dipped in the sugary combo. Holy crap, it's like crunchy apple pie. Which is AWESOME, because my major beef with apple pie is the mushiness. I think the key is in the nutmeg? But Mike doesn't measure anything, so I can't even begin to tell you how much of each to combine...just know that your base will be largely white sugar and powdered sugar with a small dosing of nutmeg and cinnamon. I have seen grown men try to eat raw cinnamon alone, and let's just say, you are going to want to stay away from anything resembling that.
Also, as I am not much of a fan of anything that tastes or implies "healthy", this is a great trick on my taste palate. It should taste sweet, so as to disguise any suggestion that this is even slightly good for you.
However! My healthy parenting habits will win them over! It's not something I share very often (because honestly, it's kind of embarrassing), but I have a hard time convincing my children to eat junk food. After several years of trying, I still can't get G to drink soda.
I know, I know. Cry me a river. But HONESTLY! I have a hard time believing they are actually MY offspring in the absence of a deep and soul-wrenching love for bad and unhealthy foods. It's a level we are failing to bond on. And it saddens me.
At the core I know it is not a dislike for lard and sugar and preservatives and such...but rather, a disinterest in eating in general, combined with a heavy resistance to any kind of change. All foods take at least 20 introductions before it can even be considered tolerable. But still. McDonalds should not take 2 years of persuasion.
My point.
This weekend when Mike made homemade donuts, he mixed up a combo of sugar/cinnamon/nutmeg to coat the donuts. And he might have been a little over-zealous in his mixing, as we had a large amount left over. Being ever thrifty, he saved it and found THE PERFECT use.
Apple slices. Dipped in the sugary combo. Holy crap, it's like crunchy apple pie. Which is AWESOME, because my major beef with apple pie is the mushiness. I think the key is in the nutmeg? But Mike doesn't measure anything, so I can't even begin to tell you how much of each to combine...just know that your base will be largely white sugar and powdered sugar with a small dosing of nutmeg and cinnamon. I have seen grown men try to eat raw cinnamon alone, and let's just say, you are going to want to stay away from anything resembling that.
Also, as I am not much of a fan of anything that tastes or implies "healthy", this is a great trick on my taste palate. It should taste sweet, so as to disguise any suggestion that this is even slightly good for you.
And that folks, is my plan for avoiding jail time and redeeming my parenting reputation, in the eyes of the law.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Where riduculous beginnings take us.
OMG.
We are wrapping up a four-day-weekend here, which included a visit from some dear college friends (I mentioned it in yesterday's post). Between the four of us, we have eight children--all ages 7 and under.
And whenever we wrap up a weekend with college friends, I am ALWAYS overwhelmed with feelings of nostalgia and perspective and gratefulness. And maybe a little sadness, if that's the right word, that the chapter of life, in which we saw these friends daily, now only exists in occasional weekend trips.
Much of this stems from the fact that I LOVED college. Every year there got better, the friendships deeper. I am incredibly thankful to our alma mater for that--it was a small school with a dominant Greek presence. Just about everyone was in a sorority or fraternity, and I say that not in the ignorant sense of "that's-my-world-and-I-don't-exist-outside-of-frat-life", but really that about 80% of students at DePauw were members of a fraternity or sorority. Top that off with the fact that everyone lived in Greek houses. I pledged a house when I was 6 weeks into my freshman year and I was far, FAR, away from home. And I committed to being a part of a group of girls, based on the brand of warm-fuzzies they were selling and the brownies they peddled and the frantic, hyper-screaming cheers they yelled every time we walked up to the door for a rush party.
Yes, it was all kind of a ridiculous start to some amazing relationships. But I suppose that the strangeness of it all was a great way to bond total strangers. And it really was a total crap shoot that placed me with 100 girls who were so incredibly different from me. Girls that I would never have been friends with, if it meant finding any kind of obvious common ground.
Please do not hear me say that sororities breed perfect, smiling friendships. Quite the opposite. I lived with the same girls for 3 years, and MANY times I wanted to rip my hair out. Or scream and cry in hurt and frustration. There were MULTIPLE announcements at every house meeting where threats were yelled for others to PICK THEIR HAIR BALLS out of the shower drain. It was all kinds of realness.
But we lived together in a shoe box. Which meant, at the end of the day, we all needed to get over the petty, annoying and insecure tendencies we had (or saw in others). And we did get over it. And then we watched 90210 three times a day. And that is my first (and one of my only) experiences in female friendships that grew and suffered and forgave and grew some more. I firmly believe that strong friendships are imperfect friendships--because we are all imperfect people, and aren't our best friends the ones who will NEVER leave us, in spite of our faults?
It was so much easier in college, because we lived together. We made up, or we were miserable. But today, as an adult, it's sometimes so much easier to walk away than to make the effort. It is humbling to apologize, and tiring to continue the act of what we believe others need us to be.
Being friends is EFFORT. Good relationships don't happen without work. I love being around people, and yet sometimes, I am tired. Sometimes I want to sit on my couch. Sometimes I don't want to pack 30 bags and four children for a 2 day trip. But I suck it up and do it, because I have never regretted the time that I have put into my favorite relationships.
And I am always SO thankful that those friends put the same kind of effort into us. And as this is the third Valentine's Day weekend we have spent with Darren and Jennie, I find it particularly appropriate that Darren was the one who officially introduced me to Mike, 13+ years ago. At 1 a.m., on a teeter-totter, at a moment when I was all kinds of crazy and obnoxious (translation: intoxicated). Yes, even my greatest relationship had a remarkably ridiculous beginning.
What a great weekend, and an awesome reminder of friendships that go beyond circumstances and convenience and location. We love you guys!
We are wrapping up a four-day-weekend here, which included a visit from some dear college friends (I mentioned it in yesterday's post). Between the four of us, we have eight children--all ages 7 and under.
And whenever we wrap up a weekend with college friends, I am ALWAYS overwhelmed with feelings of nostalgia and perspective and gratefulness. And maybe a little sadness, if that's the right word, that the chapter of life, in which we saw these friends daily, now only exists in occasional weekend trips.
Much of this stems from the fact that I LOVED college. Every year there got better, the friendships deeper. I am incredibly thankful to our alma mater for that--it was a small school with a dominant Greek presence. Just about everyone was in a sorority or fraternity, and I say that not in the ignorant sense of "that's-my-world-and-I-don't-exist-outside-of-frat-life", but really that about 80% of students at DePauw were members of a fraternity or sorority. Top that off with the fact that everyone lived in Greek houses. I pledged a house when I was 6 weeks into my freshman year and I was far, FAR, away from home. And I committed to being a part of a group of girls, based on the brand of warm-fuzzies they were selling and the brownies they peddled and the frantic, hyper-screaming cheers they yelled every time we walked up to the door for a rush party.
Yes, it was all kind of a ridiculous start to some amazing relationships. But I suppose that the strangeness of it all was a great way to bond total strangers. And it really was a total crap shoot that placed me with 100 girls who were so incredibly different from me. Girls that I would never have been friends with, if it meant finding any kind of obvious common ground.
Please do not hear me say that sororities breed perfect, smiling friendships. Quite the opposite. I lived with the same girls for 3 years, and MANY times I wanted to rip my hair out. Or scream and cry in hurt and frustration. There were MULTIPLE announcements at every house meeting where threats were yelled for others to PICK THEIR HAIR BALLS out of the shower drain. It was all kinds of realness.
But we lived together in a shoe box. Which meant, at the end of the day, we all needed to get over the petty, annoying and insecure tendencies we had (or saw in others). And we did get over it. And then we watched 90210 three times a day. And that is my first (and one of my only) experiences in female friendships that grew and suffered and forgave and grew some more. I firmly believe that strong friendships are imperfect friendships--because we are all imperfect people, and aren't our best friends the ones who will NEVER leave us, in spite of our faults?
It was so much easier in college, because we lived together. We made up, or we were miserable. But today, as an adult, it's sometimes so much easier to walk away than to make the effort. It is humbling to apologize, and tiring to continue the act of what we believe others need us to be.
Being friends is EFFORT. Good relationships don't happen without work. I love being around people, and yet sometimes, I am tired. Sometimes I want to sit on my couch. Sometimes I don't want to pack 30 bags and four children for a 2 day trip. But I suck it up and do it, because I have never regretted the time that I have put into my favorite relationships.
And I am always SO thankful that those friends put the same kind of effort into us. And as this is the third Valentine's Day weekend we have spent with Darren and Jennie, I find it particularly appropriate that Darren was the one who officially introduced me to Mike, 13+ years ago. At 1 a.m., on a teeter-totter, at a moment when I was all kinds of crazy and obnoxious (translation: intoxicated). Yes, even my greatest relationship had a remarkably ridiculous beginning.
What a great weekend, and an awesome reminder of friendships that go beyond circumstances and convenience and location. We love you guys!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day!
A Valentine's Day pictorial:
We have two of these--one of each on our double front doors. Mike calls them his Double D's.
Let's talk about homemade donuts. Which are really flaky biscuits, fried in a pot of oil. And for the record, I really hate those pop cans.
We use the center insert to a baby bottle to cut the center out. Research has shown that this tool produces the best donut-to-hole proportions.
Plop in oil.
Fry.
Toss in a combination of powdered sugar and cinnamon. Serve in a tower of three.
Fresh flowers from Uncle Darren.
Multiple beaded, heart-charmed necklaces.
Artwork. Some great college friends are here for a visit--we made the trek to Indy to spend Valentine's Day with them last year, so this is becoming quite the fun tradition! We are currently sleeping 8 children and four adults in this house and it is working out to be amazing! We have bowled and painted and beaded...and tonight the adults are off for sushi!
Hope you are having a LOVE-ly Valentine's Day, blog-world!
Hope you are having a LOVE-ly Valentine's Day, blog-world!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Have I told you lately that I love you?
Friendship day has come and gone without a lot of drama. I did in fact send my three youngest to school armed with treats and cards rebelliously declaring our love for Valentines Day! And ya know what? So did every other kid, as their loot revealed several notecards of the Spiderman/Spongebob/Disney Princess variety. All is right with the world, if preschoolers are still exchanging commercial love notes.
I mean seriously. Is there nothing as sweet as the Valentine treasures of children? Here is a picture of Valentine's collected by kids in G's 1st grade class, and there is just something about knowing that THIS is what speaks love to my sweet little seven year old (and five-year-olds and three-year-old). Folded paper and crap loads of sugar. I know the days where happiness is defined this simply are numbered for my oldest. Because soon enough, it won't be "cool" to show non-sexual, universal affection for friends. In a couple of years, she won't want to make her Valentine's because the effort to love others will die with her desire to blend in and go with the flow. A flow that typically means bottling emotions and acting apathetic. At the age of 7, we are existing in a short window of time where I have the ability to teach G what love looks like. She doesn't value the opinions of other seven-year-olds over my *wise* teachings. Yet. But the day is coming.
And so, I take these days VERY seriously.
She is my first, and so I am thankful that I have (only recently) realized the opportunity in front of me. I have spent a great majority of the past 7 years teaching her things that are SO RIDICULOUS, it's not even funny. Like how to eat without lifting her hands from her high chair (wha?). Or how to say thank you in sign language. Or how to write her letters with proper stroke sequence.
Seriously.
Up until this point, I have raised a GREAT rule follower. She's so good at it, she's afraid to take risks.
And I wish I could just back it up and focus a little differently--because the time on my influence is ticking. Not that I won't still have an impact, but very soon, my opinions are going to be doing some serious battle with peer pressure. And magazines. And TV. And every other message out there that is infinitely cooler than a mom who barely showers.
I've lived believing that love is what you "do" and not what you "teach". That she would learn by example. But really, my example for her has been that love and praise is very tied to good behavior. I didn't intend that...but when my children have refused to poop in the potty, praising their strong will was not on the top of my list, if you get my drift. It's SO EASY to fall into patterns of teaching right and wrong--because that is what you do with infants and toddlers.
You don't touch electrical sockets. You don't color on the walls. You do eat peas. You do say thank you. They need to learn to exist within the safe boundaries of the world, no doubt. It is our job to teach our children to function, to teach behaviors that allow them to sustain life.
But.
Somewhere between the ages of 18 months and 7 years old, my oldest girl was also learning how to process her relationships. How to accept her twin brother and sister. And the little red-head surprise that followed 16 months later. She started school and learned to make new friends. She was forming the basis for ALL the relationships she'll have in her life.
And I just accepted that as part of growing up. I watched her, I had friends over, I encouraged her to meet new friends. But until recently, I didn't talk so much about HOW to be a friend. HOW to encourage. HOW to love more than one friend at a time. HOW to include others.
You would think these are lessons she learns as she grows, and they are. But WOW! What a gift it would be to actually be able to teach her some of the things that she will learn painfully as a pre-teen.
You would also think she learns a lot of this by example. Which would be AWESOME, if the example that I set up until now wasn't one of behavior-based praise. I fear I have taught her to expect more from friends than they will ever be capable of giving. Because we are all flawed, no? And how we handle the world when it falls short of our expectations is the key, I am coming to believe.
All this to say, that this is the BIG beef I have with our preschool's choice to not celebrate Valentine's Day. Or to rename it something different. Because love at this age is so pure and innocent and EASY! It's acceptable, at these ages, to love unconditionally. They enjoy and look forward to passing out notes and candy to their friends--and I am all for it! I wish and I hope that my 12-year-olds will tell their friends how much they love and appreciate them, and practice forgiveness on a regular basis. But I highly doubt it, if they aren't in the practice of learning it now. Kids don't get more transparent as they grow...instead they hide and suppress and put on all kinds of suave and insincere personas.
At the root of it all is my desire to raise my kids to LOVE. And it's SO much harder than I ever realized, considering that I cherish and adore these little monsters with every ounce of my being, and yet do a pretty CRAPPY job of showing them how nothing could change the depth of that kind of heart-breaking, unending love. Because there are days when I am pretty sure they think they are one milk spill away from eating in a plastic cage.
So today, I led the Valentine's party in G's class. Yes, it was scary. Yes, I had all kinds of second thoughts about it. But it was a GREAT way to see G in action. And she wanted me there! She loved it! She loved me unconditionally, in front of her friends, and those days are definitely numbered. But I'll be damned if I don't get over myself, and my desire to enjoy my free Thursday afternoons and my fear of speaking in front of 7-year-olds, to get to experience that kind of acceptance from my daughter and her friends. Who all participated SO nicely and kindly. They are so much older than I give them credit for. Which is all kinds of wonderful and amazing and scary and sad for me...all at the same time.
And so. I will leave you with one more Valentine's craft, felt flowers in pots--meant to be gifted to mom and dad. A token of the love of a seven-year-old.
And so, I take these days VERY seriously.
She is my first, and so I am thankful that I have (only recently) realized the opportunity in front of me. I have spent a great majority of the past 7 years teaching her things that are SO RIDICULOUS, it's not even funny. Like how to eat without lifting her hands from her high chair (wha?). Or how to say thank you in sign language. Or how to write her letters with proper stroke sequence.
Seriously.
Up until this point, I have raised a GREAT rule follower. She's so good at it, she's afraid to take risks.
And I wish I could just back it up and focus a little differently--because the time on my influence is ticking. Not that I won't still have an impact, but very soon, my opinions are going to be doing some serious battle with peer pressure. And magazines. And TV. And every other message out there that is infinitely cooler than a mom who barely showers.
I've lived believing that love is what you "do" and not what you "teach". That she would learn by example. But really, my example for her has been that love and praise is very tied to good behavior. I didn't intend that...but when my children have refused to poop in the potty, praising their strong will was not on the top of my list, if you get my drift. It's SO EASY to fall into patterns of teaching right and wrong--because that is what you do with infants and toddlers.
You don't touch electrical sockets. You don't color on the walls. You do eat peas. You do say thank you. They need to learn to exist within the safe boundaries of the world, no doubt. It is our job to teach our children to function, to teach behaviors that allow them to sustain life.
But.
Somewhere between the ages of 18 months and 7 years old, my oldest girl was also learning how to process her relationships. How to accept her twin brother and sister. And the little red-head surprise that followed 16 months later. She started school and learned to make new friends. She was forming the basis for ALL the relationships she'll have in her life.
And I just accepted that as part of growing up. I watched her, I had friends over, I encouraged her to meet new friends. But until recently, I didn't talk so much about HOW to be a friend. HOW to encourage. HOW to love more than one friend at a time. HOW to include others.
You would think these are lessons she learns as she grows, and they are. But WOW! What a gift it would be to actually be able to teach her some of the things that she will learn painfully as a pre-teen.
You would also think she learns a lot of this by example. Which would be AWESOME, if the example that I set up until now wasn't one of behavior-based praise. I fear I have taught her to expect more from friends than they will ever be capable of giving. Because we are all flawed, no? And how we handle the world when it falls short of our expectations is the key, I am coming to believe.
All this to say, that this is the BIG beef I have with our preschool's choice to not celebrate Valentine's Day. Or to rename it something different. Because love at this age is so pure and innocent and EASY! It's acceptable, at these ages, to love unconditionally. They enjoy and look forward to passing out notes and candy to their friends--and I am all for it! I wish and I hope that my 12-year-olds will tell their friends how much they love and appreciate them, and practice forgiveness on a regular basis. But I highly doubt it, if they aren't in the practice of learning it now. Kids don't get more transparent as they grow...instead they hide and suppress and put on all kinds of suave and insincere personas.
At the root of it all is my desire to raise my kids to LOVE. And it's SO much harder than I ever realized, considering that I cherish and adore these little monsters with every ounce of my being, and yet do a pretty CRAPPY job of showing them how nothing could change the depth of that kind of heart-breaking, unending love. Because there are days when I am pretty sure they think they are one milk spill away from eating in a plastic cage.
So today, I led the Valentine's party in G's class. Yes, it was scary. Yes, I had all kinds of second thoughts about it. But it was a GREAT way to see G in action. And she wanted me there! She loved it! She loved me unconditionally, in front of her friends, and those days are definitely numbered. But I'll be damned if I don't get over myself, and my desire to enjoy my free Thursday afternoons and my fear of speaking in front of 7-year-olds, to get to experience that kind of acceptance from my daughter and her friends. Who all participated SO nicely and kindly. They are so much older than I give them credit for. Which is all kinds of wonderful and amazing and scary and sad for me...all at the same time.
And so. I will leave you with one more Valentine's craft, felt flowers in pots--meant to be gifted to mom and dad. A token of the love of a seven-year-old.
And now you have a small glimpse into ALL of the issues surrounding my love of Valentine's Day! Here's hoping you have a great weekend full of all kinds of wonderful, little-kid LOVE (because really, there is NOTHING like it).
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I am dreaming in pinks and ribbon.
It's 9:34 p.m.--64 valentines are officially done. Phew. As every school in our area is out on Friday (?), all four Valentine/Friendship Day parties fall on the same day, at the same time.Lest you think I am complaining, I am not. I am on a mission from God to save Valentine's Day, and I take my job very, very seriously. We will talk some more about how I am giving the finger to "friendship day" (God DID NOT tell me to give anyone the finger, let me be clear), but I am not going to follow a policy that I am pretty sure everyone (teachers included) thinks is kind of ridiculous. For the record, I am totally okay with my children showing love to their friends and feel no need to rename the holiday for no good reason.
But for tonight, I'll just leave you with our teacher valentines. Which I thought of at 1 p.m. this afternoon. Wasn't really planning on teacher gifts, but then I realized that these ladies probably weren't so into stickers and lollipops. Hmm.
Thankfully, the idea worked. It had great potential to be a waste. May I present, the candle:
Three pack of small pillar candles at Hobby Lobby, $4.99. I am kicking myself that I didn't dig up a 40% off coupon, as I could have reduced this price. But we are talking about $1.65 per candle.
Next: One roll of pink grosgrain ribbon (it wrapped all 9 candles).
So I used the embroidery machine to put a 1 inch letter on the ribbon. Then I wrapped it around the candle and glue-gunned it in place. That was my only concern--whether it would actually stay put on the candle...it did.
Next: One roll of pink grosgrain ribbon (it wrapped all 9 candles).
So I used the embroidery machine to put a 1 inch letter on the ribbon. Then I wrapped it around the candle and glue-gunned it in place. That was my only concern--whether it would actually stay put on the candle...it did.
As embroidery machines aren't always the most common of household items, I will say that this idea would be just as cute with a shape or a letter cut out of felt (you know me and my love affair with felt!). I'm sure there are a million other ideas to embellish with, however, at the moment I am only thinking of FELT! I am officially over-felted.
Wish me luck as I handle G's 1st grade Valentine's party tomorrow! Seven year olds (in a pack of 19) are SCAAAARY.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Valentine's Craft-fest.
Sorry for the lack of posting last night. I am pretty sure that I needed a glass of wine, more than you needed me to complain about the slew of atrocities that was my Monday. I am being a tad dramatic, as my day wasn't all that bad, but my afternoon schedule was thrown for a little loop and it ended in a hissy fit that some might categorize as a seizure.
But now I am back! And it snowed PLUS there was no snow day, no school missed! Bliss!
Before I forget, I am going to give you a quick pictorial run-down of last week's Valentine's party/craft making extravaganza. With 25 kids, mostly four and under, it was sort of a free for all...but nothing that a few wet wipes couldn't cure.
Project #1: Decorating treat bags with foam stamps and paint. Self explanatory.
Project #2: Making lollipop cookies. I pre-made regular sugar cookie dough, and used some food coloring to create shades of pink and green (Filth Wizardry did it at Christmas with candy cane shaped cookies...her gift of genius ideas keep on givin'). When you take the cookies out of the oven, you add a lollipop stick, and the cookie will cool (and solidify) around it. This was my take on cookie decorating WITHOUT the mess of icing! My thought was that the kids would wrap their cookies up in cellophane bags and gift them to someone special...yeah, that didn't happen. Cookies were eaten. Children were happy. I call it a success.
But now I am back! And it snowed PLUS there was no snow day, no school missed! Bliss!
Before I forget, I am going to give you a quick pictorial run-down of last week's Valentine's party/craft making extravaganza. With 25 kids, mostly four and under, it was sort of a free for all...but nothing that a few wet wipes couldn't cure.
Project #1: Decorating treat bags with foam stamps and paint. Self explanatory.
Project #2: Making lollipop cookies. I pre-made regular sugar cookie dough, and used some food coloring to create shades of pink and green (Filth Wizardry did it at Christmas with candy cane shaped cookies...her gift of genius ideas keep on givin'). When you take the cookies out of the oven, you add a lollipop stick, and the cookie will cool (and solidify) around it. This was my take on cookie decorating WITHOUT the mess of icing! My thought was that the kids would wrap their cookies up in cellophane bags and gift them to someone special...yeah, that didn't happen. Cookies were eaten. Children were happy. I call it a success.
Project #3: Salt dough necklaces/ornaments. I pre-made several sizes of heart-shaped salt dough ornaments for the kids to paint and add glitter to. Once they were dry, they strung them with beads on to lengths of grosgrain ribbon to create necklaces or ornaments. I have several hanging from cabinet doors and above picture frames and they make me so happy!
Project #4: Felt circle collage. I was aiming this craft toward the older kids of the bunch, but it was a big hit with all age groups! Prior to the party, I sewed the outline of a heart on to cardstock, and cut out MANY circles from various colors of felt. The kids then applied their circles and buttons at liberty, with Elmer's glue, on the day of the party.
Goodie bags. What's a party without a goodie bag. Here's where I went a little crazy at the dollar store, finding all kinds of treats in shades of red and pink...and then presented them in various jars that the kiddies could pick and choose from. Easy and pretty! For the girls, I included some headbands, bows made from this tutorial and lip gloss. The boys each got a can of silly string.
Other treats and sweets...yum.
It was a success I think! Yes, it was chaotic, but that's life for moms in the toddler/preschool age of parenting. I always like others to share in my imperfect chaos--the world is a less dark place when we realize that we're all fighting the same battles. Sometimes with success, sometimes with frustration. Sometimes with wine.
Happy Valentine's Week. Or Friendship Week (as it is called at Big J, L & Little J's school). I'm still not over it.
Happy Valentine's Week. Or Friendship Week (as it is called at Big J, L & Little J's school). I'm still not over it.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
It is OBVIOUS that I have missed my calling in scientific discovery, diagnostic medicine and sports theorizing.
In a striking twist of irony, it appears that L is showing signs of chinchilla-ism. As she has been diagnosed with strep throat for the second time in a month. The rodent gene runs strong in our offspring, it seems.
If you are confused, back up a couple of posts. I found a picture of a furr ball, and since that pivotal moment, have researched and found great similarities between the ever-sensitive chinchilla, my husband and my children. The resemblance, in terms of the plethora of factors that will sicken/kill these highly sensitive creatures (children and chinchillas) is UNCANNY. In fact, I am theorizing that because of some forbidden love affair back in the 1600's, I have uncovered a new hybrid species called the chil-drilla.
And as I need something to blame for L's sickness, I am going with the subject of my research, the ever immune-sensitive chinchilla.
You might recall that L's previous strep diagnosis brought NO symptoms (aside from lack of eating), which meant she went undiagnosed for 5 days. Not the case this time, as I could tell you the EXACT moment that the strep germs attacked her weak-chinchilla immunity. After church this morning, at precisely 10:22 a.m., when she would not stop crying, for no apparent reason.
Such was her distress, that Mike and I ACTUALLY considered the fact that she had a life-threatening brain injury. Seriously. She really got nailed by a chair at McDonalds yesterday, leaving her with a black eye. Now, I know that chair would have to impact her so hard that it would shatter her facial bones and travel upward of her sinuses to reach her brain. And then, she'd have lived with those injuries for over 24 hours, symptom free. But. We were debating all kinds of crazy because L went from hysterical to a coma-like state. And that just had severe brain injury written all over it.
I know that you are sad that my instinctual diagnostic skills were not put to use in a large-scale hospital. I feel guilt over this daily.
At the end of the day, no x-rays were ordered (though the doctors did palpitate her head quite a bit at our suggestion) and the strep test was positive. Again.
On another note.
My blue fleece should suggest that I am cheering for the Colts in tonight's Superbowl match-up. I am not a sports gal, but do feel an allegiance to Indiana, as it is the state of my college alma-mater. And the people of Indiana are a fine, sports-loving bunch.
Besides, I am truly opposed to some of the hair I have seen on members of the Saints team. In particular, the big white guy with the bob-length blonde hair. I cannot route for hair like that, it goes against every good intention in my body. There is also the Kim Kardashian (Saints) vs. Kendra Wilkinson (Colts) debate, but as I am neither for, nor against either of these reality stars, they are really a non-factor.
My money is on Indy, based strategically on college and reasonable hair.
I know, I know. You are also sad that my skills as a sports analyst are not better utilized in casinos or on sports talk radio.
I choose instead to excel at interpretive readings of "Llama Llama Red Pajama" and educating children on the physics of waste management. As an empty nester, I look forward to running my bootleg gambling ring from the comforts of my diagnostic medical clinic.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Proof that my husband is a direct descendant of the chinchilla.
Okay. The picture of than fat-headed creature has spurred several deep, philosophical discussions in our household. As a sidenote: My google search of furry beings categorized as "Siberian mice" has turned up photos of all kinds of grossness that have cured me of my desire to own any creature belonging to the rodent family.
However.
Our discussions have unearthed old childhood memories, where I remembered that I had a cousin who owned a couple of chinchillas. I could regale you with all kinds of tales as to WHY I know these rodents on a very familiar basis, but let me boil it down into a weird nutshell, in that my parents were "playing the Hawaii school system" and I pretended to live at the home of this particular cousin for 2 years, while in the 7th and 8th grades. I didn't ACTUALLY live there. But I pretended to, and part of this farce included me catching the school bus there everyday after school.
Where I hung with the chinchilla.
Here is where I will tell you that chinchillas are temperamental. They are cute, and I was fascinated with them...as they are NOT your everyday pet. But they bathe in special dust! And they do not handle change very well. They hate to be too hot. Or too cold.
And this is where we had our epiphany. That my husband is indeed, a direct descendant of the chinchilla.
Not following? Perhaps, you should revisit THIS BLOG POST, where I describe the genetic abnormality that causes my husband to severely react to any change in his daily routine. Including, but not limited to, changes in CLIMATE that cause ILLNESS.
As my children have inherited strange side effects to change, I have hypothesized all kinds of craziness. But now, I am quite sure that someone in Mike's genetic ancestry has in fact, mated with a chinchilla.
Mystery solved.
However.
Our discussions have unearthed old childhood memories, where I remembered that I had a cousin who owned a couple of chinchillas. I could regale you with all kinds of tales as to WHY I know these rodents on a very familiar basis, but let me boil it down into a weird nutshell, in that my parents were "playing the Hawaii school system" and I pretended to live at the home of this particular cousin for 2 years, while in the 7th and 8th grades. I didn't ACTUALLY live there. But I pretended to, and part of this farce included me catching the school bus there everyday after school.
Where I hung with the chinchilla.
Here is where I will tell you that chinchillas are temperamental. They are cute, and I was fascinated with them...as they are NOT your everyday pet. But they bathe in special dust! And they do not handle change very well. They hate to be too hot. Or too cold.
And this is where we had our epiphany. That my husband is indeed, a direct descendant of the chinchilla.
Not following? Perhaps, you should revisit THIS BLOG POST, where I describe the genetic abnormality that causes my husband to severely react to any change in his daily routine. Including, but not limited to, changes in CLIMATE that cause ILLNESS.
As my children have inherited strange side effects to change, I have hypothesized all kinds of craziness. But now, I am quite sure that someone in Mike's genetic ancestry has in fact, mated with a chinchilla.
Mystery solved.
I would have never thought that my description of cuteness would include the words "fat and furry".
Oh my god.
Somebody please tell me what kind of animal this is. Because I need to have it. And feed it. I have a suspicion that this particular breed stores all of it's fat reserves in it's cheeks, and that is endlessly fascinating for me.
Particularly since we have a dog that hoards calories in it's ass. Please, someone who knows me and my dog--vouch for this fact in the comments section. I'm thinking the bizarre fat reserves of animals *might* be an obsession of mine.
Mike believes this creature to be a mouse. I'm skeptical, as I don't recall mice having the fullness of face/squatty little body of this critter. Also, how in the hell would this thing be able to fit its head through those cute little mouse doors you see in cartoons? I don't buy it.
Look again, go ahead. It's a face with feet! I mean, if it could just fatten it's ears up a tad, it would be circular, and that is odd!
But then again, I suppose that I do like oddities of the animal persuasion.
FYI, this picture comes from this AMAZING site--click here for the link. This furry creature that I will affectionately refer to as "fat head" gets my vote. Be warned, however--these pictures will make you want to place baby animals in compromising positions that include a variety of dishes and cups.
Friday, February 5, 2010
How poultry and glitter define the define the deepest desires of my children.
Multiple items of clothing in varying shades of pink. Check.Glitter eye shadow. Check.
Valentines necklace, handmade with love. Check.
Red sparkly shoes. Check.
Hair curled with hot rollers. Check.Polka dot headband with felt embellishment. Check and check.
First "date" dance, with the man of their dreams (dad). Check.
In the meantime, I seduced the boys with promises of an ice cream dinner--the fairy tales of young male children. Only, once we arrived at the soda shop, their hearts were SET on chicken fingers and no amount of bribery could sway them. I may have mentioned before...my children, (particularly the oldest male) are not good with change. Including a meal that consists of frozen, fatty dairy.
They do LOVE ice cream. But only as a chaser to chicken fingers, it seems.
Mentally noted: Young male dream dates include servings of poultry.
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