I'll have an insulin shot to go, please.

I got LOTS of emails after I posted about the delicious carb-coma inducing bread that I make.

And none of them hate mail, surprisingly.

Seems that all of you like bread as much as me.

I, myself, have serious bread issues. I am incapable of eating bread that comes from the grocery store. I think it tastes nasty, has no real flavor, and the texture reminds me of cardboard.

I mean, if I'm going to give up taste, I might as well just eat healthy foods and toss out the cookie dough.

Bwaaahhhh! As if.

ANYhoo, I posted a few years ago (can't find the post or I'd link) about the beautiful bread machine that had changed my life (and put my local Great Harvest out of business). After making multiple loaves per week for a couple of years, the poor thing died about a month ago. Not wanting to rush out and spend a few hundred bucks the month before Christmas on an appliance of all things, I started to experiment with making my own bread. I tried several recipes and each received two greasy thumbs up from the people around here.

This recipe was settled on as a favorite, and I've been making it ever since. It takes maybe eight minutes of my time, and then sits on the counter and does all the work by itself. Every few days, I make another couple of loaves. It's delicious and I'm in love with it.

And since I know you will be, too, here is the recipe in my favorite form: photo.

May your thighs thank you, as mine have.

Join me in my diabetic heaven, will you?

A most unexpected, perfect day

Well, no sense denying it any longer. Winter is here. In all her white, windy, wind-chill glory. Got the call from the school district late last night that the impending storm would be enough to close school for the day. (I tried not to laugh as I thought of my youth spent in Utah without a single snow day. Like ever.)

But I promptly ran through the house and turned off all the little people's alarm clocks. Left a note on the banister informing them of the good news (and included a warning for them to not wake the mama in the morning). I slept in until almost nine and woke up with a smile on my face and a deep sense of satisfaction in my soul.

There's nothing I like more than sleeping in.

Well, maybe I can think of a few things, but it's definitely in the top five.

After a late breakfast, a family workout, and a round of showers, we headed out the door. We have some fabulous friends who just so happened to buy a house around the corner, and we joined them to break in their new backyard.

Clearly, it was a chore for some of us:

They've got a pond in their backyard that is nestled so nicely between two large hills - the perfect combination for skating and sledding on a wintry day.

And thanks to the arctic clippers that keep making their way through St. Louis, the sub-freezing temperatures have worked their magic on the pond - rendering it frozen solid. This is pretty unusual around these parts - we tend to get much more reasonable temperatures in the wintertime.

The day was full of smiles, sleds, and snow boots.

Not even a few crashes on the way down could dampen the fun. It was kid heaven.

And the pristine, perfect day was topped off by rounds of hot chocolate and grilled cheese sandwiches. I watched it all - the laughter in the beautiful kitchen. The smiles all around the table. Their rosy, red cheeks. The piles of soggy gloves and boots.

And I said a silent prayer of thanks for this unexpected gift of a day.

My only fear is that their hearts will break when they have to get on the bus and head back to school tomorrow.

Putting the trash out (a.k.a: Keeping it real)

Travelin' Oma wrote a very thought-provoking post yesterday. She talked about assessing whether the posts we write are real reflections of our true selves or if they are merely the best of us put on display. (She really says it much more eloquently than that. Click over and read her post. You won't be sorry).

But it got me thinking about my own blog and the part of my life that I choose to reveal here.

Do I often intentionally put my best foot forward, ignoring my many faults and failings?

You bet I do.

I don't want to look back years from now at this silly record of our everyday lives and wonder if all I did was complain about how annoying my kids are.

But I also don't want to look back and know that the sugary sweetness I posted about was not how I really felt every second of every day.

It's a tricky balance - sorting between the reality of our lives and the way we'd like them to be.

In hopes of striking a more symmetrical record, I am going to treat you to a little bit of my trash today. It is with much trepidation that I give you a taste of the real Stie, in all her grainy, un-photoshoppped, un-made up, bags-under-the-eyes glory:

Yikes.

This is the sight the Husband gets has to see first thing every morning. Poor guy.

And for your judging pleasure, here are a few real things about me that you may or may not have known:

I am a clean freak, but that does not mean there are not scary closets and drawers in my house. I have a storage room in my basement, as we speak, that would cause anyone great physical injury if they tried to walk through it, so mountainous are the massive piles of stuff.

I am very vain. I spend a lot of time worrying about what I look like. I will not go to the store without my hair done and my face fully made up. I absolutely think sweats should never be seen in public. And, yes, I judge those who do.

I am also highly self-critical. You would think with all that time spent primping that I would be more happy with what I see in the mirror. I'm not. I constantly second guess every single thing I do and say. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be good enough for myself.

I am not good with confrontation. If I have an issue to work out with someone, I am of the, "let's bury it deep and never speak of it again" variety. Passive aggressive, much? I wrote the book on it.

Lastly, I sometimes dread the hours between three and five p.m. every day. While I am excited to see my kids come home, I really dislike helping them with homework. They're all tired, cranky, talking a mile a minute, and seem to need something from me at the exact same minute. I've also usually procrastinated and am trying to get dinner ready during that time, as well. I feel pulled in so many different directions that some days I think my head will explode. It's my least favorite time of the day.

So there you have it. A little bit of reality - for better or for worse.

What I'd really like to see now is YOUR reality. Post a picture of yourself sans make-up, and put a little bit of the trash out for the rest of us to see. That way, years from now when we think we were nothing but perfect, we'll know the real truth.

And we'll like each other all the more for it.

Just trying to obey my president

I feel proud in admitting that my life is anything but glamorous. Our daily routine is about as far as you can get from the paparazzo-stalked lives of those I see on the covers of my favorite smut mags at the grocery store.

Unlike a lot of the celebrities on those covers, I am not thin and starving. Vera Wang does not dress me. I have the unfortunate privilege of having to style my own hair every morning. And nobody is standing out on my front lawn hoping to catch a glimpse of me in juicy sweatpants, wearing no make-up.

Lord help us, that would be quite a fright for the paparazzos now, wouldn't it?

But what my life lacks in spontaneous excitement, it definitely makes up for in predictability.

And being the OCD freak that I am, I like me some predictability. It's reassuring and familiar. A warm blanket of routine and order. You can count on it to be there, come rain or come shine.

For instance, I can predict, with almost one hundred percent certainty, which of my three children will not like dinner on any given night.

I can predict who will be bored at which movie. And who will whine the most when dragged through which store. There is a certain comfort in the familiar and habitual behaviors that we all have.

Take this girl, for example. I know that my mini-me she will not willingly utter a word in the morning to anyone until after she's been fed:

[Sadly, I know that because she gets it from me. I feel you, girlfriend!]

I can also predict that each week, one of the little people in this house (whose name just happens to rhyme with 'Base') will always have a larger pile of laundry than the others. There's the same number of days between washings, but magically he seems to dirty more clothes.

(I'm pretty sure that he's just adverse to actually hanging the clean clothes up.)

And I feel confident in predicting that this little fashionista will never stop raiding my closet. Doesn't seem to bother her that our shoe sizes are not remotely the same either.

Who am I to deny the diva her most critical knee-high boots for afternoon playtime?

But in all the predictability, there is one area which is a source of constant scrutiny for me. It is my eternal struggle between what I want to do and what I know I should do.

Help me, dear friends.

Why is it that when I know I should be eating this:

All I really want to be eating is this?

I think Woodrow Wilson said it best when he said, "If you want to make enemies, try to change something."

Well, Mr. President, I definitely don't want to be making any enemies.

Warm bread and jam it is. If you insist.

Fare thee well, 2009

I am breaking radio silence here at Casa de Stie. (I know. Try to contain yourselves.)

We have had a lovely holiday break, and plan on making the most of the few days we have left. It has been just a fantastic week - lots of movies, books, games, naps, and food. The Husband has been TOTALLY off the grid. We have only ventured out of the house for movies, absolutely necessary grocery store runs, and church. It's been positively heaven. I could stand this life all year long.

Of course, my house would be a wreck.

But it'd be nice to live like this a little more often.

Today I have been pouring over my photo archives -- reminiscing and laughing, cringing and critiquing. And what I decided was this: 2009 was very kind to us. So much so that I find myself on my knees in gratitude and sheer wonder at our good fortune. We've had our challenges, as every family does, but we successfully wound our way through another year -- learning, laughing, crying, and loving.

Here, to ring in the new year, are the highlights from our family. In photo form.

Happy new year, indeed.

Merry Christmas!

Today it begins.

Two glorious weeks with the Husband here, at home, with us. We almost don't know what to say or do, so strange is the sight of each other across the breakfast table.

In light of that happy development, I'm here to tell you that I am taking these two weeks off. I am not putting the pressure on myself of taking time away from him and the kidlings to find things to post about. I may (for my own sanity) sneak away and read a post or two of yours, but it is adios from this blog for a while.

I know. Try to console yourselves.

Before I leave, I wanted to wish you a merry merry via our Christmas card this year. I designed it myself and am quite pleased with how it turned out.

We opted for the trifold this year:

The front looks like this:

Using the lyrics from my absolute, all-time favorite Christmas song, we added photos that matched the words:

(Because they are still TOTALLY wild)

(And because she is definitely more sweet than wild)

(And the gratuitous family shot - practically the only photographic proof of my existence this year. Have got to get better about getting in FRONT of the camera)

And last, but not least, is our top ten list from this year. Every year I think we will run out of things for the list, and every year the kids keep spewing forth their unintended genius. I keep a journal all year long of funny, random things the kids say (and have done so since they were babies). It's become our tradition, and makes us laugh every year.

Merry Christmas, peeps! And a Merry ChristmaHanaKwanzica, too. See you next year!

Lord help me, I love them something fierce

Today there was a shift in the universe. Did you feel it?

It happened about 6:30 tonight. I was driving home after taking one child to tae kwan do, and had carpool duty for the little ballerina and her friends at the same time. Both boys were in the car, begging to be let out as soon as we were within running distance of our neighborhood.

Apparently the soundtrack from Glee, combined with the high-pitched chatter of three little girls, was causing their heads to explode off their bodies.

I gave in today, as I was just too tired to fight them on it.

After dropping off the noisy ballerinas, I headed home, fervently wracking my brain for a dinner plan that did not include the words "Subway" or "Mc" anything. Unfortunately, the brain wracking was not netting me any brilliant ideas.

Tired, with feet hurting, I opened the door to the house and was met by a light, sweet scent. I set my purse and keys by the door and walked through the mudroom towards the kitchen. And then I stopped, a lump caught in my throat.

There were my boys. Cooking dinner. All by themselves.

This was a real first. And my mind could not help but flash back to a time when I'd walk in the door and frequently find my boys doing this instead:

They were an energetic pair, these two, that is for sure. Sometimes so bent on their loud and wild play that a wake of broken things was often left behind them. They destroyed a historic landmark and nearly caused me death by embarrassment in the process. Not to mention became walking birth control advertisements for more than a few younger siblings.

But here today, these once-terrors grew up just little a bit, right before my eyes. As I watched McKay confidently flipping the pancakes, and Chase at the stove scrambling some eggs, I got a little teary eyed. I thought back to those hard nights where it was all I could do to not fall down in a puddle of tears before bedtime rolled around. Days spent wrestling them in store checkout lines and then fearfully chasing after them in crowded parking lots. Wondering if they'd be this way forever.

Wondering how I would survive if they were.

But tonight they looked older to me than they ever have before. Chatting pleasantly with each other, they worked together doing such a grown up task. Taking it upon themselves to do something they knew would make my life just a little bit easier. It was a brief window into the men they are becoming. Men who have good hearts. Hearts at home in their sweet, pure souls. I stood there in the shadows, soaking it all in. A tear spilled out, and I caught it before it trickled down my cheek and betrayed my sudden rush of emotions.

Then all at once, Hannah brushed by me, threw off her coat and scrambled up to the bar.

"Yay! Pancakes!"

Yay pancakes, indeed.

Home Economics

A few weeks ago, the Husband and I had the brilliant idea to have the kids do extra jobs around the house and earn money to buy each other presents for Christmas. Since we knew we'd be shelling out the cash anyway, it seemed so much smarter to get three little slaves helpers out of the deal as a bonus.

Seemed being the operative word here.

Day one of their bondage helping began. I wanted them to really feel that they earned the money. I wanted to instill in them the joy of giving, as well as the pride in doing a job well done. I started assigning little tasks for them to do. After each one was completed, they would come to me and ask how much that job had been worth. I started out very low - one job was worth ten cents. Another was only a quarter. A really big gross job (like cleaning their bathroom) was worth a mere fifty cents.

It took them all about two hours each to earn their three dollars per person (which was the goal for each day).

The translation of that last sentence is really this: They were constantly up in my face, bugging and nagging, for two hours each, while I had to wrack my brain and come up with new jobs for them to do. It got annoying. Real fast.

I'm a cleaner, people! There isn't that much to do around here in the first place.

Over the next few days, the value of the jobs increased exponentially. What was once worth ten cents was now a whopping one dollar. The unpleasant chores became easier for them as the value attached to that chore increased. I found myself paying them to brush their teeth and make their bed. Anything, ANYTHING that was quick, easy, and required no thinking on my part.

And just yesterday, when one child was at my side once again, asking what job could she do, I told her to think of one herself and tell me once she had done it.

She skipped off very excited, naturally.

I am not sure that the lessons they've gleaned from this plan are the ones that the Husband and I had originally dreamed of.

[I fully blame my poor management style, and lack of motivation for the project.]

Essentially what happened in our little experiment was this: The workers in this warehouse are really doing the job of the manager. The actual manager is hiding out in her office shopping online and blogging, praying that no one in her factory needs a thing from her, while writing out paychecks for work she is not sure was actually completed. She has no quality control department and does not want to take on the responsibility of that herself, so all work remains unchecked at this point. The chairman of the board (aka The Husband) is not told what's really happening in his company, and there is an unspoken agreement between all the employees to keep it that way for as long as possible.

I'd say I've taught them about corporate America quite well.

God bless capitalism.

A little bit of happiness

I find myself cranky and overwhelmed these days. I'm tired. My feet hurt. My hands are cracked and dry. The holiday shopping is still not done. And I look down in dismay every morning to find that the bulges and bumps on my rear end seem to be mating at an alarming rate.

It's enough to drive one to drink. Or overindulge in chocolate. And caramel popcorn. And fudge. And...

You get my drift.

Instead of focusing on all that I need to do or on all that I've not done well, I'm going to focus on a few things that are bringing me a colossal amount of joy today.

Top of that list is this beautiful display:

Since I freakishly obsess over our own card every year, it should not be surprising that I fall down giddy with glee over yours. Every time I walk past these doors, my heart skips a happy, little beat. I love reading your letters and seeing how big your kids get every year. I love walking out to the mailbox and finding an envelope with our name on it. Scrawled in lovely handwriting, addressed by you, with care, to me.

Just makes the day a little better, you know?

I think we should send cards all year long. Mail in February and March would be so much more cheerful if there were something in it besides bills and more bills. Doncha think?

Next slice of joy is the fact that I completed about six dozen of these beauties today, just in time for a cookie swap tomorrow with friends:

I don't necessarily go for the cookies (gasp!) as I can pretty much bake my own any day of the week (and frequently do). But it's such a nice way to spend the morning - chatting with friends in a cozy, warm house. A cup of hot chocolate sizzling in my cold hands. The stresses and worries left at the door. I look forward to it every year.

Next up is a little indulgence I treated myself to. These lovelies, courtesy of the Container Store, sit proudly in their new home on my counter. Snacks at the ready for little hungry fingers to grab. I've had my eye on them for a few months now, and finally just decided that I deserved them.

Which I really don't. But whatever.

They're my little Christmas present to me.

And last, but not least, are these videos sent to my kiddies, straight from the North Pole. I think the younger two have watched theirs at least eight times in the last 24 hours. It's definitely helped up the magic for them this year and kept at least one from not believing.

Which I'd say is pretty freaking fantastic.

Whose Child Is This?

Lately I've noticed my kids doing some weird things.

Since I know that my personality contains NO weirdness whatsoever, I can only assume they get these things from their father.

What? I'm not weird.

Shut up.

Case in point: Child number one

This boy leaves for school at the unholy hour of 6:40 a.m. every day. He likes to wake up at 5:40 a.m., shower, eat breakfast, and sit for an hour -- waiting until it's time to go. I have tried sneaking in and setting his alarm back a bit, but he always catches me and resets it. I cannot convince him that the extra sleep in the morning is better than staring off into space for an hour. Because I feel guilty sleeping while he is all alone downstairs, I drag my bleary-eyed self down every morning and stare off into space with him.

He has also figured out that he can ask me for things and get a yes because I'm too tired to really process the information. Like this morning when he asked to have cookies for breakfast and I nodded? Totally thought he was asking for something else.

While I love and adore this child to no end, I really could use some extra sleep in the morning.

Child Number Two:

This child has recently become obsessed with J.R.R Tolkien's, The Hobbit, and has spent every waking minute reading it. When he's not devouring the book, he's following me around the house giving me a play-by-play of the latest chapter. He took great delight in sharing an excruciatingly detailed account of the giant spider that wraps people up in cocoons.

I love him, but really could do with a little less giant spider/cocoon detail in my life.

Child Number Three:

This girl has recently decided she is in charge of styling her own hair in the morning. I reluctantly gave up that creative control on the weekdays, and have tried to look the other way when she walks out the door sporting very creative buns or funky barrette placement (and usually a combination of the two). Today was Crazy Hair Day at school, and, honestly, I could not tell a difference from her regular hair days.

I love her and want her to be able to express her individuality while learning to master her own hair, but would it be wrong to send a note to the teacher explaining that I'm not in charge of her hair anymore?

Yes, I think we can safely blame the husband for all of these quirks.

Keep quiet, Mom. You know my hair always looked good. Especially those giant waterfall bangs.