Kel likes to drool over the Williams-Sonoma catalogue. They represent some wonderful products that have a huge "cool" factor. He gets sucked into the top-of-the-line grill gadgets and specialized tools, smartly designed utensils, and hard-to-find ethnic cookware.
Like the Ebelskiver pan he got for his birthday.
Today, on this leisurely Saturday morning, he is breaking out the new cookware to try his hand at making these Scandinavian treats, fluffy little pancakes you can fill with jam or fruit or cheese. (Williams-Sonoma also fills them with chocolate ganache, as if we would ever have THAT hanging around in our pantry. We always have chocolate chips.)
You whisk flour and other batter ingredients in one bowl. In the Kitchen Aid you beat egg whites "until stiff but not dry peaks form". Then you carefully combine the whites with the batter "in two additions." When you pour the batter into the wells of the pan, you dollop a teaspoon of the filling of your choice in the center, followed by another tablespoon of the batter. The video on the Williams Sonoma website is very helpful in demonstrating how to use two wooden skewers to roll the Ebleskiver over in the pan to cook on both sides.
I will tell you I love these Ebelskivers, especially the blueberry ones that have some powdered sugar on top. I also love hearing Finan pronounce these treats: "EbbaSibers..... Evvaskeebas... Escabobbers.... PANCAKES."
Stop in and join us.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Pests
The whole family enjoyed a peek at our daughter's high school varsity volleyball team at their scrimmage last night. It's kind of striking to see the young woman she is becoming, and seems like only yesterday she was just starting kindergarten.
But, there was no time for in-depth recollections. It was getting late when we piled into our van to head home.
Six year old Andy sat "in the way back." He's typically a smiley, giggly, dimpled cheek kid. Maybe he has been so tired from nearly a whole week of kindergarten, but his tolerance for the two sisters sitting in front of him was quite thin.
Now, all families with two or more children hear the same things: "Mommmmmmm! She's copying me!" or "Mommmmmmm! He's looking at me!" I think even an "only child" must make up imaginary friends to bicker with.
Andy's solution to getting away from his family annoyances? He announced he's going to college.
Sigh.
Blink of an eye.
But, there was no time for in-depth recollections. It was getting late when we piled into our van to head home.
Six year old Andy sat "in the way back." He's typically a smiley, giggly, dimpled cheek kid. Maybe he has been so tired from nearly a whole week of kindergarten, but his tolerance for the two sisters sitting in front of him was quite thin.
Now, all families with two or more children hear the same things: "Mommmmmmm! She's copying me!" or "Mommmmmmm! He's looking at me!" I think even an "only child" must make up imaginary friends to bicker with.
Andy's solution to getting away from his family annoyances? He announced he's going to college.
Sigh.
Blink of an eye.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Chef BoyRdee
I kind of like to cook. I like to plan meals, purchase ingredients, fret and stew all day, and that goes for the food too. It's better when it's just me working in the kitchen until extra hands are needed for rolling out pie crust, kneading bread dough, or tossing a salad. Then I love being surrounded by a whole bunch of biological family and chosen family. We'll have wine, several carafes of coffee, appetizers, and a big meal followed by a wonderful dessert. This typically occurs on a Sunday when...
Okay, okay. I give. Really, that's admittedly romantic. It presupposes that I can devote that much attention to a particular task without distraction. It's based on an assumption that we have more in the pantry than pinto beans and peanut butter. Even more realistic, it presumes that the laundry is done, and that you can walk through the front door without having to use a shovel at the shoe pile.
My Monday through Friday routine is also hardly romantic. Each day is a an endless loop of Plan the food, Prepare the food, Serve the food, Clean-up the food, and roll my eyes at the "I'm hungry agains". And my clientele is such that their taste buds are not developed, and they don't want their food to touch.
So when dinner rolls around, I'm out of ideas unless it involves peanut butter. If a hunk of protein isn't thawing on the counter by 9 am, chances are we're having pancakes for dinner, and Kel is mixing the batter. I've been known to make several decent crock-pot meals, but again, that requires preparedness and a plan. I might get as far as having pulled something freezer-burned out of the basement, but Kel usually has to pull something edible out of the pot.
This is actually a great metaphor of our personalities. He's got a knack for throwing things together that inevitably come out wonderful. He can locate a few remote ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and pull together a dinner good enough for unexpected interlopers, usually of the teenage variety and hungry like a wolf. He cooks like his Grandma Mert used to cook: with every pot, pan, spatula, ladle, spoon, measuring cup, and mixing bowl within arm's reach (and he's got long arms). The place is a disaster. He doesn't even start with a clean sink full of warm sudsy water. He ransacks the clean dishes in the dishwasher, and he also uses specialized cookware for unspecified uses. Is it really worth it to pull out the blender and all the pieces for it? and the Kitchen Aide? and the Cuisinart food processor?
It's just like the man to love power tools.
But, I shall not complain. I better not complain. The natives are restless.... and hungry. And we're out of peanut butter.
Okay, okay. I give. Really, that's admittedly romantic. It presupposes that I can devote that much attention to a particular task without distraction. It's based on an assumption that we have more in the pantry than pinto beans and peanut butter. Even more realistic, it presumes that the laundry is done, and that you can walk through the front door without having to use a shovel at the shoe pile.
My Monday through Friday routine is also hardly romantic. Each day is a an endless loop of Plan the food, Prepare the food, Serve the food, Clean-up the food, and roll my eyes at the "I'm hungry agains". And my clientele is such that their taste buds are not developed, and they don't want their food to touch.
So when dinner rolls around, I'm out of ideas unless it involves peanut butter. If a hunk of protein isn't thawing on the counter by 9 am, chances are we're having pancakes for dinner, and Kel is mixing the batter. I've been known to make several decent crock-pot meals, but again, that requires preparedness and a plan. I might get as far as having pulled something freezer-burned out of the basement, but Kel usually has to pull something edible out of the pot.
This is actually a great metaphor of our personalities. He's got a knack for throwing things together that inevitably come out wonderful. He can locate a few remote ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and pull together a dinner good enough for unexpected interlopers, usually of the teenage variety and hungry like a wolf. He cooks like his Grandma Mert used to cook: with every pot, pan, spatula, ladle, spoon, measuring cup, and mixing bowl within arm's reach (and he's got long arms). The place is a disaster. He doesn't even start with a clean sink full of warm sudsy water. He ransacks the clean dishes in the dishwasher, and he also uses specialized cookware for unspecified uses. Is it really worth it to pull out the blender and all the pieces for it? and the Kitchen Aide? and the Cuisinart food processor?
It's just like the man to love power tools.
But, I shall not complain. I better not complain. The natives are restless.... and hungry. And we're out of peanut butter.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
School Supplies
I wish you could see my living room floor. I'd post a picture, but I can't see my living room floor. It's covered, totally covered, with an incredible amount of stuff.
Which reminds me.
Did you ever hear that old joke about the Chinese soldier who was in charge of procuring, maintaining and distributing his unit's military equipment? His superior thought he was doing an awful job and, even worse, the soldier was never at his post. It was later learned that the soldier was hiding out back behind the equipment tent, scaring every passerby who happened along. "Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"
That's me, the infantry-mom, in charge of our unit's Supply Procurement, Maintenance, and Distribution. It's a lengthy job title (one of my many) and, in this household, a sometimes scary and labor intensive one. As I try to be a good steward of our family's expense account, I do my very best to "reduce, reuse, recycle," buy in bulk, and buy when the sales are hot.
That starts in July for school supplies, and you'll find me scouring slick Sunday ads for deals. All summer long I squirrel away bags of stuff and keep a running tally in my purse. When Walgreen's runs 10 count Papermate pens for .19 a pack (black, blue, red), I buy 20 packs. #2 lead pencils? 75 at a time. Two-pocket folders are 3 for $1? I get four times the amount the kids need, because folders get used up and need to be regularly replenished. Pencil boxes for 50 cents? Well, we still have decent pencil boxes from last year, so skip those.
And this is why you can't see my living room floor. It's covered with packs and stacks of Crayola markers (fine tip, and not), or Rose Art colored pencils, or pencil tip erasers, or spiral bound notebooks (1, 3 or 5 subjects, single or college ruled). Don't knock over my pile of Kleenex boxes and various styles of stainless steel round or pointed tip scissors. Loose leaf paper, graph paper, sketch paper, construction paper, copy paper: check check check check check.
I do all this with an ulterior motive: my kids don't have to accompany me to the store where the litany of "gotta haves" makes my head hurt. They shop in my living room from a wide assortment of supplies, filling their backpacks and checking off their own grade school list. This strategy has worked very well until today, when my entire family baulked at Andy having to use a particular pencil box leftover from someone last year.
"It's FINE," I insist.
"But it's PINK," Kieran says.
"It's red, and it's just a little faded. And see? Andy doesn't seem to mind!"
Maddie chimes in: "That's because he knows the rule."
"Yea," Merryn says. "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit."
(She's smug about her slick new pencil pouch anyway. It's pink with brown giraffe markings, and she lucked out receiving it as a birthday party favor. How smart is THAT mom?).
"It's PINK!!!" Kel says. "He can't walk into a new school with a whole new batch of boys to befriend and have a pink pencil box."
That's it. This crowd won't listen to reason or even the extra-light jingle of coins in my pocketbook. Not even my suggestion of adhering SuperHero stickers on top of the faded red pencil box top will suffice.
While Kel rolls his eyes over my cheap disposition (admittedly at the expense of a poor 6 year old child), I march with consolation into the kitchen where the bulk art supplies are stored and produce a perfectly fine BLUE pencilbox.
"Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"
Which reminds me.
Did you ever hear that old joke about the Chinese soldier who was in charge of procuring, maintaining and distributing his unit's military equipment? His superior thought he was doing an awful job and, even worse, the soldier was never at his post. It was later learned that the soldier was hiding out back behind the equipment tent, scaring every passerby who happened along. "Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"
That's me, the infantry-mom, in charge of our unit's Supply Procurement, Maintenance, and Distribution. It's a lengthy job title (one of my many) and, in this household, a sometimes scary and labor intensive one. As I try to be a good steward of our family's expense account, I do my very best to "reduce, reuse, recycle," buy in bulk, and buy when the sales are hot.
That starts in July for school supplies, and you'll find me scouring slick Sunday ads for deals. All summer long I squirrel away bags of stuff and keep a running tally in my purse. When Walgreen's runs 10 count Papermate pens for .19 a pack (black, blue, red), I buy 20 packs. #2 lead pencils? 75 at a time. Two-pocket folders are 3 for $1? I get four times the amount the kids need, because folders get used up and need to be regularly replenished. Pencil boxes for 50 cents? Well, we still have decent pencil boxes from last year, so skip those.
And this is why you can't see my living room floor. It's covered with packs and stacks of Crayola markers (fine tip, and not), or Rose Art colored pencils, or pencil tip erasers, or spiral bound notebooks (1, 3 or 5 subjects, single or college ruled). Don't knock over my pile of Kleenex boxes and various styles of stainless steel round or pointed tip scissors. Loose leaf paper, graph paper, sketch paper, construction paper, copy paper: check check check check check.
I do all this with an ulterior motive: my kids don't have to accompany me to the store where the litany of "gotta haves" makes my head hurt. They shop in my living room from a wide assortment of supplies, filling their backpacks and checking off their own grade school list. This strategy has worked very well until today, when my entire family baulked at Andy having to use a particular pencil box leftover from someone last year.
"It's FINE," I insist.
"But it's PINK," Kieran says.
"It's red, and it's just a little faded. And see? Andy doesn't seem to mind!"
Maddie chimes in: "That's because he knows the rule."
"Yea," Merryn says. "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit."
(She's smug about her slick new pencil pouch anyway. It's pink with brown giraffe markings, and she lucked out receiving it as a birthday party favor. How smart is THAT mom?).
"It's PINK!!!" Kel says. "He can't walk into a new school with a whole new batch of boys to befriend and have a pink pencil box."
That's it. This crowd won't listen to reason or even the extra-light jingle of coins in my pocketbook. Not even my suggestion of adhering SuperHero stickers on top of the faded red pencil box top will suffice.
While Kel rolls his eyes over my cheap disposition (admittedly at the expense of a poor 6 year old child), I march with consolation into the kitchen where the bulk art supplies are stored and produce a perfectly fine BLUE pencilbox.
"Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Brown Jug
Kel and I regularly get out together, which baffles many people who can't imagine parents of 9 children EVER getting a moment alone. Ten years ago I would have understood the awe. But, we've been blessed with having our children one at a time, over a period of about two decades. The result is, of course, that the nine babies are not babies all at once. We now have "older" children who regularly provide babysitting for little to no financial compensation save the McDonald's caramel sundae Dad might bring home, or the promise of a night out of their own.
As a couple we highly value our time together, even if it's just driving in a car. Lately, though, we've been avoiding the 30 minute drive into town and staying local. Of course, this greatly reduces the evening's options. Offerings in our stoplight-less small town include Subway, McDonald's, and $1 hotdogs with fill-up... which honestly, for me, is just one step above a diaper retrieving excursion from Walmart. Recently, however, we have happened across a little local gem called The Brown Jug. It's a tavern!
The attraction for me is not the typical tavern escapades of bellying up to a bar for a few Miller Lites. I understand the bar camaraderie of meeting people and having a few beers, but I've never regarded myself as a tavern type of person. No, I go for a different reason. The Brown Jug has weekly kitchen specials, and my new hands-down favorite is the Monday night Bacon Cheeseburger basket for $3.50, "run through the garden" and with a side of fries.* Honestly, the burger is delicious and more than satisfies that "I Gotta Have A Big Hunka Protein" craving. And add it up: even with a beer it's a cheap date.
Now, those who don't know me would be very surprised to see me sitting in a bar, especially on a Monday night. It just looks bad that a mother of nine starts her week out in a location that could raise a few eyebrows. Admittedly, it's not like this is Book Discussion Night at the library. But I'm not going to try to hide my big white 15 passenger van by parking out back, because those who know me know I drink at home. (And it's not because I'm ashamed that a few bottles in my wine collection are from Aldi.) My real friends already know that I'll rarely turn down an offering of a cold beer, or two. They know I've even stretched myself to enjoy the likes of a pomegranate martini or an iced tea infused vodka. I'm quick to admit I am an imbiber.** My real friends also know I'm just too cheap to pay double the price in a bar in exchange for smokey ambiance and the marginal excitement of watching electronic dart throwers.
Now, I doubt I'll end up being a pub crawler, but it surprises even me that I have come to enjoy grabbing a beer and a bite to eat at The Brown Jug. Even better, I fully expect a few of my friends will join me. And won't they be surprised when the bartender calls me by name when we walk in the door and take a seat at my usual table! "Hey, Nooooooorrrrmmmm!"
Cheers.
* "With everything". Fries are 75 cents extra.
** Before my husband gets pegged as being married to a lush, keep in mind that I've had extensive pregnancy/nursing interludes, so my drinking days have been quite numbered. Someday I'll catch up.
As a couple we highly value our time together, even if it's just driving in a car. Lately, though, we've been avoiding the 30 minute drive into town and staying local. Of course, this greatly reduces the evening's options. Offerings in our stoplight-less small town include Subway, McDonald's, and $1 hotdogs with fill-up... which honestly, for me, is just one step above a diaper retrieving excursion from Walmart. Recently, however, we have happened across a little local gem called The Brown Jug. It's a tavern!
The attraction for me is not the typical tavern escapades of bellying up to a bar for a few Miller Lites. I understand the bar camaraderie of meeting people and having a few beers, but I've never regarded myself as a tavern type of person. No, I go for a different reason. The Brown Jug has weekly kitchen specials, and my new hands-down favorite is the Monday night Bacon Cheeseburger basket for $3.50, "run through the garden" and with a side of fries.* Honestly, the burger is delicious and more than satisfies that "I Gotta Have A Big Hunka Protein" craving. And add it up: even with a beer it's a cheap date.
Now, those who don't know me would be very surprised to see me sitting in a bar, especially on a Monday night. It just looks bad that a mother of nine starts her week out in a location that could raise a few eyebrows. Admittedly, it's not like this is Book Discussion Night at the library. But I'm not going to try to hide my big white 15 passenger van by parking out back, because those who know me know I drink at home. (And it's not because I'm ashamed that a few bottles in my wine collection are from Aldi.) My real friends already know that I'll rarely turn down an offering of a cold beer, or two. They know I've even stretched myself to enjoy the likes of a pomegranate martini or an iced tea infused vodka. I'm quick to admit I am an imbiber.** My real friends also know I'm just too cheap to pay double the price in a bar in exchange for smokey ambiance and the marginal excitement of watching electronic dart throwers.
Now, I doubt I'll end up being a pub crawler, but it surprises even me that I have come to enjoy grabbing a beer and a bite to eat at The Brown Jug. Even better, I fully expect a few of my friends will join me. And won't they be surprised when the bartender calls me by name when we walk in the door and take a seat at my usual table! "Hey, Nooooooorrrrmmmm!"
Cheers.
* "With everything". Fries are 75 cents extra.
** Before my husband gets pegged as being married to a lush, keep in mind that I've had extensive pregnancy/nursing interludes, so my drinking days have been quite numbered. Someday I'll catch up.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Grand Theft
I'm honored that so many of my readers are enjoying this blog (I do have a big family). It's a joy to write. A true surprise for me is that, not only do others like reading it, they actually care what I write! What a blessing. This blog likely won't reach extensive or international readership, so I think I can take a risk and put this out there: We take things that don't belong to us. And I won't lie: it's sometimes not intentional.
Just this afternoon I looked into the diaper bag to retrieve Rosie's outfit from yesterday, and found we have heisted a bible from our dear General Practitioner's office, albeit a display copy and one the office likely got for free. I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Monday when we were seen urgently because of a potential burst eardrum? Or was it Tuesday for two sports physicals, in two separate rooms, and I was distracted with 6 additional children in tow who weren't supposed to join me. And technically it wasn't a real Bible bible, but one of those Bible Story books with the "I Want To Purchase The Entire Reference Library" postcards tucked inside. The cards were all gone, but I swear we didn't take those. (And can I add, our doctor and staff are WONDERFUL).
Even small children can grasp the concept of respecting ownership and property. Just ask any verbal 18 month old who can articulate the word "MINE." Maturation and development help some when a child can sit in front of a TV long enough to watch an episode of Dora The Explorer. In my opinion, one of the most endearing characters on this Nickelodeon show is a bandit masked fox who pounces on the belongings of others. Everyone in the living room has to yell out loud "Swiper, No Swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!!!", to which the little sly guy then hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and says "AWwww, man!" There's obvious disappointment in not getting what you want, but in real life you can't always take what you want either. Thanks for reinforcing that life lesson, Dora.
Today I heard Finan maneuvering what sounded like some heavy equipment into the back door, and my radar was up. Here is a "just turned" 3yr old successfully hauling into my kitchen a 5 foot-freestanding-adjustable-Fisher Price-basketball hoop, and dragging it across the wood floor to set up in the living room. All this, despite the "No Basketball Playing In The House" rule. To make matters worse, this is a basketball hoop I've never seen before. Recalling the abundant sports equipment owned by the two little boys next door, I was quite sure of the source of this particular apparatus. He's always sneaking over there anyway.
I reprimanded our child and explained that we just can't take things from the yards of other people. When he said, "It's MINE" I was quite sure this was a throwback to the distant memory days of when he was two... a week ago. "I know you like this, honey, but it's not ours," and I hauled that hoop back to the neighbor's garage door, relieved to find the garage door locked and thankful that Finan did not have breaking and entering to add to the infraction. Would you believe this scenario was repeated no less than two more times! What an insistent little boy!
To our credit, we also leave things that DO belong to us, like frayed storybooks under church pews, one sock on a grocery store floor, and half-filled sippy cups of milk. (My apologies if you are the one who finds it a few days later). But I need to add one more note about today's events, especially since I do have such a small, but devoted, readership: Kel's afternoon Status Update phone call filled me in on one little detail not previously mentioned. He lifted that basketball hoop out of a pile of garbage set out for pickup at the end of our street. He said Finan loved it when he presented it last night.
"AWwwwww, Man!"
.
Just this afternoon I looked into the diaper bag to retrieve Rosie's outfit from yesterday, and found we have heisted a bible from our dear General Practitioner's office, albeit a display copy and one the office likely got for free. I'm not sure when it happened. Was it Monday when we were seen urgently because of a potential burst eardrum? Or was it Tuesday for two sports physicals, in two separate rooms, and I was distracted with 6 additional children in tow who weren't supposed to join me. And technically it wasn't a real Bible bible, but one of those Bible Story books with the "I Want To Purchase The Entire Reference Library" postcards tucked inside. The cards were all gone, but I swear we didn't take those. (And can I add, our doctor and staff are WONDERFUL).
Even small children can grasp the concept of respecting ownership and property. Just ask any verbal 18 month old who can articulate the word "MINE." Maturation and development help some when a child can sit in front of a TV long enough to watch an episode of Dora The Explorer. In my opinion, one of the most endearing characters on this Nickelodeon show is a bandit masked fox who pounces on the belongings of others. Everyone in the living room has to yell out loud "Swiper, No Swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!!!", to which the little sly guy then hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and says "AWwww, man!" There's obvious disappointment in not getting what you want, but in real life you can't always take what you want either. Thanks for reinforcing that life lesson, Dora.
Today I heard Finan maneuvering what sounded like some heavy equipment into the back door, and my radar was up. Here is a "just turned" 3yr old successfully hauling into my kitchen a 5 foot-freestanding-adjustable-Fisher Price-basketball hoop, and dragging it across the wood floor to set up in the living room. All this, despite the "No Basketball Playing In The House" rule. To make matters worse, this is a basketball hoop I've never seen before. Recalling the abundant sports equipment owned by the two little boys next door, I was quite sure of the source of this particular apparatus. He's always sneaking over there anyway.
I reprimanded our child and explained that we just can't take things from the yards of other people. When he said, "It's MINE" I was quite sure this was a throwback to the distant memory days of when he was two... a week ago. "I know you like this, honey, but it's not ours," and I hauled that hoop back to the neighbor's garage door, relieved to find the garage door locked and thankful that Finan did not have breaking and entering to add to the infraction. Would you believe this scenario was repeated no less than two more times! What an insistent little boy!
To our credit, we also leave things that DO belong to us, like frayed storybooks under church pews, one sock on a grocery store floor, and half-filled sippy cups of milk. (My apologies if you are the one who finds it a few days later). But I need to add one more note about today's events, especially since I do have such a small, but devoted, readership: Kel's afternoon Status Update phone call filled me in on one little detail not previously mentioned. He lifted that basketball hoop out of a pile of garbage set out for pickup at the end of our street. He said Finan loved it when he presented it last night.
"AWwwwww, Man!"
.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Date Night
Relationship professionals and specifically those with marriage expertise highly recommend that spouses set aside time for one another. I think they are right. "Getaways", perhaps for an anniversary, are a good example. However, it's not a good idea to wait 4-5 years in between childless adventures as Kel and I do. Instead, experts suggest weekly "Date Nights", regularly scheduled time in which couples usually end up talking about their children even though they're not supposed to.
Now, there need not be anything fancy about these Date Nights. Tickets to a show followed by a nice dinner at a restaurant requiring reservations is not included in our weekly budget. Typically, Kel and I find ourselves on Friday nights going to Menards. If we haven't received a panicked phone call from one of our children, we might include a stroll afterwards through Borders Bookstore. They serve some great coffee with fluffy whip cream and a chocolate stick that gets gooey and melty at the bottom of the cup... a nice bonus after finishing the joe. If the weather is pleasant, we might visit a beautifully landscaped city park that has gardens and water features and is not designed around teeter-totters. That would be considered a really romantic Date Night, and we don't even need music to dance under La Luna. Let it be known, though, that we do have some standards. No longer allowed on ANY Date Night: a stop at Walmart. Going there just ruins everyone's mood.
On a rare occasion, we might actually plan something in advance and meet some dear friends for dinner. But, usually our adventures are last minute events in which we realize Kel needs a fastener or drill bit or a large piece of window glass. We assess the number of children in the house, determine if one constitutes babysitter status, and bolt out the door before the hardware store closes. It's hard to arrange a night out with another couple when we live like this, but we have some very nice friends who also need hardware.
Date Nights could be more romantic, but that's not the point. Getting out means getting a different perspective, even though it's easier to stay home, save money, and fall asleep watching TLC on separate TVs. And we need that change of perspective. Yes, we might spend too much time talking about the kids, but after the initial gripe, or rant, or expression of angst, we eventually conclude the night recollecting some cute remark or darling behavior. In between, we hold hands and find us. We end up fortifying the united front, critically essential for what we need to accomplish with those people at home. And, we can fix that broken window too. It's all good.
Now, there need not be anything fancy about these Date Nights. Tickets to a show followed by a nice dinner at a restaurant requiring reservations is not included in our weekly budget. Typically, Kel and I find ourselves on Friday nights going to Menards. If we haven't received a panicked phone call from one of our children, we might include a stroll afterwards through Borders Bookstore. They serve some great coffee with fluffy whip cream and a chocolate stick that gets gooey and melty at the bottom of the cup... a nice bonus after finishing the joe. If the weather is pleasant, we might visit a beautifully landscaped city park that has gardens and water features and is not designed around teeter-totters. That would be considered a really romantic Date Night, and we don't even need music to dance under La Luna. Let it be known, though, that we do have some standards. No longer allowed on ANY Date Night: a stop at Walmart. Going there just ruins everyone's mood.
On a rare occasion, we might actually plan something in advance and meet some dear friends for dinner. But, usually our adventures are last minute events in which we realize Kel needs a fastener or drill bit or a large piece of window glass. We assess the number of children in the house, determine if one constitutes babysitter status, and bolt out the door before the hardware store closes. It's hard to arrange a night out with another couple when we live like this, but we have some very nice friends who also need hardware.
Date Nights could be more romantic, but that's not the point. Getting out means getting a different perspective, even though it's easier to stay home, save money, and fall asleep watching TLC on separate TVs. And we need that change of perspective. Yes, we might spend too much time talking about the kids, but after the initial gripe, or rant, or expression of angst, we eventually conclude the night recollecting some cute remark or darling behavior. In between, we hold hands and find us. We end up fortifying the united front, critically essential for what we need to accomplish with those people at home. And, we can fix that broken window too. It's all good.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The Pace
I really wish there was a significant caloric burn factor for pacing. The reality is, I would be so skinny.
I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.
It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.
For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.
My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.
I'm not referring to the act of simply stepping, or using your feet to measure distance, or even the rate of speed that distance is traveled. I'm referring to the intense ambulatory movements of worried parents, as defined by the last two decades of my life. I've paced waiting for fevers to drop when infants have been sick. I've paced waiting for phone calls to be returned when the clock approaches curfew. I've paced waiting for medical test results about internal hemangiomas and nerve-entwined cholesteatomas. And I'm pacing right now.
It seems like, mathematically speaking, pacing plus waiting is equal to the sum total of worry... or, in my case: 9x(P+w) = W. I would like to think I've evolved into a big enough person who is okay with waiting, okay with being patient, okay with "letting go". But truthfully, I'm not. I have a tough time subscribing to the "c'est la vie" approach to life, and I've never been good at math.
For me, there is a common denominator in circumstances that result in The Pace: I'm impatient waiting to DO something. I'm on the cusp of action, or decision, or just wrapping my head around news that might forever change the direction of my life. And there are the infinite conversations in my head: "How will I word this?" "Should I start making phone calls?" "Who can I ask for prayer?" "When should I call 911?" "What will be the length of punishment and does the garage need to be cleaned out again?" So I pace.
My guess is that this struggle comes from a Life Value of "giving 110%". I wrestle with the issues of parenting because I can't stop caring. Trying my hardest means trying more. Giving my best means surprising myself with what I'm capable of, not giving up, not giving in. My wise mother once told me that marriage is not 50/50, but 100/100, and to fully expect to have to pick up the slack and give more. But no one told me about the math of waiting, and how your heart can be fractured, and divided.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Tall Babies
There is a certain comfort about having an infant around. Well, not exactly "comfort". You worry yourself sick about every little squeak and whimper. You chalk up fussiness to gas, or teething, or potential fever with viral seizure. You learn to sleep with one eye open. So, I guess "comfort" is an inadequate term. But, at least the infant stays where you put her. That's what I mean by comfort. If you put her in the swing, she stays in the swing. Crib? Crib. Car seat? Car seat. Well, "car seat", only if the two year old doesn't drag it into another room so the baby can watch him pee all by himself in the big potty.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
But, we have tall babies. And as soon as our infants start being mobile, the whole world changes. I recall one visit from my dear grandmother, who was absolutely appalled that our entire set of kitchen dining chairs were lasso-ed with a huge rope and intricate series of knots and loops. As she struggled to wrestle one chair free, she remarked with exasperation, "Why would you let the children DO this?" I just smiled and said, "Actually, Kel did it. So the baby won't get on the table." Nana had an Aha moment when she realized this was a safety measure, but she questioned our creativity.
Just as annoying are all the hook and eye locks at eye level (5'9" or higher) on every door in our house. These were installed when our 4th child, Kieran, was a tall baby. Not only could she maneuver simple locks on doors, she was quick to escape through them as well. The amount of "comfort" time with her was likely the shortest of all our babies. Kel still has some angst about the amount of time she was raised seat belted in her high chair. It's true that by her arrival we already had plenty to distract us... plenty to even sabotage us. But Nana doesn't even complain about all the locked doors now. Maybe they make her feel safer too.
Tall babies usually have long arms that accompany their stature. Rosie is no exception. For quite some time, she could reach a tall counter top from her high chair and unnecessarily scrunch up 125 crisp napkins all at once. (Please don't be offended if you are visiting and we offer you what looks like a used one. It's not. Honestly!) And for a few weeks now she has been able to access the buttons on the computer desk phone. It's a fancy schmancy one that looks like it should belong to a receptionist for a Fortune 500 company. It sits up at attention at an angle, it has a display screen you can see from across the room, and it has a myriad of buttons I don't have time to learn about. We bought it because the handset is actually connected to the phone, and the phone is connected to the wall. (We are always losing important things with buttons. But at least we can find one ringing phone now.) Rosie usually goes for the speaker button, but she has been known to call Papa once or twice. If you call and get a newly recorded answering machine message that is difficult to decipher, would you let me know? Now, even though I have knowledge of these SuperBaby powers which she possesses, it still totally took me by surprise today when I heard my prized camera clunk on the floor. I know I put it on the back corner of the computer desk, and even made sure to pull the neck strap up too. Honestly!
One would think I would be more preventative, considering all the tall babies I've cared for. Maybe I just suffer from a short memory. What I'm currently learning, however, is that tall babies become tall children. And it's awfully hard to shake your finger at a child who can look you straight in the eye.
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