Trying hard to keep the 11th commandment

I believe there was an 11th commandment that somehow got misplaced while those pesky Israelites were off wandering in the wilderness. It reads: Thou shalt always mix peanut butter with chocolate.

Am I right?

You know I'm right.

Today, dear friends, I am feeling generous, and am going to give you one of my all-time favorite recipes.

May it make your bottom as large as it has made mine.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Cookies
Cream together:
1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup peanut butter (though I rarely measure the p.b. Just grab a big scoopful, then you don't have to dirty up a measuring cup with something sticky)
2 eggs
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp. vanilla

Mix well, and add:
3 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda

Then you must take a smidge of the dough and do this:


Because you never know. It could be poisoned. And if it was, you would then probably look like this (only slightly less out of focus):

More than likely, your dough will not be poisoned (unless you have a lot of enemies and a handy supply of arsenic). And this is what you will look like after a delicious lump of cookie dough has been sent right down to your thighs stomach:

Next, spray your mini-muffin tins with Pam.

Hopefully, you will be looking at your pan and not through the lens of your camera while doing this. The general idea is to actually spray the Pam inside the muffin cups, and not all over the sides of the pan.

Once that is done, roll the dough into one-inch balls and set into the pans like this:

Pop those babies into a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes. While they are baking, you can start de-wrappering the Reese's peanut butter cups. I always solicit the help of a little munchkin and her tiny fingers for this job:

But beware, for the munchkin will sometimes sneak a cup or two when she thinks that no one is looking:

Then she will smile innocently, her chipmunk-like cheeks stuffed to the gills with chocolate and peanut butter, and pretend that nobody is the wiser:

Oh, you little munchkin. We're on to you.

Then when your timer dings, pull the pans out of the oven, and press a peanut butter cup into the center of each cookie. Press firmly, until the cup is level with the top of the cookie, like this:


Let the cookies cool in the pan for 8-10 minutes to firm up. Then gently take a knife and plop them out, one-by-glorious-one.


Repeat until all the dough is gone or until you run out of peanut butter cups, whichever comes first. [One batch will usually make a large bag of p.b. cups.]

Then be sure to check the pictures on your camera. For while you were working, the little munchkin will have accidentally taken about 1,893 pictures of your bosoms. Which would be fine, say, if this were a porno cooking blog, now wouldn't it?


But since it's not, you will have to content yourself with the sight of these lovelies instead:

Hello, lover.

[And don't be thinking that these will last in your house for more than an hour. They won't. I absolutely guarantee it.]

Happy baking.

Tolerance, even for our vegetable friends

A few days ago, I had all the kids with me on a trip to Walmart. At the checkout line, I realized that I needed, and had forgotten to get, a tomato. Knowing the snail-like pace that is always the checkout line at Walmart, I sent the boys off to grab me one from the produce department.

They came tearing back, giant tomato in hand. Chase set it on the conveyor belt and announced, in his unmistakably loud voice, "Bad news, Mom. It's a Mexican."

I look up in horror, smile at the African American check-out girl, and try to say loudly, "That's okay, Chase. I'm sure MEXICAN TOMATOES are delicious."

To which he practically shouts, "But, Mom, we don't really like the Mexicans." [I know he was only thinking the tomatoes would taste different. The kid has love for all god's people. Honest.]

My ensuing lecture about how we really do like everyone was lost in the murmurs and shame that was our hurried walk out to the car.

For the record, we DO like the Mexicans.

And their giant tomatoes.

Fifteen

Fifteen years ago today, at the literal crack of dawn, you and I became us. We became a family. We clasped our shaky hands together and took our first step out into the world. Together.

I can still remember the first time I saw you. I was supposed to be going out with someone else that night, but when my eyes met yours, something whispered, "Hello, old friend."

I knew in that fraction of a second what would be.


Yes, that skinny, naive, 21-year-old boy, in Doc Martens, dress shirt coming untucked (something that still manages to happen today), walked in the door and forever stole my heart. The heart that was probably his to begin with.

I wonder, though. Would you do it all over again, if you could? Would you have taken a chance on that girl with the bad perm and the waist-high jeans? Even if you knew that she'd be really mean when she was pregnant? Or that she'd have a rear end the size of Texas during that time?

What if you'd known that she likes to spend money? And most especially YOUR money? Would you have still stayed that first night until the wee hours, playing cards, and flirting across the table, knowing the fortune she'd someday spend at Target?

And what if someone had told you that she squeezes the toothpaste in the middle, and will not, under any circumstances, drink the last little bit from the milk carton? Even then, would you still take her? Her, and all her neuroses?

I know one thing, I'd do it all again, a million times over. I might do a few things differently though.

Like that first anniversary? I'd have been a little more creative, that's for sure. Even with only a dollar to my name, I'd have done better. [Remind me, Internets, to tell you that story sometime. It's a doozy.]

And I'd try harder to let you know just how much I appreciate you and all that you do for me. Because you? You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I'd never want to let a day go by where you didn't know it.

You are my best friend.

You are the one I need to tell things to before they become real. You are the voice of reason to my irrational hysteria. You are the one I turn to for comfort. You are the one who tells me I'm beautiful, even when I don't believe it. You are the one I want to share every joke and every laugh with. You are the one who knows me better than anyone. And you are the one who constantly says that nothing is impossible.

You, my darling, are the ring in my bell.

Happy 15th anniversary, babe.

Top o' the mornin to ye

Growing up, it was inevitable to wake up on St. Patrick's Day and find that everything in the fridge had been dyed green. My father especially took great delight in serving up green pancakes (or hotcakes, as he still calls them), green waffles, green eggs -- green everything.

I could stomach most of the green food. Green pancakes? Weird, yes, but they still tasted good. My brain could be fooled into taking that first bite, especially once I drowned them in lovely, un-dyeable, brown syrup.

But the one thing that I could never choke down, no matter what, was the green milk. Milk was not something I particularly enjoyed anyway, and having to stare down a tall glass of murky, green liquid was just about torture for a 14-year-old girl.

Torture almost as painful as, say, wholesome family activities at Air Force Museums in the dead heat of summer.

So when the morning dawned bright and sunny, with a smile I thought of my Dad, and just couldn't help myself.



And guess what, Dad?

They gagged on it as much as I did (though their smiles here are only because they hurried up and got dressed in their green so they could run around like trolls, pinching the rest of us).

Happy St. Paddy's Day, friends.

May your sugar cookies be green and shaped like shamrocks, and may your milk be frothy and white.

As god intended.

Of trash and treasures

Last week, I decided to tackle a much-needed project in our house.

Specifically, a project that involved the place where the little people in our house live.

A place where I spent four and a half hours of my time, and uttered more than a few four-letter words.

I tried to let it be. I have ignored these spaces for as long as possible. Plugged my ears, closed my eyes, and sang, "la la la la la la" when walking past those rooms. I wanted to let them have a measure of control over their own lives, and learn the responsibility of cleaning up after themselves. But when I feared the board of health would quite possibly condemn us (and cart me off to bad mother prison), I knew action had to be taken.

I had to do this while they are at school because I don't like it when they sob, whine, and plead as I toss all their beloved treasures junk into the trash.

And you better believe there was a lot of junk.

Like three garbage bags full.

Is it a commentary on society today that children own enough things that you can fill three garbage bags full of stuff and they'll never miss it? Or is it a commentary on the state of my parenting that I overcompensate by filling their little souls with cheap plastic crap from Target instead of love?

Don't answer that.

Now, the thing is, I took some 'before' pictures to show you the great change, but they were SO BAD that I am unable to post them. Pride will not allow me to let you in on the sorry state of those spaces before I got my hands on them. So without further adieu, and for your viewing pleasure, I give you the 'afters':




Here's hoping they stay looking like this for, I don't know, at least an hour or two.

Now excuse me, I've got to run to Target and buy some more of my children's love cheap plastic crap.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Why we still like each other after almost 15 years

As I've mentioned countless times before, the Husband travels for work.

All. the. time.

People are constantly asking me how I do it. There are times when I ask myself the very same thing. It is not an easy task. Today I thought it would be fun to share my secrets and tell you exactly how I survive.

Because some days? It really is just about surviving. Like when you are talking on the phone at the end of a long day where you were puked on, peed on, changed enough diapers to make a landfill, endured the same episode of Barney 17 times, and felt that your life was the equivalent of a non-negotiable hostage situation.

The slight depression you feel on those days can go from bad to worse when you listen as he describes the five-star restaurant he ate at, and the plush accommodations he gets all to himself; all the while, the little people in your home are pummeling you with soggy cheerios for having the audacity to talk on the phone for five whole seconds.

It would be easy to hate him for it.

But because I know he's sparing me the details of his heated, intense meetings with clients, nights spent re-working financial models of young associates who have no clue what they're doing, and the 14-hour days in hospitals, meeting with boards, I don't hate him for it.

I love him even more.

But I have figured out some things through the years that have helped me cope with this lifestyle that we've chosen. I've come up with a series of rules for you to live by, if you ever find yourself in my shoes; be it for a day or forever.

1. Self-pride is paramount to your happiness. Just because your man will not see you every day, does not mean you get to wear sweats all around town and not do your hair or make-up. My hard and fast rule is that I always shower, get ready, and wear actual clothes, even if no one sees me. It makes me feel pretty and gives me a sense of self-worth, which in turn, makes me a nicer mom.

2. Fiercely guard your family time. Our weekends are absolutely sacred to us. We do not schedule play dates or friend time when Dad is home. The kids have missed him all week, and he is ready to play with them on the weekends. He is not one of those guys that needs a few hours by himself to unwind. He wants us, and we are good and ready for him.

We may not have quantity, but we do have quality when it comes to his time.

3. Learn to be an independent do-it-yourselfer. I have taught myself many things over the years about home repair, yard maintenance, and car upkeep. I don't leave those unpleasant jobs for him to do on the weekends, if possible. When I only get to see him two days a week, why would I want to have him sitting at Jiffy Lube with the car half the day? I take care of anything I can, or hire someone to do it for me.

4. Let the little things go. Yes, it annoys me when he slings his pants over the side of a chair instead of hanging them up. But do I really want to spend precious time yelling at him for it? Or, for that matter, would I be receptive to any criticism from him in regards to my own faults and failings?

Not bloody likely, I can promise you that.

So leave him alone. Ignore the small stuff. Be glad he works so hard for your family and make him feel appreciated. You will be surprised at the appreciation and love that flows your way from him, too.

5. Take care of your man -ahem- and his physical needs. This is very, very important to the health and happiness of everyone. (Because my brothers and various male relatives read this, I'll just leave it at that.)

6. Take time for yourself. I am a firm believer in the six o'clock bedtime, and religiously stick to it.

That's right, my friends, I said six o'clock.

My kids have always been early risers, and would wake up at the crack of dawn no matter what time they went to sleep. So, I figured, why not put them to sleep earlier, ensuring they get a good amount of rest? It worked, and they would crash every night at about six, leaving me a few hours to unwind and detox. Even though they are old enough now that they don't fall asleep right at six, I still put them in their rooms at that time.

I know what you're thinking. And I don't care if you judge me.

It has been our routine for years, and they know they are to play quietly in their rooms, read books, or build legos until lights-out at 7:30. It's a little down time for them, and helps me not do a lot of the yelling.

Nobody likes the yelling.

I find myself wholly unable to parent much past six, and definitely take advantage of the 'me' time to recharge.

7. And last, but not least, have realistic expectations. Plan on doing the carpool, the baseball pick-up, the ballet run yourself, and figure out how to make things work on your own. Nothing starts the agitation in a marriage like the expectation that he'll be home in time for dinner. Because when he's not? You're mad as hell and spitting nails by the time he does stroll in. But if you just plan on him not being there, go about your routine, when he happens to sneak away early, you are pleasantly surprised.

So, interpeeps, what are your tricks to surviving a traveling spouse? Anything I'm missing here?

Discuss.

Rules to live by: Pinewood derby version

As the mother of two sons and sister to four brothers, I have had to endure the pleasure of participating in countless Pinewood Derby races thus far in my relatively young life.

(Yet another thing I am really hoping guarantees my admittance through those blasted pearly gates. I definitely need all the help I can get.)

I have learned quite a lot in observing these races, and I thought I'd impart some of my wisdom for you here, hoping to help any first-time derby moms about to embark on this most memorable of adventures.


Rule one: You must start nagging your husband about building the car at least two months in advance. Husbands really like that. Better yet, recruit your cub scout for the job. Nothing lights a fire under a man like his child asking every three minutes, "Can we build it yet? Can we build it yet?" It will still not be started until the Saturday before the race, but can you imagine what would happen if you didn't nag? The thing might still be sitting in the box come race day.

Rule two: You must be a backseat builder during the actual process. It's a special treat for your husband to have you second-guessing the design, cutting, sanding, and use of tools. Especially when you don't actually know the names of most of the tools. He will look at you periodically with what you can only assume is extreme love, and you will know your work there is done.

Rule three: Before race day, prepare your cub scout for the possibility of losing every single race. Add to this by reminding him how badly the other boys (who are his friends) want to win. That way, if he does happen to win a few races, he's so surprised and thrilled that he will promise to never ask you for anything ever again in his whole life. Video tape this, if possible, and show it to him Christmas morning when he stares at his empty stocking with dismay.


Rule four: When your son's car is going down the track for the first time, pray like you've never prayed before. Pray that he doesn't come in first, and pray that he doesn't come in last. For, if you win first, second, or third place? You get to spend another extra Saturday racing against other boys at the district level. NO ONE wants to do more than one Pinewood Derby race in a year. No one. (Except your son. But we're not counting his vote here)

Rule five: Try not to laugh at your now-too-old-to-compete son when he sits back ever so coolly with his friends and adds commentary on the cars. Remind him that he's only been a man now for about a month.


Rule six: Wake your husband up periodically or take away his Crackberry so he can be sure that he's part of the fun.

Rule seven: Send the little sister of the family off to play with the other little sisters in the nursery. It's really what's best for everyone. Little sisters like to hang upside down on their chair, as they whine and moan, asking every three seconds, "HOW MUCH LONGER?"

Rule eight: Bring enough treats to feed an army for after the race. Cub scouts have stomachs the size of large SUVs and somehow never get full. You can feel good knowing that other people's kids are eating your cookies instead of yourself. Just be sure to police your own children. Otherwise, you have to ride home with them all hopped up on brownies and sugar cookies. That's never a pleasant ride.

Rule nine: Congratulate your son on his good sportsmanship, be secretly thankful he didn't win, and pat your husband on the back for a job well done.

Rule ten: Celebrate that you now have 364 days before you have to do this all over again.

Where's the superhero fashion police when we need them?

Has it really been a week since I've posted?

Gasp.

Last week, I felt absolutely bombarded from all directions. I had school events, baseball, cub scouts, tae kwan do, ballet, book club, doctor's appointments, carpools, grocery shopping, errands, and much, much more.

All on a week that I was forbidden from eating any dessert.

It's no wonder something had to give, right? That something, unfortunately, was this little blog. I didn't get to read your blogs and I definitely was not writing here.

My apologies to the one person who actually reads this drivel every day. (Hi, Oma!)

But I feel a little more on my feet this week, somehow dropped a few pounds (thanks to the self-imposed Lent), and am feeling ready to conquer life once again.

But before I fill you in on the fantabulous events of our ever-exciting lives, I must leave you with a little something special that makes me fall over with fits of giggles every time I see it.

But first, please go back and take a look at this.

Well, it has recently made a comeback into our lives, and I must say, the growth Spiderman has occurred since May of 2008 is remarkable, as evidenced by the disturbingly tight extra form-fitting spidey suit.

Spidey was unable to button the suit in the back this year. I am thinking that is a good indication that it is BEYOND fit to wear.

Spidey would tell you differently.


In fact, if I were to allow it, this suit would be seen by grocery store clerks and the good people of Missouri everywhere.

Lucky for all of them, I do not allow it.

Because what you cannot see in these pictures is the suit from the back. And on the back? There is definitely a lot of crack going on. And crack is always going to be VERY BAD in a Spidey suit.

It's true what they say: Crack is whack.

Spidey is matched only in fierceness by Super Girl and her scary jack-o-lantern teeth.



These are two tough peeps that should never be crossed.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

So stay tuned for the exciting events of our weekend, tales from the Pinewood Derby, and maybe (if you're lucky) a recipe to fatten you all up.

Because I really haven't done that in a while and I'd say it's definitely time.

Wishing desperately for a slice of King Cake right about now

On Sunday, we were making our usual pilgrimage to church when the kids noticed signs at several churches along the way announcing various Ash Wednesday services and activities.

Being naturally curious, they wanted to know exactly what it was, what it entailed, and why we didn't do it.

Having had some good Catholic friends through the years, I felt well-schooled in the ways of Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Lent, and the like. [Wisely, I left out the whole Mardis Gras/beads/flashing of boobs component. I figure MTV will take care of that job for me in a few years.]

Fascinated with the concept of giving something up for Lent, my three began begging to have a family lent of our own.

McKay offered cheerfully to give up homework.

Chase chimed in and offered to give up yogurt (something he absolutely despises).

Not exactly how it's supposed to work, is it?

So, with the help of the Husband, we steered ourselves toward the abandonment of something much more painful: Dessert. As a family, we are giving up dessert. For lent. A holiday our own religion doesn't even participate in.

Insane, right?

Realistic, and wholly unable to go 40 days, we opted for a week.

And let me tell you, this has been the longest week of my life.

I am on DAY THREE and I feel like I am starving. Not that I would have eaten much dessert over the last three days anyway, but the fact that I can't -- fills me with longing for it. I find myself craving donuts, brownies, ice cream, and pie. Things I don't even really eat anyway (my drug of choice will always be cookie dough, I'm afraid). I'm crabby. I'm irritable. I've got a pretend dieting headache. And the worst part is that I know it's truly all in my head.

Here's hoping we survive the next four days.

Maybe we should have just given up homework.

Self-esteem is definitely not a problem with this one

A quick quote from Hannah, as I was doing her hair this morning:


"I feel sorry for myself when I was younger. I just didn't know how pretty I was back then."

Um, yeah. We don't eat the humble pie for breakfast around here, as you can plainly see.

Should I be worried?

Nah. Middle school will knock her off that high horse pretty darn quick, I'm afraid.

Sending you elsewhere

I have nothing for you today, my friends.

Still wallowing in the self-pity that is sick kids, bad weather, and absent husbands.

But I know someone who does have something good for you. Go here, and visit my cute cousin, Liz. LOVED her post on parenting and felt it was spot on for my life right now. I'd bet you'll feel the same way, too. It was beautifully written, brought a laugh to my soul and a tear to my eye.

Just what the doctor ordered.

Plus, there's a gratuitous photo of her darling baby boy. That alone is worth the trip there.

I'll try to find something exciting to tell you tomorrow. Even if that means I have to make it up.

Random thoughts on this pretend Monday

1. Worst weekend in a long time. Let's just blame it on strep throat, the Husband getting stranded in Grand Rapids, muddy footprints, and chocolate that refuses to stay out of my mouth. We'll leave it at that.

2. Anyone happen to catch this on the freak show channel Discovery Health Channel?


I find myself truly sorry for anyone in this situation, but have to ask one question - if you're bedridden due to your ginormous size, who is bringing you enough food to enable this situation to continue? If you physically can't get out of bed to get your own food, then what are you eating? Wouldn't you be bound, theoretically, to eat what was given you? And couldn't you then be put on a very strict diet, against your will?

It boggles the mind.

3. I am so over the winter. I don't know if it's because we had a taste of spring last week or because I've immersed myself in planning our vacation to Hawaii this summer, but I can't bear the cold any longer. I'm done. I've had it. HAD. IT. Hear that, spring? Get your lazy a$$ up and get over here already.

Yes, I know it's only mid-February.

No, I don't think I'm being ridiculous.

4. Big shout out to the Husband who came through with flying colors for Valentine's Day. Thanks to him, I will be escaping the cares of my exhausting life (ha ha) and heading to the spa for a day of beauty and relaxation. For that alone, he is forgiven the unpardonable sin of not reading this blog on a daily basis. (Yeah, he still has not caught on to the alleged make out session spoken of earlier. Pity, isn't it?)

5. There is nothing more thrilling than watching your two boys whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies on their own. I feel their future wives will thank me for instilling in them a competency in the kitchen. Every man should know how to cook, even if it's only cookies.

6. I loathe cleaning the bathroom. I don't even know if loathe is a strong enough word. What's worse than loathe? Hate? No, I feel even stronger about it than that. And in this house? I have four bathrooms that all need a good scrub down. I think it might be time for a cleaning lady.

That is all. My condolences to anyone who bothered reading this far. Disappointing, I know.

Happy Tuesday, interpeeps.

Best Valentines Ever (you'll thank me for this one)

While trolling innocently through my blog reader yesterday, I stumbled upon the most genius of all genius ideas.

Meet Alissa. Amazing photographer, mother of four beautiful babies, and blogger extraordinaire.

Now meet her genius idea (seriously, go check hers out).

And now see my literal rip-off of her genius idea:



I frantically grabbed my camera and caught the kids wherever they happened to be, and in whatever state they happened to be in. Two of the three were in the sandbox and totally filthy.

I honestly didn't care, so enamored was I with this idea.

I uploaded the pics, added the words in Photoshop, and then sent them online to my local Sam's Club. Within an hour, I had the photos in-hand. I made small slits at their fists with an xacto knife, inserted the lollies, and BAM. Best. valentines. ever. Total effort on my part? Maybe 20 minutes.

And that counts the break I took in the middle to get a snack.

Because sitting in a chair using an xacto knife? Totally nutrient draining.

So thanks, Alissa, and hats off to you, sister. Were it not for you, I would have been resigned to the tacky crap I hate at Target with pictures of Sponge Bob and Sleeping Beauty. These pictures are so much better.

See? All the pretty soldiers, lined up and ready to go:

Now hurry. There's still time to get yours made.

And yeah, you're welcome.

Cause and effect: The BB gun version

Question:

What happens when you take this:

And combine it accidentally with this?

Give up? You get this:

Which, thankfully, turned out not to be broken.

Instead, there was a hematoma [due to the blunt trauma of the thumb being smashed in the cock of the BB gun].

Have I mentioned before that I loathe blunt traumas of all kinds?

The urgent care doctor had a special tool that he used to burn a hole in McKay's thumbnail, to release the pressure and alleviate his pain. This caused a giant explosion of blood all over the examination room.

Which caused Chase to beg and plead to keep the special tool.

Which caused me to make a mental note of leaving Chase at home next time.

End result? Nearly all the pain is gone and McKay has a gross wound with which to scare away all the girls on the playground. He's very thrilled.

P.S. On a side note, I think the Husband has not been faithfully reading his wife's wonderful words this dumb blog. Thanks to my friend, June, and her brilliant idea, I am going to put outrageous lies in here until he calls me on them. Like today, when I made out with Angelina Jolie. It was so hot.

Prisoners of my disease

To my three babies,

In light of a certain situation that took place this afternoon, I feel compelled to issue you a public apology and a pledge, from the bottom of my heart, to be better.

You see, in case you didn't know it by now, your mama has a touch of the OCD. And because I automatically know that Hannah's next question will be, "What is OCD?", I will tell you. OCD, loosely translated, means I am incapable of dealing with messes in our home -- in any way, shape, or form.

This is not your fault.

It is mine. Some may call it a disease; while others look at it with envy and wish they had it, too. But for me, it is the core essential of what makes me who I am.

However, from this day forward, I will try harder to let the natural children inside of you be allowed to come out and play. I will not roll my eyes and exhale my breath loudly when you go outside and the fresh grass clippings cling to your tiny feet.

I will be glad you are playing freely in the fresh air, instead of moaning at the mess I have to clean up.

I will be more understanding of your so-called "leaf collections," and admire your profound interest in nature. Even when I find pieces of them all over the carpet upstairs.

I will realize that most people (your father included) don't spend hours a day thinking about magic erasers and mop kits. Or get excited about new ways to organize closets, or search for ways to make laundry more efficient.

And I definitely will not yell at you for playing chef in my kitchen (especially if you asked me first), even when you break the garbage disposal while dumping your creation down the sink. Yes, you snuck a fast one in there because you asked me in the middle of my Sunday afternoon nap.

And we all know that I'll pretty much say yes to anything when I'm half asleep.

But I promise to try and not complain when you return inside with flushed cheeks and happy hearts, even when I look down to see all the mud you have brought in with you. Because you know what? I love you more than my clean floors.

And that, my darling babies, is really saying something.

Love,

Mama

Help, I'm raising a giant pack of nerds

(Nerds one and two: Expanding their vast stores of knowledge at a museum)

(Nerd three: Doing what she does best, looking pretty)

It is a truth universally acknowledged: Anyone who has ever foolishly thought they were once cool, must raise at least one nerd.

I'm raising three of them.

Here's where it all began. The school had a traveling science fair come and visit the third grade. This prompted my third grader to come home begging to have a family science fair. I mumbled my usual, "Yeah, sure, whatever," a remark that I reserve solely for things that bring them great joy, require no effort on my part, and probably won't make too big of a mess.

All yesterday afternoon, Chase helped Hannah work on her entry for the family science fair. [Yeah, just writing that makes me feel like a big, fat nerd.] Here we see her completed entry on the life cycle of a rabbit:

And because it's just too good to miss, let me break it all down for you. First, the rabbit is born (or bron, as Hannah likes to spell it). I like that the baby rabbit is actually wearing a diaper and seems to be locked in some sort of cage, while the mother sits outside with a smile on her face.

Now we know why rabbits have so many babies, don't we?

Then we have childhood. Which consists mainly of playgrounds, slides, and large lolly pops. Although, I am really hoping the jumbo-sized rabbit on the end of the see-saw is not meant to be me. She seems to have a bit of a weight problem when compared to the other bunnies.

And I can't help but worry about the bunny on top of the see-saw, and how he seems stuck in the air, waiting interminably for Chubby Stie the big boned rabbit to get off the see-saw.


Childhood is promptly followed by the phase of life known as, "adult." Here, we see that adults type on computers and wear ties. I am assuming they are sitting on chairs, even though one of the chairs does slightly resemble a toilet.

I'd like to point out that no one in this house ever sits on the toilet with a laptop, unlike some people allegedly have been known to do.

Once you've completed the adult phase, it is time to mate.

After she finished this poster, she came and asked me what it means to mate. I told her it means you get to hold hands with a boy, on your first date, when you turn 27.

She seemed to believe me.

After you mate, there is only one step left in life: Death.

And I must say, it doesn't look pretty. Death by rabid dog/wolf cannot be a pleasant way to go. Although, if you'll notice, both rabbits appear to have smiles on their faces. Interesting...

Nerd number two (aka, Chase) has just started his own entry. He brought a book home from the library and told me his project was on the human body.

He writes: "Here is a human. He, as we can see, can't see inside him."

That's all he's got so far. I can't wait to see the rest of it, which, I have no doubt, will be anatomically correct.

Nerd number one (McKay) is still tossing around ideas for his special project.

Looks like a very educational week, indeed.

Is it wrong that I sort of want to give them all wedgies and steal their lunch money?

To my big boy on his birthday

Dear McKay,

Today you are turning eleven years old. This day every year brings you one step closer to that inevitable moment when you are ready to spread your wings and leave the little nest I have created here. I find myself wholly unable to think about that far-off day, and turn my attention to the utter joy you bring us now.

Mack, you are just good. There is no way around it. There is not a mean bone in your body. You not only root for the underdog, but you go out of your way to help him. You cannot stand the idea of anyone hurting. Your thoughtfulness is way beyond your years.

Your current favorite game is one of your own invention, called, "Would you rather?" You give me a choice between two diverse (and often really gross) scenarios, in which I am forced choose the lesser of two evils. Tonight, you asked me if I'd rather die a hero or live long enough to see myself become a villain. Proud of your keen intellect and creative philosophizing, I bragged to your daddy about it on the phone.

He laughed and told me it was from the newest Batman movie.


As I'd want it, school has been an ongoing challenge, and I'm so proud of the way you've dug in your heels with determination. You absolutely refuse to not do well at anything. You are driven in such a way that I know came solely from your father's genes. You have a vision for the way you want things to be someday, and you are planning now for that future. I have no doubt that you will achieve all you set out to do. And I can't wait for you to make those millions you're dreaming of.

Because laboring for hours to bring you into this world without an epidural? That's got to be at least worth you funding my golden years in a really posh nursing home staffed by strong, handsome men.

You continue to share everything in life with your brother. The two of you are inseparable, and it is not uncommon for me to find you both bent over a pile of legos, or laughing while reading a Calvin and Hobbs book together. I can't tell you the joy it brings to my mama heart when I see you two so close. Just a few minutes ago, when I walked past your room, I smiled as I heard you and Chase talking together about various events in your day. I love that you love him so much.


You are thoughtful and tender, obedient and kind. I rely a lot on you, and without question, you do all that you're asked and more. You make me laugh with your silly jokes. You make me smile when I see that look on your face - the one where you try so hard not to smile or show others how excited you are about something. The one where you look just like your dad.

You are the kind of kid that makes parenting feel so easy.
I love you, buddy. I know you love me, too, even if you think it's gross to give me a hug in public. Thank you for filling our life with such sweet, easy happiness.

Love,

Mama

What's the cure for a sugar hangover?

Let's just say there's a football game on television that happens once a year. You invite some friends over to watch it on your husband's ridiculously large t.v. You spend the day filling your belly with things like fresh guacamole, sugar cookies, Swedish meatballs, and chocolate cake. [Curse that Pioneer Woman and her satanically-delicious chocolate sheet cake.]

You then plant yourself in front of the television, balancing a large plate of food on your knees. You have foolishly left your buffet unattended, knowing the pitter-patter of little feet overhead is the children gorging themselves on sugar.

And about thirty minutes into the game, the shrieking and fits of hysterical laughter coming from their direction confirms this very thing.

But you allow it because, after all, it's the Super Bowl. It's a once-a-year phenomenon. It's the only time you ever sit down in front of a football game with your husband (but let's be honest, you're really only there for for the commercials). You pretend to care about field goals and touch downs while you daydream and drool over the back and front sides of Kurt Warner.

You cheer when that one guy goes running across the big green field and scores some points. You feel mildly annoyed when there's a pit in your stomach, as you root for the guys in the red and white uniforms to win.

You console your husband when they don't.

Then you send your husband off on a business trip with a plate full of snacks for the ride. You happily start chatting with your friend Shiloh, and look up to find that the clock says almost two in the morning. You mentally count the hours until you have to be up and going, and realize it's very few.

You decide to eat one last sugar cookie. Because at two in the morning? Sugar cookies are always a good idea.

You go to bed with horrible heartburn and swear yourself off sugar forever. Then after what feels like minutes, your alarm is startling you from sleep. You rouse the troops and find they are faring no better than you:


Except for one, who has the constitution of his father and doesn't seem to need, require, or care for little trifles like sleep:

[ Seen here opening his birthday presents yesterday - a few days early due to the Husband's trip this week]

You forget your self-imposed ban against sugar and decide a cookie for breakfast is the cure for what ails you. You wash it down with a diet coke.

Oddly, it doesn't make you feel any better.

You pledge to never combine football and sugar cookies again, and wonder if your friend Becky would lend you her extra special elastic-waist pants.

And that, dear friends, is how you experience the Super Bowl. In case you were wondering.