Elbows off the Table

Baby, you're a firework

2012-01-14T03:38:00.002-05:00

My baby girl - which I probably shouldn't call her anymore because she's nearly as tall as I am - has been struggling a bit of late. She's going to be an official tween at the end of this month, because that's what happens when you hit the double digits, and that means she's running headlong into self-esteem trauma prime time. Which sucks for her. And it sucks for me, too. Mostly because it breaks my heart to see my smart, strong, brave, beautiful girl think she is anything less than everything.

And yet she does.

Last weekend, she and I took a rare evening together, just the two of us, with absolutely no brothers allowed. We went to the annual Girl Scout sock hop. It's our third year at this mother-daughter dance fest. Lots of elementary aged girls and their moms in poodle skirts, rolled up jeans, and high ponytails.

This year my diva wanted to be a 1950s style tomboy, because she's a tomboy in real life, so she went for the jeans and loafers look. And then she asked for my pearls, as she has every year. A little touch of girl in her tomboy get-up.

She was nervous heading in, which is what pre-pubescence does to a girl. I was, too. Not because I'm pre-pubescent (thank goodness for that), but because I'm not always very comfortable with the girl stuff. I was never a tomboy, but once I hit puberty I just stopped getting the girl thing. It's like everyone else was speaking a language I didn't understand. And while I did eventually learn the language, I'm definitely not a native speaker.

But once we got there, she was good. She ran off with her friends for line dancing and root beer floats and giggly conversation.

The evening flew by, and finally the deejay played his last song, Katy Perry's "Firework." Every girl at the hop ran into the room, crowding in front of the stage. And they erupted in song, fists in the air, singing out with the passion of youth and the total understanding that who they are is more than good enough.

You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine
Just own the night like the Fourth of July
'Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go oh, oh, oh
As you shoot across the sky

This room full of girls, each of them as smart and strong and brave and beautiful as my diva, was shouting their worth out proudly to the world.

It was a moment, just a moment, of watching my diva know for herself that she can do anything, be anything, be everything. A moment of joy and confidence and reveling in the power of being a girl.

It's in there, all that strength and poise and power. And when she's ready, she'll share it with the world.

Love and the art of being late

2011-12-29T02:07:00.000-05:00

My kids tease me mercilessly for my utter lack of timeliness. I am late for everything. Which is a problem if you're a kid going to basketball practice. Or to chorus. Or, well, anywhere.

When you add that little personality quirk to a major holiday like, oh, say, Christmas, with its very many opportunities to be late, it becomes a nightmare of 2 a.m. cookie baking, crazy Christmas Eve day shopping sprints, and overnight wrapping marathons. It's expensive and exhausting.

And it didn't happen this year.

I don't know if it was the impetus of my latest new au pair heading home mid-month, and taking all my childcare with her, or if it was my sister very nearly begging off Christmas because of the never-ending holiday chaos at my house. But something snapped. And suddenly I was on time.

I finished my shopping a full 10 days before Christmas. And snagged some pretty awesome sales, too.

I had the cookies mixed and baked for my diva's holiday party three days early.

And the wrapping was done on the eve of Christmas Eve. Still an overnight marathon, but it meant I slept - mostly - on Christmas Eve proper. Which made for a much more friendly mom when the kids woke me up before dawn on Christmas Day.

I was still late for a handful of Christmasy things, some of them important. Like Peabo's school holiday party. Though I can legitimately blame that on the onlay that broke the day before (mind you, I was on time to the dentist). Of my three, Peabo is - not surprisingly - the one with the least ability to manage the whole "late mom" thing. He always knows what time it is and is constantly adjusting our clocks. Schedules matter to him. They matter a lot. So does being on time.

But, as I told him between gentle apologies, love means taking someone as they come, faults and all. Even if that someone never really knows what time it is.

Love. Forgiveness. Understanding. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?

Though being on time does help.

Whaddya know? Post number 37! Only 20 more to go before the end of the year ...

21 posts

2011-12-29T00:13:00.001-05:00

The last two New Year's ... New Year'ses? New Years? Eh. The last two Eves (see, that works), I've put together a "done list" that talks about the things that got done in the year preceding. It's meant to provide a sense of accomplishment in the face of a daunting, multi-year, to-do list.

Each year my done list includes the number of blog posts I've published. And in case you haven't kept track along with me (and can't see the little archive that appears on the right side of this page), I published 57 posts each in 2009 and 2010. Some kind of weird record in consistency that I promise was not at all planned.

Not this year. This year, I published a scant 35 posts. Until this one goes up. Then it will be 36.

Which is 21 short. And entirely lame.

It's not that I wasn't doing other, deeply legitimate things. I was. Managing my kids, who've had a bit of a rough year. Managing yet another au pair transition, because our lovely, as yet tattoo-free German missed her family and decided to go home 7 months early. Managing work, and one of the biggest projects of my career. And managing my health and my house and my finances.

You know. Living.

I heard on the radio today - which I was listening to in the morning, so you can't really trust what I'm about to tell you - but I heard that if you want to keep your New Year's resolutions, you need to make just one. And you need to forgive yourself and start over if you break it. Which is kind of like how the whole diet/fitness/health thing works. So you'd think I'd be familiar.

And maybe this will be my resolution. To find my bloggy inspiration again. Because I miss the writing.

I miss it a lot.

I Can Fly

2011-11-06T01:48:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was the last official day of soccer. Not that there's been much soccer this season. Between the hurricane, the flooding, and the freak October snowstorm, we've had enough weird weather on the East Coast to make a case for global climate change all on our own. Which means a lot of canceled soccer games.

So today, post-season playoffs began for Peabo. Which was interesting, because my redhead is sick. He's been sick since Friday, running a fever that got slightly higher on Saturday, and slightly lower on Sunday. But we all wanted to go to the game. The weather was mostly warm and very sunny, so I bundled up the redhead and snuggled him up on my lap.

The playoffs were a bit weird. There are five teams in the league. So the 2 and 5 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then the 3 and 4 seeds played a 30-minute game. Then, after a 30-minute wait, the winners played each other in another 30-minute game. The winner of *that* game goes on to play the number 1 seed next weekend for the championship.

Peabo's team - the 3 seed - won the whole playoff shebang. On penalty kicks after their second 30-minute game ended in a 0-0 tie.

If you do all that minute math, it adds up to 90 minutes plus penalty kicks. Which meant we were there long enough for a 6-year-old bladder to need a bit of relief.

So my redhead, feeling the joy of being outside and in something other than pajamas, challenged me to a footrace to the port-o-potties. Except, when we got there, we found them defaced with bad words. Bad words he could read. So he wouldn't use them.

The local middle school, on the very far side of the very large, multi-field field, was open. So I suggested we head up there to find restrooms. Another footrace ensued. He did his business, and then raced me once again back to our seats.

Which means I ran.

In fact, I ran quite far. For me, anyway.

I hate running. Hate it like the chore that it is. I've always felt like I was slogging through pudding just trying to get one foot in front of the other. I am slow and ungainly. Running is totally not my thing.

Except today it was. I ran with my redhead, and I felt fast. I felt like I flew across that field. I even beat him, which sounds ridiculous - I mean he's 6 - but he's a fast 6, and I'm a very slow 45.

And, amazingly, I wasn't breathless. Not even a little. If you'd talked to me right then, you'd never have known I'd run anywhere.

It was awesome.

The last time I tried to run, I was red and flushed and, yes, breathless, and I very nearly passed out. I also injured my hip so badly I could barely walk and spent 6 months in pain and 6 weeks on a daily regimen of ibuprofen.

The last time I tried to run, I weighed 56 lbs more than I weigh today.

I did not feel like I could fly.

Today, I ran. And I flew.

I like being an after.

(Not that I'm going to go run a marathon or anything. I'll leave that to folks like my friend Anne at Mom & Dad Track Stars, who just finished the Marine Corps Marathon and did not throw up. Kudos, Anne!)

No time

2011-10-26T04:50:00.000-04:00

If I had time to blog ... which I don't ... I'd tell you about my son, Peabo. He somehow became a teenager overnight on me, complete with stinky teenaged feet and a compelling need to use (moderately) foul language around his mother.

That last part? Totally won't fly.

He wanted total world domination for his birthday. Again. He got this cool book called Rule the World: 119 Shortcuts to Total World Domination from his grandparents. Now he's well on his way.

I'd tell you about the cupcakes I made for his party: Martha Stewart's mint-filled brownie cupcakes. Not one of the kids liked them, except for my diva, but she likes brussels sprouts, so you never know with her. I'm still transitioning from the Big Get Healthy to the Big Stay Healthy, so I couldn't even try them. I was smart enough to bring a back-up cake to the party, though. Talk about over-prepared - I mean, who brings a back-up dessert to a birthday party? But at least all those brownie cupcake haters had something sweet and sugary to chase down their pizza and popcorn.

I also made Peabo cinnamon buns from scratch, and the world's most chocolatey brownies, also from scratch. My first ever from-scratch brownies. And homemade mac & cheese with chicken and ham and broccoli. It tickled me pink that my Peabo, who used to eat nothing but chicken nuggets and frozen pizzas, wanted a slew of homemade birthday treats. Needless to say, I made him everything he asked for.

If I had time to blog ... again, I don't ... I'd tell you about how the crazy dog is no longer satisfied with barking at my beautiful children but is also herding them and occasionally nipping at them, and twice left little bitty tooth bruises on my Peabo's thigh. This, after all my researching and training and learning to use a clicker and pretending I don't mind having stinky, oogy fingers from treating my dog with cut up hot dogs and chicken. We're now down to the last option, the one where I call the rescue group and suggest that we may not be the right family for this beautiful dog. They are investigating. But I think the upshot of it is, perhaps, that kids with loud voices and spectrummy tantrums do not work and play well with border collie. We are stressing him out.

We'll see how it goes.

If I had time, I'd tell you about the afghan I started knitting, with fat circular needles in a rich purple and olive. It's for a friend. I think she doesn't read the blog, but if she does, well, dear, it's NOT for you! (It is, but we'll keep that between the rest of us.) I made up the colorwork myself - the pattern was for a solid - and it's blending beautifully. Except that not having time to blog means I have no time to knit, either, so I probably won't finish it until 2015. If I'm lucky.

I don't have time, though, to tell you about it. Instead you get little snippets that are not particularly well thought out.

Better than not blogging at all. Right?

And now I'm going to bed.

The Big Get Healthy, part deux

2011-10-07T18:57:00.000-04:00

As of today, I'm an "after."

Before, with my diva,
at Christmas time

21 weeks ago I was a "before." I hated looking at pictures of myself because I didn't recognize the woman I saw. I could no longer zip my size 14 jeans, mostly because I needed 16s and couldn't bring myself to buy them. I was obese and sedentary. I wasn't sleeping. And even a little bit of stress sent me diving into a carton of mint chocolate chip.

I couldn't live that way anymore. Because of the pictures and the clothes and the bad example I knew I was setting for my kids. And because it wasn't me. So I called my longtime friend, Rhoda Waiss, now a health coach with Take Shape for Life. And I asked her for help.

That's exactly what she did. She helped.

A week later I started my Big Get Healthy.

It's a journey, and it's not over. Maintenance is a lifetime commitment.

But this stage is over.

Because today, I'm an "after."

After ... I'll get a
better picture, promise!

Today, I wear a size 4. Well, sometimes a 6, but just as often it's a 4. I wear jeans without lycra, and I can button them too. I can fit into my prom dress, which I know because today I tried it on. And it zipped, or, well, it would have if the zipper weren't broken because it's spent the last few years in my daughter's costume box. But I could clutch the edges together comfortably. And that's around a waist that has grown around 3 very large babies.

Today, I move. I take the crazy dog for a nice, long walk nearly every day. I avoid elevators and take the stairs whenever I can find them. I lift hand weights during conference calls and do sit-ups when I watch TV. I park far away from where I want to go ... and then promptly lose my car. But just think of the calories I burn hunting for it!

Today, when I get stressed ... well, I stop sleeping, as always. You can't be all healthy all the time. But I don't turn to food. I make an herbal tea and vent on Facebook.

I've lost 51 pounds.

And I'm happy. Because the woman in the mirror is the woman I expect to see. A little tired, maybe, with her fair share of crow's feet and a sprinkling of gray hair hidden artfully by highlights. She's 45, after all.

But she's me. And I'm happy she's back.

Directionally Challenged

2011-09-29T08:09:00.001-04:00

I do lost. I do it brilliantly. It is, in point of fact, one of my greatest skills.

My sister has complained that after living in and around a certain major metropolitan area since, oh, say, the day I was born, I probably ought to know where its neighborhoods lie and how they connect to each other.

I do not. I get lost. Even in the city of my birth.

And gee, that's fun.

On Saturday I dragged my two youngest kids to the biggest mall in our area. A great big outlet style mall. Big, big parking lot. So big, in fact, that it features valet parking at three different entrances.

I know my own deficiencies. So whenever I go anywhere - work, the grocery store, the colossal mall with 87 movie theaters - I park in the same place. Always. I pick one favorite row. I know where it is. I walk down it until I find my car.

Brilliant, right? It works every time.

Unless, of course, said mall has decided to do massive construction on its parking lots. Hence the valet parking. Because there is no parking. None.

I don't pay to park at the mall. There's a sort of ridiculousness in paying to park when you're paying to shop. So we avoided the valet and, after driving around for 15 minutes, lucked into a little, hard-to-find space as someone else was leaving it. The space was not in my row. It was in the unfamiliar hinterlands. I made a mental note that the car would not be where I expected it to be. I studied landmarks. I asked my kids to help. Then we bravely left our little car to fend for itself.

In the mall, I dropped insane amounts of money on child-sized fall clothes. I'm not sure why my kids keep growing out of stuff. Possibly it's because they're kids. Oh, but I found a pair of dress pants I could wear to work, to replace all the ones I don't have anymore. And they were a size 4. 4! I'm not even kidding.

But I digress.

I got a text at that point to come pick up my oldest from his playdate. So we trucked back around the mall loaded down with our big bags of stuff, exited ... and spent 40 minutes trolling the parking lot for our red minivan that looks just like every other red minivan in this part of the world. Ours wasn't there. I pressed my panic button. No answering honk. I pressed it again. And again and again and again. Still no honk.

So we went back in the mall. Where we realized we'd come out the wrong door.

When we went out the right door, we found the car, right where we left it. So we got in it and drove straight home.

Or we would have. Except I got lost doing that too.

That'll teach me to leave the GPS at home.

Wrap Me In Happy

2011-09-23T23:38:00.026-04:00

I found myself in my basement earlier this week. It doesn't happen often, because my basement is scary as hell. My ex-husband collected pretty much every collectible thing ever made, and he left all that collectible detritus behind him when he moved out. Now there are mazes of old boxes and the empty wrappers of baseball cards everywhere. It's a rodents paradise.

I don't have rodents, of course. I mean, who the hell knows, really, rodents are squirrely little things. But since my basement is also full of mousetraps, I seriously doubt it.

So I was down there, climbing over the tipping towers of crap in search of Peabo's old size 7s to pass down to my redhead, when I ran into a treasure trove of clothes. My clothes. My old, teeny, tiny, I used to be a skinny person clothes.

Skinny for me predates Peabo, which means this stuff is really, really, colossally old. Like, 14 years or better. And I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. But some stuff you just can't part with.

Like the first interview suit I ever bought, back when I was in grad school.

The only bridesmaid's dress I had that I ever considered wearing again. Except that I squeezed into it pretty much that just that one day before I grew right out of it.

An old, blue sheath dress that once fit me like a glove. I don't remember where I wore it, but I remember I felt fabulous in it. And that was apparently reason enough to keep it forever.

The slim-waisted, full cut white skirt my mom bought me for my birthday the summer after eighth grade.

The nearly backless, slit-up-to-here revenge dress I wore to my 10-year high school reunion, where I knew I'd run into my very recent ex. I'm pretty sure he didn't notice, and actually it wasn't really that racy, because when you get right down to it I'm just not that flashy. Or revengy. But it gave me the courage to walk into the room, and that's all I needed that night.

And a whole slew of what we'll call vintage Victoria's Secret - that is, some very pretty bras that I retired when I was pregnant with Peabo and never fit back into. They all have real wire underwires. Can you imagine? Real wire.

It all fits. Even the skirt my mom bought me when I was 14. Granted, it's snug. But it buttons. And I can sit down in it. And it still fans out beautifully when I spin around. Which I most definitely did when I tried it on.

That's what happens when you lose 47 pounds. You fit into not just your skinny clothes, but your very skinny clothes.

Most of this stuff is ridiculously dated. I'm talking giant shoulder pads and pocket hankies here, folks. But it fits. And while I may never, ever wear it, I put every bit of it back into my now empty closet.

Right next to the size 14s I can't bear to part with.

The black and white dress I bought at the Loft on the one and only shopping trip I've ever made with both my sisters together.

The dark orange shirt with 3/4 sleeves that I bought for my very first post-divorce date.

The soft gray sweater that made me smile every single time I put it on, mostly because someone once told me I looked pretty in it.

The form-fitting blue dress I wore on a very special Christmas date with my fella. I still remember walking home, warm and happy, in tall black pumps that left soft prints in the snow that had fallen ever-so-gently while we were at dinner. It's a great dress.

My closet is empty now, but for this handful of outdated or oversized memories. I've shrunk right out of pretty much every single thing I own.

I miss my clothes. I don't miss the extra weight, of course. And I don't want to fit back into that stuff again. But I miss my clothes. I miss the memories, and the feeling you get from wearing something that wraps you in happy.

Time to make some new happy. Which would be a lot more fun if I didn't have to go shopping to do it.

When Mother Nature Is Out to Get You

2011-08-30T01:01:00.007-04:00

Last week, we started school. Which has led to some musings. Random musings.

First, math.

Do you remember 8th grade algebra? I do. Loved my teacher, Mrs. Vaughn, who taught me to enjoy math and take some pride in an ability to do it well. I still can't add long columns of numbers, and I'll never know my multiplication tables by heart. But at one point I could do both well enough that I managed a whole year of algebra with a cheap-ass calculator. Peabo and his generation, however, are apparently so mathematically challenged that their 8th grade algebra class requires the firm plunking down of $140. For a calculator.

A calculator that comes with a USB cord and 20 pre-installed apps. It's like an iPod, only, you know, not.

Actually, I could have bought him an iPod at that price. It has a calculator built in. And for a measly $4.99 you can get Angry Birds, too.

That thing does make graphs, though. For my fine-motor challenged Peabo, that's a plus. (Note: math pun. Ha ha.)

Second, the first day of school. Which should maybe be first, not second, except that we bought the calculator first. Or rather, hemorrhaged money in the direction of the local office store.

Our first day of school was rather interesting because after the full backpacks and the big breakfast and the cheery pictures of the kids, there was the earthquake. Because we live on the East Coast, and earthquakes are a fact of life out here.

Except they're NOT. Not ever. So my kids spent their first day of school diving under their desks and then sat outside for two hours getting sunburned for the sake of safety.

For which I am grateful.

My redhead's assessment of his first day of first grade? "The best part was when the earth started shaking! That was awesome! Can we do it again?"

Oh, please no.

But that wasn't enough. Because into the chaos of tracking down med forms and prescriptions and picking up last-minute supplies for the middle schooler, we also added a hurricane.

Yeah, that was fun. We spent hours stocking up on non-perishable food and water in case the power went out (oddly enough, ours didn't - I say oddly because pretty much the whole rest of the world around our one little block is still dark). And then I dragged all the deck furniture inside and stowed my trash cans and pulled my basketball hoop down so it wouldn't blow over.

My kids freaked out. My au pair freaked out. They asked me about flooding and thunder and wind. They stayed up late and panicked. And that's with me firmly NOT telling them there might be tornadoes. Aren't I a good mom?

Of course, I knew there might be tornadoes, so I didn't sleep a wink. My basement is uninhabitable, so I put my kids in a room that was safe from falling trees and spent the night listening to the radio for tornado warnings.

Brilliant recipe for a cranky weekend. Stressed out, sleep-deprived kids combined with physically exhausted, sleep-deprived mom. Fun fun.

And then they stayed home from school. Because although our area was spared the floods that hit farther north, so many trees are down, so many homes and businesses are without power, that school's been canceled for two days now. Likely with more to come.

After the chaos of a vacation that bumped headlong into the back-to-school weekend frenzy of shopping and haircuts and more shopping, school should have been a break. It should have gotten us back to the routine. And we love that routine. I love it. My kids love it. My aspie especially loves it. Even my new au pair loves it.

So far, no routine. Only natural disasters. And a $140 calculator.

Pampering

2011-08-26T23:50:00.000-04:00

This is what pampering looks like.

It looks like being met at the airport with a great big giant hug and a loving tolerance of your inclination to walk into walls when you're heavily dosed with Xanax. (I also walk into walls when I'm not dosed with Xanax, but we don't need to mention that.)

It looks like being cozily tucked into bed under a downy, huggy comforter to sleep it off.

It looks like being whisked away to a gorgeous resort at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. A room with a stunning view of the city and its bridge and its bay, a cozy gas fireplace, and little thoughtful gifts that make a woman's heart sing.

And golf carts. They had golf carts, and they'd drive you places in them. That was kinda cool.

It looks trips to museums and gardens and sips of tea, movie dates and dinner dates, and a snuggle in front of the TV.

It looks kinda awesome, is what it looks like. I don't get many days off - the single parent lifestyle is a wee bit constrained. But when I do, well, it's really lovely to have someone to share them with, and who will spoil me rotten while he does.

33 Pounds

2011-08-08T23:11:00.040-04:00

Okay, so now my blog looks like something designed by a perky tweenager with a sherbet fixation. Sheesh.

That's not my topic of the day, however. This is.

You know that Big Get Healthy thing I've been doing? Well, at this point, I've lost 33 pounds.

Pausing now for dramatic effect.

That's 33 pounds. 33 pounds that took my Body Mass Index from obese into the very top end of "healthy" for my height. 33 pounds that finally, for the first time in a decade, have me weighing less than my driver's license says I do.

33 pounds that have shrunk me right out of my entire wardrobe.

Given that I'm not finished yet - seriously, I've got about 18 pounds to go, and YES that's a healthy weight. But given that 18 pounds is a whole other clothing size, I don't want to invest in much right now. The thing is, when your pants are falling off and even your unmentionables have become unmentionably large - because after your third child you just gave up and kept all those oh so comfy maternity bikinis - you realize you need to go shopping.

My reward for passing that driver's license landmark was that I got to buy new unmentionables from a certain world-famous, colossally expensive and slightly snooty lingerie store. Mostly because the last time I was there I stood in the dressing room and cried because nothing fit and I looked horribly ugly. And so I left, vowing never to return.

On the way there, though, I got distracted by Ann Taylor. Which is easy to do. I love their stuff. And it's the end of season clearance. And I found a really pretty purple dress, a silky fancy thing that I could wear, maybe, to my sister's wedding next summer. I was holding a 10. And then an 8. And then a 10. And then the saleswoman asked me if I needed help.

"Um ... I've lost a lot of weight recently and I don't know what size I am anymore."

"Oh, honey," she said, looking me over. "You want the small."

So I took the 8. And a size 8 skirt. Two small tops. And a really stunning knit wrap dress that would have looked horrifyingly awful on me 3 months ago. Also an 8.

I tried on the wrap dress first. Fit like a glove. Made curvy things curvy. Made the middle all slender and sleek. It fit. It fit beautifully.

And I cried.

And then I tried on the purple dress. In an 8. And it was too big. Too. Big.

I know they make sizes bigger today than they used to. But still. This body hasn't seen an 8 since 1994, when I was between boyfriends, working out 4-5 days a week, and flirting outrageously with the fella I'm dating now (oddly enough), who steadfastly refused to ask me out like I wanted him to (for a lot of very good, very gentlemanly reasons).

And it's never, ever, ever seen a 6.

So I cried. Because 12 weeks ago I could no longer button my size 14 jeans. And I didn't want to go up another size. 12 weeks ago, I'd crossed that invisible line between overweight and obese. And I didn't want to get any bigger.

But it's not just about being thinner. It's about being happier. Healthier. More active. Less stressed. Sleeping better.

It's about setting an example for my kids of what a healthy life looks like. And being there for them when they teach those lessons to their own kids.

Those wonderful ladies at Ann Taylor? They sold my teary self that full-price wrap dress that I didn't need. With a 30% friends and family discount because, they said, I deserved a celebration.

I really hope it fits when I'm finished.

...
I'm not doing this solo. I've been lucky enough to work with health coach Rhoda Waiss, a long-time friend who works with Take Shape for Life. She's got a web site of her own at feelfabnow.com. This isn't a sponsored endorsement. 'Cause it's not like anyone would pay me to blog. Certainly not with this ridiculous cotton candy design, anyway. And yes, I'll be changing it very, very soon.

Now We Are 6

2011-08-02T23:13:00.000-04:00

It's been so long since I blogged that I barely remembered my password. Well, it's been two weeks. Not really that long. Which just goes to show you how bad my short-term memory is.

And because I seem completely unable to hold onto a train of thought for longer than 30 seconds, this is going to be a bit of a random ramble.

Here goes.

We are on our 4th au pair in 4 months. I swear I'm not that bad a host mom. Really.
In April we said farewell to our beloved Belgian au pair, who was with us 18 months and left as she was meant to. Then came the manny, who, well, just did not work out and left us at the end of that month. In June, we welcomed our beloved, formerly purple-haired German, whom we loved and who loved us. But a family emergency called her home, oh, about two weeks ago (oddly, that would be the last time I blogged). So, on Sunday, we welcomed a young German whose hair has never been purple. She is sweet and sincere, albeit utterly fried today. I think we are wearing her out.
Yesterday, my redhead hugged her. I can't remember the last time he hugged an au pair who hadn't already been here for at least 3 months. He is not a kid who touches. He hasn't let me kiss him since he was 2, and I'm his mother, for crying out loud.
He did kiss me today, though. On the arm. He never does that.
He did not, however, let me kiss him. I asked.
When our formerly purple-haired German had to fly home, I called my former mother-in-law in the wee hours of the morning and left a message that said, very quietly, "help." She was in her car even before I woke up the next morning. She stayed for 3 days, bonded with the grandkids, spoiled them rotten, and gave me a big giant helping hand. She rocks.
Then we went to the beach for a whole week with an awesome mom friend and her son, one of Peabo's best buds. The kids watched lots of TV, played lots of video games, discovered the joys of hand-dipped donuts and spent hours in the ocean. It was awesome. And that's despite the constant bickering my kids subjected us to. They gave Peabo's only-child friend a lesson in sibling rivalry I am certain he will never, ever forget. I'm so very proud.
There was no internet at the beach. Which means I got lots of sleep. And I finished Middlemarch. I'm not sure how I got through as many courses on 19th Century novels as I did without once reading George Eliot. She rocks too, you know.
I also read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. With the kids. We haven't finished it yet: it goes kinda slowly when you're reading a few pages at bedtime every night. Reading it used to be a chore because the redhead hated it. Now he loves it. I think that's because he has a scar on his forehead (seriously, he does), and his birthday is the day after Harry's.
Because I know you're an enormous Harry Potter fan - isn't everyone? - I'm sure you've realized my redhead's birthday was, in fact, yesterday. And that means means that my redhead, who was 5 before yesterday, is suddenly and most unexpectedly 6.
I gave him a book that uses the word "jackass" twice. It's okay, though, because it's describing an actual jackass and the book is damned funny. We read it over dinner last night, and all three of my kids cracked up, out loud even, and the redhead's read it twice more on his own. It's Lane Smith's It's a Book. Check it out. Though if you've got any issues with introducing your younger kids to that kind of mildly cussworthy snark, you may want to hold off. My guy invented snark (we call it self-defense when you're the youngest of 3). So I'm good with it.

And that's the biggie. My baby is 6. I'm trying hard not to be misty about that. Which probably explains why I went for the snark.

PS For those who don't know, Now We Are Six is a brain-stickingly brilliant book of children's poems by A. A. Milne.

Sibling Issues

2011-07-15T23:32:00.001-04:00

One thing I've always loved about my kids is that they are a team. I've tried very hard to foster that. I think it's a significant part of my job as a mom to make sure the kids know they have each other, now and always. They lift each other up, back each other up, because that's what siblings do.

A few years ago, when Peabo was maybe 9 and his sister not quite 6, they showed me they got it. Peabo was playing his first season of basketball, which he loved. And loves. He was sitting on the bench in maybe the 3rd period, watching the game, when he spotted a gaggle of very tall middle school girls in a part of the gym where people are Not Supposed to Go. So, being the rule follower that he is, he got up from the bench (did I mention he picks and chooses his rules?) and followed them in there to tell them to leave. I didn't notice this. I was watching the game. But my diva did. She went in after her brother. Good thing, too. Peabo asked the big girls to leave. They told him no. He asked them again, because that's what he does. In fact, he insisted. They said no. One of them pushed him. And then my teeny little diva, still in Kindergarten, planted herself in front of those big scary girls and said, at the top of her lungs (and she's got really big lungs), "Don't you touch my brother! He's a GOOD. GUY."

At which point an entire gym full of grown-ups turned to look, rescued my kids, reprimanded the tween-to-teens, and went back to the game.

That's having your back, is what that is. That's what sisters do, right? I mean, my sisters do. Both of 'em. My brother, too. It's the awesomeness of siblinghood.

And I think my kids have forgotten that.

These days, Peabo is heading headlong into puberty, and I think it's changing the chemical mix that defines who he is and how he responds to his world. Some of his behaviors are suddenly things he can manage. And some are ones it seems he no longer can.

And, despite being more than three years his junior, I think his sister is in much the same boat, with puberty on the not-so-distant horizon. Which means that now, suddenly, her brother embarrasses her.

So she watches him like a hawk. Did he brush his teeth? Wash his hands? Is he chewing with his mouth open? Talking when it's full? Is he drumming or singing or singsonging? Is he dancing at the table? Is he repeating his favorite phrase ad nauseum? Which is, oddly enough, "OBAMA!" ... which just recently supplanted "WAFFLES!" ... I really don't know why.

But she hovers, waiting to catch him. Which she often does. And then she's on him like white on rice. Only it's a snide, nasty, and even physical kind of rice. Or, um, white.

Bad metaphor.

The redhead isn't much better right now. He's figured out that Peabo doesn't always listen, or that he can't. ADHD can do that to a kid. So when the readhead really wants his brother to hear what he's saying, which is usually when he's mad, and often when he's not, he doesn't just say it. He screams it. Very very loudly.

It's like Peabo's siblings are angry with him 24x7. And they have no hesitation to let him know it. They're not exactly nice about it either.

And it hurts. It hurts him, and it hurts me too.

They love him. I know they do. And I have a lot of faith that they will come back to that, and to being a team. I'm trying everything I can think of to foster that. But right now, it's not working. And while I'm blaming pending puberty for the changing dynamic, it could just be the way they're handling Peabo's kind of special right now. I've always believed having Asperger's in the family is a good thing for all of us. We learn patience, tolerance, and a new way to look at ourselves and the world. We see difference in a different way. But this is their home. And maybe they sometimes need a little less difference, and a little more same.

I've started a new thing, because the old tricks aren't working. If one of my kids says something mean to another, we all shout "Rabbit!" and then the culprit goes back and starts over, only this time she has to come up with something nice to say. Got everyone laughing last night over dinner and thinking of things they like about each other.

This morning, though, it was back to the screaming and the cranky not getting along.

Can I get a "rabbit," too?

Design

2011-07-13T23:30:00.000-04:00

This is where you can tell I am so not a designer. Because I've been playing with my page, and it's still really ugly. I want to turn my little blog over to my sister (the older of my two sisters ... the one who creates artsy stuff on a somewhat regular basis, even if it's not web stuff) and make her make it pretty, because I've been trying and failing since I started this thing.

But hey, that picture in the background? I took it. And it's actually kinda pretty, albeit kinda hard to see. It's a picture of Paradise, on Mt. Rainier, of a little clump of flowers in the mist there. And I like it. But it doesn't exactly match my theme now, does it? I should snap a shot of a garden full of rosemary, is what I should do. I did try the elbows in the background (you can still see the elbow shot, by the profile). But that big it just looked freaky weird.

If you've got a visual eye, make a suggestion! I'm all ears. Or, in this case, thumbs. Because you can't build a web page with your ears.

Inner Peace

2011-07-04T01:51:00.000-04:00

Next Tuesday, my Peabo starts his Extended School Year program. For most kids, this would be summer school, and it would be full of extra math and reading and other academic gobbledygook. For Peabo and the kids who go to school with him, though, Extended School Year means summer camp. It's outdoors. There's swimming and canoing and trips to the bowling alley. It's fun, loads of fun, because it's all about the social skills.

And that's exactly what these kids need.

For those who don't know, Peabo attends a terrific school that is just right for him because it focuses on kids with Asperger's. It gives them the social, language and fine motor skills they need, along with constant behavioral feedback, and even homework assignments meant to help them fit in - like "wear deodorant" or "shower every day" (when you realize that most of these kids are middle school-aged boys, that assignment makes total sense). And they are working slowly toward mainstreaming, because this private school is set smack dab in the middle of a public school, so the kids attend at least a handful of classes each day with their neurotypical peers.

I love this school.

I love it for many reasons, but the biggest is that now, Peabo has friends. Real ones. Friends he can call and chat with. Friends he can play video games with and have inside jokes with and even small tiffs with.

Last week, Peabo came up with the great idea of getting the gang together before they meet up again at camp. He wanted to have a party at my house, which I am not up for at this point, as I'm still recovering from my 56-day odyssey. So I said, hey, why not get everyone together at the movies?

Which he did. He arranged the whole thing. He called his friends and agreed on a movie and a day. He talked to parents, and handed them off to me when he needed to. He arranged a ride for one friend, set up a meeting place for the others, and made sure his siblings and the one more who joined us were occupied with each other so he and his friends could hang.

All that left me, my increasingly awesome new au pair (seriously - she rocks), and one other mom shepherding 8 kids - 6 of them on the spectrum - through the mall.

It was chaos. As we wandered through the Food Court, and the book store, and then up to the theater, you could see me and Mom 2 doing constant head counts and then calling, "wait, wait, we've lost one" (usually it was my redhead, who has of late decided that listening and staying in sight are overrated skills that he needn't be bothered with). It was friends talking over one another, laughing too loud, talking Manga and music and battling each other on their DSi's. And battling in real life, too: We went to see Kung Fu Panda 2, and if you're a tweenager who's just seen a kung fu movie, you're going to come out of it believing in your soul that you're the Dragon Warrior and your companions are the Furious Five.

It was awesome.

I spent years fighting to get this for my kid. This exact thing. An afternoon at the mall with his friends, getting goofy and eating too much popcorn.

Today, I watched my diva and my redhead, so accustomed to their brother's kind of normal, accept and enjoy his fabulously quirky friends as just that and nothing more - his friends. And I spent time with other parents who just get it, innately, because they live this life, too.

The movie is all about Inner Peace and how you achieve it (and then kick the ass of the mortal enemy you did not even know you had).

This is my inner peace. This day, and the days like this to come.

And yeah, I liked the movie, too.

56 days

2011-06-30T23:30:00.010-04:00

I just got through 8 weeks without childcare. 56 days. 1,344 hours. And I am still standing. So are my kids. In fact, they were pretty darn fabulous for 8 straight weeks. Cooperative. Cheerful. Eager to help.

I so love my kids when they're like that. I love them all the time, of course, but it's easier when they help.

My friends and neighbors rock. For those 8 weeks, they walked my kids to school and back, invited them for playdates, fed them, hugged them, and even hooked us up with a good sitter.

All that was a lot easier to manage because there was a vacation at the end of it. In Florida, with a beach and a sunset and my fabulous fella. And that part was awesome.

My vacation was also kid-free. It was one of two weeks this summer they'll spend with their dad. I missed my kids. Weird that you can have fun and relax when your heart aches because you left three giant pieces of it back home.

I grew up - at least for a little while - on the Gulf Coast of Florida. We were there for just over a day, and it still feels like home. I don't want to move back there, because I like winter just enough that this barely Southern part of the world is the right part of the world for me. But I want to visit more, and I want to bring my kids.

But not right now.

Two weeks ago, my old au pair came to visit, and to help. Our new au pair came to stay. My kids had a week with their dad. I went off on vacation. Then we said good-bye to our old au pair, with a fanfare of tears. So now we're in full-on transition mode.

You know how my kids do with transitions? It's not pretty.

I don't know why, but my kids keep telling me they're stupid. One little mistake and they go all, "I'm an idiot!" Do yours do that?

Oddly enough, Peabo - the one with Asperger's, the one you'd think would struggle the most with change on this scale - he's the one who's handling it best.

It's the redhead who worries me. But I think he's starting to come around.

I did not get a lot of blogging done in those 8 weeks. I did not sleep much. But the Big Get Healthy is working. I'm not sleeping much, but I'm sleeping more. I'm not moving much, but I'm moving more. And I've lost 22 pounds.

Which means all my pants are falling off while I try to catch up on work, get my kids through yet another transition, and go back to missing my San Francisco sweetheart.

Eh. Who needs pants.

Lightning. Seriously?

2011-06-14T23:27:00.002-04:00

There are a whole lot of milestones you hit as you pass through the post-divorce aftermath. Some good, some bad. On the bad side ... telling the kids. Spending weekends without them. Spending Christmas without them. Handling the first multi-kid vomit fest solo.

But some of them are of the good, life-affirming, independence-asserting sort. Managing your single-income budget. Actually getting divorced. Reclaiming your name. Going on that first, scary, post-marriage date.

You're taking back control. Moving from a life shared to a life defined by no one but you. You set your own path, create your own future.

Pretty empowering.

For me one of the biggest of these affirmational milestones came about two weeks ago. After nearly a year spent taking charge of my finances, cleaning my credit rating until it squeaked, and making copy after copy after copy of every obscure corner of my financial life, I refinanced my house. And in doing so, I became its sole owner.

I own my own home.

And then lightning struck.

I am so totally not kidding about that. Sunday night, I pulled into my driveway in the middle of a torrential downpour, was startled by a shock and a flash and a smashing boom, and the chimney cap and a handful of bricks flew off of my chimney and into the backyard.

My house, to which I have held sole title for not quite two weeks, was victimized by an act of god.

The lightning went through the phone lines. It blew up several phones, two DVRs, and whatever makes my barely-past-its-warranty desktop computer connect to the internet. It also blew something called a "board" in my heat pump, which is a nice way of saying, "Ha! We know you live in the swampy morass that is the Chesapeake Bay watershed so we are stealing your air conditioning!" (Cue evil laugh.)

You would think that after losing the manny (I don't think I ever posted about that, but the manny is long gone: I was so totally wrong about eventually coming to love him), running through a field of poison ivy, and other assorted disasters, ailments and random folderol that make life just a little more annoying ... you'd think, after all that, the rose-colored glasses would have gone slipping off into oblivion somewhere.

You'd be wrong. Though the poison ivy did test me.

You'd be wrong because all that other stuff, all those milestones, all that empowering control over your own life ... well, damn if it isn't downright cheery making.

Odd how a little empowerment can make you immune to lightning.

Ba-dum-bump.

(Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep the bad puns to myself.)

When Poison Ivy Is an Act of Love

2011-06-08T18:50:00.003-04:00

A week ago Tuesday, the kids and I were at my redhead's second-to-last T-ball game. It was screaming hot out. And I mean screaming. Heat index over 100, even after 5:00 p.m. The kind of hot where you sweat just stepping outside.

My redhead is a pro. He ran up to join his team, played all of his three innings, and barely broke a sweat.

My diva doesn't notice heat much either. She found a friend with a soccer ball and spent the better part of an hour running the ball across the field. That girl lives for soccer.

Peabo started well. He headed off to look for a friend of his, and, not finding him, spent some time digging for frogs in the woodsy brush behind the backstop. Found one, too. Little baby frog, and if I'd had my camera I'd have gotten a picture for you.

And then the heat hit him like a Mack truck. He spent the next 30 minutes in a ball on my lap, grabbing my arms and holding on for dear life while he fought waves of heat exhaustion and nausea. We're used to this: it happens every year during the first few summer heatwaves. I fed him water in slow sips, and toward the end convinced him to lie down on the blanket beside me while I poured cold water over his head and neck.

We all went home. He got better as soon as he hit the air conditioning and ate a big old dinner, despite his telling me as often as I'd listen that he was too sick and would not eat a thing. Homemade macaroni and cheese, that's the secret. It's like appetite magic.

Then, two days later, he started to itch.

Three days later he was covered in a rash. A red, blotchy, itchy, uncomfortable kind of rash. So I rushed him to urgent care. Poison ivy. A very bad case. Bad enough that when they said, "Hey, kid, we can make the itching stop if we give you a horribly painful shot of prednisone in your thigh," he said "YESDOITDOITRIGHTNOW!"

So. He had poison ivy.

And that night, I realized, I did too. First in a handprint shape on my upper left arm. Then another handprint on the right. Followed by another. And another.

By this morning, both upper arms were covered in an oozy, reddened rash that was turning stomachs everywhere. The redhead told me quite plainly that I'd have to wear long sleeves or he wouldn't let me hug him. And with good reason: I'm pretty freaky looking at the moment, and all the drying, peeling calamine lotion just makes it worse.

That I disgust a 5-year-old boy is bad enough - who even knew that was possible? But the worst part is that I itch so badly I can't sleep. And my poor body, which just figured out for the first time in years that sleep is not only good but possible, screamed "WTF!" and made me go to the doctor, where I begged and I cried - they even gave me a tissue - and now I have my own steroids that I hope will soon make the itching stop.

Please. Oh, pretty pretty please make the itching stop. I mean, I'm a silver-lining girl. I can see the wonderful in pretty much anything. But there is no silver lining in poison ivy. That stuff is noxious. It is evil in plant form. I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't focus on anything but the extreme and horrific need to scratch.

So I complained on Facebook. My cousin replied, telling me about how our Oma, the Queen of Gardening, once made the great poison ivy sacrifice and put herself between my cousin and the evil weed (I know, I know, that means something else ... but it should mean poison ivy). My cousin got away scott free, not a rash in sight. Not Oma. She was covered in itchy ick, and I'm sure at least as uncomfortable as I am right now.

But that's what you do, right? I hate this poison ivy. But if comforting my son while he's sick and sobbing means poison ivy ... well, then, it means poison ivy. Because there's no way I'm not holding him when he needs me. Poison ivy and all.

I'm really happy for the steroids, though.

Narcolepsy. The good kind.

2011-05-27T23:32:00.000-04:00

I keep falling asleep.

My kids left the house today for their weekend with their dad. Five minutes later, zzzzz on the sofa.

Last night, I put everyone to bed, took a minute to sit down and do a quick email check. Next thing I knew it was midnight and all I wanted to do was go back to bed.

I'm awake for important stuff. Meetings. Driving. Playtime with the kids. But give me a quiet moment, and the last five years of sleeplessness hit me over the head with a big rubber mallet and knock me cold for a good two hours.

This is what life off caffeine will do for a girl.

You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. Not even a little bit. This is a relief. A huge, giant relief. Because somewhere deep in my soul I'd started to believe I'd never sleep again. Never. Which is a scary thing, worse that the worst serial killer nightmare, and since I've had a fair number of those you're-being-chased-through-a-department-store-by-a-bad-guy-who-will-encase-you-in-ice-and-pour-acid-on-you kind of dreams, you can trust me. That's scary.

Of course, I haven't dreamed at all in years. When you don't sleep, you don't have those flashes of dream memory, those moments where you can feel yourself flying through the city streets touching the trees as you go by, or watching a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico and the ocean reflecting colors more vivid and striking than any you'd see outside your own mind.

Who knows, I might even start dreaming again. How awesome would that be?

Assuming, of course, that the serial killers keep to themselves.

The Big Get Healthy

2011-05-24T23:30:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I made reference to The Big Get Healthy. I debated sharing anything else about it. I mean, my success on these types of things is spotty at best.

But I'm having fun, and that bears repeating. Publicly, even.

This whole thing started, though, with some serious unfun. Just over a week ago I stepped on the scale - which I do sometimes - and realized I'd just crossed the teeny tiny line between reasonably plump and not so reasonably anything. Between that and the regular sleeplessness and the lack of movement and the amped up stress ... well, I'm on a fast track to heart disease or diabetes or something equally uplifting. And, in that sense, I'm also setting an unhealthy example for the three little people I'm raising.

So I did something about it. I got in touch with a woman I met when I was a ripe old 17-year-old. She's a health coach. She's awesome.

Just over a week later, I'm on a healthful, well-supported, medically researched diet that is having an impact. And, like I said, I'm having fun. I'm having fun because, while most of the day is heavily proscribed and well mapped out, relatively dull, and totally practical, once a day I get to be all creative and play with a meal in a way that's healthy and good.

For the record, the healthy and good part is just as fun as the creative part.

Sunday night, I had a shrimp salad. Shrimp sauteed in a teeny tiny bit of olive oil, with a clove of garlic, a bit of chopped parsley, 1/4 cup of mushrooms and the juice of half a lemon, served over a bed of greens with 3/4 cup (combined) of tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions, with light balsamic vinaigrette sprinkled over top.

Monday, it was tilapia marinated in a little fresh lemon juice and baked till flaky. I blended up a quick tapenade from 8 gorgeous, fresh green olives with a little parsley and a little more fresh lemon juice and a clove of garlic and some pepper, with 1/2 cup diced tomatoes thrown in at the end, I spread all that over the fish, then stuck it back into the oven. Great olivey goodness, with a cup of steamed broccoli on the side.

And tonight? Hard-boiled eggs - 3 of them - with a cup of steamed green beans, 1/2 cup of tomatoes and diced red peppers, a sprinkle of chopped fresh chives, pepper and 2 tablespoons of red vinegar.

See? Healthy. And yummy enough that Veggie Girl begged me - yes begged me - to make an egg salad for her.

The egg salad's the only one I thought to take a picture of. But if I come up with anything else interesting, I'll let you know!

It's been a week, give or take. That's it. And I realize this is just the beginning of a very long - a lifelong - journey that will keep me well and healthy and give my kids a mom they can emulate and be proud of.

Just a week.

But I'll take it. And you know why? It's not the life lessons I'm learning. Or the 7 lbs I've lost already.

I'm sleepy.

For the first time in years, I'm sleepy. When I'm supposed to be.

Which means it's time for bed. Good night, y'all.

Over-Caffeinated

2011-05-22T01:06:00.000-04:00

You know what's weird? When one cup of coffee does you in. Utterly. Shakes in the hand, woozy feeling in the tummy, kinda wobbly on the legs.

Many many years ago, I gave up all of my caffeine. Every bit. I didn't even eat chocolate. This is because I found a lump and it scared me. I was diagnosed with fibrocystic breast disease, and I decided it was better to be safe (i.e., minimizing cysts by limiting caffeine) than sorry (mistaking a real lump for a cyst and ignoring it).

In the middle of all this decaffeinated goodness, I started dating a fellow who brewed his own beer. Very very yummy beer. He made one particularly yummy brew, a chocolate cherry stout, that we popped open on New Year's Eve. Within 30 minutes, my heart was racing and I was shaking so badly that I couldn't read the cards in my hand (yes, we celebrated the New Year with a card game because I am just that kind of party animal). I was shaking like a madwoman. From the caffeine in a chocolate beer.

Caffeine doesn't like me.

So I ignored it. For, like, six straight years. Until I had my second child, and a full-time job on Wall Street, and I realized that umpteen million years of pregnancy and breastfeeding had made all the fibrous cysty bits go the way of the dodo.

So I had some chocolate. Then I had some more. And some tea. And then, maybe four years ago, a cup of coffee. And then a cup every morning. And sometimes one in the afternoon, too, because Starbucks is just that yummy.

And it seemed to be going okay. Except that today I realized maybe it wasn't.

The past few days I've been on a bit of a nutritional cleansing exercise. It's part of my attempt to Get Healthy (yes, this deserves capital letters, because once you gain that last pound that pushes you across the line into obesity you realize you need to get serious). Getting healthy means eating much, much, much better. It means managing my stress. It means sleeping. Which, in turn, probably means a bit less blogging, but I'm gone so often now I'm sure y'all will hardly notice. I'm gone because the new au pair left, and I'm smack dab in the middle of 8 weeks with nothing but the public school system and a few stalwart friends for childcare, eagerly awaiting the arrival of au pair number 10, who is awesome and asks me questions and writes me emails and introduces me to her boyfriend.

So, the caffeine.

This morning, on Day 3 of the Big Get Healthy, I brewed up a cup of coffee. I left it black, which is just exactly not how I like it. And I drank it. All of it. Because I'd mixed my morning meal into it, and I had to finish the morning meal.

Hey, there, shaky shaky. In 30 minutes flat. Shaky and woozy and vaguely nauseated. After exactly three caffeine-free days.

Caffeine really really hates me. Probably it's time for me to realize I need to hate it right back.

Starbucks, I'm gonna miss you.

Sister's Day

2011-05-08T23:37:00.003-04:00

If I had my druthers, I'd spend my Mother's Day digging in the dirt while my beautifully behaved kids played in the grass around me. I'd have a marvelous meal cooked by someone who isn't me and who wants to wash all the dishes. And the whole world would chew with their mouths closed.

Oh, so not my life. I've got a little too much chaos for that.

I settled for bribing my kids to let me sleep in. I promised them as much TV, video game and computer time as they could manage. Which meant I had a great sleep, with only six interruptions between 6:30 and 10:30 a.m.: two Aspie tantrums, one set of fighting siblings, two beautiful handmade gifts, and one breakfast in bed comprising American cheese, a Nutella sandwich and a very, very tall cup of strawberry chocolate milk.

Yum!

I got up and made a big brunch. Then I broke my own cardinal rule of Mother's Day and washed the dishes.

I brokered 37 arguments, including some with other kids in the neighborhood. I put everyone in time out at least once. I shushed the very loud and annoying barking dog. I bandaged a scraped knee and kissed away some tears. I brokered 15 more arguments and shushed the barking dog again and finally gave up and hauled everyone outside just in time to join a neighborhood walk. Which was great fun, with two dogs and three grown-ups and a passel of kids racing around on various wheeled things, until they hit a particularly steep and curvy hill, where two of mine wiped out, the redhead dangerously so, scraping his left leg from his ankle to his backside, complete with ground-in dirt. I wound up piggybacking my screaming redhead all the way home, holding my dog by the leash, consoling Peabo (my other wipee) with words. Which really doesn't work so well.

My sister arrived as we rounded the corner home.

I have two sisters. This is the one nearest me in age, hair color and height. She hasn't got kids, and my kind of chaos stresses me out, so I can only imagine what it does to her.

And yet, she consoled and played with my diva while I put my redhead into a tub and cleaned off his scraped leg - and if you've ever inflicted that kind of pain on your child, knowing it was what you had to do and knowing you were hurting him badly, you know what that felt like. He wasn't crying alone.

We left the bathroom shaking and sobbing. While I dried him off and bandaged his leg, my sister blew up balloons and sent them whizzing through the air. She made my redhead laugh - actually laugh, after all that - by pointing out that it sounded like a fart. And doing it again. And again.

Then she went downstairs and found a leak in my pipes and a half inch of water in the back of my basement that I wouldn't have discovered until 2012.

She also cleaned it all up.

When I said, "I give up, let's go get pizza," she said, "Yes, let's!" even though she had pizza yesterday.

She let Peabo poke her all the way through dinner. She answered the eternal question, "Do you like waffles?" about 93 times. She listened to my diva's fabulous Mother's Day story that lasted through three car rides and an entire meal. She laughed at the redhead's jokes, and made him laugh right back.

And at the end of the day, she told me she had fun. Despite the screaming and the crying and the barking, and the stressed out, exhausted kids, and the stressed-out and moderately well-rested mom. She had fun.

I know it's Mother's Day. But I'd never have made it through this one without her. So I'm renaming it Sister's Day in her honor.

Because I'm glad she's my sister. And I don't tell her that nearly enough.

9/11

2011-05-01T23:55:00.026-04:00

A few months ago, Peabo learned about Osama bin Laden in school. He learned the facts of the 9/11 attacks. What happened, and when.

Now he will learn that Osama bin Laden is dead.

I will try to explain to him what that means, and what it does not.

It does not mean an end to terror, or an end to war. It does not mean we can get back the lives or the innocence we lost on that September morning. Nor does it mean that our soldiers will get to stop fighting.

I don't want to remember. I don't want to remember the cranky nearly three-year-old and the big deadline at work that kept me from making my usual train into lower Manhattan that morning, and maybe saved my life. Or the view from the bus as we inched our way toward the Lincoln Tunnel and saw smoke and flames erupting from the first tower, then the plane slamming into the second. Or the fear that gripped every person on that bus as the authorities first cleared the tunnel, then sent us through, aware - all of us so very aware - that New York City, that our nation, was under attack. The shock as we watched the towers come down on a little black-and-white TV in the office of a man I'd never met before that day. The dust that was everywhere when I came back to work. And the smell that burned into our nostrils and our brains, and lingered, for weeks afterward.

But I will. I'll remember all of that. I'll remember the former colleague who took me in, four months pregnant and unable to get back to New Jersey, back to my son. The strangers who made sure she and I both had food and shelter. The quiet of busy Manhattan streets deserted of cars. The kindness of the people who lined them, handing out coffee and water to those who fled the devastation. The sacrifices, the bravery of our first responders. The neighbors and friends and friends of friends who died, who escaped, who survived. And the man who gave up his seat for me on the overcrowded train when we were finally able to go home.

I took a breath that day and held it. I held it through the birth of my daughter four months later. Through a change of jobs, a multi-state move, and the birth of my second son. I held it through my divorce, and through all the days that make a life.

Today, I let it go.

Just like that. I let it go.

Nouns, Nouns Everywhere

2011-04-15T00:52:00.000-04:00

I'm a bit slow on this ... but for those who may be as yet unaware, April is Autism Awareness month.

It's April. And I am aware. Because I live on the spectrum with my son. My oldest, my first-born. And I'm lucky, because sometimes I get to take a vacation.

He doesn't.

Which is not where I meant to go with this post, to the fact that Asperger's Syndrome is a forever thing, and that sometimes it makes me sad for the things that he'll miss, the things that will be harder for him. And for his siblings, too. But it's the wee hours of a Friday and my brain isn't firing on all cylinders, because by Friday, I'm usually pretty darn sleep deprived. And after a long week, those rose-colored glasses slip a little down your nose, and not everything is so cheery.

Which I guess is why, when I started thinking about how I'd blog for Autism Awareness, I kept thinking, how much more aware can I be? My kid's very high functioning, and I know that means there's a lot about autism I don't know. But I am aware of his kind of autism. I'm aware of his triggers, his tantrums, and the things that bring him back. I'm aware of how he talks, and how to listen so he feels like he's heard. I know how to help my other two get a word in edgewise so they can feel heard, too. I get them. And I get him.

And then I read this lesson plan on autism from the PBS NewsHour written by my friend at Bigger Box of Crayons. It's a cool lesson plan. A way for kids to learn about other kids, to open their minds and their hearts, to learn something new that will make them better, kinder, more patient people. A way to make a difference for people like my son and the many others who live on the spectrum with him.

The best lesson plans teach the teachers, too. And sometimes even the parents.

My son was my first. And some things that might have been little tiny red flags from a baby Peabo didn't resonate with me as anything other than quirky. Maybe because I had nothing to compare them to. As an infant, he wouldn't let anyone but me and his dad hold him. He never made eye contact for long. He was eight weeks old when I flew him across the country to visit his grandparents for the first time, and he pitched a tantrum so long and so strong over the change in his routine that I had to call a doctor friend for help (she said, "drink a beer," and whaddya know, it worked).

And when he learned to speak, he only learned the nouns. Just the nouns.

His very first word was "happy." I know, that sounds like an adjective, doesn't it? Not to mention an emotion, which Aspies are notorious for misreading. But for Peabo it was neither. It was the first word in his favorite book. So for him, "happy" meant "book," which is most decidedly a noun, a big ole person-place-or-thing kind of noun. Every word that followed was a noun, too, until sometime after his second birthday, after he'd labeled his world and the whole alphabet and given every letter its sound.

Six months later he was reading. Because letters and sounds are objects, too, just like nouns, and his brain is an object-oriented database.

He processes the world in objects. In nouns.

Now I am more aware. Because his parsing his world into parts of speech makes sense to his grammar nut of a mom. His world is just a little clearer to me. And maybe that will give me another way to help him.

If you're feeling more aware, too, take the next step and do something about it. If you're a parent or a teacher, put that lesson plan to work and teach people - of all ages - to understand. E-mail your legislator and beg for increased funding for special education and autism research. Help. It will make a difference.

Because my son lives on the spectrum, surrounded by nouns.

Though I'm very glad that "happy" is one of them. Even if it's an adjective.

Stress and Ice Cream

2011-04-05T23:21:00.003-04:00

I just polished off the tail end of a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the green kind, which, for the record, is the kind I don't even like. When I go for mint chocolate chip, it's the white kind, the natural kind, the Breyers kind. The green stuff? Blech.

This is where I go when I am stressed. To the green stuff.

And these days, it seems to be the only way I know that whole stress thing is even happening.

The single mother of three (amazing, gorgeous, fabulous) kids, who is working her backside off, who is managing budgets and bank accounts and groceries and home repairs and a dog who won't stop barking (but is well loved all the same), who is fighting for (and sometimes against) her tweenager with Asperger's Syndrome, who is mothering a sometimes sad and angry tweenish nine-year-old and a sometimes sad and angry five-year-old who wants his mommy all the time and only gets her sometimes.

Oh, wait, that wasn't a complete sentence.

I think the stress just lives here. It lives here in the loud and the barking and the rarely ever leaving my house. It lives in the bad grammar and the dirty dishes and the kids chewing with their mouths open. It's so present I don't notice it until something happens to make it bigger.

It got bigger. It got bigger because the au pair we've lived with and loved for 18 months had to move on into her own life. And because the new au pair arrived (although I'm sure, now that we've made it through the first week, that we will come to love him, too).

Transitions suck. And kids - especially the little ones - don't really understand good-bye.

They do understand ice cream.

Too bad I'm not sharing.

The "A" Word

2011-03-30T01:34:00.000-04:00

Cussing. Cursing. Swearing. Whatever you call it, my kids are totally obsessed with it. Only I won't let them use the actual words. The first time Peabo dropped an F-bomb on me, he got a 30-minute time-out and a stern talking to. What I hear now is three kids hollering about "the bad 'F' word," "the bad 'B' word," and even "the bad 'O' word."

The bad "O" word. That's a new one.

And that's why I'm talking to my kids about Asperger's Syndrome. I don't want it to be another word we never say.

I read a few autism mom blogs by better informed moms with better therapies and better strategies for working with their kids. And I know many of them have been open and honest with their kids from the get-go, giving Asperger's a name.

I don't think I've been dishonest with my kids, though. I mean, Peabo's in seventh grade, and he's a bright, bright kid. He knows he's different. He's been through endless testing and retesting, through OT and PT, through tantrums and suspensions. When he was mainstreamed, he had a full-time aide and different testing and time in the Resource Room. But it took us forever to get the label. Peabo was identified at the age of three by his very astute preschool director, but despite ongoing, persistent effort, we didn't get a formal diagnosis until he was in 5th grade. So our conversations were not about labels but about differences. About how some people need more help than others. About how everyone has things they do brilliantly, and things they do poorly. About how what works for him doesn't always work for his siblings.

We just never used the word.

For years, I've watched my two younger kids struggle with their big brother's more challenging behaviors. There's the talking and the talking, and the repeating and repeating. There's the tantrums and the threats and the hating to lose. And his siblings have responded ... mostly with fingernail scratches and the occasional kick to the shin.

Not okay.

Veggie Girl's been talking to someone from time to time about her feelings. When this someone heard about the fingernails, she suggested a book: Autism Through a Sister's Eyes: A Young Girl's View of Her Brother's Autism.

So we started talking about autism. And Asperger's Syndrome. We used the words.

There's already one bad "A" word. We don't need to have two. Or three.

I told Peabo about his Asperger's over dinner one night (because the dinner table is where all the best conversations happen). He said, "Asperger's? Huh. May I have more bread, please?"

Since then he's learned from many of his friends that they have Asperger's too. He - and his siblings - have learned more about what that means. We've started the conversation.

I kinda hope it means the kids will stop beating up on their brother. Though, being that they're siblings and all, that's seriously unlikely.

Oh and hey, if you happen to know what the bad "O" word is, do tell. They've totally stumped me with that one.

Kiss Me, I'm Irish

2011-03-19T00:02:00.020-04:00

I celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Despite the hefty dose of Dutch in my blood, there's still a wee dram o' Irish in there, and a great big dram o' Irish in my kids. Their dad is just one generation removed from the green hills of Skibbereen, and while he's not so into the shamrocks, I've taken it upon myself to give my kids a healthy appreciation of their Irish-Americanness.

I celebrate St. Patrick's Day with food, of course, because that's how I celebrate everything. If it doesn't involve a big meal, it's simply not a celebration. Giant, comfort food holidays are the bomb. I'm a particular fan of giant, comfort food holidays that are also dirt cheap. Give me five pounds of potatoes, a big bag of carrots, a fat head of cabbage, a hefty slab of corned beef, some Dijon mustard and a fine bottle of Guinness, and I will give you a St. Patrick's Day meal that could make banshees cry. Though, um, they do that already.

It also makes my kids cry. They each like exactly one thing in this meal, and absolutely nothing else. Hence the tears. The redhead eats the meat (with ketchup), my diva eats the potatoes, and Peabo - surprisingly - gobbles up the cabbage. No protein in cabbage, so I'm not sure where that comes from.

And that's St. Patrick's Day. Big crock pot full of cheap eats, and everyone wears green. No big bouncy bunny handing out baskets full of jelly beans and chocolate. No soot-covered fat man in a red suit passing out gifts. No magic. Just corned beef, cabbage, and kids clad in green.

Except there's supposed to be leprechauns. I didn't know about the leprechauns.

The night before St. Patrick's Day my redhead was apopleptic because he doesn't have any green pajamas. Apparently there were leprechauns coming, and if he didn't have green pajamas, they'd pinch him in his sleep.

At which point I did what any good mother with a freaked out kid would do. I said they weren't real.

Wait, did I say that was a good mother move?

What I was supposed to do, as it turns out, was find the kid some green pajamas, then meet the leprechauns downstairs and help them throw sofa cushions on the floor, dye the milk green, and leave a trail of coins. When you don't know this, though, the little green guys play a trick on you and do nothing at all, leaving you with one deeply disappointed five-year-old the next morning.

So I said they weren't real. I put the kid to bed in brown pajamas. And I ruined the magic.

Did you know about the leprechauns? Because in my day it wasn't leprechauns who did the pinching. It was any budding masochist amongst your group of besties who caught you greenless. I guess in this day and age, that would be considered bullying. So pinch-happy friends have been replaced by leprechauns. Yes, even in school.

Which I found out when the redhead came home, full to bursting with news.

"Mom!" he shouted. "You were wrong! They are real!"

And he told me about green footprints on the windows and tables in the classroom, chairs upended, and chocolate coins everywhere.

The leprechauns couldn't find him at home so they came to his classroom instead.

Magic.

And next year, I'll be able to help. Food and magic? Why that's almost like Christmas.

Positive Dog Training

2011-03-11T00:56:00.000-05:00

March is running away from me.

Might be nicer if March were running away with me. To someplace green and relaxing and warm, with endless acres of quiet. Sleepy, restful quiet.

But no. March is simply running, very quickly, and headlong on into April.

And it's very very noisy.

Turns out that border collie - have you met Oswald, the border collie? Well, it turns out that border collie and full-on Aspie tantrum don't get along so well. We get amped up tweenage Peabo on an "I don't wanna do my homework" tear, and Oz goes "What the heck? That young sheep is misbehaving!" and starts barking the roof down. Which amps Peabo up further. Which amps Oz up further.

My loud house has gotten a whole lot louder.

I've combed through every dog training book I could find - which in my house means exactly one book, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Positive Dog Training, because of course I haven't had time to go to the library and look for more. Did you know that barking is a sign of stress? Much like your typical Aspie tantrum, oddly enough.

I also learned that dogs don't understand English. So I can't tell Oz to be patient because tantrums don't last forever. In fact these days tantrums are generally quite short, unless there's a dog barking nearby feeding the madness. Oz doesn't seem to hear that. He thinks I'm barking too and just barks louder.

So I worked on the other side of the equation: Peabo and his junior cohorts. Every person in this house under the age of 20 now has instructions to lie down the instant the dog starts barking. It's hilarious. Aspie tantrum begins. Dog starts barking. All three children promptly lie down. Dog goes, "Huh?" All three kids giggle. Tantrums - both doggy and human - averted. Because it's really hard to be upset about your homework when you're laughing at the dog. And it's a routine. Routines are genius.

Probably I should have bought the Complete Idiot's Guide to Positive Child Training a few years back. I'm trying treats and clickers on them next.

Gelukkige Verjaardag

2011-02-28T01:33:00.003-05:00

Today is my amazing au pair's birthday.** Or, it was, when it was still today. Given my night owl habits, I think it's tomorrow already.

Birthdays in our house start just one way. With breakfast. Big, gooey, fabulous breakfast. When the diva and the redhead go birthday happy, their preference is always - always - chocolate chip pancakes. And for Peabo it's all meat, all the time. What can I say, the kid likes his protein. Usually he wants sausage and bacon and more sausage with a bit of cheese on an English muffin and a hefty dose of cinnamon rolls on the side to satisfy the little tiny sweet tooth he's been burdened with.

This morning, we made a birthday breakfast for our au pair. And that meant I was up early. Earlier, in fact, than I wanted to be, because my kids take this tradition so very deeply to heart.

The first hit was at 6:00 a.m. On the nose. A full hour before I'd set my alarm to ring.

"Mom! Mom!" That was Peabo. "You wanted to make breakfast for our awesome au pair!"

"Yes, and I will," I mumbled. "But I'm going to go make it after my alarm goes off. Okay?"

He went to go watch the news. It's his latest thing. He tapes the news at night, then watches it in the morning, and we talk about it at dinner. That's pretty cool. (Albeit totally beside the point. But you wanted to know, right?)

Then came the Diva. Who got the same response.

"Okay. Then I'll go make her a card." So she left, and my redhead climbed out of my bed and followed her. (Wait, how did he get there? I missed something. I musta been sleeping.)

Then the dog - remember the dog? - went berserk. Can't sleep when there's barking, so I woke up and got to cooking.

For my au pair: Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs. Raspberries. All on a tray with a pretty napkin and lovingly handmade cards from the two who like to make them. We tried to feed her breakfast in bed, but it's hard to get everyone ready for school when they're watching someone else eat, so we wound up with a big, family breakfast at the table, with manners and everything.

I so totally love that.

This is her second birthday with us. When she came to the U.S., she was 18, and more mature and responsible than most fully grown grown-ups I know. Now she's 20. Still mature, and nearly a fully grown grown-up herself.

Of the many, many wonderful au pairs we've had, she's the first who stayed with us for more than a year. She fits into our family as though she were born to it. I don't know if it's the hint of Dutchness in her Belgian self that clicks with the hint of Dutchness in our American family. Or maybe it's her experience with Asperger's, which she has in spades.

The best of our au pairs have been far more than just daycare providers. They were - and are - family. And this au pair, she is just that. Family. A big sister to my kids, a friend to me, and in many ways the daughter I'd have had if I'd started my family twenty years ago instead of twelve.

In just over a month, she goes home to the family who raised her, who made her this special and entrusted to her us. My kids and I owe them a great, big, giant thank you for that.

We call her Chuck, because Peabo likes it that way.

Gelukkige verjaardag to you, Chuck. You're the best birthday gift ever. And we are gonna miss you like crazy.

**Published nearly a week late because, well, you know. Timeliness is not exactly my strong suit.

Home Cookin'

2011-02-23T01:23:00.003-05:00

Tonight was a first for me. Well, I mean, it was and it wasn't.

The "wasn't" part was a class A Aspie tantrum sparked by my good home cooking. Not a first. There was a time when I'd spend hours slaving over a hot stove creating a dinner crafted from honest-to-goodness fresh ingredients that had never spent any time in a box, only to have my Peabo run screaming from the table. He'd spend a good 15 minutes letting us all know exactly how awful the meal he hadn't tried yet would taste.

Home cooking was a break in the routine, right? He was used to the box. He wanted the box. He expected the box. When he didn't get the box, he'd tell me. In his own special way.

Then, about a year and a half ago, I embarked on The Great Home-Cooking Campaign. I've spent the better part of the last eighteen months foisting such disgustingness as homemade meatloaf and brussels sprouts onto my kids. After a while, they learned to like it. Yes, even the brussels sprouts. They eat meatloaf and baked ziti and a dozen different vegetables, including lima beans. We've introduced couscous and polenta and herb-rubbed pork tenderloin. In fact, yesterday I served chicken with fennel and olives. They didn't like it much. But they tried it. And they didn't run screaming.

Until tonight. Another class A Aspie tantrum sparked by my good home cooking. Only this time, it wasn't because I was cooking. It's because I wasn't.

My stove broke. Or rather, half of it did. I'm down to two usable burners. Which means that braised pork chops with broccoli and from-scratch macaroni and cheese went from planned to impossible. I make my veggies in an electric steamer, but I still needed one burner for the pork chops, one burner for the macaroni, and one for the cheese.

A change in plans. And my Peabo had his first home-cooking tantrum in months. Because he'd rather have my food than food that comes in a box.

I am quietly proud.

Oh, and also? He calmed himself down. He calmed. Himself. Down. Then he sat and he talked to me, and he figured out how to be okay with an unexpected change in the menu.

Progress on two fronts. So I get to be quietly proud of him, too.

And by the way, that chicken with fennel and olives stuff whipped up by the Proud Italian Cook? That is some darned awesome yumminess. Go make it. Like, right now.

Too Osum Mom

2011-02-20T00:39:00.000-05:00

My five year old wrote that. On the back of an envelope. It was for me. See? "To Awesome Mom."

It totally made me cry.

He's been in Kindergarten for just over 100 days, which I know because he and my au pair recently counted out precisely 100 Honey Nut Cheerios and brought them to school on the 100th day. A hundred days of learning means he can read like a pro. He knows letters have sounds. That one O makes an "awe." That two Os make an "oo."

Now he's using those sounds to write.

And he thinks I'm awesome. Or, you know, osum.

This is the kid who greets me after school with a happy "Hello, cute mama!" Who never thinks that one hug is enough because he'd rather have five. Who curls up in my lap in his fuzzy mornings and sticks his finger in my bellybutton. The kid's a morning-hater, like me, and I love him for it - enough so that I forgive the wacky bellybutton thing.

He's also five. Inside the envelope was a heart that he'd written on and colored on and then cut up to make a puzzle. He was beaming when I finally put it together. He wrote, "I love Mom. Mmmmm!" I guess because I'm yummy. And then he drew a brown me and a blue him and a whole bunch of decorative brown circles. He read me the words. Then he pointed at the pictures. "That's you. And that's me. And look, I'm pooping!"

He's pretty osum too. Poop and all.

Girl Time

2011-02-06T01:50:00.000-05:00

In elementary school circles - or at least in ours - the annual Father/Daughter dance has taken on prom-like proportions. There's dress shopping and hair doing and dinner out with dad. And that's no less special when your dad lives in one house and your mom lives in another. In fact, on some level, it becomes that much more special because it means on this one day each year, you get alone time with each of your parents.

Yes, I said each of them. Because the Father/Daughter dance isn't just a night out with dad. It's also an afternoon with mom. And that's all about the girl time. It's about trying on dresses and shoes and stockings. It's about manicures and hairstyles and finding the right something in mom's jewelry box.

And it's about getting to know each other.

That's what my daughter and I did today. We shopped. We groomed. We coiffed. And I learned something I didn't know before.

My diva looks like me. That's not a surprise. She knows she looks like me; I know she looks like me. But I didn't know she was proud of it. She is, though. She's proud to look like her tired, wrinkly, plumply middle-aged, glasses-wearing mama.

I expect that to vanish the second her age ends in "teen." But for now, and for nine, I'm touched.

Happy Birthday, Little Foodie

2011-02-01T22:00:00.013-05:00

This is what a birthday looks like for my diva, who really ought to consider being a pastry chef when she grows up, because that girl is all about the baking.

It started the day before, with a little birthday sugar cookie she made for herself in her Easy-Bake Oven, complete with pink ruffled icing and little sugar flowers. She even shared it with her brothers, her au pair and me. Which was a surprise. Because she's not just about the baking; she's also about the eating, and she doesn't much like to share.

Then there was the birthday breakfast in bed, with homemade-from-scratch cinnamon buns, scrambled eggs and fruit salad and a rose in a bud vase, all of which were incidental because the buns were the only things that mattered.

By the way, have you ever tried to make breakfast in bed for a morning person? The trick is to tell them you're making them breakfast in bed even though they're wide awake and fully dressed. Then they run upstairs and wait patiently so you can pretend you woke up first.

After that, we had a big birthday party which featured many, many crafts, the highlight of which was the chance to decorate one marbled vanilla/chocolate cupcake to within an inch of its life. And then eat it. Before dinner even.

And finally, yesterday, a festive school party featuring mom's homemade sugar cookies. We briefly considered purchasing big, thick, yellow-iced sugar cookies at Giant - at my urging, because really that's a lot of baking, even for me. Then my diva said, "Oh but mom yours are so much better," and I caved. What can I say. Kitchen flattery from the kids who once ran screaming from my cooking totally does me in.

I wish I had time for a proper tribute to my gorgeous girl, but I'm working like a madwoman at the moment and need to get back to it. Suffice it to say, she's nine now. Nine. It still surprises me. She's as tall as my shoulder and can add fractions and write stories and sing songs most people actually want to listen to. She tries everything - every food, every sport, every everything. She's fearless and creative and just a little insecure, and some days all she really needs is a great big hug from her mom. I could not love her more.

Happy birthday, sweetie.

Rose-Colored Bifocals

2011-01-21T23:53:00.011-05:00

Back in the days when I had time to read - so much time, in fact, that I was reading for a living ... if you can call incurring thousands of dollars in student loans a living. Which, you know, you can't. So, uh ... yeah.

Anyway, back then, my eyes were on a steady diet of Chaucer and Virginia Woolf. It was grad school. It was an English lit program. I read. I read a lot. And my eyes forgot how to see far away.

So I wore glasses, and I kinda liked them. They gave me that sexy librarian vibe. Or so I thought. Possibly that was all in my head.

The glasses were a fleeting thing, though. I wore them for about three years, after which my eyes learned once again that life can happen at a distance.

Twenty years of nearly perfect vision later, I'm buying glasses again. See, about a month ago, give or take, I got lost. This is not unusual. I get lost so often that my sweet and thoughtful fellow got me a GPS for Christmas - one that talks to me from time to time just to remind me I'm driving, and believe me, the rest of you are grateful that it does. But this particular lostisode was pre-Christmas. Pre-GPS. What's worse, I knew where I was going. I didn't get lost because I was lost. I got lost because I missed my turn. And I missed my turn because I couldn't read the street sign.

Dangerous much?

So I went to the optometrist. I plonked down a ridiculous sum of money. And now I'm soon to be the proud owner of a brand spanking new pair of glasses that the much younger woman at the shop told me were fashionable but not flashy. I have no fashion sense. She smiled at me and said I looked great after saying a few times I didn't. So I decided to trust her.

You want to know the best part? They're bifocals. Or, rather, progressives, which is a nice, modern way of saying bifocals. Apparently I can't see close up, and I can't see far away. I can see in the middle, though. I guess that's something.

Bifocals. Feh.

I don't feel like a sexy librarian anymore. I just feel old.

You think maybe they'll make them with rose-colored lenses?

Cinnamon Buns

2011-01-16T23:07:00.000-05:00

This is not a post about vomit, though it wants to be. There was a time when I thought all my posts would be about vomit, and aren't we all lucky that didn't happen? But this post does start with vomit, and that's as good a place to start as any.

Oh, actually I guess it starts with Sarah McLachlan, because that's where I was for a small chunk of Monday, watching her perform. Fortunately, she does not sing about vomit, though she does tell birth stories on stage, which is what I'd do if I were a famous singing person. She played a good, solid three hours, so I got home late, watched an episode of something to settle my brain, and then went up to check on my kids. My diva, my lifetime solid sleeper, was awake.

"Mommy, my tummy hurts."

We were up for another two hours. I'll spare you the details.

The next day she had a fever, and she kept that fever holding steady right on through Friday. Her teacher sent her work home so she wouldn't fall too far behind. But really, who wants to work when you're sick? We'd get a page out of her, then a fair amount of complaining, then another page. We got her through a few math sheets, and one writing sheet, and she was clearly done. But the work mountain wasn't much smaller.

So I bribed her.

She had one assignment - a read-and-summarize assignment - about bread-baking. So I pulled out my gorgeously stunning Williams-Sonoma Essentials of Baking book, and I said, "You do that last summary and learn about baking bread, and then you can pick any bread you want out of this book, and we'll make it this weekend."

And we did. She did her assignment. And this morning I baked my first yeast bread, with the best possible helper a home chef could have. She loves to bake, this girl. She also loves cinnamon rolls. And who wouldn't?

With great praise to the editors at Williams-Sonoma, who wrote this fabulous recipe. (Also, buy this book. It's teaching me to bake. It's awesome.)

Cinnamon Rolls

For the dough
2 packages (5 tsp) active dry yeast
1 c (250 ml) whole milk, heated to warm (105-115 F / 40-46 C)
1/2 c (125 g) granulated sugar
3 large eggs
5 1/2 c (845 g) all-purpose flour (plus extra for the work surface)
2 tsp salt
1 tsp ground mace
Grated zest of 1 orange
1/2 c (125 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature

For the filling and egg glaze
6 Tbs (90 g) granulated sugar
2 tsp ground cinnamon
About 1/4 c (60 g) unsalted butter, melted, for brushing
1 large egg, beaten

For the vanilla glaze
1/2 c (60 g) confectioner's (icing) sugar, sifted
1/4 c (60 ml) heavy (double) cream
1 tsp vanilla extract (essence)

The book has instructions for you to work by hand or by stand mixer. I have a stand mixer - the pride and joy of my kitchen - so that's what's typed out here. And if you want the sticky buns variation that looks utterly to die for, well, you'll have to go get yourself a copy of the book. Did I mention that the book is awesome?

By STAND MIXER: To make the dough, in the 5-qt (5-l) bowl of a stand mixer, dissolve the yeast in the warm milk and let stand until foamy, about 5 minutes (mine never really got foamy, but we'd measured the temperature of the milk precisely and set the kitchen timer, so we went ahead with the recipe, and it turned out just fine). Add the granulated sugar, eggs, flour, salt, mace, orange zest and butter. Place the bowl on the mixer, attach the dough hook, and knead on low speed. Add a little more flour as needed (we didn't need it) for the dough to come away from the sides of the bowl after a few minutes of kneading. Knead until the dough is smooth and elastic, 5-7 minutes. Remove the dough from the bowl.

Form the dough into a ball, transfer it to a lightly oiled bowl, and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let the dough rise in a warm, draft-free spot until it doubles in bulk, 1 1/2 - 2 hours.

To make the filling, in a small bowl, stir together the granulated sugar and cinnamon. Set aside. Line a half-sheet pan or rimless baking sheet with parchment (baking) paper.

Punch down the dough and turn it out onto a lightly floured work surface. Cut it in half with a sharp knife. Lightly dust the surface of the dough with flour. Roll out one half of the dough into a 10-by-16-inch (25-by-40-cm) rectangle. Brush the surface of the rectangle with half of the melted butter, then sprinkle evenly with half of the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Starting at the long side farthest from you, roll up the rectangle toward you into a log.

Cut the log crosswise into 8 slices each 2 inches (5 cm) thick. Place the slices, cut side up, in a circle, side by side and barely touching, on half of the prepared pan. Repeat with the remaining half of the dough, melted butter, and cinnamon-sugar mixture, arranging the rolls on the other half of the pan. For crisper rolls, space them evenly on the pan.

Cover the rolls loosely with a kitchen towel and let them rise in a warm, draft-free spot until they have doubled in size and are spongy to the touch, 30-40 minutes. Alternatively, place the rolls in the refrigerator and let them rise slowly overnight (that's what we did).

Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat to 400 F (200 C).

If you have refrigerated the rolls, let them come to room temperature for 30-40 minutes. Brush the rolls lightly with the beaten egg. Bake until golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center of a roll comes out clean, 20-25 minutes.

Just before the rolls are ready, make the vanilla glaze. In a small bowl, stir together the confectioner's sugar, cream and vanilla until the sugar dissolves completely and the mixture thickens slightly. Let the rolls cool slightly in the pan on a wire rack, then brush on the glaze while they are still warm. Pull the buns apart and serve warm.

Puppy Dog Tails ... er, Tales?

2011-01-08T00:15:00.001-05:00

So this is my week.

On Sunday, I committed to an exercise program and a healthier diet. I spent three straight days following same.

On the evening of the third day, my diva developed a pre-adolescent meltdown of Mount Pinatuboian proportions. For those who don't remember Mount Pinatubo, it's a volcano in the Philippines that in 1991 exploded in what was to be the second biggest volcanic eruption of the entire 20th Century. The ash caused a global haze that gave even us east coast Americans glorious sunsets for months afterward.

Dealing with said volcanic meltdown led to one minor overindulgence in M&Ms Wednesday night (mine), followed by an even greater meltdown the next morning (hers), which meant no exercising for anyone. So I tried to exercise at night, which proved to be stupid. I pulled something.

Really, exercising does not appear to be my thing.

I took today off. My left shoulder hurts. My now sciatically challenged backside hurts. And I'm tired. Not that I'm going to let this stop me. Fitness is pain! (Right?) But I am disheartened.

So, to cheer ourselves up and put a stop to the pre-adolescent meltdowns that are interfering with the Healthy Happy Sleeping-all-night Family Plan, we adopted a dog. Because a little unconditional puppy love goes a long way toward addressing girlish insecurities. And while we did not adopt him solely to cheer up my diva, the sight of my grumpy, hurting girl laughing and smiling out loud (yes, that smile was so big, it was audible) did clinch the deal. It helped that the boys were smiling, too.

His name is Oswald. We met him today, on the first anniversary of the passing of our beloved Moose. He comes home on Sunday.

Living the Hottie Life

2011-01-03T22:54:00.002-05:00

My San Francisco sweetie, awesome fella that he is, thinks I'm a hottie. And he tells me so, which I very much appreciate. I do, however, have mirrors in my house. And a scale. And skinny jeans that haven't fit since kid number three first made his presence felt. And while they all like me well enough - I'm a cheery gal, after all - they're a little too honest in the "hey, babe, you've let yourself go" department.

It's January, so I decided to listen. You'd think I'd listen when it's swimsuit season and I'm all exposed and everything. Not me. I decided to listen in the dead of winter, when I can hide all my rolls and flabby bits under flannel and fleece and thick wool sweaters.

I know how this works, though. It's not enough to decide a thing. You have to do it. And you have to do it right now.

So I did.

Today, I made healthier choices. I drank water. Lots of water. I ate a high-fiber, whole grain English muffin with some all-fruit spread on it for breakfast. I had plain yogurt and a pear for a snack. A baked potato with veggies and cheese for lunch. Salmon, spinach, and a bit more potato for dinner, with a half cup of blueberries for dessert. And a handful of M&Ms. Because life isn't worth living if it doesn't include chocolate.

But that's not all. I got moving. I took an actual, honest-to-goodness lunch break and exercised. Which I don't do. It's been long enough that by the end of the DVD my body was screaming at me, "Wait! Are you actually moving? Don't do that. Hey, stop that! Did you hear me? I said STOP!" And just to show me it was serious, it made me all woozy and nauseous, right at the end when I was meant to be stretching. And then it said, "I told you so."

Yeah, that was fun.

And that's when I realized I needed partners. Because there's no way I'm doing that again unless someone makes me. So I enlisted the kids. I gave them permission to wake me up (gently, mind you - I'm still not a morning person, even if they are). My oldest keeps a clock both in his head and on his wrist, so he's the Owner of the Schedule and is in charge of Waking Up Mom. Then we're all going to head down to the living room and do my little DVD workouts together. Which is a very good thing. Because today the only person in the house who can do a full push-up is my five-year-old, who was born with six-pack abs and eerie, Herculean strength. It's time to bring the rest of us in line.

After I shared this news with my kids, my oldest - I really do need to come up with blog names for these kids - said, "I know, Mom. You want to lose weight. All those New Year's resolution people want to lose weight."

But that's not it, and I told him so, very clearly. I want to be healthy. I have three little people to see into adulthood. I want to take them for hikes and bike rides and canoe trips on the Potomac. And, in 20 years or so, I want to play catch with my grandkids. If one workout - one puny little beginner's workout - can make me woozy, then I'm not going to get there.

I also want my kids to be healthy. I've been teaching them about diet, about proper nutrition and portion control. I feed them fruit and veggies and whole grains in ever increasing varieties. I pay for and drive them to sports, and I cheer my heart out when I watch them play. But I don't live that life myself.

It's high time I did. Because you don't teach by telling. You teach by showing.

I also wouldn't mind getting into a bikini again at least once before I'm 50.

Wish me luck. I had similar plans last year that were derailed by a bursitis in my hip and a change in the kids' scheduled visits with their dad. This time, though, I've got helpers. So stay tuned, and let's see if we can't make this actively sedentary family just a little bit healthier.

Sleeping into the Sunset

2011-01-02T23:50:00.005-05:00

It's been 16 days since my last blog post.

You know what I've been doing? Aside from working, raising three kids, managing Christmas and New Year's, and - oh yeah - dealing with a resurgence of head lice (which, fortunately, struck over the holidays when the risk of contagion was low and the time available to nitpick was high).

I just distracted myself. Wait, what was I doing? Oh, right!

I've been sleeping. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G. Which deserves every capital letter I can find.

I meant to be on vacation, so the sleeping thing would have maybe made sense. Except for, you know, the raging insomnia. But that vacation didn't work out quite as I planned, and I wound up working. I did my work the easy way, though. Started late. Kept it to the daytime. Didn't bring out the computer at night. And you know what happened? I got tired. I got tired, so I got up off my sofa and I went to bed. I made myself horizontal by midnight every single night. Well, except Christmas Eve. But that's only because I was tracking Santa with NORAD and couldn't go to sleep until he was finished.

I'm well rested. Which means I'm not blogging. And I hope it doesn't offend you if I hope for more of the same in 2011. I'd call it a New Year's resolution, but I'm not so good with those.

Since I'm awake now, though, I proudly present my 2010 Done List.

In the past year, I have ...

Said good-bye to a beloved friend - our dog, Moose, who passed away in January. We still miss her.
Survived the 80+ inches of snow dumped on our area last winter. With help.
Got my kids eating real food, at a real table, with real manners. They put their napkins in their laps and only talk with their mouths full when they have something really important to say.
Saw my diva into - and then back out of - vegetarianism. Along the way, she learned there's not a veggie grown that she does not love. Even better - she dragged her brothers kicking and screaming into the veggie madness with her. Now I can serve broccoli, cauliflower, green beans, brussels sprouts, peas, corn, cucumbers or carrots ... and everyone eats them. Last week, I introduced sauteed spinach and lima beans - on different nights, of course - and got nothing but yums from the peanut gallery. Hats off to Veggie Girl, because I'm pretty sure none of that would have happened without her.
Fixed my plumbing. And my car. And my lights. And my computer. And my microwave. I got jiggy with the home repairs.
Made new friends - a few who actually live near me (yay!), and one who lives with me. I've had lots of great au pairs, but only a few have become true friends - and the one who's living with me now is among the best of them.
Hired a boy. That's right - our next au pair is a fella! And he's got the URL to my blog, so if he's reading this - we're pleased as punch that you're coming, and the kids can't wait to make you play soccer with them. Every. Single. Day.
Got my oldest into the Right School, with the Right People. Which means he's now attending a school where every single person on staff understands Asperger's Syndrome and not only accepts my son but loves him for exactly who he is. So far he's brought home straight A's and a girlfriend and a few best friends who call him just to chat and sometimes to invite him to the movies. His joy at getting on the school bus every day is palpable. (And, a nod here to the local middle school, because they did everything they could to support him and make sure he got where he needed to go.)
Left my heart in San Francisco. And brought some yummy chocolate home.
Saw my redhead off to Kindergarten. And only cried a little. And now he's reading. Kindergarten is magic.
Knit stuff. This year I finished - yes, I said finished - my knitting Olympics project and a handbag, plus the three hats and a scarf I just gave as Christmas gifts. And I finished those last four on time. Barely. But it counts.
Picked hundreds of nits from the heads of various of my children. And thanked my au pair for doing the same, for them and for me. (Ew.)
Wrote another 57 blog posts. Which seems to be about all I'm good for in any given year, seeing as that's the exact number I wrote in 2009, too.

Happy New Year, folks. I walked out of 2010 with a smile and my rose-colored glasses decidedly intact. I hope that you can say the same.

Customer Service

2010-12-17T00:56:00.000-05:00

This post has nothing to do with my kids, my friends, food, or even knitting (because sometimes I blog about knitting). Just so you know that going in.

Today I got a bill for $45 from Sirius/XM, the satellite radio people. A one-year subscription to satellite radio and a kick-ass overhead entertainment system came as freebies with my just-this-side-of-crappy minivan. Both were things I didn't need, but they do add some value, mostly in that my kids don't try to kill each other in the car when their brains are full of mush. Case in point: Radio Disney, which is a lifesaver on long car rides when I forget to let the kids bring their various electronic devices. In our area, you can't get Radio Disney on an actual radio unless that radio is satellite-friendly. Mine is. Big win.

The other thing I like about satellite radio is that I can find a station - in fact, many stations - that play music in the mornings. Which means there are no horrid deejays screeching at me and trying to be funny, something most commercial radio stations consider to be an asset. I do not. I don't like mornings. I particularly don't like loud mornings that try too hard. My satellite radio understands.

But I don't like paying for it. I mean, this is not a thing I need. If I don't want people hollering at me, I can just shut the darn thing off and play a CD.

So I got this bill from Sirius/XM for $45 for three months of service. I get a similar bill every, oh, let's just say it's every three months. It's not, really, but let's say it is. And when I get said bill, that $45 reminds me that I'm a single mom on a budget, and satellite radio is not something I need. So I call to cancel.

And then they tell me I can get five months for $15. Would I like to renew?

Well, sure. I can give up one cinammon dolce latte a month for Radio Disney and a quiet morning commute.

Five months later, like clockwork, I get a bill from Sirius/XM for $45 for three months of service, reminding me once again that I'm a single mom on a budget and satellite radio is not something I need. So I call to cancel. And then they tell me I can get five months for $15, and would I like to renew?

Uh ... sure?

The thing is, I'd just pay the damn bill if they'd charge a reasonable price in the first place.

They are almost as bad as Verizon, who gives me my phone and internet. Blazing fast speed and a dial tone every time I pick up the phone. I like that.

What I don't like is the following conversation, which I have had with them five times - yes, five times - in the past six months.

Verizon Rep: Hi, Rosemary! I'm calling to offer you Verizon FIOS for the low low price of something much lower than you're paying now.

Me: Wow, that's a great offer. I'll take it!

Verizon Rep: Uh ... wait. Our records show that you already have FIOS.

Me: Why yes. Yes, I do. I've had FIOS for more than five years now. But that prices is fabulous! Thanks for offering it to me. I'll take it.

Verizon Rep: Yeah, see, we can't do that. Because you already have FIOS. And we want to reward your loyalty over these past five years by charging you far, far more than we charge anyone else.

Me: Gee, how thoughtful! Thanks a ton for screwing me over and then calling to let me know all about it. Much appreciated.

Verizon Rep: Glad I could help. Have a great day!

For the record, I generally like Verizon, or I'd have switched a long time ago. Just as I like Sirius/XM. But seriously (ha ha - SIRIUSly, get it?) ... that business model, it's not exactly customer-friendly.

Now, here's one that is. This is my experience with the fine, fine folks at DirecTV. See, they don't know this, but they caused the first big fight of my marriage. My then newly wedded husband wanted a satellite dish so he could watch lots and lots and lots of sports. Back then, though, you had to buy the dish. And the box. And the remote. And when you added all that up with installation and the first few months of service, it came to roughly $1,000. If I think $45 is too much to pay for three months of radio, you can imagine how I felt about paying $1,000 for TV.

Well, I lost the fight, and we got DirecTV, which I inherited along with the house when the ex and I separated. Thing is, I'm a single mom on a budget, and I could not afford the $140 or so a month we'd been paying for the privilege of watching television. So I called DirecTV.

Me: Hi, DirecTV. I'm now a single mom on a budget and I need to cancel my service.

DirecTV: Ma'am, I see you've been a customer since the dawn of time. We value your loyalty. How about we shave this and trim that, and maybe refund you a bit of this, and while I'm at it, how about I send you a free remote to replace the one you accidentally put out with the recycling?

I now pay $32 a month for (very basic) satellite TV and a DVR, which means I can put my kids to bed and still watch Burn Notice in its entirety. Now, if only DirecTV could give me Radio Disney in the car, we'd have something.

Sometimes You Get Anchovies

2010-12-09T01:40:00.006-05:00

It is well established on this blog that the perfect food is ice cream. That stuff is creamy crack in a carton, which is why I no longer keep it in the house unless someone else buys it. Someone who, I must admit, looks exactly like my evil, ice cream-addicted twin.

But there are other foods that run a close second to ice cream, and not all of them are chocolate. In fact, one of those red-ribbon foods may just be the anti-chocolate. Because it's not a dessert. It's a fish. The anchovy. No sugar. Almost no saturated fat. Just salty, protein-filled goodness.

And no one else likes them.

At least that was my impression given how frequently my pleas to order even half an anchovy pizza have fallen on deaf ears. These people, they don't know what they're missing. Anchovies do something amazing to a pizza. They give all that fatty warmth and comfort a bit of a salty edge that makes all the sweetness in the sauce and the cheese not quite so cloying. If you add a veggie or two, it even feels healthy.

Anchovies are awesome. Even if I have to eat them alone.

Except that I don't anymore. Because my San Francisco sweetie - remember him? He likes them, too. We recently had a spot of time together babysitting for a few junior family members, and we ordered a pizza. You'll never guess what was on it. With no prodding, no poking, just a little, "Hey, what would you think of ...?" and an immediate, "Absolutely!"

And then we had them again, not a week later, at a tapas place, wrapped around a little bamboo skewer with a fat, green olive and a tiny, marinated pepper that together made the perfect bite.

He likes them. He really likes them.

And I had no idea. Which is funny. Because I've known this man for two full decades. We've had coq au vin au chocolat and cauliflower goat cheese gratin. Green curry and noodles of the drunks. Coconut cake and fried green tomatoes. Vichysoisse and tapenade. And once, during a blizzard, a heart-warming Irish stew.

And yet, we'd never shared a pizza.

Now we have. And now I know something new about him. I know he likes the salt and the tang and the difference of anchovies. Which is one of the coolest things about dating one of your dearest friends. Sometimes, you get anchovies. And you didn't even know they were there.

My Blind Side

2010-11-24T03:38:00.011-05:00

Sorry for the long bloggy break. Lice, as it turns out, are massively time consuming. I've done approximately 67,000 loads of laundry, bought 9 new pillows and spent at least 40 hours of my spare time (yeah, right, like I have spare time) picking nits and combing insecticide onto the scalps of my children and myself. I think we won, at least I hope so. I really hope so. But to be honest, once you've had lice, you are wary to a point of paranoia seen only in victims of PTSD. Because that's exactly what you are.

And now, all of a sudden, it's Thanksgiving. I'm not sure how that happened. But today at 6:00 p.m. my ex showed up and drove my crying kids off into the sunset. Well, okay, just my diva was crying. The boys were head down over their respective DSes.

I still miss them. A lot.

I miss them because it's Thanksgiving, which is about family even more than it's about turkey. And the pre-turkey turkey fest we had last Saturday, wonderful though it was, really wasn't the same.

And I miss them because even though I took three extra days off this week, I spent so much time catching up on work and laundry and vacuuming that we didn't get one single moment of quality time. Not one. Unless nitpicking counts. (Trust me, it doesn't.)

And I miss them because this is my first big holiday without them.

Of course, Netflix picked today to send me The Blind Side. No mother who just sent her kids off to spend a major holiday without her has any business watching a film about a boy who really, truly needs a mommy.

Because, at least in my case, I think it's the mommy who really, truly needs her kids.

Lice, the Universe and Everything

2010-11-18T00:42:00.004-05:00

There is a certain, very specific brand of ooginess that washes over you when you're brushing your hair and notice that the little gray speck that just floated down to your shoulder, and which you thought might be a dandruff flake or bit of dust, is moving. All on its own. In fact, the damn thing has legs. Six teeny tiny oogy little legs.

We have lice. And that speck was a nymph.

I squished it. And I flushed it. And then I dragged my itchy, scratchy kids upstairs and bathed them in pyrethrum.

Did you know that stuff is made from chrysanthemums?

You learn a lot when you start a war on blood-sucking parasites. To wit:

My diva has the patience of a saint. As long as I put the Wizards of Waverly Place on an endless loop, she will sit still for up to three hours at a pop while I comb and pick and pull individual hairs out of her head by the root. She's my hero.
Redheads have less hair. Little known fact. (Ignore the picture on the link. It's really kinda gross.)
ADHD really does mean you cannot sit still. Even with the aid of a Nintendo DS primed with relatively new birthday games. Given that my kids get only 30 minutes of screen time a day and that nitpicking screen time is a full-on freebie, that's saying something.
My kids have waaaaay too many stuffed animals. All 8 million of them are now bagged, thanks to my au pair, and waiting for any little lice babies to die a sad and lonely death. Many of them will not be coming back. I mean the stuffed animals. And, of course, the dead lice babies, too.
Reading glasses also make good nitpicking glasses and are a vital part of the home war arsenal.
So is a flea comb. If you pick one up, buy one labeled for dogs. They're cheaper - and not a whit different - than the ones labeled for cats.
Cats can't get lice. Maybe that's why they need pricey flea combs.
Apparently, neither can au pairs.
Moms can, though. Yay for that. And yay for my au pair. This would be another one of those times that I wonder what the hell I'd do without her. Because it's not like I can pick nits from my own head.

Oh, and now I'm feeling all oogy again just talking about it.

Hey, the good news? At least we don't have the swine flu.

Killer Chocolate

2010-11-06T01:05:00.003-04:00

It's a well-established fact that I am not so good with the waking up. Mostly I muddle vaguely through the a.m. hours until that little hand hits the 12 and my brain jumps to life with a "Hey! There's a post before that meridian. I am so in!"

This morning was no exception.

Because I am now officially middle aged, I've had plenty of time to learn this about myself. As a result, I'm usually smart enough to pass off breakfast-making duties to my amazing au pair, who can give me lots of a.m. support now that all my kids are at school during the day. Yay, Kindergarten. She's mostly a morning person, and since breakfast usually involves such dangerous items as hot stoves and sharp knives, we're both a lot happier when she cooks and I sit at the table like a zombie mainlining coffee, staring at my ridiculously animated children and wondering how on earth I gave birth to three morning people.

I still don't get that.

Today, however, the middle schooler was home for the day, so I was forced to take morning on all by myself. No snooze button, no coffee, and I had to cook things so that my children could eat. In an effort to keep the damage to a minimum, I stuck to the breakfast of champions. Eggos and toasted frozen homemade chocolate chip pancakes. (With cheese and bananas, because even a crappy, mostly pre-packaged meal is a balanced meal in my house.)

Easy, right? Push a button. Wait. Out pops an Eggo. The crowd roars.

Not so much. Because the chocolate chips attacked me. I went to pull a nice, warm pancake from the nice, warm toaster, got two fingers full of melted chocolate ... and wound up with blistering burns on my fingertips.

From chocolate.

You know the world's gone mad when the chocolate is out to get you.

What it's done to my thighs is bad enough.

The Art of Dadness

2010-11-03T00:51:00.002-04:00

Oh, I'm such a bad blogger. I've got two posts sitting in draft and October has just been so freaking crazy that I haven't had time to finish them up properly. And trust me, they are totally unreadable without a fair bit of editing. Not to mention quite dated by now.

But here's something I can blog about quickly.

My handsome redhead has recently become obsessed with being a dad. It's his thing. He wears pants with belts and button-down oxfords and takes great pleasure when folks notice and tell him he looks dad-like. He also spends a lot of time asking about the hows and whys of dadness. To wit, the following conversation, which took place in whispers when he was meant to be falling asleep.

"Mom, when I'm a dad, will you be old?"

"Yes." Since I'm nearly there now.

"So, when you're old, will I be a dad?"

"I think you get to decide when to be a dad."

"No. I don't get to decide that."

"Oh? Who does?"

"I think my birthday decides that."

"Okay. So how old do you have to be to be a dad?"

"Eighty-six."

Nodding. "Okay."

"How far away is that?"

"About 81 years."

"How many days is that?"

"Oh, sweetie, that's more math than I can do in my head."

"So it's really far away."

"Yes. But, you know, your dad became a dad for the first time when he was only 32. And your Opa, he was 27 when he became a dad."

"Okay. Then I think I'll be ... 31. Can I be a dad when I'm 31?"

"Yes, sweetie. You can."

And he's gonna be a damn fine dad, too.

Growing Up Peabo

2010-10-19T13:31:00.004-04:00

It's official. I am now mom to a 12-year-old. Which means my gamer, my Aspie, my first-born, is now an honest-to-goodness tween.

This is how I know.

He's dating. He met a girl and thought she was cute. He brought her a flower and told her he liked her. He asked me if he could ask her out, and when he did, this girl displayed remarkably good judgment and said yes. We all went on their date together (because that kid's not dating for real until he's at least 16). And, when we took her home, her mom invited us all on a second date.

I think that means I'm dating her mom now.

He doesn't cuss. Although he certainly knows how. He proved that to me by listing pretty much every cuss word ever invented, matter-of-factly, while we were wandering down the bread aisle in the grocery store. He surprised a whole lot of shoppers. But he's never once uttered a single bad word in front of his brother or sister. Which shows remarkable restraint and - dare I say it? - maturity.

He asked me how people have sex. How. That's a practical, logistical question, which is far scarier than the amorphous "where do babies come from" you prepare yourself for. He immediately distracted himself in the way that only kids with ADHD can ("I don't have ADH ... hey, is that a dust mote?"). But I need to answer. At least, I think I do.

He's warm-hearted and generous and responsible. He's the only one in the house who remembers what day the garbage truck comes. He can even change his own sheets, though he needs to be reminded to do it.

He helps me. He helps his siblings. He's brilliant with little kids. And, when he figures out someone is sad or hurting (which is often easier said than done), he's the king of empathy and kindness and hugs.

He's growing up.

Except that when I look at him, all I see is the squirmy, slimy bundle I gave birth to. The baby who laughed like an old man whenever I sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the dog. The little professor who would play hide-and-seek only if we skip-counted by 3s, who could read before he was three, and who, for a whole year, made everyone call him "Peabo."

At least Peabo is still shorter than I am. And he still believes in Santa Claus. At least, he pretends he does. And, since I'm busily pretending he's Peter Pan, that's good enough for me.

* I drafted this on October 19, so I'm publishing it effective that date ... even though it's not actually October 19 anymore. It's November.

Happy belated birthday, kiddo.

Oh, the Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise!

2010-10-15T01:53:00.003-04:00

I follow several blogs by moms who have kids who on the autism spectrum. It's a great community, a supportive one, and I learn a lot from these women. I'm glad they're out there.

Many kids on the spectrum also suffer from Sensory Processing Disorder. One of the blogs I follow, Hartley's Life With 3 Boys, is raising awareness and funds for SPD by spotlighting 30 families in 30 days on her blog. Her efforts will benefit the SPD Foundation, a leader in SPD awareness, education and research. It's interesting reading, often deeply touching, and often hitting very close to home.

My Aspie - and this is probably where I should come up with names for my kids, because his label doesn't define him - well, he does have some sensory issues. Mostly, he is hyposensitive to touch. I remember once, when I was chaperoning a field trip, a rather aggressive kid got off on this hand-slapping game. The goal was to slap another kid's hand until he couldn't take it anymore and finally gave up. My kid? He never gave up. By the time I saw what was going on, my son's hand was screaming red. Anyone else would have been hurting.

Not him.

His need for stimulation affected him a lot when he was little. He chewed anything and everything. He ate his pencils down from the erasers to the nubs. I've been pulling out the clothes he wore at this age to hand down to his little brother - only I can't hand them down. The collars and sleeves are chewed to rags.

His first IEP included therapy for sensory issues. But because SPD wasn't among his official diagnoses when we moved to this state five years ago, that part of his IEP was tossed, and I was never able to get it reinstated.

I'm okay with that, though. He'd started refusing the therapies. The weighted vest embarrassed him, as did the chew tubes and the wiggle seat. And, over time, he's learned to manage many of his sensory issues.

Not so much his mother. Only, for me, it's noise.

Every. Little. Noise.

Big noises, they make me jump. But it's the little noises that truly make me insane. The clicking of a pen. The ticking of a clock. The keening of a fork scraping along a plate. I had to get rid of the TV in my bedroom because the constant hum of the DVR kept me up all night. And I buy popcorn at the movies - every single time - to drown out the inevitable sounds of snacking around me.

And those family dinners I love? Torturous. And that's with my own kids, who have spent the past year listening to me say, "Chew with your mouth closed," and "Don't bite your spoon," and "Stop slurping! That cup is empty, dammit!"

Only I don't actually say the "dammit."

Just imagine how bad it is when we've got other kids over, kids whose moms don't have weird noise issues. Because my kids' manners, after a year of hardcore family dinners? Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.

And still not enough for me.

While my son is learning to manage his issues as he ages, I'm just getting worse. I don't know if it's the insomnia or if mid-life wrecks your ears as much as your eyesight. But by the end of the week, when I've got the heavy duty Friday tireds, my kids are lucky if I feed them at all. I just can't stomach all the chewing. (Stomach. Chewing. Get it? Ha ha.)

And that's the real origin of our Friday night movie nights. Friday nights, I lay a blanket on the floor, let the kids pick a movie, and set up a picnic in front of the TV. The background noise and the fact that I'm sitting on the sofa on the other side of the room make all that chewing manageable. And it's the one night each week that my kids don't have to listen to me complain.

I love Fridays.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2010-10-10T01:25:00.003-04:00

As I've mentioned before - to the point where this is now tatooed on my forehead in bright red ink - I never leave my house. Single mom. Three kids. I live at home. I work at home.

I don't get out much.

All that time in my house has made me pasty white and about as fit as a marshmallow. So when my au pair was sick the other day and it was time to walk to school and pick up the two younger kids, I said a very sympathetic, "Oh, honey, you go rest. I'll get the kids." Then I grabbed the keys and dashed out the door before she could change her mind.

My kids were overjoyed. They ran out of school and threw their arms around me as if I'd just returned from Mars.

My redhead was particularly thrilled. Because he had news. He pulled my head down and pretended to whisper.

"Mom!" he said. "That's her! That's her!" Only he used her name, because he's smart like that.

It turns out that this little girl is in his class. And she has a pet crocodile. She brought it in to school and now my little guy has a HUGE crush on her, because what reasonable boy would not have a crush on a girl with a pet crocodile. Not to mention she's a cutie.

So he tried to follow her home after school. Sat down on the curb, refused to budge, and said, "Mom! Wait! I want to see where she lives."

Now her dad, who's my neighbor and seems a friendly enough fellow, thinks I'm raising a stalker. Which, very possibly, I am.

Wait till I tell him I'm letting my nearly-12-year-old date.

Probably I should leave my house more, if only so the neighbors don't fear me.

Pseudonymity

2010-10-02T02:04:00.002-04:00

In the interest of openness and fair play, and for the new readers who aren't finding me through my Facebook page (which still surprises me, but thank you), I want to let all y'all know: My name's not Rosemary. My name is something totally different. And, apparently, it is totally distinctive in a beautifully ethnic kind of way, which I know because I Googled myself and there's only like two of me out there, and most of the me's out there really are me.

If you followed that.

Because I'm one of only two of me, I'm easy to find. I don't want to be easy to find. I've got three gorgeous and vulnerable kids who deserve their mom's best efforts to keep them safe and whole and see them through to adulthood.

So I use a pseudonym. I don't refer to my kids by name, not even by made-up name. And I don't (generally) talk about where we live.

The Rosemary bit came from my blog name. And that's a bit of a story. I meant to call my blog "Elbows Off the Table," and that is, in fact, the title. I chose it because that's the phrase I heard at the dinner table over and over and over again growing up. That, and "Put your napkin in your lapkin," which I thought would be a silly title for a blog. Either would have made sense, though, because the original idea of this blog was to write about family life through food. Kind of like M. F. K. Fisher for the blogger mom set. But "Elbows" was taken in the Bloggerverse, so I created a subtitle and used the end of it as my URL. Family life through rosemary-colored glasses. Rosemary. Herb. Food. Get it? Yes, folks, I am just that clever.

Except that this blog has become much more than life through food. It is about food, but only sometimes. Mostly it's about family. It's about my beautiful children. It's about Asperger's Syndrome and how we manage that particular difference together. It's about the challenges of being a single parent. It's about me and my friends, who make up a kind of family of our own. And it's about the stuff that ties my family together, across the generations: stuff like knitting, which I learned at my grandmother's knee, and my mother's lemon Jell-o cake, and the fact that I'm afraid to fly. Which is relevant because important parts of my family live very far away.

And, always, it's about finding the bright side. Those rosemary-colored glasses are my way of looking at the world.

So now I'm Rosemary. Because, as it happens, I'm a rose-colored girl.

Oh, What a Night

2010-09-28T02:10:00.006-04:00

Okay, I give. It's after 1:00 a.m. and it's just been a freaky, surreal kind of evening. And it's Monday. Just Monday.

This morning, my au pair was sick. So I told her to sleep in, and I took the kids to school. Which meant I worked late. Which meant dinner was late. Which is kinda where this started.

I came down from work to find my amazing and, mind you, still sick au pair playing Monopoly with my younger kids, and my Aspie waiting on a phone call from his girlfriend. (Yes, he has a girlfriend. Which is really his business until he says otherwise, so no, I'm not blogging about it. And no, we haven't gotten to the surreal bit.)

So I made dinner. I made a simple, easy dinner of hamburgers (with lots of yummies mixed into the meat) and steamed green beans and Wacky Mac. This is a favorite meal of all the kids generally, and my Aspie in particular, because he loves protein and he loves bread and isn't that the very definition of a burger?

Except that when we all went to sit down at the table, he started screaming. And it wasn't a tantrum. He was in pain. His tummy hurt. His head hurt. His everything hurt. And it must have hurt a lot. Because this kid is hyposensitive to pain, and while he may over-react a bit when he knows he's been injured - as in "Hey I can't feel that but it's bleeding so it must hurt like hell and, by the way, OW!!!" - that internal pain stuff? The stuff he can't see? It's got to be pretty bad for him to notice.

Plus all the color had suddenly drained from his face.

So I spent dinner in the bathroom holding my poor guy's head over the toilet. And hey, y'all, this is my first post about vomit since last November. Ten months without vomit? That's a blog record, you know.

I got my Aspie up to bed, came back to the table and found my au pair falling asleep in her food. So I sent her to bed, too. The poor thing. Because she's been sick since last Thursday and just isn't getting better.

That's not the surreal part, either. I'm used to the sick and yuckies. It's fall, school's in. This is par for the course.

The surreal part came at midnight, when I was decompressing and avoiding the dishes, because that's what I do at midnight. And I was cleaning the bathroom, because, well, you know. Vomit.

And that's when somebody knocked at my door.

After midnight.

There was knocking after midnight.

I am a single mom alone in a house with a sick 19-year-old au pair and three young children. I did what any normal woman would do in the circumstances. I freaked the heck out. I jumped up like a crazy woman, heart pounding, and looked for a weapon (because, you know those criminals, they always knock so politely). I turned on about 87 lights. That's in addition to the 13 lights I already had on.

And that, as it turns out, is why the fella knocked in the first place. He was a police officer, trying to find the owner of a Jeep parked in the middle of the street with its lights on, and figuring the owner would be in the only house on the block where people were actually awake.

Apparently not.

From now on I'm going to enjoy my post-vomit insomnia in the dark.

P.S. On the vomiting ... I'm kinda worried it's my kid's meds. He didn't eat all day today, and that might just be an upset tummy. But he's on risperdal and ritalin, and while he's been on that combo for more than a year now, the risperdal sometimes causes heat stroke with vomiting. It's not hot right now ... but the ritalin means sometimes he doesn't eat, and today he skipped his lunch and his after-school snack, and dinner was delayed, and that poor kid got sick anyway with nothing in his tummy. For the second time in two weeks. Given that he just went back on the ritalin with the start of school, it's got me wondering about the meds. So if anyone reading has any thoughts, well, I'd love to hear.

Lucky Me

2010-09-17T09:49:00.001-04:00

Tuesday morning was a school holiday in this part of the world because it was the day of our primary elections. (Please hold while I blush ... Yes, I should have voted, but it's the primaries, people. And besides, I forgot.)

Usually my morning starts with my eager nearly-12-year-old bursting into my room to request a new app for his iPod Touch, which he won on a $2 investment in a Stacker game at the bowling alley on a school field trip. Last $2 I ever give that kid. Though I will say, he's learned the hard way that if he wakes me up by shoving his iPod two inches from my nose and demanding downloadable stuff, the answer is a monolithic, 24-hour, applies to all things in the universe variety of NO.

That's not a good no.

Tuesday morning, though, was quiet. Kids on holiday, still in their pajamas. Au pair up and at 'em and feeding them breakfast. Me, stumbling down the stairs, fumbling for coffee, and snarling out the occasional, deeply insincere "Good morning."

I am not a morning person.

I crawled into the dining room to join my kids for breakfast and plopped myself into a chair. My Aspie grinned and said, "Mom! Aren't you lucky? I didn't wake you up!"

My five year old piped up. "And isn't she lucky I did??"

Yes, dear. I'm lucky. I'm very, very lucky.

I'm lucky because he did wake me up. Just as he does every morning, by curling up beside me and sticking his finger in my bellybutton. Do I miss the extra sleep? Oh, you betcha. Still lucky, though.

I'm lucky because his finger is just the right size that when he sticks it in my bellybutton it creates a little bit of suction and makes a funny popping feeling when he pulls it out. Not sure what that says about my tummy, though I'm certain I don't want to know.

I'm lucky that he's invented 53 different ways to hug me. My favorite is the 10-hug, where he hugs me 10 times without stopping. His favorite is the tackle hug. (That one's self-explanatory.)

I'm lucky that his sister lets me brush her hair, which she didn't used to do, and only does now because I totally guilted her into it.

I'm lucky that my kids respond well to guilt.

I'm lucky, too, that they all eat their cauliflower. And I didn't once use guilt. Nope, I bribed them. The use of bribes is much better parenting.

And I'm lucky to have my au pair, because she makes me coffee and has her mom send her stroopwafels and then shares them with me, and because she's just that amazing.

I'm also lucky that my Aspie is so brilliant at Stacker. Because the music settles him and lets him shut out the world when he needs to. Because the whole appverse is amazing. And because now he can listen to Weird Al Yankovich all he wants, and I don't hear a thing.

He's been trying to win his sister her own iPod. He's been just one row off pretty much every single time he's played. Trust me, he will win again.

So will I. Hard to lose with this much luck floating around.

Knitting in the Margins

2010-09-08T23:56:00.001-04:00

This is the time of year when I start to fantasize about yarn. It's an illness I think. And it's not like I'm a great knitter. I'm not. I'm a knitter who spends most of her time making a living, running three kids to soccer, cooking, cleaning, doing yard work, cleaning up cat vomit and, from time to time, blogging. The knitting fits into the margins. And the stuff you do in the margins is not the stuff you get good at.

But I like yarn. I like the feel of needles sliding back and forth, and the joy of having something to show for it. And I like the fact that knitting keeps me focused during conference calls. I have a lot of conference calls. And I like making things. Time is hands-down my most precious commodity. If I take the time to make you something, well, let's just say I must really, really like you.

There's something about this time of year, too. The kids are back at school. The temps have finally dropped out of the 90s. We can open the windows back up, breathe a little, and know that summer is over.

Which means it's time to think about Christmas.

No, really. It is. For those of us who dream of a handmade Christmas and lots of little gifts of time, it is.

Not that I should be doing anything of the kind. I still haven't finished last year's Christmas gifts. There's a plastic baggie next to my rocking chair, stuffed with a bright blue crocheted scarf and three out of four hot pink crocheted flowers. They are waiting for the fourth flower and a little stitching to finish them off. They didn't quite make it under last year's tree.

On the rocking chair is the nearly finished afghan I started knitting for my parents for Christmas 2008. I tried to give it to them last summer, when my dad turned 70 and their marriage turned 30. They saw it. They oohed. They aahed. They noticed the needles still in it. They gave it back.

And now it's all comfy, cozy and still needled up on my rocking chair.

In the chest of drawers next to my bed, I have a needlepoint canvas in the shape of a stocking, with the distinctive and half-finished half-circle of a piney Christmas wreath laid against a cream-colored background. I designed it myself for my daughter, for her first Christmas. I started it before she was born.

She's 8 now. And this year marks her ninth Christmas.

Oops.

That stocking is sitting on top of a stack of orange and magenta cotton I bought to knit her a sweater. It's a little tiny stack of yarn. But then, it was supposed to be a little tiny sweater. She was going to wear it home from the hospital when she was born.

She didn't, of course. It's kinda hard to wear unknit cotton yarn.

But I dream. I dream of knitting. I dream because it's Christmas. Or close to it. Well, closer.

I want to make one of these. Because I think my five-year-old frog squisher deserves one. And for my daughter, this one. Because she misses our dog.

I hope the kids still like them when they're 20. Because that's about when these will be finished.

Gullible Much?

2010-09-04T15:42:00.000-04:00

The night I wrote my last post, about how my Kindergartener didn't know where the bathrooms were at school but his good friend Invisible Man did and just wasn't telling, I did what any good mother would do. I fired an email off to the teacher and said, "Hey, somewhere along the line, my little guy missed the whole bathroom talk. Can you give him a refresh?"

That proved to be unnecessary.

The next morning, over breakfast, I tried to coach the redhead to ask his teacher to show him the bathrooms. Then my amazing au pair chimed in, reminding him that he'd been to the bathrooms in school with her, many many times ... and that's when I caught it. The little glimmer in his baby blues, the nearly smirk that flashed across his face ...

He was joking.

The teacher confirmed it later that day. She asked him where the bathroom was, and he pointed right to it. My kid knows exactly where to go. The whole thing was an elaborate hoax designed to pull the wool over his mother's eyes.

He got me. Yes, he got me, and it cracked him up.

I'm gullible. I admit it. But this, I think, is more than that. This is a bone-deep gullibility born of nearly 12 years parenting an Aspie. I mean, I can tell when my kids are lying. Every mom has a built-in radar for truth. I know when they haven't brushed their teeth or washed their hands, when they skipped out early on the homework or watched a show I don't allow. That's easy.

This is different. This is humor. It's not really lying - it's fibbing, with purpose.

And that, it seems, flies right over my head.

My oldest can't tell jokes. He doesn't get them. Too much nuance and non-verbal involved in the whole joke thing. He's smart as hell, has a laugh that lights up a room and appreciates a good pratfall when he sees one. But he's got a literal brain. He hears what he hears one way, straight up. Puns and pranks and verbal sleight of hand are just not in his vocabulary.

Which means they're not in mine. At least, not in my parenting vocabulary.

Then along comes my five year old. He's been making jokes since before he could talk. He's the kid who, when he was learning to walk, would weave like a drunkard through the living room going, "Whoooooaaaa! Whoooooaaaaa!" and then fall down - on purpose - because it would get a laugh from every adult in the room.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Because my redhead not only has a sense of humor, but it's wicked and it's clever and he makes regular use of it.

I have no earthly idea what to do with that. Except be proud of him. The kid's got mad skills. And wait for the next time. Because he's going to get me again.

The Invisible Man

2010-09-03T00:11:00.002-04:00

My redhead has a new friend. His name is The Invisible Man, and he comes everywhere with us. Usually he sits in the back seat of my minivan between the redhead and his big brother. They strap him in with a seat belt because he can't buckle his own. He's engaged to be married to Junia, my diva's long-time imaginary friend. Which tells you a little something about The Invisible Man that you may not have figured out yet.

He's not real.

He does, however, go to school. It seems he wants to learn to read.

This afternoon, as my redhead and I tickled our way through his big brother's soccer practice, my redhead announced, "I think I might have peed my pants a little."

I was surprised. "Didn't you go to the bathroom at school?"

"No. They don't have bathrooms at school."

"I'm sure they do, peanut. Every school has bathrooms."

"Not mine."

"Are you sure?"

He put his puzzled face on. "Maybe I don't know where it is."

"Did you ask your teacher?"

"No. 'Cause The Invisible Man knows where it is."

"Oh." Time for my own puzzled face.

"But he's not telling. It's a secret."

Ah. Well that makes more sense, then.

I think it's time to send a discreet note to the teacher. Because it's really not fair if she's only showing the imaginary people where the bathrooms are.

My Car's Going on Vacation

2010-08-29T11:04:00.001-04:00

It could happen only on Facebook.

Three days ago, a long-time, well-loved friend from college posted something along the lines of, "Hey! Anyone got a minivan I can borrow?"

Today, she borrowed mine.

A little crazy, right? I mean, who lends out their car. Their only car. To someone they haven't seen in three, maybe four years. For a multi-state joy ride.

Yeah, that would be me.

Bear with me for a minute. There's a point, but it'll take us a few paragraphs to get there.

See, I learned a ton of things from my marriage. You spend a lot of time, in the after, thinking about how you got where you were, the choices you made, the things about you that contributed to the demise of all that hope and bliss. Because it takes two. Just as a marriage takes two, so does a divorce. So does any part of any relationship, really.

Then you look at your other relationships, too, so you can fit those choices into patterns. Because if there's a part of you running around killing your relationships, you want to know what it is, right? So you can make it stop, find fulfillment, a lifetime of joy, blah blah blah.

I remember one fellow, many years ago (well it would have to be, wouldn't it? I mean, I was married, like, forEVer). We broke up. I mean, he broke up with me. Not politic, but true.

I was pushing him for the why's, and he said, "Well, you're too happy. And you give too much."

Why, yes. Yes, those do sound like reasons to end a relationship.

That wasn't all he said, of course. And, in truth, they are perfectly good reasons. I mean, seriously, do you want to live with Rachael Ray? Love her to pieces - I know a kindred spirit when I see one - but perpetual pep can be a bit challenging in a life partner. You need someone who sees the ups and downs, who sails them right alongside you. And the giving thing ... well. If you're the right kind of person, it creates an obligation that's hard to live up to. If you're the wrong kind of person, it's an advantage, an invitation to just keep taking. And either way, you're both kind of screwed.

The thing is, these flaws are fundamental to who I am. It's really hard to take the happy out of yourself. To make yourself stop giving. I've never figured out quite how to do it. And I've learned that I don't want to.

So I lent my friend my car. For a week. She's driving it to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. She invited me to go, too, long before she invited my car. But my kids started school last week, and we can't take the time off. I'm sending my car in my place. It'll spend a week enjoying the sand, the sun and the sound of the surf, and the entertaining company of my friend. And I will get to drive her little hybrid, with its built-in navigation system - a nav system that I believe, in my heart of hearts, will magically make me on time to things.

Hah.

Have fun, little car. Bring my friend and her family back safely.

First Days

2010-08-28T01:24:00.007-04:00

My kids started school this week. One kid at a time. Which means we had three - yes, that's THREE - first days of school. Three days where mom woke up at the crack of dawn and lovingly prepared a breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes with bananas and sausage. Three days of snapping pictures and stuffing backpacks to the gills with school supplies. Three days of nerves and joy and the general angst that comes from changing your whole schedule around from one day to the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Monday was my diva's first day of third grade. It was also the day my new Kindergartner went in to meet his new teacher and see his new classroom. The ex came too, which tickled the kids pinker than my daughter's hot pink polka-dotted leggings. The whole group of us walked to school together.

She had a great day.

I, apparently, did not. I walked right past all the "here's what to do for the first day" papers in the Kindergarten classroom. All of them. Which was a problem.

But not till Wednesday.

Tuesday was all about my Aspie. He's in 7th grade. And that scares me. Because I remember 7th grade. I remember getting thrown up on by the girl on the riser behind me in the spring chorus concert. I remember roller skating and school dances and "going with" a cute, slightly geeky, very tall boy named Jeremy for about a week. I think I dumped him, but it's hard to say because I also can't remember having an actual conversation with the guy. It was all about the intermediaries in 7th grade.

(Note: cute, geeky and tall remains my type to this day. )

So, heck yeah, 7th grade scares me. Puberty and tweendom and all that. But what I'm not scared about this year, for the first time since my Aspie hit Kindergarten, is school. School is good. School is great. My Aspie is in a place where he is cared for and supported and loved. Where he's learning and active and making friends. The transition from summer is still rough, and he's been a bit of a tired, tantrummy mess most days this week. But he'll adjust. And that's the minor miracle. He will adjust.

And then came Wednesday. The day I sent my baby off to Kindergarten with his new red backpack and his name tag, and no stuffed animal for show and tell. Because I totally missed the paper.

Oops.

He was fine with it, though, when I told him. He's that kind of kid.

I stood back and watched him, standing in line in front of his new teacher, waiting for the kids from the last bus to arrive. He was pensive and nervous and looked so very young. And then, just before the teacher led her line of students off into the bowels of the school, he turned to me, shot me an impish grin ... and stuck his tongue out at me.

I burst into tears.

How did my kids get so grown up?

Damn. I think I blinked again.

Mind Your Money, Honey

2010-08-21T02:03:00.002-04:00

Once you're out of limbo - that odd and occasionally cathartic period between separation and divorce, which in my case lasted an excruciating 469 days - well, you're supposed to be done. Divorced and fairly angst-free. You indulge in occasional conversations with the ex that run along the lines of, "Hey, can we trade weekends this month," and "Dude, sorry I forgot to pack pants for the five-year-old." But that's it. Free and clear and living your own life, footloose and ex-free.

Except it doesn't work that way.

And it's not even about the kids. Because once you get into a routine, you can handle the kids. Most of the time.

No, it's about the money.

You'd think it would be easy. Shared marital assets? Sell them and split the proceeds. Or divvy them up fair and square. Shared debt? You can't sell it. So you do your best to divvy. You each take responsibility for your own bits and pieces and write it all down on paper, neatly notarized and approved by the judge.

Except the banks disagree. Once you co-sign something that isn't a mortgage and therefore can't be settled and sold, you are apparently co-signed for life. Or at least for the life of the loan. Which means that even if your divorce decree states: "Do you, Mr. Ex-Husband, take this debt, to love, honor and cherish till death do you part?" and he completely agrees that yes, he will take that debt, the bank says, "Uh, no way man. That debt's still married to your ex-wife."

Your debt ties you to your ex as much as your children do. You brought it into the world together, so you share responsibility for it until it's fully grown and able to live on its own. Until then, it gets to eat you out of house and home and keep you from getting the great, low-rate refi you so richly deserve.

I just hope I don't have to send the damn thing to college.

Lesson learned: Mind your money, honey.

Woody Monkey

2010-08-17T02:24:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, there was a little boy with sparkling blue eyes and festive red hair. He was smart and funny and generally easygoing. But he didn't much like sleeping.

His mommy liked sleeping. She liked it a lot. But if he was up, she was up, too. By the time of our story, she'd been awake for nearly five years. She loved him. Dearly. But most of the time, she couldn't remember his name.

One night, when his mommy was away for the evening and a friend stayed over to take care of him, a minor miracle happened. The redhead slept. In his own bed. All night long. And all by himself.

Then he promised his mommy he'd do it again. All he wanted was a Build-A-Bear.

Before he even finished that thought, his mommy shouted "DEAL!" She went clickety-clack on the computer and churned out a fully-illustrated, 30-day chart, with pictures of Build-A-Bears dancing in the margins.

He had a good night, and he got a circle for his chart. Then he had a few bad nights. Then another good one, and another circle. The first few days were slow going. But he made it to 7, then 10, then 12. Before he knew it, he had 20 big round circles on his chart. And, seeing that he had only 10 nights left, he bit the bullet and slept on his own, in his own bed, straight through until he was done.

The day before his fifth birthday, this beautiful, sparkling boy earned circle number 30, with 30 nights of fully independent, uninterrupted, I'm-a-big-kid-now sleep.

And now the boy has a new best friend. His name is Woody Monkey. Apparently Build-A-Bear makes monkeys, too, and they let you dress them up in very cool outfits, some of which look astonishingly like those worn by the lead characters in your average five-year-old's favorite film.

I am happy to report that my great, big, heading-off-to-Kindergartner has slept in his own bed every night since his birthday. We're going on two weeks now.

So, if I promise myself a Build-a-Bear, do you think I'll start sleeping, too?

The Sea of Fabulosity

2010-08-10T20:53:00.002-04:00

As many of you know, my fella recently moved to the other coast. I could call it the "wrong" coast, the presumption being that the coast I'm sitting on is the "right" one. But ... um ...

Yeah, that's really tempting. Wrong, but tempting.

He's been there for a couple of weeks now. I know this because his status on Facebook the other day said, "Week 2," and not because I'm keeping track or anything. Because I so totally would not do that.

And in fact, if you look carefully, you'll notice a quiet, bloggy gap right about the time he moved. That's because I went with him. Not to stay, of course. Just to help.

I'd say I ignored the mom guilt, packed my kids into a shipping crate, stamped my parents' address on the side and shipped 'em off for a week, just so I could go to San Francisco. But we all know that's not possible. Mom guilt doesn't allow for shipping crates. Plus, my kids would do each other serious injury if I left them alone together for that long without their electronics.

But I've got fabulous friends. Deeply, lovingly fabulous friends who get both mom guilt and the importance of giving a newly long-distance relationship the proper send-off.

So when my fella got word of his move, my friends listened and commiserated. They mixed gin and tonics and fed me Thai food and let me talk. Pretty much endlessly.

They quietly arranged a handful of playdates and sleepovers (even when their own kids weren't around), so my fella and I could enjoy a few last evenings together.

And they invited my kids to the beach. For four days. With my amazing au pair.

Even the ex helped. He took the kids on vacation, then brought them from his vacation directly to theirs.

And so my fella and I had a week together in San Francisco. We had friends there, too. Friends who put us up and treated us like royalty. Friends who gave us list after list of things to do so we wouldn't spend our days all mopey and maudlin. We ate pretty food, saw pretty art and pretty trees, and walked the pretty, hilly streets.

We also bought a big down comforter. It is yummy and warm and, well, comforting. Basically, it's a hug in the form of a household good. Because if I can't be there to hug the man in person, he should at least have a hugalicious comforter to take my place.

We said good-bye. I flew away. And then another friend picked me up at the airport. She put up with my overtired, drugged and mopey self, put me to bed and let me sleep. For a very long time. And then she drove me home. Which was really far away.

This is how fabulous my friends are.

Now, mind you, I have many fabulous friends. What happened here, it's just a snippet of fabulousness in a great big sea of fabulosity. But it was a very well-timed sort of fabulous. And the kind you can't repay. So you say the biggest possible "thank you" you can muster, and then you bake a cake or two. For the kids. Because, as it happens, sugar and chocolate compensate beautifully for mom guilt.

(Well, I'll be damned. I think that last sentence just summed up the whole premise of this blog.)

Glow-in-the-Dark Days

2010-08-01T02:34:00.007-04:00

There are a lot of sucky things about divorce. But the one that sneaks up on you, the one you don't expect, is that the awkward and uncomfortable of the whole thing colors your memories. Even the good ones. This means that your biggest, brightest, glow-in-the-dark days can get sort of gray and irritating.

I have three spectacular glow-in-the-dark days. There may be more, but these are the ones I'd lay down my life to keep shining.

I'll bet you know what they are.

The third of them happened just over five years ago. I woke up that morning calm, relaxed, and uncomfortable in a house full of boxes and the scent of fresh paint. It was 5:30 a.m. The sun was rising. It was peaceful and quiet, and I was roughly the size of a sperm whale with cankles that could sink the Titanic.

Six hours later, my redhead was born.

And no, it wasn't all peace and joy. I blew two IVs. I chewed out the nurse when some goober started delivering lunch on the floor, like 10 rooms away. You've heard of supertasters, right? When I'm in labor, I'm a supersmeller. And that lunch smell that no one else noticed, it made me want to hurl.

I also distinctly remember about 30 seconds of absolute panic when I realized that the ginormous child my midwife's assistant had told me was at least 11 pounds was actually coming out, like now, and I'd decided not to get an epidural and WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING, at which point my midwife did the mental equivalent of a face slap. Meaning, she shouted at me. Yes, at me, a woman in labor. Who does that? But it worked, and my redhead was in my arms, wet and squirmy and bright red all over, not 10 minutes later.

The rest of it, though - all of it - that was peace and joy. It was my daughter in her gymnastics leotard with sparkly clips in her hair because that's what she wanted that day. It was my son, going with the flow and heading off cheerfully with his grandparents (which is a bigger deal than you might think, given his attachment to routine). It was my kids holding their baby brother, and my now ex holding me while my redhead eased his way into the world.

And I don't want that to be bitter, or even bittersweet. I want the birth of my third child, and the births of all of my children, to glow.

To hell with the sucky part. I'm keeping this one.

Happy birthday, peanut.

Call Me Carrie

2010-07-20T00:35:00.003-04:00

A blogger acquaintance of mine who may or may not know I read her stuff, but I do read it because it's interesting, funny and insightful ... well, she posted a link to a groovy little app-like thing called I Write Like. You input your stuff, and it churns out a famous writer whose work yours vaguely resembles.

Apparently, this is me:

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I think it might be the zombies.

Peanuts Happen

2010-07-13T23:23:00.003-04:00

When I talk to my kids, I often use nicknames. There’s “sweetie” and "kiddo" and all the typical mom stuff, which I use mostly because I can’t remember their names. But they also have one nickname each that’s just for them. Almost like a name, except easier to remember.

My Aspie, he gets to be my pumpkin because he was born in October.

My diva used to be my sweet pea, until she realized she was really a princess and started behaving like one, and that’s what she’s been ever since.

And my little guy, who is much bigger than your typical nearly-five-year-old, he’s my peanut. Not because he’s little. He’s never been little, not even at birth. Nine pounds, nine ounces of baby, that one. I call him my peanut because he’s the only one of my three who got an ultrasound in utero during that phase when your soon-to-be baby still looks like a peanut.

It stuck.

Last night I was on the phone with my sister having a very deep conversation, because there’s a whole lot of deep going on. And I was eating a big bowl of ice cream, because my fella is moving to San Francisco and that means I get to eat ice cream. Suddenly I was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs. I jumped up to put my ice cream in the freezer before the little feet found me, because it was on the verge of melting anyway, and came back to find my little guy on the sofa.

At which point I interrupted my sister to say, “Hey, peanut. Why are you awake?” (Clearly, that was not directed toward her.)

I got a raspy croak in response, which generally means, “I have to pee, mom, but there’s zombies in the bathroom, and really I’d rather be sleeping.”

So I made my excuses to my sister, and when I apologized for the interruption she said, “That’s okay. Peanuts happen.”

Which I thought was funny.

Now you get to think so, too.

A Whole Lotta Frittata

2010-07-10T22:56:00.018-04:00

Do you all remember my pan? My sturdy, strong, beautifully seasoned cast iron frying pan? The pan with all that meaning and history. The pan I burned to bits about this time last year.

Yeah, that one.

I saved it. I scrubbed and I scraped and I seasoned, and then I seasoned again. I cooked a mountain of bacon (and created a true baconophile in my Aspie).

And I saved it.

Now it is making frittatas. Perfect, evenly cooked, gorgeously browned frittatas.

A few weeks ago, the family of my amazing au pair came to visit us from her home country of Belgium. We spent a lot of time with them while they were here. We had them over for dinner one night (check the Fast, Fake-Baked Ziti recipe on the right – it’s my go-to dinner for events like this because everyone, and I mean everyone, loves it). We went sightseeing with them. And we meant to go to the zoo with them. Except that it was insanely hot, the air quality was bad, and my heat-strokey Aspie and my formerly asthmatic diva would have melted.

So I kept them air conditioned, and we invited our extended Belgian family over for brunch the next day instead.

I didn’t have time to shop, so I just used what I had. Two-thirds of a loaf of Italian bread and a handful of eggs, a drop of vanilla and some cinnamon made a nice little French toast.

I tossed a fruit salad. I brewed some iced tea.

And I made a frittata. A clove of garlic, half an onion. A handful of baby tomatoes, seeded and diced. Six little balls of fresh mozzarella, quartered. Several pretty green basil leaves. And, when it was ready for the broiler, a handful of freshly grated asiago sprinkled over the top.

Um, yeah, so I keep a fairly well-stocked kitchen.

My little frittata was yummy. So yummy that I made the same thing the next day for a house guest who had never had breakfast in bed. Everyone deserves breakfast in bed, dontcha think?

Look. Pictures.

That pan is a wonder. Not only did it cook up a stunningly gorgeous and tasty concoction of eggy goodness, practically by itself (yes, my pan is that good). But it didn’t stick. Not even a little bit. Clean-up was easy-peasy.

I love that pan.

Go get your own pan, season the hell out of it, then make a frittata. It will make you happy.

Rosemary’s Caprese Frittata

1 8” cast iron fry pan
6 eggs
A dollop of milk (presuming milk can dollop)
1 T butter
1 clove garlic, minced
½ medium onion, diced
4 small tomatoes, seeded and diced
12 or so leaves of fresh basil, torn
6 balls of the little bitty mozzarella (if you know what they’re called, feel free to comment!)
¼ - ½ cup grated asiago or parmesan

In a mixing bowl, whip eggs and milk until frothy. Turn on the broiler. Heat your cast iron over medium heat. Add the butter. When the butter melts, sauté the garlic and onions until translucent. Add the tomatoes and basil and cook for a minute or two longer to bring out their flavor. Even out the ingredients across the pan, then pour the eggs over the top. Drop in the quartered mozzarella balls. Leave that pan alone until the eggs have generally set (the top of the frittata will still be very wet), then sprinkle the asiago over the top and put the whole thing under the broiler immediately. Let it brown. Cut in the pan and serve in tidy little wedges. Or messy ones, if that’s your druther.

Do not serve with ketchup. That would be sacrilege.

Wait, Is It Really July? Well, Almost ...

2010-06-30T00:39:00.009-04:00

I came here today intending to blog about frittatas. That's right. Frittatas, and all their eggy goodness.

This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.

On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.

I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.

For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.

Read
Sleep
Move

See? Simple. And I am reading more. But that's mostly because I'm sleeping and moving less. Funny how that one worked out.

So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.

Here they are.

Finish the half gallon of Breyer's rocky road ice cream currently melting in my lap. Very doable, particularly as a half gallon container now holds a mere 1.5 quarts. (When exactly did that happen?)
Learn to say "yes." Ironic, since I spent my year plus in limbo learning how to say "no." Now I'm really good at no and realizing that I need a few more yesses in my life. I'm not talking about "Yes, I'll manage the whole soccer league," or "Yes, I'll make 84 cupcakes for tomorrow's bake sale." I'm talking about "Yes, sweetie, I'd love to play Polly Pockets with you," and "Of course you can have a hug," and "Sure I can read Wacky Wednesday 18 more times today." These are important yesses.
Find a sugar daddy who wants to buy me a brand new and completely bug-free house and send all three of my super-smart kids to college. (But only if I can keep dating my San Francisco-bound sweetie.)
Set a new family record by blowing up six - yes, I said six - bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. This is hands-down my kids' favorite activity of the summer. Yeah, I know, six isn't really that many - particularly when compared with this YouTube classic - but since the kids usually get just the one bottle apiece, six is a big, big deal.
Write that frittata post. I even took pictures folks. Yes, pictures.

Stay tuned ...

Squish

2010-06-24T02:20:00.005-04:00

You may recall my redhead being completely incapacitated by his fear of zombies and poison frogs.

(This is where I'd insert a reference to the Litany Against Fear from Dune, 'cause yes, I'm that geeky. I just can't figure out a way to do it gracefully.)

Anyway ... I convinced the little guy that neither zombies nor poison dart frogs could drive, and since they live too far away to walk, that took care of the worst of it. But he was still afraid. He slept with his magic, force-field wielding baby blanket every night, and he covered his ears and hollered whenever a sibling said the "z" word or the "f" word (the other "f" word -you know, four letters, ends in "g"). It was bad enough that I banned any discussion of zombies. Period.

This week, that all changed.

That's because this week, the kids and I are on vacation. Amongst our other adventures, we spent a day at the National Aquarium in Baltimore. Way cool place, chock full of dolphins and jellyfish and a bunch of other fascinating sea creatures.

Oddly enough, they've also got a whole mess of poison dart frogs. Not so much with the aquatic, really. But, as it happens, very handy to have around. Because - guess what? Those frogs are tiny. Little bitty teeny tiny things. About the size of my little guy's thumb.

And eminently squishable.

I took a risk and introduced my fearful redhead to every single variety of poison dart frog in the place. I showed him their teeny tiny selves. He took one look at those terrifying beasts ... and he giggled. He actually giggled. Then he told me he would punch them all in the face and squish them.

Good-bye poison dart frogs.

Yes, I know they're endangered. I don't care. My kid believes he can squish them at will, and that is a good, good thing. And no, I did not bother to tell him that one of these puppies has enough venom to kill 10 adult humans. There are some things he does not need to know.

On the way home, we had this conversation.

"You know how I said I was afraid of poison frogs?"

"Yep."

"That was a joke. I was joking about the zombies, too," he added. "Because, you know, they're not even real."

Take that, fear. You've been squished.

It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Falls Asleep

2010-06-20T01:36:00.011-04:00

Every so often, my kids and I engage in a game they call "Mommy Monster." I lie on the sofa in wait until some unsuspecting child walks by, and then I reach out and grab them and tickle them mercilessly until all three kids jump on me in a giggly, squealing, squirmy mass.

Today, I wound up underneath just such a pile of happily loud and wiggly kids.

And I fell asleep.

I woke up the instant one of the kids jumped off me and set off all those internal mommy alarms that blare when a child of mine is not readily present and accounted for.

But I'm still annoyed. They had all that fun without me.

Damn but I'm tired.

Stupid insomnia. I hate you.

P.S. I know I've got a pronoun/antecedent agreement issue in the first paragraph, but I'm too tired to figure out how to fix it.

One Good Right Turn

2010-06-14T21:36:00.000-04:00

So, you know the question I dodged the other day? The one about whether or not I've got a boyfriend?

I do. But shhh, don't tell the kids.

He's a great guy. He's smart and funny and his hugs are better than Xanax. He asks intelligent questions about knitting and understands why cupcakes matter. He accepts that chronic lateness is a part of my character and knows that a conversation with me will generally involve a series of right turns and an occasional big old twisty circle. He always walks on my right side because I carry my purse on my left, and he points when he gives me directions because I don't get the whole left/right thing anyway (he learned that one the hard way).

He likes good food and interesting people and keeps passing me books I can't put down so that I'll have something fun to read when I'm wide awake at 2:00 a.m. He's allergic to mussels and mixes a mean dark and stormy, and you wouldn't believe what he can do with a cosmopolitan. He loves his family. And he once spent a whole day in the kitchen making a mole from scratch. I wasn't there for that, but gee it's fun to hear him talk about it.

We've been friends for 21 years.

I like him. I like spending time with him, just talking with him or being quiet with him. I like the sound of his voice, the strength in his hands, and the way he brightens when he's with me. He makes me brighten, too. His apartment is the only place in a 100-mile radius where I can get a good night's sleep because there I feel safe and relaxed and cared for.

Next month, he's moving to California.

I'm going to miss him.

Sex and the Single Aspie

2010-06-13T23:43:00.002-04:00

I have this cousin who is One Smart Cookie, and who is also, for various reasons, interested in the subject of Asperger's Syndrome. We haven't talked about it much, but given that we're friends on Facebook, he sees my posts, and I see his.

He posted something today that, well, it was interesting. I'm not ready to share it with my own general public on Facebook. But I am very comfortable sharing it here, where I can give it some context.

The article, "Asperger's Syndrome Sex: Love's Outer Limits," was posted on CarnalNation.com. It's part one of a multi-part series.

And it's fascinating.

I can't speak for the other moms of tween Aspies. Mine is in middle school. He's learning about hygiene and puberty and how his body will change. And he's thinking about girls. He's asking about first kisses and why unmarried teens have babies and whether I have a boyfriend. (And no, those last two are not related topics.)

Sex and relationships are part and parcel of growing up, no less for him than for other kids his age. A lot of his coming of age will and should be private - i.e., not bloggable. But as his mom, I do have some thinking to do about how to talk to him about this stuff. And that thinking should be okay to share.

I don't know about other parents, but I want my kids - all three of them - to have healthy and fulfilling relationships. I don't care whether my kids are gay or straight or ambiguous, but I do care that they find a way to connect, a way to be loved, a way to get hugs and kisses and the fulfillment that comes from a loving physical relationship. I want them to be respected and respectful. To know themselves, their hearts and their bodies. To know what they need and be comfortable saying so. To know when to say no, and when to say yes. To make good and responsible choices.

And I've wondered how all of that might be different for my Aspie. Because it will be. Any interpersonal relationship works differently for him.

And it hurts me when I think that my Aspie, who already struggles so much to make friends, may struggle so much more to find love.

This article gives me a beginning, a place to start from when talking to him about this stuff. And I'm thinking I may forward it to the guidance counselor at his school, where there are eight other tweenage boys starting the same journey.

For the record? I had my first kiss at seven (apparently, so did my daughter ... the things you learn over breakfast!). And I successfully dodged the boyfriend question. The subject of teen pregnancy came up after the season finale of Glee. I told him that unmarried teens like Puck and Quinn have babies when they make poor choices. My older two then asked me what those poor choices were, and I said something like "it's called 'having sex'," and both of them promptly changed the subject. For which, I am thanking my lucky stars. And thinking madly about how to answer it when the subject comes up again.

Veggie Girl Conquers the World

2010-06-12T00:22:00.000-04:00

It's official. My little diva is no longer a vegetarian.

"I'm just not cut out for it," she sighed. And then she burst into tears.

She got lots of verbal hugs (we were at the table - a real hug was a bit of a challenge). She felt defeated. But she shouldn't have.

In trying to be a vegetarian, even for a little while, my diva became much more aware of what she eats. She learned how to make healthy choices. She added countless new foods to her diet, including such rarities as tofu and brussels sprouts.

And she ate her veggies. Every single night.

But her vegetarian experiment didn't just affect her. It affected every single one of us.

Because now she's not the only one eating her veggies. Her brothers eat them too. Not huge servings. Not every bite. But they eat them. They eat broccoli and green beans, cauliflower and corn on the cob, carrots and cucumbers. And, of course, the aforementioned brussels sprouts.

Yes, that means I have three children who eat brussels sprouts. I am a blessed woman.

And they try things. I put something new on the table now, and not a one of 'em runs away screaming. (And yes, that did happen. We do have an Aspie in the house, after all.) In the last week, I've made shrimp with garlic, roasted pork tenderloin, and orange mashed potatoes (I added a sweet potato to to my Idahoes). They tried everything. Without complaining. Although sometimes with ketchup.

By the time I finished telling her all that, Veggie Girl was beaming. Because she did this. She ate her veggies and showed her brothers how it's done.

I love a girl who knows her own mind.

Lemon Jell-O Cake, or Why I Love My Sister

2010-06-06T00:55:00.003-04:00

I like cake.

You're shocked, I'm sure. Because I've only blogged about cakes and cupcakes like 83,000 times. (And yes, I'm exaggerating. But not by much.)

My aunt makes a cake she calls Better Than Sex Cake. And there was a time when I might have agreed with her. You should make this cake. It may not be better than sex, but it is better than a great many other truly wonderful things. Including chocolate. I kid you not.

Good as this cake is, however - and it is extremely good - it is not the best cake ever.

The best cake ever is the stuff of memories. It's the cake my mom made for my birthday every single year growing up. It's baked in a Bundt pan, coated in a simple powdered sugar glaze, moist, with a blaze of lemony flavor that just zings through your mouth. We call it the Lemon Jell-O Cake.

I have not had that cake in nearly 30 years.

My mom's been ill for a very, very long time. When all that first happened, her brother kindly stored her things in his basement. There was a flood, though, and much was destroyed. Baby clothes she'd made by hand for me and my sister. Her original artwork. Mirrored pillows and other items from her travels to India.

And books. Many books. Including her cookbooks, and the recipe for the best cake ever along with them.

I spent years searching the interwebz for that Lemon Jello-O Cake. I never found it. I found cakes that stole the name, easy cakes, light and lemony. But not one was right.

And then, my sister's birthday came. I was pondering how best to help her celebrate and decided to get her thoughts on her cake. I gave her a couple of options. First up, the tiramisu cupcakes I wound up making (awesome!). The other was Martha Stewart's lemon curd cupcakes, for the lemony memories.

Which is when she told me about her wonderful gift. She'd rescued my mom's old, water-logged Fannie Farmer Cookbook from the flood. And inside it, hand-written and just a little smeared, was my mom's Lemon Jell-O Cake recipe. (Which is apparently Paulette's recipe, only we don't know who Paulette is.)

My sister read it to me over the phone, because she is just that awesome.

I made it last weekend. It is every single bit as good as I remembered. And given how much flavor hindsight and nostalgia add, that's saying something. Still not better than sex, but definitely getting closer.

Enjoy. And remember to send a great big thank you to my sister.

Paulette's Lemon Jell-O Cake
1 package Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 3 oz package lemon Jell-O
4 eggs, slightly beaten
3/4 cup oil
3/4 cup apricot nectar (my store didn't have it, so I used pear nectar instead - still yummy!)
2 tbs lemon extract

Mix all ingredients together and pour into a buttered and floured Bundt pan. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes minimum, usually longer. (45 minutes did it for me, but my oven is dead-on accurate.)

Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice (fresh-squeezed, please!)

Mix and let stand. Pour over cake when it comes out of the oven. (I poured it along the inner and outer edges of the pan ... oh stars, but what that does to this cake ... you'll just have to find out for yourself.) Leave in the pan until it cools. Eat it.

Giving credit where credit is due: my mom once told me that this recipe came off a box of Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix. I've been all over their site, though, and couldn't find the recipe. I did find a similar recipe here.

Mr. Green Beans

2010-05-27T14:49:00.003-04:00

At my dinner table this week ...

I roasted a chicken. I made macaroni and cheese, the homemade kind, from a friend's recipe. I steamed green beans. I washed some grapes and sliced up a bunch of Italian bread. I put it all on the table.

My kids passed the chicken. They passed the macaroni and cheese. They passed the grapes and the bread. They passed the green beans.

Veggie Girl filled her plate up with green beans, because they are green and they are yummy and she truly loves her vegetables. Except for zucchini.

My Aspie took six beans. Yes, six. He counted them. He ate them. And then he asked for more protein, please.

My redhead took three. Reluctantly.

I told him he couldn't have more mac and cheese until he ate a green bean. So he ate one. All of it. Without ketchup. And then he ate another. And then the third.

And then he reached for the serving bowl and finished every single green bean left on the table.

He told my amazing, veggie-eating au pair that he is now big and strong and smart because he eats green beans. And last night he asked - yes, he asked - if we couldn't please have green beans for dinner.

Hang onto your hats, folks. There's a newly minted veggie lover in the house!

Small Miracles

2010-05-23T23:54:00.002-04:00

Apparently, the Earth's orbit has shifted. The planets aligned. Hell froze over.

My redhead slept through the night. Again.

This is huge. HUGE. Because it's never ever happened before.

And even better, he wants it to happen again. Seriously. He said so himself. I was putting him to bed, and he said, "Mom, you can sleep with me one more time, and then I'm going to do it by myself so you can get me a Build-A-Bear."

That "sleeping with me" stuff means two things. It means at night, when he's falling asleep, because he likes to have me nearby. Not always right next to him, but always nearby. And given the turmoil of the divorce, I haven't pushed it. I've stayed. Because divorced kids need to know they are loved, they are safe, and their grown-ups will be there. No matter what.

And the other thing it means is his 4 a.m. wanderings into my room, when I'm so totally zonked out nothing short of a screaming smoke detector could wake me. He climbs into my bed, glues himself to my side, and sleeps the rest of his night.

Now he's going to do it by himself. Falling asleep. Staying asleep. All on his own.

And all it's going to cost me is a Build-A-Bear.

I'm in. I am so in. Because, after nearly five years of non-stop sleep deprivation, I'd give anything. Anything. A year's supply of M&Ms, every Lego kit ever made, a ride on the space shuttle.

Thirty days of solid sleep, and that kid is going shopping.

I'm lucky all he wants is a bear.

Sleeping Through

2010-05-22T23:17:00.000-04:00

Last night, my closing-on-five-year-old slept through the night for the first time in his whole entire life.

I wish I were kidding about that. But I'm not. As a newborn, this kid was ginormous and growing faster than anyone should at that age. He simply could not get through the night without nursing. Then he got older, and apparently he stayed hungry. Or thirsty. Or he had night terrors. Or the wind blew. And he woke up. He woke up, and he came looking for me.

This puzzles me. I've raised two kids who have been champion sleepers practically since birth. In their own beds and everything.

Not this guy.

Eventually, after a year or two of disrupted sleep, I simply gave up. I stopped sleeping and started waiting for him to come find me. See, if he caught me sleeping, I'd wind up with an overnight companion who believes that sleep happens best when he is glued to my side and holding firmly to my belly button. And that's just weird. So I stayed awake in order to put him back in his own bed and keep him out of mine.

Now he waits me out. He's figured out that I get so little sleep I'll eventually crash like a meteorite, and if he waits until 4 or 5 a.m., he'll win. Thanks to the sleeplessness that is single motherhood, he wins every single night.

Only last night, he didn't. Last night, he slept. In his own bed. All night long.

That's because last night, I wasn't at home. Last night, a really truly wonderful and amazing friend stayed at my house with my kids. My redhead knew I wouldn't be there when he came looking for me. So he didn't come.

Tonight I asked him why. I was tucking him in, and I said, "Hey, I'm really proud of you for staying in your bed all night last night. I'll bet you can do that again tonight."

"No. I can't."

"Why not?"

Which is when he looks up at me with these great, big, lost puppy dog eyes and says, "Because I love you, mom."

Well, crap. I couldn't argue with that one if I tried.

Veggie Girl Versus the Insect

2010-05-16T21:51:00.008-04:00

A few nights ago, I'm putting the kids to bed, helping with tooth brushings and face washings and pajama wearings. And there, in the bathroom, up near the lights, was a great big giant bug.

Ew.

The redhead and the diva were clearly freaked. So I did what any good mom would do ... and no, that does not mean I ran screaming from the room, because really, what kind of lesson would that teach them?

Nope. I calmly pulled a few sheets off the roll, folded them over once or twice, climbed up on the counter and squashed the hell out of that bug.

Immediately I heard a shocked gasp from behind me. It was the diva.

"Mom!" she gasped in horror. "You killed nature!"

And then she stormed out of the room.

My little chicken-eating vegetarian wants to save the world. Even the bugs. I must be doing something right.

Ice Cream for Breakfast

2010-05-09T23:00:00.007-04:00

Today was the very best kind of day.

A year ago - and this is where blogging is just a little surreal, because you do get to look back a full year and see where you were - but a year ago, I was in a very different place. A year ago, I dropped a pitcher of iced tea on the floor, burst into tears, and put my cranky kids to bed.

Today I had ice cream for breakfast.

Today I had eager kids bouncing on my bed, and an amazing au pair who woke up early and helped them mix and scramble and toast and scoop. They gave me ice cream for breakfast, with four spoons and a heaping helping of Belgian chocolate sprinkles (I am so planning a trip to Belgium, 'cause those folks really do have their priorities straight when it comes to food).

Today I had my family around me, with two mothers in the house and a birthday to celebrate, and plenty of yummy goodness. That includes some incredible cupcakes - and yes, I made them, but it's not really bragging because they are not really my cupcakes. These cupcakes belong to Martha. THE Martha. They are Martha Stewart's tiramisu cupcakes, and they are easily worth whatever you have to pay for real vanilla beans to make them happy.

What's funny is, that bad day, a year ago? That's the day I realized I was happy. And yes, I know that seems a bit contrary. But it's true. I knew I was happy because that one bad day didn't knock me down. It didn't send me diving for the covers. That one bad day was followed by one good day. And then another. And another.

And that's what makes happy. A string of good days, with a bad day plopped in there from time to time to remind you of what you've got.

Crap happens. It happens a lot. And then you have ice cream for breakfast.

Happy Mother's Day, folks. Gosh but this mom thing is fun!

The Great Potty Caper

2010-05-09T09:17:00.008-04:00

Ever since our One Step Back, the redhead has had a bit of trouble with ... uh, shall we say preschool incontinence? That first day, my poor little guy went through five - yes, five - pairs of pants. He just doesn't make it on time anymore, and I'm not sure why. He could be regressing. Or maybe he just really hates washing his hands.

We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.

Until yesterday.

Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.

We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Why are you sorry, peanut?"

"'Cause I pee on everything."

Oops.

I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.

Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.

So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.

Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.

Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.

Eight Years

2010-05-02T23:28:00.004-04:00

You ever think of your life in eight-year chunks?

It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.

But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.

And really it's not that long.

You know how I know?

Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).

I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.

In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and dating, and I'm honestly not sure which of those is more startling. And my twinkle will be 12, almost 13, and driving the girls to distraction in middle school.

They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.

Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.

One Step Back

2010-04-29T00:33:00.005-04:00

You know that saying, "two steps forward, one step back"? Well, I shoulda known this was coming. I mean we've taken a lot of great steps forward in managing this whole single-parent family life thing. Which means we were overdue for a step back.

So we took one.

Yesterday, I woke up with all three kids in my bed. My Aspie was restless. My diva had nightmares. My little guy - well, he climbs in every night, 'cause he knows I'm too tired to move him back to his own bed. But yesterday morning he just wouldn't leave.

And the three of them, they were a mess. Lots of needling and bickering and that really annoying, two-syllable "Mo-om!" Kids grabbing at me and crying a blue streak at the slightest hint of separation. My little guy, a potty user for half his life now - well, he missed. And I caught my diva with her thumb firmly in her mouth. She hasn't sucked her thumb in months.

Big step back.

And here's why.

If you've been around the past few weeks, you know my Aspie just started a new school. Great new school. Actual friends - seriously, he's got friends, and they are just like him, and they are awesome. But it's a transition. Transitions are rough. The school is still learning him, he is still learning them, we're all still learning each other.

This week, we learned a lot.

Late in what was a very good day at school, the staff sat down with the kids and shared the news that a student at my son's old school had died. The boys talked. They seemed okay. And everyone went home.

My Aspie was not okay.

He's also not so good at identifying and articulating his emotions. He was confused and coping. So he tantrummed. He screamed and he cried. He got disrespectful and disobedient and a whole slew of other nasty dis-es. I wasn't there for most of them, because it was Not My Night. The kids were, mostly, with their dad. Not that I helped while I was there - kid management has always been a source of - well, let's just call it debate - between me and the ex. But I do know there was a fair amount of angry all around, and a lot of dad-style discipline, which tends to be rather, uh, louder than the mom stuff.

It was not a good night. So we took a step back.

But you know what's cool? And maybe it's the rose-colored glasses talking. But all this, it's an aberration. It's not normal. And it used to be. It used to be normal. It used to be every day with the nightmares and the thumbsucking and the clinging to mommy. A year ago, this was our life.

It's not anymore.

Today our world went right back to the new normal. I woke up with only one kid in my bed, and he dashed off as soon as he heard his favorite brother playing on his DS downstairs. The kids spent the morning laughing and hugging and left the house smiling. No missed potties. Not a single sucked thumb.

And so, we step forward again. Because these days, forward is where we live.

Prime Numbers

2010-04-25T01:51:00.008-04:00

This week, I celebrated my birthday.

This is, believe it or not, a good thing. It's a good thing because I am oddly superstitious about prime-number ages, and before last Monday I was stuck at 43.

I'm not 43 anymore. I get to be 44 now. For a whole year, I get not one but two beautifully even digits and a whole slew of deeply gorgeous factors. I like factors. Factors mean no more primes.

Yes, I know this is vaguely math geeky. Sue me.

The bad thing about my birthday is that I spent several hours of it on an airplane. I hate airplanes. Because, while I may be a semi-credible math geek, I don't believe in physics, and I don't buy that there is an actual science that makes flight possible. Don't bother trying to convince me otherwise; smarter folks than you have failed. And yes, that includes my dad (who is a terrible flyer despite his very firm belief in physics).

But worse, getting on that plane meant I spent most of my birthday on the front end of a four-day business trip that took me away from my kids.

Now, there are some prime numbers I like. I like the number three, for example, because I have three bright, fabulous, amazingly wonderful kids. So three is good.

And I like the number 11. My Aspie is 11. That's not why I like it, though. I like it because it's got double digits and it looks like it should have factors. Yes, I know it doesn't. Still, as primes go, that's one of the coolest. (The other cool prime is two. An even prime? How awesome is that!)

And I like the number seven. I didn't used to like it. See, I was seven when my parents got divorced. Who knows, that may even be where my weird anti-prime age thing started.

But my amazing au pair has changed my mind. Because my amazing au pair is our seventh au pair. And while we've had several truly terrific au pairs (and one or two we don't talk about so much) ... well, this au pair, she really is amazing.

On my birthday, she let my three early birds wake her up at 6:45 a.m. She's 19 (oh, look, another prime!), and at 19, 6:45 a.m. is ridiculously early. But she's amazing, right? So she got up at that insane hour and helped the kids make breakfast and decorate a pretty tray and bring it all up to my room. I got to do nothing but wake up to my redhead's charming face planted squarely over mine, shouting "Mom! Don't. Get. Out. Of. BED!"

I didn't. I stayed in bed and enjoyed a homemade card from the diva, big hugs from everyone, a yummy Belgian bread pudding, scrambled eggs, and a tall glass of orange juice.

Although, I didn't get to enjoy the orange juice. At least, I didn't get to drink it. Because somehow it wound up in my lap. And all over my bedsheets. And my blanket. And my quilt.

You'd think a non-morning person like myself would have lost it, getting an orange juice shower that early in the day. Nope. Not me. I laughed and gave a big hug to my redhead, whose feet had done the damage. 'Cause all those prime numbers had put a great big smile on my face that even airplanes and orange juice could not erase. Thank you, prime numbers.

We'll see how I feel when 47 comes along.

I'm a Glogger!

2010-04-13T01:01:00.001-04:00

Or is it gublogger?

However you shorten it, I'm pleased as punch that my friend Shannon over at Meltdown Free Disney invited me to guest blog on her dime. My post is called Rosemary, And Time, and it's about the tricks and strategies I use to manage vacations that satisfy all four of us and our different needs - well, five when you include the awesome au pair.

If you're one of my regulars, trek on over there and see how Shannon is helping all families experience the Disney magic, stay on budget, and create positive memories. She knows her stuff, and I gotta tell you, it's wonderful, thoughtful, creative stuff. I learn something new from her in every post. In fact, she inspired one of my own posts - Groundhog's Day - with a conversation about why winter really sucks when you're on the spectrum.

And if you're visiting from MFD, welcome! Take a look around, have fun. There's always room for one more.

Making Friends

2010-04-07T23:22:00.004-04:00

I've been afraid to put this in writing. I didn't post it on Facebook. I didn't put it in the blog. Thought I might jinx it, I guess.

I didn't jinx it.

Yesterday, my beautiful, wonderful, totally stressed out Aspie started over.

About a month ago, give or take, I got a call from the middle school (yes, we love middle school). He'd been struggling. He was frustrated and getting more so by the day. He was spending less and less time in class and more and more on suspension. He wasn't eating his lunch or his snacks. His grades, straight A's at the beginning of the year, were sinking like a stone. He stopped working. The kids he thought of as his friends started dropping away.

And he noticed. He noticed all of it.

So the school called. Or rather the district called. They wanted to consider an alternative placement for my son. A different kind of school. A school that welcomed kids on the high-functioning end of the spectrum. Very small classes. A protected environment. Heavy emphasis on social skills. But set smack dab in the middle of a strong public middle school, with full access to the great academics my bright kid needs to feel challenged and engaged.

Best. IEP. Meeting. Ever.

Because he got in.

I cried. I made three other people cry. I have fought for this exact thing for three straight years. I fought for new evaluations. I got statements from every professional I could find. I hired an advocate. And I still failed.

Until now. Until they called me.

And when I told him about it for the first time, expecting a tantrum or at least a bit of confused self-doubt, what I got surprised me. What I got was a great big giant sigh of relief from a kid who was sufficiently self-aware to know he needed more help than he was getting. He was happy. Nervous as a cat. But happy and excited and ready to move on.

So yesterday, he started over. Yesterday, he took his first-ever ride on a school bus and traveled to a whole other town. He came home with an empty lunchbox, a passion for Yu-Gi-Oh, and a great big smile.

It won't be all sunshine and roses. Transitions kinda suck, you know. But this transition, it's the good kind. And we're ready, more than ready, to make it.

You go, kid.

The Rose-Colored Life

2010-04-03T00:46:00.007-04:00

You know what happens when you live a rose-colored life? Sometimes you get stressed out. Ridiculously so, to the point of total wigginess. And you're so busy being chipper and looking at the bright side that you don't even notice.

And then suddenly you're breaking into the big bag o' Nerds Jelly Beans that the Easter Bunny's been storing on top of your fridge. Nerds Jelly Beans, by the way, contain no chocolate, which makes that particular behavior highly aberrant. The cheerful sound of your children singing along with that horrible Justin Bieber song sends you zooming off to testy land. And the rhythmic crunch-crunch chewing noises on the new Kit-Kat commercial drive you beyond the brink of insanity.

Why anyone would think bad manners sell chocolate is beyond me.

I want a vacation. And a margarita. And a back rub, 'cause I spent 8 hours driving on Wednesday and everything still hurts. I want to be 20 lbs lighter (40 wouldn't hurt) and able to run long distances without throwing out my hip. I want money to grow on trees. I want to sleep at night. I want to win the lottery and buy me and all my single-parent friends a house and a hybrid, and then pay someone to clean them both. I want the new season of Glee to start tomorrow. I want to be a teacher. I want to write a book, without working very hard at it. And I want it to be a bestseller. I want about 800 people to suddenly decide my blog is crack and they can't get enough of it, and then maybe someone will pay me to write it. I want my kids to grow up healthy and happy and fairly well adjusted. I want them to be good and caring people who think their mother walks on water.

And I really, really, really want the whole world to chew with their mouths closed.

Mostly I'd just like my rose-colored glasses back, please. Life works better when I have them on.

Veggie Girl Versus the Meat Monster

2010-03-25T23:21:00.008-04:00

A few weeks ago, I posted about my diva's decision to be a vegetarian. And then, her decision not to be a vegetarian.

Except, as it happens, she is still a vegetarian. Most of the time. Well, really, while the sun's up. She is a vegetarian every day for breakfast. She is a vegetarian every day for lunch.

It's dinner that gets her.

Pretty much every night that my kids are with me, we have a home-cooked, please-pass-the-potatoes, family-style dinner. Big bowls and platters and a basket of bread from the bakery. Thing is, I can't really make it meat-free. My Aspie craves protein like most folks crave water (or, in my case, chocolate). So meat's on the table. Period.

Veggie Girl's dilemma? She likes meat. She really really likes meat.

She also really wants to be a vegetarian. So she tries. Every night at dinner she fills her plate with bread and veggies and happy side dishes. She adds on veggie burgers and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. She eats. She goes back for seconds.

And that's when she finds that she can't really resist the chicken.

Tonight I served meatloaf. It's a funky little meatloaf fully of carrots and onions and whole wheat bread, and I'm perpetually shocked that my kids love it. But they do. And that includes my Veggie Girl.

Veggie Girl: "What are you making?"
Me: "Meatloaf."
VG: "I like meatloaf. What's it made of?"
Me: "Cow."
"Oh. That's red meat." she says. She thinks. "You know, I only eat red meat."
Me: "Don't you like chicken, too?"
VG: "Right. I only eat red meat and chicken. ... And fish."

She's still a vegetarian. Or so she tells me. She's just a vegetarian who eats meat.

And hey, look, a recipe! Because if this meatloaf can tempt Veggie Girl, your kids (if you've got 'em) might just like it, too.

Meat Monster Meatloaf

Adapted from Better Homes and Gardens' New Cook Book (1996)

1 beaten egg
1 slice of whole wheat bread, crumbled
1/4 milk
1/2 medium onion, chopped to tiny bits in a food processor
1/4-1/2 c carrots, chopped to tiny bits in a food processor
1/2 tsp oregano
1 lb ground beef (don't go lean for meatloaf - you need that fat to compensate for the long cooking time)
2 Tbs ketchup

In a mixing bowl, combine everything, along with a bit of salt and pepper. Mix it up well. Pat mixture into a loaf pan and bake in a 350 F oven for 45 to 50 minutes, or until no pink remains (use a meat thermometer - it should reach 170 F). Let rest for 5 minutes, transfer to a platter, and serve. My mom always put a bit of tomato paste on the top about 5 minutes before it came out of the oven, but my kids didn't take to that part, so I leave it off.

Strep and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

2010-03-25T00:40:00.004-04:00

I know nothing about motorcycles.

Strep, though? Strep I know. It's not incredibly zen. More tired-and-cranky making. And we're deep in the heart of it.

My Aspie has it. Strep gives him a foul temper, a foul mouth, and outrageously foul breath. And no other symptoms. Kid can't feel a sore throat, so he just gets foul. Lovable - totally lovable. And totally foul.

My little guy has it too. It kept him up all night for two nights in a row. Gave him a scary high fever and a "hurty neck." That all makes him tired, and the tireds make him cranky.

And I have it. I have it, and I'm cranky because I can't sleep when the kids are always awake, and because I have work to do and little people to take care of and groceries to shop for and my throat hurts and I have an (admittedly small) fever. I also have an awesome au pair (seriously, she's awesome - she says things like, "you shouldn't do those dishes, you're sick," and "of course you're not talking too much") ... but she's sick too. It's not strep, thankfully. But she's sick nevertheless.

The diva is not streppy. Nor is she sick. She's just surrounded by cranky. Lots and lots of cranky, from everyone but the awesome au pair. So the diva's cranky, too.

All that cranky makes for a fun, fun time.

Oh, and we seem to have infected a few friends, including one of my wine and pie buddies who was gracious enough to watch my kids for me for a few hours on Sunday. The strep was our way of saying thank you.

You know how she said you're welcome? She made a complete right turn in the middle of a phone call this evening to tell me what a great mom I am. And how great my kids are. And how much fun she had with them (while they were giving her strep). And how wonderful they are together.

I gave her strep. She gave me happy mushy mommy tears.

It may not be zen, but it's close.

Parenthood (The TV Show)

2010-03-10T00:56:00.008-05:00

I've been watching "Parenthood." It's hard to resist because among its very many storylines, it features two parents managing their son's diagnosis with Asperger's Syndrome. Alan Sepinwall, my favorite TV critic ever (seriously - I've been following him for about a decade now), wrote a read-worthy article about Asperger's and TV if you want to know more.

The thing that gets me? These parents, they went from identification in the pilot to full-on diagnosis in episode two.

That process took us eight years. Eight. Years.

My son was identified by an astute preschool teacher when he was three. He was evaluated at four (diagnosis: bad parenting), and again in first grade (diagnosis: ADHD and "on the spectrum"). And then, because apparently "on the spectrum" isn't good enough for our current state of residence, it was a year of realizing they had to have a label to give him the support he needed, two years on a waiting list, nine months waiting for a report, and another three months waiting for the school to say, "Oh, wait. Asperger's? Really?"

I'm trying to suspend disbelief. I mean, it's TV. But, seriously? One episode?

That said, the quirky kid in a pirate costume who trades bites of food for TV time and can reel off arcane facts about Billboard's greatest hits is eerily familiar. For my kid it's hockey stats and superheroes. He was never a pirate, but for a full year he insisted the world call him Peabo. And he'll eat anything - seriously, anything - on the promise of a music video on YouTube. Today, in fact, he ate a giant serving of broccoli just so he could watch the last 10 minutes of a "He-Man" episode after dinner.

So, yeah. I get it.

They get it too. Because in two episodes, they've also found a way to show the sheer joy, the brilliance and the wonder of parenting a kid with Asperger's. It's wrapped up in frustration and doubt and a bit of railing at the world. But it's all in there. Just as it would be with any other child.

I think I'll keep watching.

The Education of Veggie Girl

2010-03-08T23:54:00.009-05:00

You know what the diva ate tonight? Baby portabellas sauteed in butter. Steamed green beans. Oven fries dredged in olive oil and sea salt and roasted till brown. Blueberries. A slice of Italian bread.

And fish. Ocean-friendly, U.S.-farmed tilapia, bathed in orange juice and fresh-squeezed lemons and baked until flaky.

The vegetarian experiment has officially ended. My diva saw the fish, she saw the calendar, and she said, "I think today I'm not a vegetarian."

She achieved her goal, though. My environmentally-conscious 8-year-old had committed to going veggie from Valentine's Day through March 8. And outside of one small serving of roast chicken, she did it. Along the way, she learned to enjoy soy nuts and veggie burgers, sunflower seeds and mushrooms. She tried tapenade and tabouleh and hummus. She wasn't too fond of tofu dogs, but honestly, I don't get those either. Limp, floppy little things. Not exactly appetizing.

I have a feeling my girl will wander in and out of the vegetarian lifestyle for a while. She liked it, and she liked that she was helping the world in her own little way. And she does love her veggies.

I am one proud mom.

P.S. Still no working showers. Fingers crossed that they'll show up tomorrow.

Water Woes

2010-03-06T23:55:00.007-05:00

Remember the bit about my house falling down around my ears?

Yeah. Still falling.

I bought a new microwave. And then it snowed. And it snowed and snowed and snowed. And then my plumbing exploded.

No, it's not burst pipes. Well, maybe it is, but they didn't burst from the cold. For one thing, it's not cold anymore. And this just happened yesterday.

See, yesterday my au pair came to show me the shower in the bathroom she shares with the kids. This is the same shower we've been turning on and off with a screwdriver for the past few months. And yes, that should have been a great big giant red flag. What can I say.

So, she showed me the shower. Water was streaming down the back wall, coming from behind the fixtures. This was way worse than a stripped and leaky faucet. This was massive water damage, and likely inside the walls. Nascent, I hope, but we don't know that yet.

I found a plumber. He came within the hour. He's my new best friend.

He explained to me that I have a heckuva situation on my hands. My tub? The fixtures are on the wrong side. On an internal wall. With an air vent alongside the plumbing. Fella spent an hour trying to figure out an access point. In the end, he figured out that he could rip out the sink and cabinet from my master bath, break through the drywall, fix the plumbing, then put everything back.

Guess how much that's gonna cost. Just guess. I dare you.

'Cause that kind of work? Takes hours. And more than one guy.

So my friend the plumber shut off all the water to my second floor. He's supposed to come back with friends on Monday. That's how long we'll get to live without showers. Good weekend for it - kids are with their dad, I'm out of town with friends, and my patient au pair is being well cared for by some very kind neighbors.

I still don't have lights in my living room. Or a railing on my back deck. There's a great big hole in the roof of my shed. And, oh yeah, an infestation of odorous house ants in my basement. And yes, that totally grosses me out because I am, after all, a girl. And, um, human.

But yay, I'm getting the plumbing fixed. One home repair down. About 37 to go ...

Knit, Purl, Toe Loop

2010-03-01T00:09:00.015-05:00

My Oma was a neat lady. Teacher, skater, gardener, knitter. She taught me to knit and to cross-stitch and needlepoint. She tried to teach me to skate. And about that, let's just say that I really liked the knitting.

I was a little thing when we started. My Oma showed me how to cast on, to knit, to purl. I knit up a swatch big enough to be a potholder. Except I didn't learn to bind off, so I wound up with a set of fat, plastic, circular needles wrapped in white yarn. I still have that thing somewhere.

But it was a memory. And it stuck.

When I took up knitting for real, the first project I made was for her. A simple feather-and-fan lapghan in pink acrylic with a long yellow fringe, meant to keep her warm while she watched figure skating on TV. It came out sideways. She used it anyway, because that's what Omas do. And when she died, my cousin thoughtfully packed it up and sent it back to me. Now it's draped across the foot of my daughter's bed.

I never took to skating. Too clumsy. Although, somehow, knitting and skating remained inextricably linked in my crowded little brain.

Which is why I signed on for the Olympics. The Knitting Olympics, that is, sponsored by my girl, the Yarn Harlot. The goal: cast a project on during the opening ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics, knit like a madwoman for 17 days, watch a little skating, and finish the whole thing before the closing ceremonies are done.

Knitting? Skating? At the same time? Cool!

Of course, we were about an hour into the opening ceremonies when I decided I should do this. Like any obsessed but time-pressed knitter, I do have a few projects waiting ... so I dashed upstairs and found this gorgeous cotton I'd bought last year along with the pattern I'd picked to go with it. I managed to dig up a pair of size 6 needles: if you've ever seen my closet (which you won't), you'll know just how hard a task that was.

And then I cast on. For 17 days, I knit like a fiend. I watched some kick-ass skating, and I knit. Kim Yu-Na beat the tutus off of everyone else on the ice. And I knit. I have a callous where the yarn wraps around my finger, and a deep bruise where I push against the needle. My shoulders ache.

And yet, I didn't finish. I didn't finish because I'm a crazy lady who thought a hardworking single mother of three would have time to knit a whole sweater in just over two weeks. I mean, it's sleeveless, right? Piece of cake!

Yeah, not so much. I got about half of it done.

I'm awfully darn proud of myself, though. I'm proud that I tried. I'm proud that I made it as far as I did. I even learned a few new skills along the way.

I'm still knitting my sweater. I may not have finished on time. But I will finish. And I will have a beautiful, summery sweater to show for it. My version of a skating sweater.

Thanks, Oma.

* PS Yes, it's rather ridiculous to blog about knitting and not include any pictures. But my camera is full so, well, there you go.

The Return of Veggie Girl

2010-02-17T23:46:00.016-05:00

Last Friday, my youngest sister's boyfriend popped in for a surprise visit.

I was making spaghetti. Usually, I dump a whole mess of meat into the sauce so as to satisfy my protein-starved Aspie. My sister, however, is vegetarian and keeps a vegetarian home. So I asked her boyfriend if he was okay with the meat. (That wasn't just the hospitality talking, either. He was shoveling out the back end of my driveway, so I was super motivated to be nice.)

Now, my diva is my Veggie Girl. She gets googly-eyed over brussels sprouts, does the happy dance when it's cauliflower for dinner, and has begged me to buy spinach. She even likes lima beans. Canned lima beans. Seriously.

She wanted to know why her aunt is a vegetarian.

My family is chock full of vegetarians, and each one of them has his or her own reason for eschewing meat. In my immediate family, they don't believe killing animals is a necessary or desirable thing. They don't wear leather, they use animal-friendly products. They live what they believe.

My daughter doesn't like hurting animals either.

My daughter is now a vegetarian.

I'm incredibly proud of her. Because she figured out for herself what she believes in. Because she's trying to live it. And because she's 8. This is pretty big for 8.

And she's embraced it. This formerly picky eater has already tried mushroom burgers, raw almonds, soy nuts, sunflower seeds, dried cranberries and organic yogurt (after she learned her favorite brand is made with gelatin). She's reached out to family and friends for tips on how to make this work. She's learning about nutrition and diet and why conviction and commitment matter.

She's going veggie until March 8, and then she'll see if she wants to keep it up. I think she will. But either way? My Veggie Girl has more than earned her cape.

Happy Heart Day

2010-02-14T23:46:00.005-05:00

Here's why I love Valentine's Day.

You wake up in the morning to happy, smiling children bouncing on you because there's (wait for it) ... chocolate downstairs and the big sign you left says "Wait! Don't open me yet! Go get your mom!" So they do.

You shower your kids with little Russell Stover boxes and gifties from their grandparents, and they are so overwhelmed they not only share their (wait for it) ... chocolate ... but they also run off immediately to make you all the Valentines they can think of. This resulted in one poem from the Aspie, a lovely hand-drawn card from the diva, and ... um ... a green scribble from my very proud comedian who announced, "I didn't draw you a Valentine. I scribbled it!" and then broke out into maniacal laughter.

You spend the morning playing board games and getting hugs and (wait for it) ... chocolate covered kisses.

You then get all gussied up and head out on an honest to goodness date that features not only fabulous food and the company of a fella who thinks you're kinda cute despite 40-odd years of living and three journeys through childbirth, but also (wait for it) ... well, okay, not chocolate, but flowers, the stunning kind, and really that's every bit as wonderful. Plus, there was pie.

And then you head home. And you make a family dinner that features (wait for it) ... chocolate chip pancakes and sausage and fruit and Valentine's Day cake. Big hugs on a plate. Your kids are full and happy, and your au pair is full and happy, and you are full and happy, and the world is a happy, wonderful, chocolatey place.

Yum.

Three Hairy Fairies

2010-02-10T23:09:00.111-05:00

I remember a time when snow was fun. Sledding. Catching flakes on your tongue. Making snow angels and snow balls and snowmen.

But when you're looking out your window at the second blizzard in a week, the third blizzard of the season ...

... when the snow is taller than your four year old and you haven't left your house in days ...

... when you've dug through nearly 80 inches of the white stuff in the space of about six weeks ...

Soooooo not fun.

It's shoveling and backaches and wet and salty on your hardwood floors. It's ice dams on the roof and water damage in the drywall. It's slogging through hip-deep cold to dig out the heat pump. It's cabin fever and kids gone wild.

But there's a kind of awesomeness to all this snowfall, too. Because it brings out the village. As in the "it takes a village" village. Which is, as I've just learned, about snow as much as it is about kids.

See, I dug out my heat pump because a friend on Facebook thought to post a note about it to save everyone from burning out their motors and dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.

Another friend posted a diagram on ice dams, and a third spent an hour on the phone talking me through my dams and my drywall and my homeowner's insurance. I'd never heard of the dam things (ha ha), and they are killing my little house.

And, in a tremendous act of kindness, three of my neighbors - my three hairy snow fairies - took pity on our vain attempts to shovel through the mad snowfall and dug out my driveway. Not once, not twice, but over and over until the snow finally stopped.

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Still can't find the mailbox. But I can get my sick kid to the doctor. That matters.

One friend in the village had the kids in mind. She passed along a recipe for snow cream. Awesome stuff. Just like ice cream only easier. If you've got this much snow, might as well eat some of it. 'Cause eating snow? That's fun.

Snow Cream

1 big bowl of snow
1/2 to 1 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup of milk (enough to make it mushy, not runny)

Stir & enjoy! My diva ate two bowls of the stuff, and even my sugar averse Aspie deemed it a hit.

Groundhog's Day

2010-02-03T23:00:00.009-05:00

It's winter. I know this because today was a snow day. Which meant no school. Again. For the umpteenth time this year. And we're expecting a blizzard on Friday, with more snow the following week. At the rate we're going, my kids will be in school until July.

Do you have any idea what all this winter does to a kid with Asperger's Syndrome?

Winter means snow days and two-hour delays and early dismissals. It means holidays and half days and exams. Every day is different. Every day breaks your routine. And that routine is important. That routine helps you stay calm because you know what's coming next.

That routine is toast.

Winter also means gloves and zippers and making sure your shoes are tied and your feet are not slipping on the ice. Not so easy when fine motor skills and balance are your physical Waterloos.

In our school system, winter also means geometry, which for sixth graders is graphing and plotting and spatial relations.

Now picture yourself as a kid with an inspired math brain. You just get it. You know innately how it all works because numbers make a beautiful, simple, logical sense. And yet, because your brain and your hands aren't in synch, you can't make all that graphing and plotting happen on paper. Picture yourself and your low frustration threshold dealing with that. Then picture the social dynamic of trying to find a partner to work with, and not understanding why he won't, or why everyone's mad at you for the way you tried to change his mind. And this is after you put on your gloves and zipped up your coat and tied your shoes and balanced on the ice and missed a few snow days and didn't eat your lunch because the lunchroom is noisy and distracting and the kids don't make sense and you haven't seen the sun in days.

I'd have gotten suspended, too.

My Aspie and I, we hate winter.

The groundhog saw his shadow yesterday. Six more weeks of this mayhem and madness are on their way. So, yeah, I pretty much hate the groundhog now, too.

Kanata Canada

2010-01-29T23:06:00.008-05:00

Canada is lovely this time of year. No, seriously, it is. See, I just got back from a recent trip to Ottawa. Well, technically I was in the Ottawa suburb of Kanata. Yes, that's Kanata, Canada.

This is Ottawa:

View Larger Map

Generally speaking, that whole area is due north of the bitterly cold place that is upstate New York. So I expected it to be bitterly cold and then some.

Only it wasn't cold. It was balmy. And rainy. And practically warm. Until yesterday.

Yesterday was the day I flew home. Yesterday, the temperature in Ottawa dropped from the high 30s into the low teens and kept falling. Yesterday, a freakish wind sprang up to blow a light snowfall into a frenzy. It stopped traffic and sent blinding flurries sideways through gray skies. The snow stopped eventually. But not the wind. It made for an interesting view through the two-story windows at the airport terminal. Gorgeous sunset up top, all pink and glowy and peaceful. Furious storm down below, with swirling eddies of snow so dense you couldn't make out the planes at the end of the gangways.

Weird. And for a woman with a massive flight phobia, totally unnerving.

So I took my Xanax, the gift of pharmacology that makes air travel possible for panic-prone fliers such as myself.

Then the flight was delayed. Which I didn't realize, because my Xanax - lovely, panic-quelling miracle that it is - also puts me out like a light. But I heard the boarding announcement. I got up. I got on the plane. And then the Xanax wore off. It wore off just as we were coming into DC's National Airport, one of the nastiest approaches in US airspace. All bouncy and twisty and crazy-making. And, unknowingly Xanax-free, I had my first panic attack in a decade.

I was lucky. I was sitting in the back row of the airplane, all by myself. So the plane bounced. I panicked. No one noticed. The plane landed. I made myself stand up and put on my coat. I calmly walked to the baggage claim and I picked up my bag. I walked out the door. I met an old friend who'd come to give me a ride home. Like the gentleman he is, he stepped out of his car to put my bag in the trunk. And my competent, 43-year-old self immediately collapsed into a shaky, snivelly, post-panicky mess.

Poor fella gave me a hug, even though it was about 12 degrees outside and all he really wanted was a hamburger because my late flight had delayed his already well delayed dinner. Good man. Good friend. And it worked. Shaky snivelling stopped. Panic abated. Though I'll admit it was something like 2:00 a.m. before I finally settled down enough to sleep.

Nice to know a good hug makes an effective Xanax substitute when you need one, though.

PS: Here's wishing a very happy 8th birthday to my diva!

I Left My Chocolate In San Francisco

2010-01-27T22:26:00.004-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a horribly social creature. I like to talk. I like to listen. And I really really like to talk. I crave people the way a chocoholic craves, well, chocolate.

But I spend nearly every waking moment in my little house. I work here. I sleep here. I watch TV here and I eat here and I blog here. I get to talk to my three children, and to my wonderful au pair who makes my life so much easier. And they are patient souls who listen and talk and sometimes even listen a bit more.

I am, however, slowly going crazy.

So last week I got out. I got way, far out. I went to San Francisco. And then I went to Ottawa.

In both places, I met people whose names I recognize from emails, whose voices I know intimately from countless phone conversations, whose humor has been the highlight of frequent late-night chats. I was surrounded by people. I talked to them. I listened to them. I went for walks with them. I ate with them, too. And oh, was that fun! I had fresh-caught scallops (though my daughter, the wannabe marine biologist, would be disappointed because I did not first ask if they were ocean-friendly - they were too yummy to worry about). And, of course, Ghirardelli chocolate. I had brilliant, bright green olives - not the browny green you normally see, but a vibrant pine green with a surprisingly brineless, purely olive flavor. I had whole, crisp baby artichokes while my companions had pig cheek and octopus. I know, my choice sounds a little lame by comparison. I am not normally a food wimp, but I was really drawn to those artichokes.

And I had people. No, no, not for dinner. I'm not that fond of fava beans. But I got to know long-time acquaintances in a whole new way, over coffee, over cocktails, over wine. My friend Ange - that is her real fake bar name, which I promised I'd put in my blog - has even said she'd send me a list of half-decent wines so I won't continue looking like a complete ignoramus when I go out (this is what 13 years of marriage to a teetotaller will do to a girl).

I'm home now. Back at my desk. Back to my quiet little life. But that very loud chocoholic-style people craving that's been plaguing me, it's not quite so loud now. Crazy will just have wait a few more months.

Fluffy Pink Hearts

2010-01-11T23:40:00.015-05:00

Saturday morning, I took my dog to the vet.

It was quite a big deal, actually. She was a very large black Lab - in the 90-lb weight class. She had bad arthritis, and for some time she hadn't been able to get herself into the back of the minivan. My au pair and I had lately been hoisting her back hips in a dishtowel sling just so she could eat and do her business.

But she wasn't always like that.

The ex and I got her as a four-month-old puppy shortly after we married. Thing is, I'm a lifelong cat owner. Categorically not a dog person. But newlyweds have fluffy pink hearts where their brains should be, so when the ex said, "Not only do we need a dog, but we need a dog the size of Texas!" I got all pink and fluffy and said, "Yee-haw!" Which I think meant yes.

We named her Artemis. You know - black Lab, goddess of the hunt, all about the nighttime. The idea being that someday she'd have a bright and shiny yellow Lab as a companion, and we'd name him Apollo.

Fortunately, the pink fluffies wore off before that could happen.

The name did not stick, though. Artemis was not a dignified, goddessy dog. She was a Mack truck. In a head-on collision with your Camry, she'd have won. She knocked down every kid in the neighborhood at least once. Not because she tried, either. She'd bound past and they'd just topple like duckpins.

So we called her Moose.

Moose was true to her breed. She loved food. She stole hot dogs off the kids' high chairs and cookies right out of their hands. And heaven help them once she figured out there was milk in their sippy cups. We have a lot of chewed up sippy cups.

She's swiped at least one sandwich out from under the nose of every one of the seven au pairs who's lived with us, except the last one. She once upended a colander full of grapes. Really full. Ten dollars worth of full. She ate every grape and left the stems behind.

She figured out that there was food in cans - most notably in cat food cans. If anyone left the pantry door even slightly ajar, we'd find bits of aluminum and mashed up food all over the house.

I still remember one Christmas, we left for just a couple of days and had the neighbors come in to watch her. They checked on her that last morning and all was fine. We got home around dinner time to find Moose wobbling atop our dining room table, surrounded by ripped paper, cardboard and chocolate. She'd figured out there was food in that stack of fully wrapped gifts, and she'd helped herself.

When I was pregnant with my first, and we still let her up on the furniture, Moose would curl up with me on the sofa. Too big for lap-sitting, she'd rest her muzzle on my leg while I napped. She made a good blanket.

And she really took to the kids. When she wasn't knocking them down or stealing their food, she was playing horsey and letting them climb all over her. She never nipped or snapped. She never even made a sound.

She loved the snow, too. That first winter we had her, Mother Nature dumped three feet of snow on our little corner of the world. And this puppy, just learning the real purpose of the great outdoors, went bounding through snow up to her nose, reveling in the stuff. She totally forgot to pee.

This winter, 13 years later, I had to dig a path for her through the last blizzard and out to the yard. She was cold and miserable and stayed in most of the time, curled up under my feet in front of the sofa, sleeping. She was deaf and battling arthritis and an enlarged heart. She wasn't eating so much any more.

Then, last Thursday, out of nowhere, she attacked the Christmas tree. She pulled the lights off and chewed right through three full strings (which she'd thoughtfully unplugged first). I dragged her away from the tree. She couldn't stand, so she crawled on her front paws to get back to it. Over and over this happened until, finally, I gave up. I took the tree down at midnight that night and went to bed worried.

So I took her to the vet. I took her to the vet, who thought the incident with the lights was evidence of neurological damage, probably from a slipped disk. In just those two days, she'd stopped walking on her own. She'd stopped eating.

Moose died on Saturday. She had massive big hugs from the kids, and a great big bowl of chocolate gelato to see her out. She was surrounded by every one of those fluffy pink hearts.

We'll miss her.

Kissing 2009 Good-Bye

2010-01-04T23:00:00.007-05:00

It's a new year. A new me. A whole new name. Well, an old name, but since I haven't used it in 13+ years, it feels new. New "About Me," over there on the right, too. Kinda had to change it now that I've officially left the limboverse between separation and divorce and entered single motherhood.

Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.

And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.

Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.

In the past year, I have ...

Introduced my kids to 35 members of my immediate and extended family, all of whom love them to pieces just because they were born.
Hugged my dad. In person even.
Successfully baked cakes from scratch. Martha Stewart's Cupcakes is my new kitchen bible, and trust me, the yellow buttermilk cupcakes with fluffy vanilla frosting will put you in a cupcake coma. Pure joy.
Rediscovered old friends and made some new ones. These friends? They're the kind who, once you've met them, you wonder how you ever thought your life was whole without them.
Found The Best Side Dish ever - Cauliflower Goat Cheese Gratin, at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain in New York. If you go there, order five servings of cauliflower and a Cosmo. It's all you need.
Saw Wicked. Lately, my diva's been singing "Defying Gravity" ... and she's doing it well.
Saw the most beautiful place on earth: Paradise on Mount Rainier in August.
Learned several important lessons, one of which I'm currently ignoring (that would be Lesson 3: Get Some Sleep, Stupid)
Rescued one sorely damaged and dearly treasured cast iron fry pan from kitchen fire. Elbow grease and bacon brought it back. So nice to have an excuse to cook lots and lots of bacon.
Made 57 blog posts. People actually read them. Awesome.
Got my kids through an insane number of transitions. Separation. Divorce. Middle school. Preschool. New au pairs. Old au pairs. And realized that, after a full year of change, they are happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy.
And, of course, made it through Limbo. That's the big one, really.

If I sat here long enough I could think of another dozen or so wonderful things. Because there's never so much crap that it completely obliterates the good. Rose-colored glasses, you know. They make the good stuff that much easier to find.

469

2009-12-30T22:38:00.000-05:00

Word came today. On Monday, December 28, our final judgment became official - with the right names this time.

Which means that after 469 days ...
67 weeks ...
11,256 hours ...
675,360 minutes ...
40,521,600 seconds ...

I'm not in limbo anymore.

Good news. Good, destressing, forward-moving, happy-making news.

Happy New Year. I think I'll sleep now.

Veggie Girl vs. The Fish

2009-12-27T23:23:00.001-05:00

I know, I know, I just posted yesterday. But can I just tell you how much my diva rocks?

My beautiful diva has recently decided that there is no food that is not worth trying at least once. She's tried cauliflower, cooked carrots, brussels sprouts. She loved them all. Yes, even the brussels sprouts. That's how awesome she is.

Well, this girl today tried salmon for the first time. Rubbed gently with butter, baked at 450, with a lemon squeezed over the top when it came out of the oven.

She was eager to try it. Seriously. Eager.

Before she took a single bite, though, do you know what she did? She very politely asked to be excused. Then she walked over to the little bulletin board next to the fridge, pulled down my list of ocean-friendly fish, and read, word for complicated word, about the ocean-friendliness of our Alaskan salmon.

"That all means it's good, right, Mom?"

I hugged her on the spot.

Days in limbo: 468. Days of loving my daughter: 2,889. She wins :-)

Smiling Eyes

2009-12-27T00:04:00.001-05:00

Today marks 467 days in limbo.

It's also the day after Christmas.

The kids and I, we had an awesome Christmas morning full of magic and hugs and a ginormous holiday breakfast, with pretty much everyone's favorites - pancakes for the diva, fruit smoothies for my redhead, and a truckload of sausage and bacon for my protein-starved Aspie. Then, the three of them went cheerfully off with their dad for dinner. They're staying with him through the weekend, so I am sitting here quietly, appreciating the lights on the tree and the chance to sleep in.

This is my second single-parent Christmas, so I'm a little more used to coping on my own. While we didn't get our tree up until Christmas Eve - I'm blaming the East Coast blizzard for that - I did manage a few other things. We baked cookies, including my favorite eggnog cookies. I ordered holiday cards and got them in the mail before the New Year. (That's a personal best, by the way - I once sent out Christmas cards with hearts and shamrocks on the envelopes.)

And, after a few years off, I made calendars.

These are photo calendars, a kind of year in review that I have made, on occasion, for my family. Most of these folks are pretty far away, so the calendars were a nice way to bring the kids into their day-to-day. I'd take the best pictures of my kids from the past year and put them in, month by month, with each month capturing the kids from exactly a year before.

And so, I built my calendars. January, and my diva's 7th birthday. April, with the cherry blossoms in Washington, DC. Our trip to Seattle last July and August. Snow in December.

And I saw something.

Last January, the kids were pensive, sad, with smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. February, March, it's more of the same.

By summer, though, you start to see a change. A twinkle, sometimes. A real smile or two. And by fall, it's crystal clear. The kids are not just smiling. They're happy. Really, really happy.

And I'd never have noticed if I hadn't laid all the pictures out like that, chronologically.

This level of change, with the separation, and soon (I hope!) the divorce - it's not easy, even if it's for the best. But I'm so so proud of these little people. They've come through it. They held hands and they hugged each other and they got through it.

And they're happy. Really, really happy.

Know what? I am too.

So here. Have an eggnog cookie on me :-)

Eggnog Cookies*

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg (even better if it's freshly grated)
1 1/4 cups white sugar
3/4 cups butter, softened
1/2 cup eggnog
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks
1 tbs ground nutmeg

Preheat oven to 300 F. In a medium mixing bowl, combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon and nutmeg. Mix well with a wire whisk and set aside. In a large bowl, cream sugar and butter with an electric mixer to form a grainy paste. Add eggnog, vanilla and egg yolks and beat at medium speed until smooth. Add the flour mixture and beat at low speed until just combined. Do not overmix. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls onto ungreased baking sheets (parchment paper helps), 1 inch apart. Sprinkle lightly with nutmeg. Bake for 23-25 minutes or until bottoms turn light brown. Transfer to cool, flat surface immediately with a spatula.

* Thank you, Mrs. Fields!

Snowed In

2009-12-20T22:41:00.002-05:00

I've got insomnia. Or, as my sister calls it, can'tgotobednia. She's noted - quite accurately - that real insomnia means you lie awake all night. That's not my problem. I'd sleep, if I went to bed. I just don't go to bed.

This weekend, I found a cure.

It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.

Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.

But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.

We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.

We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.

My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.

And I slept. Soundly. All night long.

Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.

Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.

Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.

I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.

My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.

Nope. Slept like a rock.

I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.

Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.

But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.

Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.

Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?

PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting

Limbo Rock

2009-12-11T00:35:00.001-05:00

I was supposed to be done this week. Out of Limbo. Into the world. Actually and finally divorced. Unmarried. Single. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Not gonna happen.

See, it goes like this. We go see the Examiner. She takes 15 minutes of her incredibly valuable time to ask embarrassing and deeply personal questions. She writes up an opinion. She sends it to my lawyer, who has me review it. Oops! I say. This examiner, she's misspelled the family name. Everywhere. So we tell her. She files the papers. We get the final judgment.

She never fixed the name.

Seriously? How on earth does that happen? Did she not like my check? Can she not read?

Now some other poor couple is walking around divorced. They don't even know it. And I've got to wait another 30 days while the papers are refiled and reofficialized.

30 days.

Cue heartfelt and fairly graphic cussing.

The nearly ex and I separated on September 15, 2008 (and not a moment sooner, despite opinions to the contrary). I've been sitting in limbo, waiting, for 451 days. Yes, I'm sure. I counted.

So, really, what's another 30?

I baked a big ol' pan of brownies. If I have to wait, I'm having chocolate.