Today is my birthday! I am 33. To celebrate, I took Rayah for her first-ever doughnut, chocolate-glazed with sprinkles. In our household, sprinkles are REQUIRED on birthdays. That's a little rule I just made up, but which has held true for the past seven years. The doughnuts were a BIG hit, with both of us!
For the past many weeks, I’ve been a bit obsessed with Easter. I’ve been reading Rayah Easter-related stories from her Bible for the past month, plus another Easter book that was a gift from a friend, and (dare I admit this?) I’ve been shopping for Easter supplies since the beginning of March. In fact, during one trip to Target, an employee told me: “You know it’s not even St. Patrick’s Day yet, right? We don’t have any Easter products in the store. I think you’re the first customer I’ve ever met who was ready for a holiday before we are!”
Maybe it’s just that I like any excuse to buy my daughter cute things.
Since I’ve been thinking about the holiday for so long, I have come up with tons of Easter basket ideas. (Or this would also be good for stocking stuffers, birthday baskets, or even “everyday I love you” gifts!) I can’t fit them ALL into my daughter’s Easter basket, so I thought I’d share the gift ideas with you – just in case you need fun ideas for kids’ Easter baskets that go beyond the ubiquitous candy and stuffed animals.
These items vary by age, but I’ve organized this list with items appropriate for younger children up top and older children down below. Where I have favorites to recommend, I have.
Sooo…what am I missing on this list? Are there items you’ve included in Easter baskets that I’m totally overlooking? I’d love to know!!
Several weeks ago, Roger and I canceled our cable service, to my mom's great disappointment. (Hi, Mom!) You see, she came over for a few days to take care of Rayah while I was traveling, and one of her requests before I left town was to teach her how to use our television. I had already anticipated this -- with written instructions -- but I wasn't prepared for her dismay at not being able to tune into FOX news, with Glenn Beck providing constant background dialogue.
Instead, I taught her how to use Netflix, and showed her the extensive collection of movies that Roger has amassed. I explained how to stream news live from the Internet - because we have fast Internet, a benefit afforded us by living in The City. (My mom lives in the country. She has two options for Internet: dial-up (it's true - it still exists) or a mobile broadband USB, both of which are s-l-o-w compared to my connection at home.)
The decision was very easy for us. We never watch television. After months and months and months and years of "nothing good being on", we decided that paying $60/month was ridiculous for something we never used. It would be like - and this is totally hypothetical (wink, wink) - paying for a gym membership each month that we don't use. (Oh. Wait.) Nearly everything we want to see is available live streamed online, or through Netflix, or we already own it. And so we canceled our cable, and we haven't really missed it. In fact, it's been kind of a relief not to sit down in front of the television and mindlessly wander between channels.
With that in mind, I thought it would be fun to share my favorite (instant streaming) Netflix finds, since I enjoy immediate gratification and TV shows so much. In no particular order (if you watch any of these -- even though the shows are designed to be stand-alone episodes -- please do yourself a favor by putting the show into context: start with Season 1, Episode 1):
1. Drop Dead Diva - A cute and funny show about a shallow, aspiring model who came back to life as a plus-size lawyer. It's a total fluff show, and I've loved relaxing in the evenings watching it. (Roger would probably hate that I'm telling you this, so no one say anything, but he's watched a few episodes with me and he totally likes the show, too. Hey - it's easier to get forgiveness than permission.) You'd probably enjoy it if you liked Legally Blonde. Or if you ever worked in a law office. Or if you like fashion.
2. Kidnapped - An intense, heart-pumping drama about a young boy who is, yes, kidnapped. The story unfolds as you learn to suspect everything and everyone. (I told Roger he would also like this one, because it's all thriller-and-intense. He doubts me, because he thinks I don't have very good taste in TV shows. But OMG, I totally do.) You'd probably enjoy this if you liked 24, or Ransom, or investigative dramas.
3. Bones - The show that started it all. I didn't start watching TV shows on Netflix until I discovered Bones, which has maybe replaced CSI (Vegas) as my favorite crime drama. Bones forensically explores death and crime from an anthropological viewpoint to solve mysteries - both recent and from hundreds of years ago. You'd enjoy this show if you liked any other show listed in this post, or CSI, Cold Case, Without a Trace, etc. I love, love, love, love Bones.
4. Veronica Mars - Veronica is a high school student and detective. This show is smart and sassy, and I may have been upset when the series ended. I also might have petitioned Roger for my own pair of binoculars. You'd enjoy this show if you liked Without A Trace, the less gruesome episodes of CSI, Cold Case, etc.
5. Psych - A witty comedy *and* an investigative drama? Be still my heart! The main character is a "psychic" who helps a police department solve crimes. He's not actually psychic, he's just really good at reading evidence. You'd enjoy this show if you liked Bones or CSI, or if you want to sharpen your own powers of observation.
I love detective shows. That much should be evident. (Sidenote: Has anyone seen Veronica Mars who also watched Psych? Am I the only one who thinks Veronica and Shawn would make the *perfect* TV couple?!)
I don't explore the movie section of Netflix that often, though I think I should. Do you have favorites to recommend?
A couple years ago, when my co-worker, Lori, was planning meals at BlogHer '09, she asked my thoughts on an oatmeal bar one morning for breakfast. My answer was an emphatic YES! because I was seven months pregnant, was persistently hungry, and will admit, unabashedly, to an abiding love for oatmeal.
That's how my nickname, Oats, began. It stuck because after I responded so enthusiastically, I laid down the law of what must be included on that oatmeal buffet (among other offerings): cinnamon, brown sugar and raisins. Specifically, the raisins had to be black (not the golden kind, which she had originally slated, because the golden kind blend in too well in your bowl). And so it was.
This past week, while in San Diego planning for BlogHer '11, the Marriott included something special on the breakfast buffet the last morning our team was in town: Oatmeal Crème Brûlée.
Did anyone else just hear a chorus of angels, or was that only me?
Let me repeat that for added effect: Oatmeal! Creme Brulee! A combination of one of the best breakfast foods, with my absolute, all-time favorite dessert? Yes, please! I'm applauding the inventor of this delicious combination - creamy, melt-in-your-mouth oatmeal, sweetened with a hardened sugar glaze and rich, melted butter pooled in the center. The Marriott topped it with thin-sliced, bubbling hot peaches, and I knew the moment it hit my tastebuds that I'd need to re-create it in my kitchen.
Oatmeal Crème BrûléeINGREDIENTS
1.5 cups oats
3 cups milk
1 t vanilla
12 thin peach slices (about 1/8" thick)
4 T extra-fine white sugar
2 T organic brown sugarINSTRUCTIONS
1. Over medium heat, stir together oats, milk and vanilla. Cook, stirring frequently, until oats absorb liquid and take on a thick consistency.
2. Spoon cooked oats equally into four ramekins and arrange three peach slices atop each oatmeal portion.
3. Blend sugars, then divide equally (approximately 1.5 T each) among the four ramekins and spread evenly on top.
4. Using a torch, melt the sugar and form a crispy top.
5. Allow the oatmeal creme brulee to sit for at least 5 minutes before serving.NOTES
A. If you haven't tried organic brown sugar, you're missing out. It's got an amazing flavor and texture - waaaaayyyyy better than regular brown sugar. You can thank me later for introducing you.
B. I don't have a torch, so I used my broiler instead. It melted the butter, but didn't form a crispy top. I'm not sure why, but it's possible I didn't leave it in for long enough. I think I was too afraid of burning the sugar to a charcoaled crsip.
C. You don't need to add extra sugar or sweetener to the oatmeal while cooking - this topping will partially absorb into the oatmeal beneath it, and it will be plenty sweet. Eating this is almost like eating dessert.
THE GIVEAWAY!
Incidentally, this coincided with National Oatmeal Month (probably something to do with all those "Be More Healthy" resolutions for New Year's). In celebration, Better Oats sent me samples of their oatmeal and offered to give away a one-month-supply of their oatmeal to ten Chirky.com readers! I had never tried Better Oats before, but after researching their company and taste-testing their product, giving away their oatmeal on this site was a no-brainer. Besides serving up delicious food (which, let's face it, is the most important criteria - the Better Oats instant oatmeal doesn't have that chemical taste that I've disliked in so many other instant oatmeal brands), they make it easy for me to like them:
So! To the good part: the giveaway! I want to know your favorite way to serve/eat oatmeal. Do you like it plain? With certain spices or fruits or sweeteners? Do you come down hard on the cooking method line between milk vs. water? Do you have a favorite recipe using oatmeal? To receive an entry:
(1) entry - Leave a comment answering the question above
(1) additional entry - Leave a separate comment letting me know you've tweeted this blog post (using this shortened URL: http://bit.ly/eQGF4H)
(1) additional entry - Leave a separate comment linking back to your own blog entry, pointing your readers to this giveaway
The contest is open beginning NOW, and closing 11:59pm on Monday, January 31, 2011. Ten winners will be selected at random to win a one-month supply of Better Oats oatmeal.
Now tell me...Did you already know about Oatmeal Creme Brulee? Am I the last to find out? And do you have a better recipe than mine? I made it up off-the-cuff, so I'm pretty sure there's room for improvement! I think I'm officially on a quest to find the best Oatmeal Creme Brulee, ever, ever, ever.
* * * UPDATED! Winners have been selected via Random.org and were notified Feb 1, 2011! * * *
Though this post was compensated with free product, my good opinion of products cannot be bought. I genuinely liked BetterOats instant oatmeal, and hope that you will, too!
I woke up this morning to fog. Lots and lots of fog, and behind that fog I have a pretty amazing view of San Diego's skyline and waterfront. I mean, I'm assuming it's amazing. I only saw it late last night, with the city twinkling around me and hundreds of yachts docked below. I'm in San Diego for work - BlogHer '11 will be held here this August (Are you coming? Please tell me you'll be here, and that we'll get to meet up!) - and this is only the second time I've been away from my baby.
The first time, last September, I was only gone for about 36 hours, but those were 36 hours filled with anxiety. And maybe a few tears. Maybe more than a few tears. I probably wasn't ready to leave her quite yet, even if Roger's parents did happen to be in town and she was in very good hands. When I found out I would be traveling, I was still nursing four times a day. I cut down to three by the time I left town, and had just enough of a frozen supply at home to cover the trip. That also meant I had to take my pump with me to San Francisco.
Now, let's digress: Breastfeeding moms, have you ever had to use an electric pump while also traveling? It is not easy. I needed to pump in the airport, but couldn't find any nursing rooms, and there were no electrical outlets in the bathroom - or in any individual stalls. I actually checked every single stall that was available. I decided to wait, drive to my hotel, and pump there - but then I got lost, called the office, and decided to head straight to the restaurant where everyone was meeting. I checked the bathrooms at the restaurant - no electrical supply, other than in the open area of the bathroom, and I was almost desperate enough to use that outlet (despite how awkward it might be for anyone who walked into the restroom while I was ... occupied). I found the hostess and asked if there was anywhere else I could pump, before settling into the bathroom. She led me upstairs, to an unused part of the restaurant. And there I sat, out in the open loft, at a dining table tucked away behind the stairs, thankful that I was wearing a scarf. For modesty. Don't even get me started when my flight home was delayed and I needed to pump in the airport, without anywhere (or any way) to do it.
(For everyone who has not breastfed, I will explain it this way: Imagine you drank 64 ounces of water an hour ago, your bladder is about to burst, and there are no restrooms, and no way to relieve yourself, so you remain in discomfort trying to figure out where you can go to take care of business. Your bladder starts cramping, you think you might actually DIE from not peeing, and you start eyeing that plant in the corner very conspicuously. THAT is sort of what it's like, except you don't have to plug your bladder into a wall to make it do something useful.)
Fast forward to today. My daughter is totally weaned. She is, again, in good hands (thank you, Mom!). I'm gone for a little longer this time - though not by much - and I'm completely worry-free. It makes a difference, I think. Despite the short trip, I still miss her little laugh. I miss how she squeals and buries herself in pillows, how she talks and mischievously explores my bedside table while we're getting ready in the mornings. I miss her when I think about how much she would love all the windows in this room, standing on her tippy-toes trying to get a better look outside. But I'll see her Friday morning, and it will be so much fun to wrap my arms around her and lift her out of her crib, give her an enormous hug, and watch as she flings herself into all the pillows on our bed.
I've been thinking a lot about what moms really want for Mother's Day (this Sunday!). And I've been wondering if working moms and stay at home moms want the same things. (Note: By "working moms," I mean mothers who are employed by a company, since I know that stay at home moms also work, just in a different way.)
Lately I've been struggling with balance. (Lately equals the last eight months.) (Coincidentally, my sweet daughter is eight months old.) (I'm pretty certain these two are related.) My life is overflowing with busyness. I'm a full-time mom, and a full-time employee. And I don't mean that I leave the house to go to a full-time job, while someone cares for my daughter. I mean that I stay home and care for her, and that I'm also a remote employee for a company I love. So I work 40+ hours a week at home, while also *attempting* to spend that time with my little girl. Hiring a nanny is out of the question right now, because of the way this economy has affected our family's finances. Which makes for early mornings, and late nights, and busy days. Add to that meals, and grocery shopping, and cleaning the house, and laundry, and I'm willing to bet you can guess which of those slide. (Answer: that entire last sentence.) But I get to spend the entire day with our daughter, and for that I am thankful. She's pretty awesome.
Roger, on the other hand, usually leaves for work before Rayah's up in the morning, and comes home after she's gone to bed. He walks into her room several times a night, just to watch her sleep. And just thinking about that makes me depressed. To love someone so much, but not be able to hold her or read her books or even to listen to her "talk" about her day. To only to get to spend two days each week with her. And even then, it's a weekend filled with busyness, trying to do all the things that the weekdays denied us.
So I've been thinking about Mother's Day. I've been thinking that, sure, perfume or flowers or spa certificates are nice. A thoughtful card is nice. But what do I really want? I want time. I want time with my husband and daughter, without the added stress of everything else that needs to be done. I want a carefree day. A family picnic at the park in our neighborhood. Reading books together in Rayah's reading corner. I want a day to re-connect as a family, a day to take pictures, a day to remember.
But I realize not everyone wants the same things that I do - so I'm curious. What do you want for Mother's Day?
Roger and I were on a walk with Rayah this evening when we came upon a father kneeled down with his child. At first it appeared as though the child was hurt, and he was consoling her. As we came closer, we heard her crying and pleading with him - whatever it was, she made sure he knew she wasn't going to do it again. Then he started yelling at her. Screaming. SCREAMING.
My neck coiled and my eyebrows shot up. As we were (slowly) walking past, I turned around to look at them. He had his daughter -- she was maybe three years old -- pinned to the ground, in a sort of headlock, while he hovered over her and screamed at her about cars driving down the road. (This was on a walking path in our neighborhood park, bordered on one side by a residential street and on the other side by a creek.) The child's mother stood there, cross-armed, observing. The little girl's face was red and marked with tears. And this father - this father was so oblivious to anything around him, and screaming at her so forcefully, that it seemed abusive to me. He was frightening. The situation was so disturbing that *I* started crying. You guys! I started crying.
Now, full disclosure: I didn't understand the context of the discipline. Had she gotten too near the street (about six feet away) when a car was driving by? Had she been disobedient the first couple times her father asked her to move away from the street? I don't know. But I do know that this man was scary. And angry. He was belittling and intimidating his daughter. I have no patience for that. I wanted to rescue that little girl!
Roger and I quietly discussed whether we should do anything. We stopped and (covertly) watched, waiting to see if he would harm his daughter. We wondered at what point it would be appropriate to step in. In the end, we only watched them. I dried my eyes. The father eventually stopped, they marched past us on their way home, the little girl clinging to her mother's side, as far from her father as she could get. I turned to Roger and said, "I never want to treat our children like that." He had her pinned to the ground in a headlock. She was THREE.
And now I can't get that scene out of my mind - the dad hunkered down, trumpeting his temper; the mom passively standing by; the little girl, back arched, bawling, twisting her wet face from her father's.
I get that every parent has different discipline styles. I understand that I don't know the full story. But I also know that something isn't sitting right in my heart, and even though that family is long-gone, I'm curious: At what point do you step in? Or do you? How do you know when? And what should that look like?
This morning I received an email from my sister-in-law, Rosalyn, professing her love for spring: "...the daffodils are bursting open, the forsythia (one of my very favoritest signs of spring) is turning into solid rays of sunshine as the blooms appear, and all of the flowering trees are vying to get in on the act! I'm so grateful for spring!"
I couldn't have said it better. The past few days it has been 70 degrees in Dallas, and I've been chomping at the bit to get outside. Rayah and I try to take walks every day. We love watching the ducks swim in the creek by our house, watching the little baby muskrats leap into the water when we come near. The daffodils are blooming in Dallas, also, and last week Rayah and I watched a toddler squeal with delight as he ran through them toward his Daddy. The birds are chirping, and blue jays are fluttering around our neighborhood. The Bradford Pear trees are thick with white blooms - I love watching Rayah's face as she stares up at tree branches - and I'm looking forward to seeing my favorite shade of green as trees begin to bud.
I've always thought that spring is my favorite season - I love the life that begins to emerge. I love that sunlight is beginning to stretch the day. I love the bright, bold colors. I love the warm days and deep blue skies. For me, it's the promise of something more to come, the promise of life and growth and beauty. And I guess that's not surprising, coming out of a dark and cold winter.
The first time I ever saw a woman Price Matching was during a Back-to-School sale in 2008. I don’t remember why I had gone to Wal-Mart – I didn’t shop there often – and somehow I found myself in line behind a woman whose shopping cart was brimming with paper and pencils and rulers and backpacks and crayons. And more. Oooooohhhhh, was there more. She pulled out circulars from local stores and began going through them with the cashier. Suddenly, she turned to me.
Now, let’s stop for a second and discuss Wal-Mart. Admittedly, I used to be a little prejudiced. I really disliked shopping at the store. I don’t know why that is, because they carry just about everything under the sun, and if there’s one thing I like (especially as a working Mom), it’s convenience. If I could go through a drive-thru to purchase sunblock, I would. [Note to Wal-Mart: You know what would be awesome? Having the ability to order 20 items or less online, and then swing through a drive-thru to pick up my order. Please consider beta-testing that in Plano, Texas.] [Second note to Wal-Mart: The entrance to your store in Denton, Texas carries the overwhelming stench of vomit. Please send help.]
Anyway, so this woman just turned to me and said: “I’m sorry – this is going to take a while for me to check out. Price matching is something I do to help our family afford for me to be a stay at home mom.”
I just smiled and dismissed the issue, telling her I was fascinated by what she was doing. And really, I was. For the next five minutes, I stood there watching her flip through circulars and compare prices. I watched the cashier ring up the purchase. I watched as this Mom surrendered coupons. And I was stunned. I never knew that you could take an advertisement with lower prices from Tom Thumb or Sprouts or CVS or the dollar store and get that same price at Wal-Mart.
For the past week, I've been staying up late reading a ridiculous number of frugal blogs. This is quite a feat for me because I'm typically falling over with exhaustion by 9pm. I don't really ever talk about money on this blog, but it's something that is persistently on my mind, especially since Rayah came into our family. First the medical bills piled up (which are now paid off, thankfully). Next there was that home renovation we began nearly two years ago. That home renovation that took over our lives.
It's kind of like - and bear with me, because I haven't eaten anything yet - when you go to a Chinese buffet, and that Pineapple Fried Rice tastes awesome, but you think you might also sample the Sesame Chicken. And the Spring Rolls. And the Mongolian Beef. And maybe some Dan Dan Noodles. And whoa - those Garlic Snap Peas - I bet those are good. And then you just can't resist the Mango soft-serve ice cream. With sprinkles. And maybe a cherry. That's what renovating your house is like. Or, that's what renovating our house has been like. Like an over-indulgent Chinese buffet.
Nothing we've done has felt indulgent, of course. But in retrospect, maybe we should have tackled it differently. We scraped the ceilings. We re-textured the walls. We painted. We ripped out the floors. We tore off the baseboards and the trim. We removed a wall here, we built a laundry room there. We installed tile in the kitchen. We're scheduled to install hardwood floors this month. And even though we've tried to do as much as possible ourselves (read: I never knew what a handyman Roger was until we bought this house - he's worked so hard on it!), we've paid an unreal amount to contractors to do the hard parts. And now I'm left looking at our checkbook, thinking: How did we get here? How can we get back to where we were? What changes can I make to our budget?
The other day a friend said: "I remember when I stayed up all night on purpose…now it's just painful." And I couldn't sum up my experience as a new mother who tries to Do It All better. I am awake every morning around by 5am because Rayah has sooooo much she wants to say, she can't wait for daylight. So she wakes up, lies in her crib and babbles, and then falls back asleep. And that's pretty much how my days go untll 9pm, when I'm falling over myself to get in bed. Since Rayah came along, my life has been so busy. So exhausting. So full, in the most awesome way I could ever imagine.
When we had Rayah, I was concerned I would struggle with baby blues. I expected it. I prepared for it. And I feel so, so blessed that so far, it has not been a part of my story as a mother. Roger and I wholeheartedly agree that our daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to us. She's so fun, so lively, so curious. She's beautiful, and she's smart. It's been so fun watching her grow, watching her learn to bat at toys, and then grab at them, and now she's putting them in her mouth. EVERYTHING goes in Rayah's mouth: toys, stuffed animals, burp cloths, anything within her reach. I love it when she locks her eyes on me and smiles, that wide-open, toothless, dimpled smile.
I realize that every parent feels this way, or I hope that every parent feels this way. Because becoming a mom has been the greatest privilege of my life. Any doubts that I might have once had about whether I wanted to become a mother have been erased, and now I'm realizing that this is the role I was created for. And that just makes it that much sweeter.
When I learned Santa Claus wasn't real, I was crushed. It was December. I was in third grade. That was the only year I rode the bus home from school, and I mostly didn't mind, except there was one girl on that bus, Brittany, whose sole mission seemed to be focused on making my life miserable.
I lived in the country, which meant that the bus ride was a long one for me, full of stops in town before we headed out my farm-to-market road. But she also lived out in the country, farther out than I lived, and so I had to endure her the entire ride. She was a year or two older, and the only thing I remember about her was her dirty blonde hair and how she mocked me and taunted me.
Now, listen - I realize this really isn't all that bad. But in my eight-year-old world, it pretty much was the worst thing ever. And to top it off, on that December afternoon, she was insisting that Santa wasn't real.
I had asked before, and my parents had always encouraged me to believe in Santa Claus. But this day - this day was different - my mom gave in and broke the news to me as gently as she could. It devastated me. Devastated. Oh!, how I cried. And cried. And cried.
Before having a child, I didn't think much about what I would teach my own children concerning Santa. Now that we have Rayah, I can't stop thinking about it. Granted, she's only three months old - I've got a couple years before I need to navigate that conversation. But it's already keeping me awake at night.
Roger and I intend to teach Rayah that Santa Claus is not real, but that he is a fun tradition we participate in every year. The part that stumps me is this: How do we teach Rayah not to be someone else's Brittany? I want my daughter to be an honest child, but I don't want her to crush someone else in her pursuit of the truth. How do we do that? Is it even possible?
What did your parents teach you about Santa Claus? Or, if you have kids, what have you taught them?
Rayah is our littlest reason to be thankful this year!
We hope that you will also have a delightful holiday, filled with family, friends, food and a heart full of thanks.
I’ve always said that I’d try any food once, which is how I’ve managed to eat things like pig intestine (gross), duck blood soup (gross) and fried chicken feet (surprisingly good). Then there are other foods that I just think are weird, like tomato-flavored Jello (why!?), and peanut butter, tomato and bacon sandwiches (in all fairness, I’ve managed to evade this so far – I like my peanut butter with fruit (plum jam, please), and my bacon with lettuce and tomato – though I’m guessing I’ll try one soon enough).
When my in-laws visited last month, Roger asked his mom to make one of his favorite childhood dishes: Avocado-Banana Salad. I wrinkled my nose at the pairing, but agreed to give it a try. Then I took a second spoonful. And now I’ve spent the past month making this salad, because neither Roger nor I can get enough.
If you’re searching for a unique side dish to serve at a holiday meal or to bring to a friend’s potluck, look no further. This dish uses only five ingredients and there’s no cooking involved, so it’s perfect if you’re short on time but want to deliver high on expectations. Avocado-Banana Salad is beyond creamy, a favorite among children and adults (in our family, anyway!), and is deliciously tangy and sweet. And maybe that’s my favorite part about this side dish – it could also pass as a dessert.
Avocado-Banana Salad
Ingredients
1 avocado, diced
1 banana, diced
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp sugar
3 tbsp cream (you can also use half-and-half, or probably even milk, but I use cream)
Instructions
1. Add diced avocado and banana to a bowl.
2. Measure lime juice, sugar and cream into the bowl.
3. Mix ingredients together gently.
4. Serve immediately.
Serves 2
I’ve never really understood the phenomenon that makes parents so narcissistic about their offspring. I mean, yes, she is your child. And in some cases, she is even cute. (Because let’s face it: not all babies are cute. Can we agree on that? Except yours, yours is very cute.) But seriously? Did you really need to whip out that accordion photo wallet to show me each picture you’ve taken over the last 45 days? No, no you did not.
Then I got pregnant, and hung each sonogram on the refrigerator where I could stare at it every time I went into the kitchen. (Confession: I found more and more excuses to make a trip to the kitchen. This may or may not have contributed to pregnancy weight gain.) I loved knowing that the microscopic embryo inside me was growing and maturing and that in a few short months, I would get to hold my child in my arms. (I was also actively ignoring the thought of childbirth, because: Ouch.)
When I first met Rayah, I thought that I had never seen anything more beautiful. Her pouty lips, her full cheeks, the delicate arch of her eyebrow, the way her tiny hands ball into fists and then extend again, watching her bright blue eyes taking in her new environment , the sweet chub of her thigh, the natural highlights in her hair, how the soles of her feet are unbearably soft. Even listening to her coo while she plays, and breathing in the scent of her hair every time I pick her up is magnificent to me. She’s like my newest addiction, and I can’t help but want to preserve every single bit of her.
Every day I find myself picking up my phone and photographing her. And each day I text those photos to Roger, because if I had to be apart from her during the day, I would want the same thing: copious amounts of photographs, just to make me feel like I was there. I flip through the photos on my phone and my heart still skips, even though I see her and hold her every hour of every day.
Last night someone asked me whether Rayah wore a Halloween costume, and as I told her about Rayah’s homemade pea-in-the-pod outfit, I instinctively reached for my phone and began flipping through two weeks’ worth of photos until I found what I was looking for. And then I looked up, eyes wide, realizing what I had just done. I had just become That Mom, except I was holding something much worse: the digital version of the accordion photo wallet, with near-unlimited space for MORE photos.
As far as babies go, I think my daughter is pretty cute. More than cute – to me, she’s beautiful. So no, I didn’t really need to whip out her photos to show, especially considering I had the live version sitting in my lap at the time. It’s just that I’m so immensely proud of Rayah, and I can’t wait to share her with the world.
The past seven weeks, since Rayah was born, have been a blur. Time has slipped away much too quickly, and I've begrudged every bit of it. It's kind of eerie how naturally our daughter fits into our lives, how it seems like she's always been a part of us, how much we love this little girl that we only just met.
Pre-Rayah, I was strictly an eight-plus hours of sleep per night kind of woman. I guess I was storing it up for myself, because I haven't seen eight consecutive hours in a loooonnnggggg time. I've surprised myself with my own capacity for sleep deprivation. Yes, those first couple weeks were tough -- especially because we were in and out of hospitals with complications -- but I'll be the first to admit that she's totally worth it, a thousand times over.
Roger and I are totally enamored by our daughter, which is I suppose how we should feel. We can't stop staring at her, trying to figure out which of us she resembles most (we still haven't figured that one out), whose toes she has, if she has my attached earlobes or Roger's detached (jury's still out on that one too, though it seems she inherited her toes from Roger).
Her eyes are still blue, she still has natural blond highlights interspersed through her dark brown hair. Her little thighs are only just beginning to fill out, though they're not quite chunky enough for her to fit into her cloth diapers. Rayah is starting to smile more -- though barely -- and every time I see her sweet dimples, my heart swoons.
We are already seeing little glimpses of her personality, and WOW: she has a flare for drama, and she is VERY opinionated. Of course, considering who her parents are, that's not much of a surprise.
Right now she's in her pack-and-play, kicking her legs and cooing. I like to imagine she's telling Roger and me how much she loves us, too. Even if she doesn't know it quite yet.
On September 2nd, Roger and I welcomed our daughter, Rayah, into our family.
At birth, she was 7 pounds, 15 ounces and 20.5 inches long. Don't let her size fool you, though - she was nearly four weeks early!
I'm working on her birth story, but in the meantime we're enjoying all her little coos, the funny little faces she makes, and getting to spend time with our sweet child as she explores her new world. As we suspected we would be, we're totally smitten.
It's an odd thing, lying on a cushioned table with my belly exposed, watching the monitor jump to life as the sonogram wand passed over my torso. And there, for the fourth time, was our baby: sleeping soundly, heart thumping.
Yesterday morning was our 18-week appointment. Before our session began, we told the sonogram tech we didn't want to know the baby's gender right away. Instead, we handed her a piece of paper and an envelope.
We saw the baby's bladder, and stomach, and arms and legs. We saw both hemispheres of its brain, took a profile shot with its tiny nose turned up, and then watched as it began to wake up, batting its arms and kicking its legs before settling into sleep again.
The hours ticked by slowly yesterday - no, make that excruciatingly slowly - and the longer I was aware that our baby's gender was there, known, the more I wanted to tear into the envelope and read its contents, or at least hold it up to the light, hoping I would be able to make out whether it was a four- or three-letter word. More than anything, I just wanted to confirm my suspicions. Roger kept the envelope close to his heart, tucked into his shirt pocket, out of my grasp. (Except for that one time I snatched it from him, and he nearly wrestled me to the ground for it. My husband is strong, is all I'll say.)
Thank you everyone who left comments, emailed, called and sent notes in the mail (Yes! Even notes in the mail!) to congratulate us and to ask how we're doing. The number one question, by far, has been about how much I suffered during our first trimester. And this is the part where most mothers in world will hate me. Or at least roll their eyes with jealousy.
I had no nausea (as long as I ate something every three-ish hours), no vomiting, no heartburn. No smells turned my stomach, I had no specific cravings of MUST EAT IT OR PERISH, and my appetite has neither increased or decreased. I had no exhaustion, no aches, no pains, not even pregnancy dreams. In fact -- other than a missed period -- if I hadn't seen our baby on ultrasound, I might not believe that I was even pregnant. (Which makes this documentary about women who didn't know they were pregnant until they went into labor seem a little more plausible, except really? That expanding belly and those fetal movements didn't give it away?)
The most difficult part of pregnancy for me, so far, has only begun to occur in the second trimester. You see, I've been trying to teach myself to sleep on my side for quite a while - but side-sleeping is painful! I don't understand how people do it. My hips go numb and my hip abductor muscles are shooting with pain and I don't think it's a coincidence that Mario Badescu just sent me an email about diminishing puffiness and tired eyes. Because I am not getting any sleep. Which is why I've started shopping on Craigslist for a recliner that I can use during pregnancy, because that's the only way I foresee getting any sleep: propped up on my back, cuddled under a blanket, and NOT ON MY SIDE. Is this a normal problem? Because I've not heard anyone talk about this before, and I think I've tried every variation of side-sleeping and pillow combination ever created.
(Though I have to admit: it's doing an awesome job of preparing me for when the baby comes. So there's that.)
The second most common question you asked was whether I'm showing yet, and the answer is: just barely. At 16 weeks, I'm still wearing nearly all of my pre-pregnancy jeans, and I've only just begun wearing maternity tops. But mostly because many of my shirts are fitted, and when I wear them and my stomach pokes out, it looks like I'm a little more plump around the middle rather than pregnant. I have exactly five maternity tops: black, pink, blue, grey and white, and I have a feeling that by the end of this pregnancy I might need to burn them. (Though I'll still admit to feeling giddy every time I put one on.)
And the third most common question was about this website. Will it turn into a mommyblog? I don't have an answer to that question quite yet, though I think it's fair to say that I write about my life, and this is a part of my life. Also: I've been holding this news in for a loooonnnnnggggggggg time. You'll have to bear with me while I flush all of the newness of writing about baby, baby, OMG BABY out of my system.
I learned an important lesson from a good friend last week. A lesson about friendship, about love, about family. You see, my friend is from India. Culturally, when people in her life – whether family or friends– are hurting, she has been taught to drop whatever she is doing to be by their side.
Chris and Merlyn were among the first friends we told that we were pregnant. And subsequently, they were among the first friends we told we were miscarrying. When they heard our news, Chris and Merlyn asked if they could come over to be with us, even if it was just for dinner. At first I was taken aback. Admittedly, I thought it was intrusive. I wanted my space. I wanted to be alone to grieve in private. But in the back of my mind, I also knew that Roger and I can’t do this alone. So I said yes.
I walked away from dinner that night with the realization that our American culture of space and privacy and isolation is absurd. Why have we learned to leave each other alone at a time when we feel our most lonely?
And that’s one of the reasons why I’m so thankful I chose to write about my miscarriage on this web site. Our pregnancy was one that was planned for, hoped for, longed for. I recall in vivid detail exactly how I found out that I was pregnant. I remember how discovering that pink line on the pregnancy test felt like Christmas morning. I laugh about how many times I got up during the day to go look at that test, and how my heart flip-flopped each time I got a glimpse of the double lines. I took so much pleasure in planning how I would tell Roger, and oh!, how he was surprised. And I loved that he teared up, just a little, when he discovered our news. And several weeks later, in the blink of an eye, a flip of the ultrasound wand, our baby was gone.
Then there was the overwhelming outpouring of love from each of you. I read every single comment, sometimes multiple times over, and it was like the Internet was giving me a hug, holding my hand, rubbing my back, and telling me that yes, it hurts, but you’re not alone. Thank you, each of you, for the comments you left on my previous post. Thank you for coming around at a time that I felt so lonely. Finally, I get it. I get how important it is to have companionship, in all of its myriad forms. I understand how valuable a gentle word is when one’s heart is filled with sorrow, despite our culture’s whispers to give the griever a few days for – what? The anguish to settle in? Or for us to pull ourselves together? I don’t exactly know.
But I do know this: I can genuinely say that if this miscarriage helps me know how to love others better, to console others better, be able to better comfort those who are grieving a loss, or to walk with another woman as she faces that dusty, deserted road of miscarriage, I will consider this an important, unforgettable and worthwhile (albeit painful) life lesson. Merlyn’s rush to be by my side, infused with your dozens and dozens and dozens of comments, has taught me one thing in spades: compassion. And I think that’s something we could all use a little bit more of.
Nothing can prepare you for waking up six-and-one-half weeks into your pregnancy -- your first pregnancy -- to discover fresh blood in the one place it shouldn’t be.
No one can explain the fear that shoots through your mind, or how you will exhale a barely audible, solitary word, no, or why your hands shake that badly as you frantically dial your doctor’s phone number.
No one can help you hold it together as you try to talk to the receptionist without your voice trembling and your first tears pooling in your lower eyelids (you can’t stop it from happening, no matter how long you hold your breath or how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut), or when you call your husband and all you can squeak out is “Please come home, now” before you collapse against the wall in a sobbing heap.
Nothing can still your heart when a sweet two-year old and her very pregnant mom sit down across from you at the doctor’s office, and you realize that child you’ll never have. Maybe another one, maybe somewhere down the road – but not this one that you cherish already.
And no amount of pressing your lips together will prevent them from involuntarily turning downward, forcing unexpected, hot tears to stream down your face. And maybe you’ll look away, partially cover your face, develop a new and sudden interest in your husband’s National Geographic magazine as you bury yourself in your own agony, but you won’t expect to be simultaneously embarrassed and grateful when that mom recognizes your pain and relocates within the waiting room, her daughter toddling behind her.
I remember the ultrasound, and being elated to see the womb that held our child, and feeling that first twinge of hope that everything would be okay. And then the fear settled in as our doctor, his face contorted in concentration, measured the sac and hypothesized that our baby had stopped developing. He handed me a tissue as he explained what he believed was happening.
I only remember parts of our conversation. 15% chance. Inevitable miscarriage. Possible chromosomal abnormalities. Nothing we could do to prevent it. Our doctor’s grave, apologetic tone. He placed us in a high percentile for miscarriage, with an outside hope that we may just not be as far along as I had originally calculated. I remember clinging to that outside hope, not wanting the possibility of miscarriage to be real. Every thought and every conversation related to pregnancy and miscarriage and babies and family led me to fall apart again and again and again.
Three days later we went back to run more tests, to check my hcg levels. We had expected them to double, but instead they had only increased 25%. But that’s a good sign, right? At least they’re increasing! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am nothing, if not obscenely optimistic.
And a week after that, we went back for our third appointment. The goal was this: to see a heartbeat. All three of us – the doctor, Roger and I – stared at the sonogram, our eyes following the movements of the camera, waiting to see a tiny bulge, a pulsing beat. We didn’t. And now we have two options. One: Allow the miscarriage to occur naturally. Two: Allow our doctor to perform a D&C to remove the fetal tissue.
I don’t know which to choose. I went to the mall for a little retail therapy after my third appointment, and wouldn’t you know it? I chose the one entrance in the anchor store that was surrounded by children’s clothing. I made my way to the mall entrance, and the first store I saw was a maternity boutique. I stopped for something to eat and after I sat down, I looked next to me and realized I had sat across from three highchairs. I just…I just can’t get away. And all I want to do is escape, as immature and temporary as it may sound.
For now, I’m comforted by the silence of my home. I’m comforted by the birds chirping outside. I’m comforted by the words of my family and friends. And most of all, I’m comforted by my husband’s strong arms wrapped around me.
We may never know the answers to “Why?” and “Why now?”, and maybe we don’t need to know the reason this happened. But we do know who God is, that he is gracious and merciful. I know that we’ve prayed that I would miscarry this child if he/she wasn’t healthy. And I think, for now, I’m just going to have to trust that God was answering my prayers. It’s all I can hold onto.
Two weekends ago I spent my time re-creating barnyard confections, and this past weekend I spent my weekend crafting an erupting volcano surrounded by steaming lava and primitive species. That's right - my niece and nephew were born a week apart from each other, which makes for me a very busy month. (Note to self: when giving birth to my own children, steer clear of September.)
My nephew, Chase, is at an age where he likes to pick out everything himself (though, honestly, he's been at that age for quite some time). He has his favorite toys, he prefers certain activities, he chooses his own clothes. So it didn't surprise me when he wanted to discuss what type of cake he wanted for his birthday. His FIFTH birthday. We talked about monsters and whales and music, we filtered through snakes and pyramids and treasure chests. And in the end, we settled on a volcano.
A volcano surrounded by an ocean. A volcano surrounded by an ocean inhabited with sharks. A volcano surrounded by ocean inhabited with sharks, and dinosaurs prancing in the volcano's lava. For good measure. And the lava erupting from the mouth of the volcano? Well, that was just for fun.
How I did it:
THE OCEAN
The oceanic base is made of an ultra-moist french vanilla cake. I drizzled semi-tinted confection-buttercream on top, for the appearance of a waterfall. It was the easiest part of the cake.
THE VOLCANO
The volcano was created from my go-to chocolate cake, a recipe that requires things like powdered pudding mix AND Ghiradelli chocolate chips, and this cake is divine on its own. It is moist and rich, but not too dense, and it's impossible to eat only one piece. (I know, I've tried. I fail every time.) The volcano is made of three layers: the base (an eight-inch bundt), the middle section (a 5-inch cake) and a cupcake (2.5-inches in diameter). I drizzled a milk-chocolate buttercream over the volcano, careful to cover it fully without pooling it too far into the ocean. And then, after all of that, I added crushed Oreo cookies to give the cake the dimension of dirt.
THE LAVA
I whipped up red- and orange-tinted confection buttercream icing for the lava spilling down the sides of the volcano, which I drizzled in thin ribbons with a knife. The day before, I had melted orange and cherry lifesavers over medium-low heat and spooned them onto foil in haphazard formations. (This can be done up to one week ahead and stored in an airtight container. Note: they break easily, so make a lot of them.) After randomly inserting the hard-candy lava around the crest of the volcano, I sprinkled the volcano center with shimmering, edible red glitter.
We placed the sharks and dinosaurs on the cake, et voila! Finished! If we could have done anything differently, I would have waited until we arrived at our destination to insert the hard candy lava. By the time we got to the party, the lava shooting out of the cake had fallen waywardly in some places, and was a bit sunken in others. Still, the kids loved it. (So did the parents, though I refused to admit exactly how much sugar and butter their children were ingesting. I mean, isn't that what birthday parties are for?)
One of my favorite things about being an aunt - perhaps even my right of passage - is that I can spoil my niece and nephew and then give them back to their respective parents. And that is why this weekend was so much fun. It was my niece's second birthday, which meant that in the two days leading up to her party, I was in my kitchen baking and baking and baking, and then whipping and whipping and whipping, and then mixing icing colors until they were just so. I love baking birthday cakes for my family and friends, but not quite so much as I love their reactions when they see the sweets.
Annabel's birthday party was barnyard themed - totally appropriate since my brother and sister-in-law live in the country - complete with tractors, hay bales, barbeque, the classic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, red handkerchiefs and farm animal-iced sugar cookies. Taking it a step further, Roger and I made (not one, but two) themed cakes to feed the crowd.
The first cake, a piglet, was crafted from a homemade vanilla wedding cake with swiss buttercream icing and filling.
Both cakes were built on a double-layer filled base with a six-inch domed cake for the head. The pig's snout and feet are each one cupcake, and the ears are one-half cupcake each. The tail is made from a strawberry licorice pinwheel (the rest of which I devoured). Grapefruit candies gave the ears a little more dimension (sadly, I didn't sample these). The eyes were made from blackberry candies (one of my husband's favorite candies, I wonder who picked out those?), with banana-shaped hot pink eyelashes. (Runts candies, which tasted like banana even though they were pink. Which was sort of weird to me, but I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe strawberry-banana?) The nostrils were Reese's Pieces (chocolate + peanut butter = yum) and the hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos (I think I officially got off my diet after all the "sampling" I did while making these cakes).
The second cake, a lamb, I made from a not-overly-chocolatey chocolate buttermilk cake and chocolate-overdose buttercream icing (which, together, were a perfectly balanced combination, though I think the marshmallows and chocolate chips really took the cake over the top).
The sheep was relatively easy just because it didn't matter what the icing looked like since it would all be covered. I smoothed the chocolate-overdose buttercream icing across each layer, then Roger and I set to work applying marshmallow after marshmallow after marshmallow, OMG am I still putting marshmallows on this thing? Yes, yes I was. We took great care to place the marshmallows haphazardly - some standing on end, some horizontal, some vertical - to give it the effect of fluffy wool. The face, ears and feet were covered in chocolate chips. The face was created from blackberry candied eyes and a nonpareil nose. The hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos, just like the pig cake.
Both farm-themed cakes were a hit. Roger asked guests whether they would like mutton or pork, and I countered with dark meat or white meat. Get it? A little black sheep and the other white meat?
Visiting a city like Washington, D.C., where so much of our nation’s history has been determined, we figured there would be lots to do. We knew we wouldn’t have enough time to call on even a quarter of the places on our list. We already planned on several more trips, over several more years, so we could take it all in.
But we didn’t know we would be so charmed by the city and each of its micro-burbs, like Georgetown and Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. We hadn’t planned on adding Washington, D.C. to the ever-growing list of Places We Would Consider Moving To. We didn’t know we’d be so enamored by how clean the subway system was.
I didn’t realize how patriotic I would feel, how my chest would swell with pride knowing that I was examining the very artifacts and statuesque faces that set our country’s freedom into motion.
We spent a morning in the Holocaust Museum. My second visit was just as somber as my first.
We hopped on a Tourmobile and visited the Jefferson and Lincoln monuments, re-enacting the post-Vietnam scene from Forrest Gump (but without wading through the reflecting pool), calling out Jeeennnnaaayyyyyyy!
We stood quietly during the changing of the guard at Arlington Cemetery, and I was struck with respect for these men who have the honor of guarding the Unknown Soldier’s tomb.
We walked along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, looking for the names of those who served alongside my father.
We strolled the perimeter of the White House, peering through bars and wondering whether the President ever got annoyed by the throngs of people. I mean, I would if thousands of people stood outside my home each day.
We drove along Embassy Row, marveling at the differences between each country’s embassy. We wondered whether each country buys the land and building, or if the United States gives the building to that country’s ambassador. We never found out.
We were stunned by the architecture of the Washington National Cathedral, gleaming white with grotesques and gargoyles standing at attention. The choir practiced as we wandered, making the cathedral even more angelic. We toured the building, and while we were in the sanctuary our guide audibly gasped and in a hushed voice, said Oh my goodness. Everyone look up at the rose window right now.
We obeyed, slowly turning around, uncertain what would greet us. A bright light, brighter than the sun filtering through the stained glass, glinted down. As we moved around the room, the light turned from the brightest white to a royal blue to a deep purple.
The man who made this window loved his wife dearly. She died while he was constructing the design, at exactly 5:25. Distraught, and wanting to memorialize her, he placed this special glass in the window. The glass was situated in the lower right corner, just where the 5:25 index is on a clock. This is only the second time in eight years I have seen it glowing. The sun has to hit it just right, and you have be standing in just the right place at just the right time, to catch a glimpse of it. That moment was one of the most memorable of our trip.
Without question, though, what I reminisce upon most tenaciously were the bikers. The Rolling Thunder motorcycle group came from all over the nation – a local told us they saw license plates from as far away as Alaska – to take part in an annual ride in memory of fallen comrades. What started as a salute to Vietnam soldiers now encompasses other wars, like those in Desert Storm and Iraq.
About 100,000 Harleys infiltrated the streets of Washington, D.C., and on Sunday morning they rode. They rode with American flags trailing behind their motorcycles, they rode with POW and MIA flags fluttering in the wind. They rode with pride, with the memory of their brothers. They circumnavigated the Mall, thousands and thousands and thousands of them, the noise from their pipes bone-rattling loud, and I couldn’t NOT cheer.
I cheered in memory of my own father, remembering the stories he told me about the unwelcome retaliation he received for being a soldier. How he, as a Navy SEAL, returned home to endure people spitting on him as he walked through the airport in his fatigues. I cheered because these are people who served our country so long ago, who fought so that I, and so that others I do not even know, could have freedom. They fought so that others might not live under oppression. They fought, and they deserve our respect.
I did not know that I would stand in the road, so close that my hair would whip around my face, and shed tears with each passing veteran.
But I did, unashamed.
(The entire set is available on Flickr.)
It's been a couple years since I've made a New Year's Resolution (more on that later), mainly because I find myself making resolutions throughout the year - why save them up for one day? Plus, that's kind of overwhelming. I'd rather amortize them throughout the 365 days.
This year, however, is different. This year, I'm making a resolution.
You see, I get frustrated living in Dallas because I'm not the typical Dallasite.
I do, however, love to explore. And I'm beginning to think that the reason I dislike Dallas (in favor of San Francisco, for example) so much is because I don't know what all the city has to offer -- even though I've lived here for twenty years. I haven't taken the time to explore its nooks and crannies, the way I explore cities when I'm on vacation.
Over the last year, I've taken my four-year-old nephew to a few attractions around town - we've gone to the Neiman Marcus Children's Parade, visited the 20-foot interactive snowglobe at Willow Bend, examined dinosaur remains at Fair Park and explored the train display at North Park. I still want to take him for a ride on the Tarantula Train (a train that runs between Grapevine and Fort Worth Stockyards).
And so this year, I'm resolving to Get Out There.
For example, I've only visited the shopping district at Lovers and the Tollway once - ONCE - and that was only to eat at a burrito bar. I'd like to poke my head in the shops and see what that area has to offer.
When I was researching the Tarantula Train, I learned that Grapevine has a pretty cool little downtown area and some of the best wineries in our area (which should seem obvious, given the town's name).
It's been years since I've visited either the Stockyards OR Sundance Square during the day. (Often, it's at night before dinner or a performance at the Bass.)
And I've never been to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas.
I'm making a list, checking it twice. I want to discover Dallas the way a tourist might discover Dallas - after all, it is the city I live in. I should know what the city has to offer.
With that in mind, what do you know about Dallas? Where should I visit? What MUST I do? What have you done and loved? Where are your favorite dives?
I'm begging you to flood me with your ideas, because right now my list is awfully sparse.
My family got our first computer in the early 1980s. It had a hideous quad-panel Windows system and came with a programming book that taught us how to code in DOS to create swirls across the monitor. And though it was low-tech compared to today's standards, it was the most amazing thing we'd ever seen. (Technologically speaking, I mean.)
Soon we graduated to playing family Quest games - namely, King's Quest, Space Quest and Police Quest. (And guess what?!? Roger knew how much I loved those games and got them for me last Christmas! The games have been reprogrammed to work on Windows XP. Long live 1985!) Then there were the educational programs, like Macon Beavis Typing. (Or was it Beavis Macon? Whatever.)
Ever since then, I've been (a) obsessed with inserting two spaces between every sentence I type and (b) traumatized by having to push the Shift key opposite the letter I'm attempting to capitalize. Does anyone actually use the Shift key on the right? Because I can't be the only one who feels this way.
In my new job I'm being re-programmed to use only one space between sentences, and it's almost killing me. How do I conquer this? For now I have turned on that little paragraph-icon key so that I every time I hit the space bar it inserts a mark. And then I painstakingly look for double marks and delete one of them. By the end of the day my nostrils are flaring and I can begin to see permanent creases across my forehead.
So I'm taking a survey: Do you insert one or two spaces between sentences?
There is something about me – something deep within me that believes all things and hopes all things that are for the greater good. There’s something about me that faces reality, cocks my head to the side, and then examines that truth from a different perspective. A perspective of hope. Of trusting beyond hope for what seems insurmountable. I dream of big things, of the unlikely, of miracles, even. I do believe in miracles, because my life is full of them. I’m a walking testimony of everything that is good in this world, despite the evil that lurks…waiting. And tonight I was reminded of that good.
When I saw my brother’s name on my caller ID, I didn’t think anything of it. It’s not common for us to call each other and chat, aside from the occasional question about plans to get together. With Thanksgiving approaching, I figured he was calling about our plans for the holiday. Which is why I was surprised when he put someone else on the phone, without much of an introduction at all.
In fact, when I first started talking to the child, I didn’t even know who it was. And I do mean “it” – I wasn’t even sure if I was talking to a boy or a girl. At first I thought my brother was at my sister’s house and had decided to put my nephew on the phone. And then the little girl told me her name was Lexi. The name plundered through the accordion files of my mind – I had heard that name on several occasions before. I even recalled repeating it to myself, long ago. Was that his next door neighbor’s daughter? Why was I talking to her?
And then she started telling me things she knew about my childhood. Stories that had been written in hot Texas summers and cemented in the minds of my cousins, my brother and myself. It occurred to me who Lexi was: the daughter of my oldest cousin, Rachel. Rachel was more like a sister to me than a cousin. I had always looked up to her. She was someone I had shared my room with for several months while she was in high school and I was in middle school. Rachel. My heart fluttered. Could it be? I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly thirteen years.
Thirteen years since her father, my uncle, had died.
Thirteen years since our families had a falling-out over something that my teenage mind couldn’t understand. I still don’t.
Thirteen years of life, of memories, of time lost.
I had written her letters that went unanswered, never knowing why. I still don’t.
My brother, while traveling near her home on business, spent his evenings searching for her.
He found her.
Thirteen years later, and her voice sounds just the same. I can picture her freckled face, her straight button nose, her high cheekbones, her arched eyebrows. My ears get hot, a lump forms in my throat, my face flushes. Before I can prevent it from happening, my forehead wrinkles and lips purse. My bottom lip juts out, tears spill from wells in my eyes. Something in my heart feels broken.
I’ve wanted to talk to her for so long. I’ve wanted to reconnect for more months than I care to count. I wondered if I, too, was being written off with the rest of my family, punished for an argument from so long ago, an argument that I wasn’t even a part of.
If marriage to my husband has taught me one thing, it is that it’s okay – healthy, even – to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. And so I did.
I told Rachel that I missed her. Hot tears fell. My voice cracked. She missed me, too. Her voice cracked. She asked if my hair was still long. Long, and curly, I replied. I told her I married three and a half years ago. Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished that she had been there for that.
We talked for forty one minutes. The phone beeped, then disconnected. I stared at it, willing her to call me back. Call me back. Call me back. Call me back.
She did.
The battery had depleted and she had to run outside, climb in my brother’s rental car and plug the phone in to continue the conversation. We talked for another forty nine minutes. I cried the entire time.
I mourned the loss of our relationship. I sobbed because she was found again. I can’t stop crying, off and on, off and on, and now I’m not even sure why. I have high hopes for redeveloping our friendship. I dream of the day our families are reunited. But for now, I’m content just knowing that she’s still out there, thinking of my brother and me, telling her children about the fun we used to have together.
Miracles happen every day. Even if they don’t occur to me, or to you, they still happen.
Tonight was mine.
My in-laws arrive today from South Carolina, which means that for the past several days I've been in a list-making frenzy.
I've made chore lists (clean, clean and clean, because we're turning our study – remember all the boxes? – into a proper bedroom). And I've made grocery lists ($141 later, I think I can feed an army. Albeit a very small one. Maybe just a platoon.).
I've made activity lists (including picnicking at and paddling around Caddo Lake). And after planning meals, I'm fairly certain I'll need an elastic waistband after this weekend. I'm most excited about the meals and have appropriately hung the final list on our refrigerator. I'm a little obsessed with good food and excited that their entire stay with us is going to be a culinary delight. To wit:
We're planning on tender, juicy steaks that will melt like butter in our mouths, spicy Tex-Mex, because there's no better place than Texas to get good Mexican food (except maybe Mexico itself), Roger will be barbequing ribs that are robust and tangy and fall off the bone, but still have little crisps around the edges (we got the recipe from my brother-in-law, and believe me: they're well worth the hour-long wait), and then there's my most recent cuisine infatuation, Indian. I've sacrificially sampled three new Indian restaurants in the past couple of weeks, just to be sure of our selection. Granted, there are dozens more to try, but I figure they can wait until next month. (Good news: next month begins in only four days.)
All this to say, we have a very full weekend ahead. One that I hope will not involve the tipping of canoes. (I'm looking at you, Dad.)
Some of my favorite childhood memories involve baking goodies with my mom, or decorating tins upon tins of Christmas cookies with my grandmother. It's no wonder that I've turned out to be the sort of cook that I am: the sort of cook that rarely bothers to measure ingredients, the sort of cook who'd rather wing it and pray for the best. I watched as they whipped up silky batches of mashed potatoes and juicy, fall-off-the-bone roasts and perfectly salted homemade popcorn, the kind made in the iron skillet that burst from under the lid as it grew more and more fluffy, begging to be released into the giant wooden bowl for our consumption.
For the past few years I have been making birthday cakes for my family and friends, a tradition passed down to me by my mom. I've taken it a step further, incorporating candies for texture and dimension and dominating the icing, bending it to my will.
Both my niece and my nephew celebrated birthdays over the past two weekends, and I commemorated their special days with special cakes of their own.
Annabel, my niece, turned one. Her motor skills aren't exactly fine-tuned yet, so I thought cupcakes should be the order of the day. That way she could eat her cake – face first or fingers first, it didn't matter – and we could, too.
I made butterflies, dragonflies, bumblebees and ladybugs. I used icing for decoration, sour straws for texture, M&Ms candies for the ladybug dots, licorice rope for the antennae, jumbo sprinkles for the eyeballs, edible glitter for a little shimmer and giant sugar crystals just because I could. Who doesn't love giant sugar crystals?
Chase, my nephew, turned four. For the entire month leading up to his birthday, all he could talk about was a shark cake.
I scoured the Internet and didn't turn up much, so I created the shark myself. Or, I should say Roger helped me create it, since he drew up the blue prints for the shark. Something about being a guy and watching too much of the Discovery channel made our shark a little fearsome.
For the shark, I decided to make two separate cakes: a white cake for the ocean, a red velvet cake for the shark's body. That way, when you cut into the shark, it would look like blood. And if there's anything a four-year-old boy wants to see, it's blood.
I made the red velvet cake in a loaf pan, so that we could carve it into the shape of a shark. I used the white tips of candy corns for its teeth, and smoothed icing over its body for a sleek look. Roger cut a licorice wheel into the shape of a fin, which we connected to a toothpick and then covered in icing before attaching to the shark's body.
All the cakes took a loooong time to make, but it was so worth it to see the reaction of the guests at each party when they stole their first glance at dessert. It was so worth it to watch Annabel grab her dragonfly by the handful and squeal in delight when her fingers pressed through the mushy icing. It was so worth it to see Chase's eyes light up and turn to me in wonder when the first cut was made into the shark's body.
These are new memories in the making, not only for the younger generation of my family, but for me as well.
Comments and questions regarding these cakes and others can be directed to jes(AT)chirky(DOT)com.
For the past couple days I've been trying to figure out how to sum up our trip to San Francisco. In a word: Fabulous. It was more than everything we thought it would be, if that is possible, since we had high expectations. And if you told us that we had to return tomorrow or never again, I think we might both head straight home, pack up everything we could possibly fit in our collective suitcases, and go.
I can't possibly renumerate to you the number of times my thoughts drift back toward our few days there, how often I send silent pleas to God in hopes that Roger will be offered a position soon, how frequently I've found myself on Craigslist looking at apartments, or how many times I've redesigned in my mind's eye what our moving announcements might look like. I am already planning weekend trips to Muir Woods and picnics to nearby beaches and the places we'll take our family when they come to visit. The problem is that we don't even live in California. Yet.
And that's why I want to give you a little piece of advice, Internet: If you've never visited San Francisco, don't. She'll seduce you like a kid in a candy store. She'll overload your senses with the sights and sounds and smells of her city. She'll give you just enough to leave you full and satisfied, but you'll still find yourself wanting a little more. And just when you're starting to get the hang of things – maybe you're finally pronouncing Haight correctly (note to Non-San Franciscans: it rhymes with "late," not "kite") or perhaps you've finally figured out which bus line to take without first asking every driver whether you're getting on the correct vehicle – she'll turn you out to make room for more visitors. As you walk away from her, your shoulders hung low, you'll discover that you're already trying to figure out how quickly you can return.
And perhaps that is the best way I can sum up our trip to San Francisco. We're stuck in limbo, asking ourselves how quickly we'll be able to return.
I never had allergies until I lived with a roommate who owned two cats. And then another girl moved in, with two more cats, which made the human to cat ratio in our home about four times higher than I could withstand. For the past seven years I've blamed my allergies on those cats, though I counted myself fortunate that my allergies were limited to only one short season. Recently, I learned that I was wrong.
For the past couple of weeks my eyes have itched – a tickly itch I couldn't ignore – right at the hairline of my eyelashes. Initially, I assumed I had developed a sudden mascara allergy, so I threw away my favorite mascara (How could I have been so stupid?) and I switched brands. (Seriously. The stupidity. Sometimes it overwhelms me.)
When the allergy didn't dissipate, I threw away my contact lenses, certain that a new pair would solve my problem. It didn't. That is why this weekend, in a moment of desperation and against my better judgment, I asked my mom for advice.
She told me I wouldn't like her answer, which meant that I already knew what she would say. (Remember the late-night incident of 2006?) It involved one of two ingredients: baking soda or apple cider vinegar. I groaned. Not skipping a beat, she told me to dilute a tiny bit of apple cider vinegar in water, and then use a Q-tip to rub it along each of my eyelids. I looked at her like she was crazy, knowing that the vinegar would sting like the claws of a thousand feral cats dancing across each of my delicate irises. (Like TNT, I Know Drama.)
Weighing my options, I decided that the vinegar blend might be a better route than I had previously taken, especially if my original course had me on the path to throw away the rest of my makeup. That's why two nights ago, when Roger watched me retrieve the vinegar, he began to lament: "Great. That's so sexy. Tell your mom THANKS A LOT for making me lie next to a human-sized dill pickle all night long."
From the bathroom, I rolled my eyes and opened the bottle. The stench hit me like a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall. I considered how much of the vinegar I should dilute, remembered how desperate I was, and decided: None. When I do something, it's never half-hearted. I am the Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor of home therapy. I take my vinegar straight up, full strength, none of this pansy-footing around with diluted liquid. I dipped the cotton swab directly into the bottle and swept the wetted cotton in a circle around my eye.
And then I died: It felt like red-hot coals were searing my cornea.
It's been only two days, and my eyes are back to normal. And now that I've purged my makeup bag of its mascara, it's time for me to visit the Mothership at last (and I'm taking suggestions).
When I was in seventh grade, my mom brought home a jar of capers from the market. I had never heard of capers, which look like pickled peas – and ironically, they are pickled, but they're not peas. Capers are tiny flower buds from a caper shrub (either pickled in vinegar or brined in salt), and when you think of it that way, don't the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? My mom always taught me not to eat berries off of bushes, LEST I DIE – and as I rotated the jar in my hands I realized why she had purchased them.
Attached to the jar was a small fluorescent sticker that advertised the product for only seventy-five cents.
I can see myself now: hand on hip, hip cocked out to the side, impossibly frizzy hair. I laughed, teased my mom, and then asked her what she would cook using the capers. She didn't know, she said, which only instigated more teasing.
For that, I would like to apologize, Mom. I finally understand the joy you take in grocery shopping, and even more so, I identify with the exhilaration you feel when you find items not only on sale, BUT ON CLEARANCE.
I understand this because the genes I inherited from you have matured, and I am the same. I am you, and it is not my worst nightmare, like my twelve-year-old mind used to believe it would be. It is a privilege that I'm like you. And one day, I am sure my own children will release high-pitched giggles and tease me incessantly when I purchase a container of corn smut, or whatever new food I find at the store and decide to bring home.
Since then, my mom has always kept a jar of capers in her pantry. Maybe it is a reminder to herself to always be on the lookout for new, exotic foods to try. Perhaps it serves as a reminder of my brother and I. Or maybe she's still trying to convince me that she actually cooks with capers. (Maybe I'll just stop speculating and call her to ask.)
Jes: "Mom, do you remember the time you bought those capers?"
Mom: "What? No. What are you talking about?"
Jes: (exasperated) "Mom. You can't not remember."
Mom: "…"
Jes: "Mom!! I've teased you about that for the past fifteen years! How can you not remember?"
Mom: (playfully) "Maybe the teasing was so painful I blocked it from my memory."
Jes: "Whatever."
[Refresh her memory. Laugh.]
"Mom, why do you keep buying capers?"
Mom: "I keep thinking I'll figure out something to do with them."
Jes: (clickety-clack, clickety-clack)
Mom: "Are you typing? Jessica Lynne…"
I've eaten capers in several dishes, all prepared by an executive chef and not by my mother, and lo: they were good. So, for my mom, who taught me to love all types of food from every different culture, I give you this recipe: Buca di Beppo's Chicken Saltimbocca, quite possibly the best dish on the restaurant's menu. (And finally, a recipe that involves capers!)
About: THIS DISH
The word "saltimbocca" means "jump into the mouth." This recipe is aptly named, because this delicious dish (pounded with Prosciutto and massaged with sage) seems to fly from your plate to your mouth.
About: CAPERS
The flavor of capers is piquant and lemony. Capers add pungency to Mediterranean dishes like pasta sauces, pizza, fish, meats and salads. They go well with olives, arugula, anchovies and artichokes.
CHICKEN SALTIMBOCCA
INGREDIENTS
4 (5 ounce) chicken breasts
4 thin slices Prosciutto ham
1 tablespoon fresh sage
3 ounces (1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp.) olive oil
1 ounce (2 Tbsp.) all-purpose flour
5 ounces (2/3 c.) artichoke hearts, quartered
1/2 ounce (1 Tbsp.) capers
4 ounces (1/2 c.) white wine
2 ounces (1/4 c.) fresh lemon juice
2 ounces (1/4 c.) heavy cream
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon salt
INSTRUCTIONS
On a large platter, place chicken breasts topped with sauce and garnish with capers.
Serves: 4
Source: Chef Vittorio Renda, Buca di Beppo
My mom is notorious for her shopping skillz. To wit:
1. Several weeks ago, she called me and asked me to go shopping with her for jeans. I jumped at the chance because she never shops for herself and I wanted to witness it. I walked away from the mall with two very large, very full, very heavy bags of clothes. She walked away with one small(ish) bag.
2. A week and a half after that excursion, she called because she was out shopping again. Apparently she had run into quite the sale, and wanted to inform me that she bought me several pairs of underthings, and did I mind that she couldn’t find any nude-colored bras?
3. This weekend she unloaded on me two boxes of Special K cereal and one pair of quite fancy kitchen shears.
I’ve always loved shopping with my mom because she has a nose for bargains – if there is one to be had, she’ll find it. Which is how I ended up with one pair of freakishly large underwear.
Continue reading "The One In Which I Discuss My Underwear In Too Great Of Detail" »
When I was in 3rd grade, I would brush my hair from the crown of my head to just below my ears. My ears marked the location where my hair inexplicably morphed into a knotted maze of locks. This barrier prevented my brush from going any further, so naturally, I stopped brushing.
I would literally pull my brush out of my hair, horizontally, and just start at the top again, repeating the pattern until my hair, for the most part, was brushed. (What more can you expect from an eight-year-old?)
After listening to me yell and scream one day after attempting to brush through the tangles, my dad loaded me into the car and promptly drove me to a hair salon. He plopped me down in a large leather seat and gave the stylist these instructions:
"I want you to cut her hair off above the tangles. ALL OF IT."
She looked at dad, and then at the tears in my eyes, and then at him, and then gave in to the more threatening of the two of us.
Dad.
I don't remember her washing my hair and trying to detangle it. I only remember sitting in the giant leather chair, covered by a long plastic bib, watching the scissors cut through my gnarled tresses.
The kids at school said I looked like a mushroom, and I did. I hated that haircut, and at the time thought my father was the meanest man alive for causing such a thing to happen.
It was a moment in my life that was marred by trauma. And that trauma would follow me into adulthood.
Apparently, I still haven't learned my lesson. I still go too long between cuts, and every few months when I break down crying to Roger because "Iiiiiiiii hhaaattteeeeee mmmyyyyyyyy haaaaaaaiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," we both know it's time for me to get a cut.
Yesterday marked eight months since I last cut my hair. My personal record is two and a half years – can you imagine the tangles and the stomping and the yelling? – and last night when I visited my stylist, I had forgotten how closely a simple haircut resembles the feeling of freedom. The burden is lifted, hallelujah!
I sank into her chair and began our session by apologizing:
"Rhonda, I just want you to know that I haven't washed my hair in five days because when I wash my hair, that means I have to brush my hair, and when I brush my hair, I have to deal with the tangles. And I just can't contend with the tangles."
(She stared at me.)
"So you have my full permission to just cut a tangle out when you're trying to comb through my hair. Really. It's okay. I would do the same thing if I were you."
By the end of the evening, ringlets were scattered across the floor beneath me – but none were chock-full of tangles. I've finally found a hair stylist in Dallas willing to work through my tangles, willing to teach me how to keep my hair long and luscious, willing to be patient with my hair when I can't bear to cope with it any longer.
And then I realized: like father, like daughter.
(Plus: a purse full of free samples. Score!)
This morning my eyes popped open at 5:45 am. I couldn't stand it anymore - I just had to get in the kitchen and start on the Thanksgiving turkey.
Is anyone else as excitable about cooking as I am? We need to meet. Wanna be neighbors?
I hope each of you have a delightful Thanksgiving - a day filled with good food, gracious friends, loving family, and full hearts. Speaking of, what are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?
Tomorrow morning, for the third year in a row, I am cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving. Doing this each year reinforces the fact that I Am An Adult Now, an adult who should not try to take a nap while my mom washes the dishes. She tries to help reinforce that fact wherever she can, sometimes in the form of pots banging together above my head.
Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving? I dare you to take a nap.
My mom is practically a goddess in the kitchen. I grew up not with a few favorite dishes, but with an arsenal of cuisines and meals my mom had created over the years. I am so thankful that she introduced me to so many different types of foods, because it helped me become the woman I am today: one who eagerly eats chicken feet (with talons!). That said, I am not a picky eater. I maintain that I will always try anything once, including pig intestines, particularly if I don't know what I am eating before it goes into my mouth.
The first year I made the Thanksgiving turkey, I was somewhat nervous. My mom had only requested that I bake a small turkey, about 8 pounds. Meanwhile, she made an enormous honey-baked ham to use as back-up in case my turkey tasted like an overcooked piece of tar. You know the meat I'm talking about: the kind that you chew and immediately wish you hadn't put in your mouth? The kind that you regret putting on your plate because how will you get it off without eating it and without your host noticing that you couldn't swallow one more foul (fowl? Ha!) mouthful?
When I arrived at my mother's home that morning, she was delightfully surprised that the turkey was golden brown rather than charred black. It smelled perfectly edible, and when she cut into it juices ran down the back of the small bird's body. By the end of the day, guests were picking the meat off the bones and commenting on how delicious it was, how perfectly moist it was, how in their 76 years of life they had not eaten a turkey as good as that one.
I shot my mom a smug look and a raised eyebrow, the look that I've trademarked over the years, and she beamed with pride. Her daughter could cook. And when I told her the recipe came from a local radio DJ, she didn't believe me.
The next year I used the same recipe to roast a 17 pound turkey, and the turkey turned out equally well. This year, I am making a 22 pound turkey. TWENTY TWO POUNDS. That's, like, the weight of my nephew.
I'm all about minimal work, fool-proof recipes, and impressing people. And this recipe for our annual Thanksgiving turkey (courtesy of the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning radio show) has it all. Whether you're looking to showcase your mad cooking skillz while entertaining a house full of guests or you just want your mother-in-law to adore you, read on for the recipe. But chef beware: keep a large supply of pillows on-hand. That tryptophan will seduce turkey eaters into slumber every time.
Roger and I are beginning to plan for parenthood, and are wondering: How much longer should we wait? How old should I be?
(Current age: 28.
Current years of marriage: 2.5.
Current number of pets: 0.
Current loads of laundry left to do at home: 3.)
I'm depending on you, Internets, to help me run my life.
I think Roger has begun eating grapenuts cereal just to spite me. He went to the store, found the healthiest cereal possible, and eats a bowl whenever I eat ice cream.
I thought a good solution to the problem would be just to sprinkle a few grapenuts on my slow-churned chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce.
The grapenuts were so crunchy they nearly chipped a tooth, but weren't alltogether horrible when paired with my dessert.
This weekend I…
…and determined (yet again) that GAH: I need to move out of Dallas. The rest of the world is just too beautiful.
Not many people can make a smooth segue from a cute little snuggly baby-kuns to a man marrying a goat.
I'll do it here for you:
This guy? In Sudan? He was caught having sex with a goat. And then he was forced to marry it.
Quick! Cute picture of my niece to soothe you!
What - that wasn't enough? You want more? Of the story? Gah, dude. You're sick:
Sudan man forced to 'marry' goat
A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.
They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.
"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.
Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat. [Sounds like a bit of pre-Valentine's Day lovin' to me.]
"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".
Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.
"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.
Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/africa/4748292.stm
Published: 2006/02/24 16:40:00 GMT
© BBC MMVI
[italics mine]
Are you totally bored of looking at other people's kids on the Internet?
No?
What about other people's pictures of other people's kids?
What? You're confused?
Whatever.
Me too.
But look at this:
(One hour after she was born)
My niece!
Annabel was born Monday afternoon, September 11, 2006.
She's sweet as pie and I love to gobble up her tiny dimples and pinchable baby cheeks. Her thighs are always swaddled, so I haven't been able to munch on those yet.
When I was single, I promised myself that when I was married there would be certain things my husband would never know:
My mom is convinced that either baking soda or apple cider vinegar will fix or clean almost anything. When I was a teenager, she would mix a concoction of water and the vinegar, dab it onto a cotton ball, and sometimes chase me around the house trying to help me "dry up those pimples."
When I was younger, I begrudgingly went shopping with my mom at yard sales. I likened it to hell because of the hot, burning sun boring down on the roof of the car, in which I undeniably slumped my body and crossed my arms in protest. I would stare out the window, watching my mother, hoping she would see how miserable and pathetic I was. I secretly hoped she would come to my rescue and say, "You don't want to do this, honey? Let's go to the movies instead!"
Rather, she would come to the window, knock on it, and crouch down to tell me in a sweet, motherly tone that I should at least roll the window down so I would have fresh air. She would invite me to come look around if only to get out of the hot car – had I known that was a ploy of hers to get me shopping, I certainly wouldn't have done it – and I would undoubtedly find a couple books or a skirt or some decorative item for my room.
When I was little, I hated those days. Now that I'm older, I cherish my memories of them. I still (albeit rarely) go yard sale hopping with my mom and I love watching her milling around, looking at someone else's belongings, whittling the price of a Pottery Barn mirror (great condition, original tag still affixed on the back of it: $69) down from the marked price of $10 to a mere $4.
From my mother, I learned the skill of bargaining. She is the reason that I prefer to shop the sale racks at the mall: if I only have $100 to spend, wouldn't I rather have 3 shirts, a new skirt and a couple pairs of slacks from the racks in preference to the one pair of jeans I could buy otherwise?
The last few days have been weepy and awkward. I’ve felt the highs of joy, excitement and contentedness, and I have felt the lows of restlessness, sadness, numbness. And I have no tangible reason for my emotions.
And, no, I'm not pregnant.
My family members are healthy. I have a nice (albeit sometimes boring) job. My husband is the most amazing guy I know – I’ve never felt so secure or so loved by another person.
Today, I am 28 years old. I do not know what the day has in store. I do know that, so far, my life has not been the culmination of prettiness and perfection that I once imagined as a fur-coat-wearing child. And yes, that was real fur, rabbit fur, because my grandmother knew what every four-year-old girl truly wants: pearls and rabbit fur and to prance around in her mama's stilettos and lipstick.
I’ve never been the girl who began planning her wedding before she completed Kindergarten. I was too busy trying to flash the “I love you” symbol with my fingers to all the boys, except I always held up the wrong three fingers: I chose to use the fingers that say, “I’ll have three cookies, please” or “I only want three of those magic mushrooms, thankyouverymuch.” That should have been my first clue that I would be a late bloomer.
Although I didn’t know whether I wanted tulips or orchids (and it’s a good thing a married such an opinionated designer, lest I still be standing with my florist, trying to “envision” the look of the event), I did know that I wanted to be a mom.
I’ve always loved to write, but never knew whether it could be a career. Beyond anything else, my heart’s desire was to be for my child what my mom was for me: the mom who played with me until I was old enough to go to school, who greeted me at the door when I came home from school, who drove me to all of my extra-curricular activities, who went on bike rides with me to pick blueberries.
I imagined that I would marry by the time I turned 26, which I did, but just barely. I imagined that I would have my first child by the time I was 28, which I … haven’t. Things just don't always turn out how we think they will. Roger and I are still probably several years from having children.
So here I am, contemplative and melancholy and perhaps a bit misty-eyed, maybe with a stomach too full of Mexican food and maybe I keep burping tortilla chips that are acidic and sting a little, and I’m wondering how the rest of my life will unfold. Will we get 100% out of debt? Will we have children? Will we buy a house and live the Great American Dream: The Mortgage? Will we have an opportunity to move overseas? Will Roger and I travel the world, visiting quaint villages and the purest beaches? Will our kids be at least manageable? Will we regret having children? Does anyone (who wants children) regret it later?
When I was young, I didn’t factor in the trivial things in life, like debt. And financial security. And my own selfishness. And now I’m a little confused about my pretty and perfect plan, because most days I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is (other than living in Dallas - I could take it or leave it).
It's a melancholy day. A day full of uncertainty. But a good day, at that.
Written by Deb (mom to Chase, sister to Jes)
Recently, Jes and I committed to doing a mini-triathlon. Talk about exciting! When we first made the commitment I was pumped. I had big dreams of being seriously athletic and crushing all other competitors. Early one morning I got on my bike to start training for this portion of the race – my dreams were crushed in the first 2 miles. After twenty minutes of sheer torture through the hills in our neighborhood, I got off and thought to myself “what a blooming idiot, Deborah!” Was I too old for this, too out of shape or just too physically and mentally weak to gear myself up for such a big commitment?
This is the thing: I've never driven the boat from start to finish. I've really only driven it once it was already out on the lake, and even then, I only drove it at high speeds while dragging some unsuspecting soul by a rope.
So! When some friends said they wanted to go for a joyride on the boat this weekend, and I offered to drive, I had no idea it would be hazardous. Even though I did know the water levels were about two feet lower than normal. And even though my husband piped up with, "Hah – there's no way I'm driving my father-in-law's boat without lessons. I'm not stupid."
Each time I stretch my arms, or scratch my back, or move my bra strap back into place, my sunburn rears its ugly head. I am constantly under the assumption that the fact that I don't have fair skin means I am invincible to the sun. Every summer I am proven wrong by the pounding rays and ridiculous triple-degree heat in Texas. I am surprised I don't have cantaloupe-sized tumors growing off of my cheek bones or clavicles.
This weekend Roger and I went fishing at the lake, and for several hours the biggest thing we caught was my Dad, who had leapt into the water after his rod and reel fell off the side of the boat. Dad was giddy when he retrieved his prize, and had I paid the price of Manolo Blahniks for my fishing pole, I would have been giddy, too.
The thing about fishing is that it's a very fickle sport. You can't generally control whether a fish will bite your lure, and if it does, you don't always catch it. For me, at least, it generally gets away, and as the day wears the size of the fish on my pole generally grows larger and larger. I suspect that's true about most fisherman. Which is why, when I actually caught a fish (I caught a fish!), it was necessary for me to document the event.
That fish? Totally bigger than it looks on camera. In fact, by the time I got back to Dallas it was 30 inches long. Or so I told my family.
I babysat my nephew on Saturday, and even though I was late (a recurring theme in my life), I managed to get to her house before Chase woke from his nap. We played with cars and watched the rain and then went outside and splashed in the puddles and walked in the park. Deb has him trained well because I tried to get him to walk barefoot in the park, and he TOTALLY wouldn't do it. "But I need shoes on my feet! I need shoes!"
I love your eyes. I love how expressive they are. I love the perfect shade of blue with flecks of green and hazel. I love your tender, perfect skin that has not yet been marred with age. I love your eyelashes! Do you know that when you are older, girls will swoon over you, and wish that they had your lashes? I know this because I wish that they were mine.
This weekend I went to the lake and got to play around with my nephew all day long. Everytime I am around him, I just want to hug him and squeeze him and put him in my pocket to carry around with me. Sometimes I even go as far as to think that I want kids of my own, Right Now! No pregnancy or childbirth or adoption process - I command my future children to Appear!
Continue reading "Prepare yourself for the cuteness contained herein." »
Special prize to the first person who correctly answers this: What about these pictures makes me laugh, thereby requiring that I post them?
Continue reading "Said the night wind to the little lamb, "Do you see what I see?"" »
Saturday morning I tagged along with Deb and Nanni to take Chase to the movies. The theater was full of children, who each had hair that looked as though it had been combed with an egg beater. And lots of mommies. And a few daddies who had somehow gotten suckered into seeing Curious George.
Amazingly, the kiddos were relatively quiet throughout the movie. And by relatively quiet, I mean that the combined volume of a) children talking to themselves, or to their parents, or to their imaginary friends named Hannah and Trevor, and including those who b) shrieked when a monkey the size of their house was running around only thirty feet in front of them, that volume did not exceed the blaring sound coming from the speakers.
After the movie, we watched dozens of sleepy-eyed children scramble out of the theater and begin to run full-throttle around the theater lobby. In circles.
I watched them only for a moment, because when you see a face like this, how is it not possible for heart to leap within your chest cavity and for your insides not to explode like fireworks during Chinese New Year?
When I was in middle school, or maybe elementary school, I hated washing dishes. My distaste for the task was so great that on one occasion I actually hid from my mom after dinner.
My childhood friend, Megan, was at my house, and we concocted this plan to hide in the bathroom after dinner. We cleared the table and successfully snuck away. I hid behind the shower curtain and Megan crawled inside the linen closet.
We were in there, whispering and quietly giggling, when we heard the door open. Someone flipped on the light, and then the door shut. I didn't know what Megan was doing, so I held myself as still as I could, and breathed as silently as possible hoping that our mysterious disappearance wouldn't be short-lived.
I heard pants unzip, and the quiet creaking of the toilet as someone sat down. Then, the sigh of relief. As I recognized the voice behind that sigh, my entire body tensed and I became afraid. If my dad caught me hiding in the bathroom, I would be in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. I finally decided just to wait it out, because How Long Could This Take?
The scent filling the air informed me that this trip might take longer than I originally expected, and after a full minute of absolute torture to my nostrils, my tiny and timid voice reached my dad's ears: "Daddy?"
Silence.
"Jessica, what are you doing in here?!?"
"Ummm" ... (long pause) ... "hiding from mom?"
An eternally long ten-second silence ensued.
"Dad, can I leave?"
"By all means, please do."
"Dad? Megan is in here too."
"Girls, get out!" he bellowed.
I don't know how Megan managed, but I closed my eyes and darted for the door.
Since that day, I've been traumatized. I am entirely unable to use the restroom in anyone's home without first checking behind the shower curtain. EVEN IN MY OWN HOME, EVERYTIME I WALK INTO THE RESTROOM.
