So I tried Once a Month Cooking...

There's myth out there that something--an appliance, a process, a thing--will somehow make the arduous task of providing three square rations a day for preschoolers and picky husbands less, well, painful. Or at least prevent a few emotional breakdowns. Shopping for, preparing, serving and cleaning up that much food for that many people (who seem to throw more of it on the floor than eat it) makes my head hurt. Every. Day. They keep wanting more food! Please just stop!!!

So the idea of preparing the bulk of my breakfasts, lunches and dinners for the month seems a bit too good to be true. My version of Coronado's gold, treasure at the end of the rainbow, cellulite eraser pen... To have a freezer stocked full of paleo-approved goodness, labeled with thawing directions, is about as good as a visit from Mary Poppins. I need to give this trick a try.

A recent series of wasteful grocery shopping sprees and waaaaay too much last-minute take-out inspired yet another Google search of "paleo menu plan recipes," landing me at Once a Month Meals. Here's what pushed me over the edge to buy a month's worth of groceries and go for it.

I was under the impression that once-a-month cooking:

• saves time
• saves money by cutting down on waste
• saves a bit of sanity
• answers the worst question ever asked by anybody, "What's for dinner, Mom???"

Not much thought was put into do I/don't I do this, because the legwork was already done for me. For $8 per month you get a customizable shopping list, recipe cards, chopping instructions and, most vitally, step-by-step instructions on how to put the month's recipes together in an order that makes sense. What's to consider??? Surrender "minor fee" to the spreadsheet fairies and away we go.

So I end up spending three hours in four grocery stores buying all the junk for an entire month. It's intense. And right off the bat I notice that I'm not impulse buying a single thing. Something I've never accomplished. There's just no more money to spare with spending so much at one time. Unexpected problem solver right off the bat. Plus I was also smarter about picking the place with the best meat specials for the day. Started at Super Walmart for pantry items and kitchen necessities, then off to HEB for produce and weird stuff like coconut aminos. Kroger rounded it out with $1.87/lb. chicken breasts (rock on!) after a quick stop at the natural food store for arrowroot powder. (Why does that place always smell like a seance???)

How much? Well, I used the paleo plan this go around, but didn't buy grass-fed beef or free range chicken, or much of anything organic. I just bought regular 'ole ground beef and cancer-causing, hormone-injected chicken. And the total bill came to $540 for a meal plan for 5 people. That includes our usual produce for snacks and sides. I'll have to buy a few more things here and there throughout the month. It made double of all these things:

Breakfasts

• Apple Spice Cake
• Paleo Pumpkin Raisin Muffins
• Paleo Cold Cereal**

Lunches

• Paleo Creamed Spinach with Chicken
• Orange Chicken
• Crunchy Paleo Chicken Strips
• BBQ Bacon Apple Chicken
• Italian Slow-Cooker Chili**

Dinners

• Paleo Slow-Cooker Pork Tenderloin with Apples and Honey**
• Paleo Beef Lettuce Wraps**
• Paleo Bruschetta Chicken
• Paleo Stuffed Peppers
• Oven Roasted Paleo Indian-Spiced Roast Chicken**
• Slow-Cooker Beef Stew**
• Paleo Eggplant Lasagna

I did have to think on my feet a bit. There was an error in the shopping spreadsheet for the amount f stew meat needed, and I didn't have but 1/3 of what I needed for two recipes--so I incorporated the veggies used for them along with extra chicken. Ended up with a truckload of chicken, so had plenty to reorganize and then poach some for chicken salad. The cold cereal is rockstar awesome. Most of us like BBQ bacon apple chicken. We did alright with the stuffed peppers. But then I screwed up and didn't buy enough ground beef for the eggplant lasagna, so I attempted a mushroom eggplant curry which I tried to choke down. Zero Asian cooking skills.

The actual prep day is still a blur. I remember waking up early and getting started, and at some point took the children out to ride bikes, and then also had a visitor over, but I'm pretty sure it clocked in at 15 HOURS to cook everything. Yes, it hurt. The back, the shoulders--they ached. Completing the baking the night before helped and then I wrapped up three dinners the next morning. They recommend finishing it all in one punishing day, but I just couldn't do it with my four babes five and under.

And I stopped at least twice to do a big sweep clean mid-cooking and then one big clean up after the big day and another one the following morning. There were many pauses to clean bowls and pans and pots as well. Chapped, wrinkly fingers. I hit a wall around 3pm and it laughed at my coffee.

But I have a freezer full of food!!! And I'm more oriented to thinking frugally about using it up. No, it's not the absolute best food I've ever eaten in my life. But it has a decidedly paleo-feel, and I'd get the same results if I surfer the blogosphere for recipes. Many of the selections used are from low-carb bloggers anyway. The kids scarfed down crunchy paleo chicken strips, which will have to be a keeper in the future--nice curry spice to that one.

I'd have to agree that it saves me money in the long run. Our out-to-eatings had gotten out of hand and we were spending close to $900 per month in food. We can shave that by about $150, maintain our weekly date night and Sunday lunch out AND increase the quality of food we eat at home by using this plan. It's doable and I'd recommend it.

One disclaimer:

Anybody can cook for the month flying solo. It takes the mind of a hostage negotiator to cook with four children in the house. Here's how to survive without casualties: Tell them what's going on! "Mommy is going to cook all day." "All day, Mommy??" "All day, children. You can help me with x, y, and z, but you're going to have to find something fun to do while I'm cooking." I saved a new app for them to mess with that day (photo booth) and they experimented with that for quite sometime. They helped me make an assembly line for the chicken strips and learned a good lesson on efficiency. We rotated alone play-time in their rooms, I got out the fort, they got to watch a movie with popcorn when things got really dirty. Get your crap in order with the children and all with go well.

We Could All Use Some Humble Pie

The majority of popular, Facebook-shared mom-blog write-ups I've noticed lately seem to echo the same theme. Parents are bombarded by an over-abundance of "do this, don't do that" digital parenting gurus (or just folks met on the street) who range from faintly smug to downright rude. Moms, especially, become overwhelmed with guilt over which of these opinions to subscribe to and then toil over how "well" they implement the advice on a daily basis. We must rebel, these bloggers proclaim, and declare the "we-know-what's-best-for-our-own-kids" mantra. Stick it to the snarky experts and observers nosing in on our kid-raising business.

Of course there's more than an ounce of truth to their rants. Under no circumstance should anyone offer unsolicited and random parenting advice to anyone at the grocery store. Ever. Nor should we keep our minds completely open to any and all creeds floating around.

But to unabashedly reject all input about how to raise our kids is a problem. We say we know best how to raise our own kids, but does that mean we don't look for wise counsel? Or recognize the limitations of our own puny, human brains? The older I get the more I see how much I don't know about things. At the same time I also realize how much I'd like to believe I know more than I do. I'm pretty self-deceptive.

Let's say a fellow friend sees you constantly losing patience with your picky eater. She has an older child who walked through the same struggle and notices that the way you respond builds up a wall of conflict between you and your kiddo rather than your intended goal of developing a more well-rounded eater. This friend has some insight you don't have. And you have expressed your frustration with her. But in this don't-tell-me-how-to-run-my-family cultural climate, she is far less likely to share her experience and observations. It takes a big risk of her coming across as self-righteous when she really can (and needs) to lend a helping hand. So she stays quiet and you toil along down a bad path.

What I'm saying is, we need to be open to being reproved, even in our parenting choices, accepting that the advice giver isn't the perfect parent. Because even though she may done a crappy job of potty training her kids, she nailed the picky eater thing. Our initial reaction will be to criticize her potty training and mute her advice to us. But how can iron sharpen iron without an open, trusting dialogue?

It's just silly how quick we are to share our struggles while getting mad when listeners try to help. "But I just need to vent" never helped anyone in this life. Proverbs 9 tells us that correcting a mocker invites insult, but teaching the righteous will only add to their learning. We are prone to self-deception and to ignore help.

Here is a list of excuses I've used in the past and more I've heard from other folks that clue us in to resisting advice.

1. "Nobody's perfect."

This is the most obvious sentence anyone has ever said in the history of the world. It would be more revelatory to say "I have green eyes" than this dumb nonsense. What we mean when we say this is, "Yeah, I hear you, but you have your own junk to work through." Blame shifting at it's most boring,

2. "He'll outgrow it."

There is some truth to this, for sure. But it can easily be used as a crutch for not dealing with a heart issue or addressing how well or poorly I respond to my child.

3. "Every child is different."

Again, yes, we don't employ the same methods on every child, but reading between the lines this means, "You have no idea who I'm dealing with here. Your advice is bunk."

4. "You think you know better than I do what to do with my kid?"

Moms would never actually say this in a playgroup. But think about the times you've observed parents and known a better way of diffusing a tantrum. You actually do know better what to do with that kid than the parent, in that tough moment. It's so much easier to see solutions in other people's lives. That's why we need other wise people around.

5. "Being a parent is just one of the hardest jobs on the planet."

I'm not quite sure what this one means, other than a pithy non-statement designed to cut the conversation short. We can all agree parenting is the most sanctifying (or revealing) experience we have in this life. That statement isn't particularly helpful, though, in figuring out how to navigate it.

This doesn't give us carte blanche to start preaching to each other, then demanding to be heard. A word fitly spoken is delicious, edible, devoured by a wise listener. But it's not our job to force the listening.

Let's face it. Not everything goes in parenting. There are many, many ways to screw up a child. To fall short of what we are called to do as parents is a serious, heavy consequence that we may not chalk up to random chance. While we don't have to be condemned to guilt and punishment over our parenting through the sacrifice Jesus Christ made, we still strive to repent and get going in the right direction. We must be sensitive to first following the perfect Parent's wisdom on growing godly kids and then be open to counsel from others we trust.

End of sermon.

Kid Quirks: Dirty Old Men and Pwetty Dwesses

Kid quirks seem to be as unique as DNA. Hubs and I busted many a gut over the Hot Tamales pre-verbal gargle. It was a hyper-fast hybrid of Mandarin and Urdu with complicated tongue rolls and authentic inflection. We Craig's List-searched in vain for a translator and never could locate someone qualified enough to interpret. SkippyDon is a different story at her googley-gargle age.

He belts out laughter, dirty-old-man style. All he needs is a cigar hanging out of his mouth.

SkippyDon inherited his daddy's bass octaves with a raspy twang. It's delicious and adds to the overabundance of charm he already unabashedly flaunts. It starts when he cracks himself up (usually at the start of a heated peekaboo game) and grows into a full Wizard of Oz Lion guffaw. Get him going in a public place and watch the women and children either flee from that surely-sinister sound or shower him with kisses. Apparently SkippyDon's Sunday school was a blast last week. It's embarrassing and perfect all at once. Baby Huey better watch his back.

As deliciously peculiar and seasoned as his laugh is, Hot Tamale's fashion sense rivals a close second.

Only "pwetty dwesses, Mommy" with a scolding don't-even-try-the-shorts-and-t-shirt-today glare. Before Grimaldo Garage Sale Extravaganza I sheared every last pant, short and "regular" shirt from the closet. She now has only dwesses, tights and fashionably acceptable shoes. And she's also taken the reigns as my personal clothing assistant. Pretty hearts are more important to Jesus than pretty clothes, my broken record repeats.

I've even surrendered the "give the kid two options from which to choose Love and Logic approach". Just let her pick it out and forgo a morning battle. She does a better job than I do anyway.

Among some of my other favorite Hot Tamale quirks:

• The order of bedtime. She's a total Nazi about it. "Weave cwoset wight on, wead two stowies, sing a song and pway, Mommy." Go out of order or omit at your own peril.
• Climbing in the car on SkippyDon's side.
• Watching the Leap Frog Karaoke videos about Meg, Og, Izzy, Gus, and Al. If I ever attempt suicide, full blame rests with Leap Frog. I don't give a fiddler's toot about her learning to read if I have to endure another video.
• Singing at the tip top of her lungs during library story time. Hot Tamale is a natural ABC diva.
• Her wickedly awesome awareness of every object in the house. I never need to look for my keys again, girl already knows where they are.

The singularity of a fingerprint seems so boring compared to these unique traits. I'll end with an apt quote by the infamous Dr. Seuss:

"Today you are YOU, that is truer than true.

There is no one alive who is YOU-er than you."

Round Three! Ding ding!

Oh yes, yes! This is not the result of dark chocolate indulgence. Unless chocolate can sprout appendages and a heartbeat...more likely, this is Baby 3G--the newest download on the block! Babies are just super fun to make. That (mainly) and the fact that we want to put people on the planet that we like leaves us with only one glorious pooping-crying-smiling-tantrum throwing option. Three cherubs under three-years-old.

The Hot Tamale is absolutely thrilled. "Baby's gotta cook. Not induh oven!" she'll tell you in two shakes of a Pug tail. SkippyDon Juan is just looking for the next meal, so he's not quite as impressed. This new little one appears to be growing steadily and wreaked plenty of havoc on my hormones during the first tri to let me know she's present and nearly accounted for. I'm pretty sure she's a she too.

We've had an interesting reversal during the last few weeks. Our Hot Tamales, spicy though she still is, has become such a lover. My favorite phrases from her just this week:

• Daddy, thank you for pwoviding for us.
• Aaron needs to go to his room to calm down.
• Mommy, how's your day?
• Need anyfing else? (after fetching toilet paper for me)
• Mommy, I need to wear a pwetty dwess. Please, Mama? Wif pink tights and shoes?

She's not your kid, so you probably don't care or see just how magical it is for tiny tots to develop a voice. If you knew just how special this was, you'd zoom over here with a camcorder right now. I'm so in awe that I'm going to slap a "My kid can talk" bumper sticker on the Yukon.

While she's becoming quite the hostess, SkippyDon Juan has started to throw epic tantrums. Oscar-worthy, hilarious and hideous blow-outs. Here's how you can have one too:

1. Start bouncing up and down rapidly while whining in a crescendo.
2. Drop to the knees with a loud shout.
3. Fall face down in an all-out cry.
4. Bang head on ground a.) in hard repetitive motions on a carpeted surface; or b.) just once very lightly on tile, making sure onlookers see you do it.
5. Roll over on back to observe reaction.
6. Repeat steps 3-5 as needed.

Don't even fall for those big brown peepers. He's stellar and I'm hiring him as head instructor for the next class of toddler enrollees. Just $289 for an entire semester.

SkippyDon is still a joyous little love (and enjoys the heck out of his new sport Sister Tackling) but his second year of life has been quite a test so far. My sweet guy: the car seat is not demon-possessed. Please embrace the buckle and enjoy the ride. He'll really appreciate having somebody younger to vent with, or on, or both.

Until August, it will still be the four of us, learning our letter sounds and how to sing the entire Wicked album.

Having 19 Kids would be Awesome! If...

Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar have 19 biological children.

How in the crap does she do that??? Oh, and she homeschools. OH, and the family, um kids and parents, built their 7,000 square foot home. What the crap?

I did some digging around on these Duggars. No, I didn't just watch one episode of their TLC show 19 Kids and Counting. I've seen about 15 episodes and read their book. Here's what idiots who like to spew without facts say about them and how I'd respond based on my (voyeuristic) observations:

1. Don't they know about birth control?

Yes, they do. Michelle took birth control early in their marriage when they thought they'd have 2 or 3 kids. But she miscarried after having her first son and realized the birth control she was taking contributed to that. That would be enough for me to change my mind. Birth control is a booger! Ladies, you know how annoying it is to remember to take the pill. Plus those nasty brown spots on your skin pop up. And dishing out $40 a month for that trash? I'd rather make babies too. In fact, I am!

2. They need to stop contributing to overpopulation.

I taught public school. Anyone who's been to a mall in the last month would agree that a little abstinence from people who don't love their Creator wouldn't hurt. An overpopulation of greedy, self-centered brats does nothing to honor God. I'd prefer folks who collect babies like Webkinz, whether they make 2 or 19, to please stop. But watch a Duggar episode and you'll see these kids are respectful, put others before themselves, and put God before it all. Mom isn't yelling at her children, Dad kisses her when he comes home, and they have devotionals every night. Oh the scandal! Mamma Duggar, please have 10 more!

3. It's not fair that the older kids have to take care of the younger ones.

I don't think it's fair you let your kid get addicted to video games. Or be a family moocher. Or graduate with nothing more than useless, forgotten book facts. 51% of high school seniors flunked a basic personal finance exam. The average college graduate is a complete idiot with zero real experience. The Duggars learn about construction (they built their paid-for "mansion" together over 3 years), child care, education, nursing, restaurant management, budgeting, and most importantly the Word of God. Way to go for encouraging your kids to contribute more than disobedient back-talk to the family!

4. They are a burden on society.

While everyone else stupidly "bought" a sick amount of house with no money and then cursed the bank when THEY couldn't make their increased ARM, the Duggars pay cash for everything. Cars, businesses, land, and HOUSES. And no, their parents aren't wealthy. They made huge sacrifices early on to accept having children without knowing if they would have enough space or money to take care of them. They lived in a 2-bedroom house with six children. Then, when they had enough cash saved they bought (outright!) their second and third (the pre-fab mansion) houses. On one income! Michelle homeschools her children and doesn't take advantage of the public school system they generously fund with property taxes. Their children will, in turn, become responsible people who encourage others to do the same.

Kids are NOT burdens! Our culture treats them like collectibles or expendables, but Psalm 127:3 says Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.

5. Girls wear long skirts and have weird long hair.

And your kids wear black and get piercings. Modest skirts! Shirts that don't show 2 inches of boob! Call the authorities!!! I think this is an individual family decision. While I don't look like they do, if they're convicted to dress the way they do and it honors God, awesome!

6. Those people need to stop breeding like rabbits.

You need to carefully look at each of those children before you compare them to rabbits. They are children of a God who knew them by name and tell you how many hairs are on each of their heads, way more valuable than animals. According to the Duggars, they didn't start their married life intending to populate a school room. It was a decision they made to take how ever many children God brought to them...by enjoying the heck out of each other physically! How is your bedroom life? And the phrase "in God's time" when it refers to babies is ridiculous when birth control is involved. If you're convinced that it's truly "in God's time" doesn't birth control completely negate that? I'm not commanding you to go commando, but at least admit that you're taking matters into your own hands.

7. They had to do a reality show just to pay for the kids.

This is just ill-informed drivel. The only contributions TLC made to the house was hiring a designer to pick colors for their house and helping out with landscaping. Everything else was paid by them.

8. With 19 kids, how would you ever get to know them.

Since Michelle homeschools, she's with her children most of every day. Consider that your children go to a randomly chosen school, sit in rooms with 30 random kids, and get taught by a stranger who may or may not like his job and subject. Then your kids do hours of homework before falling into bed. You get the worst piece of your children while complete strangers teach them things you may not agree in a room full of THIRTY influential (for the best or worst) other peers.

My hope is that this family would challenge us to really think about our notion that 2.5 children is more than enough. That if God truly blesses people with children, then our conception of what children actually "need" is far off the mark than what they really deserve. Please pray about this. I know I am.

New Beginnings

If I'm in a room of kids and adults, I'll always end up with the kids. The reason being: kids are accepting, quick to forgive, and quick to love. They don't judge my shirt stains or whisper that I've put on a few pounds.

This is why when we bear children, there's this exciting part of us that feels we have a second chance. These new beings know absolutely nothing about us. They don't know the stupid stuff we did in college or that we cussed out our parents. We take great pains to create a new version of ourselves for them. Mom knows how we gossiped with the best of them in junior high, but these tiny folks don't.

Don't believe me? People who guzzle gallons of Coke insist their Precious only have water or milk. Great, sailor-worthy swearers take a bar of Dial to their mouths around Junior. Having kids is the only time we truly get a clean slate. A potential do-over to avoid screwing them up like our parents did to us.

Aside from knowing Christ.

It's beyond difficult to understand that God sees his son when he looks at me. He knows I seek comfort in food, worry about stuff that doesn't matter, and waste time he's given to me--but accepts me because I ask him to be my friend. He knows all the ugly stuff, that nobody else could imagine about me, and still pursues my heart. A twisted part of me wants my kids to love me like that without knowing my past, but with half a brain they'll see through the facade after a few short years. They accept me in a passionate, I-don't-give-a-rip-what-others-think-of-me way.

I'm learning from the way they adore me to love God.

I do get a new beginning, but I can't look to my kids for that. Only God issues do-overs.

Attack of the Drone

If you've ever been a teacher or parent (or a dude in front of a football game) you have surrendered to the dreaded automaton voice aka Drone Speech.

I've noticed it creeping up the last two weeks since the Hot Tamale is really pushing the behavior envelope. When I used to work in prison, er public school, ten seconds into Drone Speech would completely unravel classroom discipline. In the family arena, the voice materializes around 4:30 when tempers, dinner, and thinning patience converge. Drone speech invades everyone at one point or another, sometimes in the form of nagging, but not all nagging is automated. I nag vigorously with flare most of the time.

Some people don't even know they have this capability for Drone Speech! Others use it EXCLUSIVELY!!! (And annoy the watchuzis out of the rest of us!!)

How do you know when you're infected with it??

1. Your voice sounds about a half octave higher.

2. You use the words "ok" and "ready" way too much.

3. The children or folks being addressed are completely oblivious to the words coming out of your mouth.

4. You move very quickly and find it hard to focus your eyes.

5. M-o-n-o-t-o-n-e.

We're (God and I) working on identifying when I start to talk like one of those pull-string toys and zipping it shut before it annoys people, namely Hubs and the HT. SkippyDon would heart me even if talked through a creepy voice modulator--he's no yardstick for my parenting success.

Maybe it's as close to an out-of-body experience as we can get, this Drone Speech, because when it turns on I feel about a second behind the present. Deliberate, intentionally chosen, seasoned speech is 80% of discipline. Shoot, it's 80% of relationships! I must slow down, stop to think, and forget pushing my agenda when the Hot Tamale starts to freak out or it gets as nasty as day-old fries.

SLOW DOWN. Breathe. Pray. And focus. The other stuff can wait.

FREEEEEEEEDOM!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you, service men for making it possible for us!

We take it for granted every day.

Happy 4th everybody!

My Apologies to the Elderly

Wheelchair users, blue hair lovers, and nursing home gangs beware! The Hot Tamale WILL freak out fifty yards away from you!

Naughty Grandma is doing a bang up job when she watches the kiddies every Wednesday and Thursday morning. She straps them in a stroller and wheels them a couple blocks down to a retirement community to expand their horizons. Visions of sweet little ones crafting God's Eyes and lovingly gifting them to the infirm and lonely brings a lump of choked-up-ness to my throat.

Hooray for soul beauty!

Our spicy munchkin has other plans for these hearing impaired folks. Mom pushes them up to a man who's fishing in the community catch-and-release. "Say hi, sweetie." Terror! Sheer horror! Gnashing, clawing, get-me-outta-here-or-he'll-kill-me-with-his-freeze-ray looks (or so the Naughty Gma says).

The Fish Man makes it worse, poor thing. "Well hi there little fella!" (Talking to her but clearly not noticing the long hair and pink shirt.) Claps three times right in her face. Oh no. Not good. More terror-filled agony. So the elderly gentleman leans closer in. "Whatsa matter?" Even more yelling! "Can I showya howda fish?" By this time any aquatic dweller within five miles has found a hiding spot well beyond diving range.

This charade continues on for a few minutes until the Naughty gives some lame excuse about lunch.

Fast forward to this weekend--our visit with the Great Grandfolks. My Hot Tamale did her best to make her Great Grandfather feel like a two-headed, tarred and feathered leper. At least he didn't realize it was him she was fearing. She sprinted away from him at every sighting shouting, "No? no? no?!?" By the end of two days she barely mustered a bye-bye wave.

What is it with kids and older people? Why do they freak out?!? Maybe it's the way they tend to invade space, or their smell, or the slow way they talk. Maybe kids act the way some of us feel when WE visit with the elderly. My dear HT, we both need some work here. We'll get comfortable around older folks, I promise! After all, we'll be walking in their shoes before we know it!

Unca Monkey

My sweet, sweet pea! My dancing queen! Sunup to sundown you thrill me with new words, new looks, and new naughties!

Match the Hot Tamalified word to their less creative meanings:

A. Paco 1. downstairs

B. Unca Monkey 2. spoon

C. Chuch 3. Church

D. Ah wub vew 4. Red Mango

E. dow tairs 5. I love you.

F. poons 6. Uncle Marty

G. Gang goo 7. Thank you

That LOOK on your face! You have a deliciously devilish ME look. Congrats--the teacher stare is genetic, like webbed fingers or long noses. Just know that I will always have had more practice making it and will win EVERY time in our little showdowns.

Dunking in the pool--listen to me! On THREE your hold your mouth closed because we're going under, got it?? Not four, not seven, not twenty-two, THREE. When we go tomorrow we'll practice more. You're very close to getting it.

Favorite song: Chug-a-lug by Roger Miller

You dance like the roof is coming down! Tippy toes, spins, crazy head movements, all very Cunningham-ish, which is, well, not the Latin side of you I'm afraid. The best part is the beginning when they yell "Whoop whoop whoop whoop".

Hot Tamale, you know EXACTLY where Red Mango is and start having a fit a block out. Dad's Toxic Skittle doesn't hold a candle to my Key Lime Delight.

SkippyDon and you have a good thing going. You are so patient with him on too-long car rides when he loses it. You pat his arm and say "goo goo ga ga" and then both of you laugh. It makes me want to pull over and video tape it, but we both know you won't do it for the camera.

We are entering a new phase in our lives, honey bun. The reign of SELF! You will soon see that the world doesn't spin on your pinky, that other people not only have needs, but that you need to put them before your own, and that no means no. This will be very painful and involve a good number of tears, but just know that God will pull you out of that pit if you ask him to. You'll even enjoy it more that looking out for number 1! Even though I will mess up many, many times, I have your soul in mind, which is way bigger than soda pop-flavored jelly beans.

I think my next note to you will document these times of "sharpening" or "growing". It should be good.

Love you, love you, love you! Get some sleep.

Barista Blessing

I earned a nice, steamy lump of coal on my head yesterday.

[Since stupid Starbucks doesn't offer free wifi (not yet, but word has it they're caving--ha HA!) I headed to Hastings, a really cool college town video/book/music megastore. Needless to say, it's not Starbucks quality. I knew my 16 oz. decaf soy no foam latte would be substandard, but still. Anything over $3 that doesn't have adult-only juice better be at least decent.]

I stare at the menu board (fully knowing my order but unable to prevent the obligatory gawking) then ask if they have soy. The Barista or Coffee Creator or whatever burns through my face with Queen Victoria's best and smirks. "No."

So what that soy is clearly listed as an option? This chick stole my stare! That's my look!

I reluctantly impart the espresso orders, adding a few extra adjectives for good measure, and then...that look...again! Sheesh. This is the worst customer service ever. Starbucks baristas give footrubs with one hand and delight you with quips about the cooling rate of milk while they whip up a beverage. What got into her? Exchange change without a single word and slink to a booth, avoiding all eye contact. I wouldn't put it past her to spit in my drink. Better keep an eye on her.

So I pick up said beverage and, no surprise, it's terrible. At least I'll get some internet for my $4.25 cup 'o bitter.

As soon as I sit back down another customer approaches the counter. He has a limp and a speech impediment. His speech is slow. And it's clear that this isn't the first time he's been here. Oh great. This chick's gonna rip a whole in him.

But as I spy on their conversation, this hardened, lousy latte maker transforms. She asks him how his day is going and knows him by name. They chat about her upcoming wedding, his favorite movie, and the ridiculous heat. And just at the point that gets uncomfortable for most people, she parks it on a stool outside the counter and lets the barrage of questions continue. She talks to him in a respectful, yet simple manner so he understands. She beautifully preserves his dignity. This continues for 40 minutes. He follows her as she wipes the tables and restocks drip coffee, all without a hint of unease. He leaves reassuring her that he'll be back tomorrow.

Should any of my children enter the world a bit slower, a bit more talkative, a bit socially unaware, I pray that they meet this wonderful woman who makes dreadful non-soy lattes. I pray that people like me (who forget that baristas have souls and exist for purposes greater than making my hot beverage) would not judge, as I did in such an ugly and superficial way.

God bless you, barista babe.

To Boob or to Bottle

Is it really that big a deal to wean SkippyDon Juan from the boob?

Yes!!!!

La leche leaguers--don't judge me on this.

It's like choosing menopause, I think. Far more than pregnancy, this is the one area that I feel Hubs has zero connection with. The thing is we're headed to sunny Me-hee-co in a month and it will be a total drag if I have to milk myself in between pina coladas. Plus the extra room in the bag that Sucky Airline will charge $30 for. Let's see...I can work on weight loss more aggressively without being the sole life force for SkippyDon. Don't have to worry about the is-he-isn't-he-getting-enough ever-present question. The bottle doesn't lie or dry up on a bad day. No more suspicious nipple-area wetness in public.

But it's so hard to give up! I like burning 250 calories for nothing and relying on those dangling melons for something other than ogling. I like seeing my son enjoy eating in such a nurturing environment and not having to whip up a bottle in the wee morning hours. Plus it actually feels good! I totally see why the hippie moms breastfeed until their darlings are 48 months.

I'm leaning toward exclusive bottle, as much as it pains me. I feel like we're ready, even though we could probably make it a bit more. The Hot Tamale and I made it 3 months, we're up to 6 with SkippyDon, so Numero 3 will be a 9-monther, no? Maybe I'll feel better about my mothering if I can make that happen.

For now, my tiny chunky hunk, we'll keep going for at least a little while longer...

Chug-a-lug

The current musical fav in the house is...drumroll please...Roger Miller's Chug-a-Lug. Let's take a guess as to who introduced the Hot Tamale to this American gem...anybody? Yes, the Naughty Grandma has pimped out a song about underage drinking to my 20-month old and she loves it.

"Chug! Chug"

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

Makes you wanna holler hidey ho!

Burns your tummy don't cha know.

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

And we are referring to moonshine here.

Hot Tamale's little brownish body contorts into a whitey, non-rhythm moving toddler rockin' out to redneck country. She gets low, she claps, she sways, but never on any beat. That little thing is Steve Martin in The Jerk. I never thought I'd pine for Miley Cyrus, but I'd give anything for a Hoedown Throwdown right about now. Oh no, here she goes again.

"Chug! Chug!"

Psycho Running: A Play

The conversation that took place in my head during a jog yesterday:

(Girl walks half mile to bridge and stretches, a bit longer than needed to avoid the impending run.)

Voice: Wow it's muggy today. Sure you wanna do this?

(Girl fiddles with iPhone, setting playlist and RunKeeper to start. Ignores voice.)

Voice: You've stretched enough, right? Let's get to it so we can get home and pig out on dark chocolate. Any day now. Remember earlier when you had two bowls of cereal? That run you're about to do will barely pay for that. And then there were those three chicken nuggets.

Girl: We're not doing this today.

Voice pauses thoughtfully, then gently adds--

Voice: Maybe you should go back and let that food settle a bit more. Don't they say that you should wait between 2-4 hours? You ate barely over an hour ago. Wouldn't that be bad for your digestion?

Girl: It will be dark then. No. Like you said, let's get to it. For the chocolate (smirks).

Voice: It's your body. Destroy it if you want.

Girl jogs a half mile in relative quiet noticing the puddles and torn branches left over from a storm the previous night. Her body feels awkward and slightly off. A car drives by.

Voice: Did you seen them look at you? They think your grandma walks faster than this. We're not that far from home. Want to turn around?

Girl: No, it doesn't matter. The first two miles are junk. Just make it through the first two miles and it will feel better. You'll see.

Voice: But don't you think it's weird that this feels so heavy today? Maybe you're developing an injury. Every step you take is making it worse. Ooo! Feel that? There it is again! That's your, um, whatever tendon straining. It really would be better to do this tomorrow. Why don't we walk home and-

Girl: No. We've almost made it a mile. Half-way through the junk.

Voice: Suit yourself.

A few moments pass.

Voice: Say, didn't your aunt--the one who's a physical therapist--tell you that running is the most stressful thing you can do to a body? That humans aren't designed for it? If you want to do something that you aren't designed to do-

Girl: I do!

Voice: That's fine with me. I'm just saying, if you want to train for something, why not train for a cycling race or swimming thing, whatever they do. You can still stop now and make it back sooner than if you finished running the course today. Pause. You're not a quitter. You know that. This wouldn't be quitting. It would be, um, postponing.

Girl: It's just one step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Don't look at the course. Look two steps ahead. I've made it almost halfway there besides.

Voice: Yeah, but look how tired you are. You still have half the course to go. And you really need water. Is there a water fountain around? No? Maybe you should slow down a bit and take it easy. Don't want to get dehydrated and-

Girl: But it doesn't matter.

Voice: Yeah, like it won't matter when they find you blacked out in the gutter. It may start to rain again and you'll slip right down there with the water moccasins. They'll look for days and you'll be dead with the snakes. Great plan.

Girl ignores Voice. Each step is more challenging as she moves ahead. For several minutes Voice is silent. She starts to feels the weight of a slight incline and tires quickly.

Voice: How about you just walk the incline?

Girl: That would be quitting. I don't quit.

Voice: Come on, just once? It won't hurt. You'll get right back into it tomorrow. You'll even go farther then. But if you push it too much today you won't do so well tomorrow. It's up to you. Walking is cross training. You need cross training to become a good runner. Did you do any cross training last week? No? Why not do it now to catch up!

Girl: Shut up.

Voice: This is your pain sensor yelling at you! You're telling me to shut up?!?

Girl: I'm not in pain.

Voice: That's what you think! You're twenty-five pounds overweight and trying to train for a marathon. Do you really think you can do this?

Girl: But it doesn't matter...but it doesn't matter...

Voice: If you can't even complete three miles easily, how will you do ten, fifteen, TWENTY-SIX?!? You're really not a runner. Look at those ankles.

Girl: I'll show you. Shut up.

Voice pauses for dramatic effect. It speaks sweetly in a mothering tone.

Voice: I just want you to be happy. Does this make you happy? Can you honestly tell me you are happy doing this.

Girl: Happy is temporary. Discipline makes joy.

Voice is at a loss for words at the moment. Girl doesn't like the song on her iPhone.

Voice: I know you don't like that song. Why don't you stop and change it? That stupid phone always goes on standby so soon. Just a quick break and fast forward.

Girl: No.

Voice: No, I know you don't want to stop. This isn't stalling, it's adjusting your settings. Is there some law against changing your playlist?

No answer. The Voice continues to wait several more minutes.

Voice: My, my. Look at that mileage.

Girl: Half a mile from home. You proud?

Voice: Absolutely. You've made incredible progress. Waits a bit and then, softly. Maybe you've done enough for the day. Two and a half miles is great! Remember when you could only jog thirty seconds at a time? What an accomplishment.

Girl: Yes it is. A few more minutes.

Voice: But don't you need a cool down? Six minutes is a good amount of time to cool down. You wouldn't want to overheat. Just eat less chocolate and call it a night.

Girl: Finish strong. I'll complete what I start. Keep your mouth shut.

Voice: Well, suit yourself. Ooo! See that water fountain? Run over to it and take a sip! Wow it's humid tonight!

Girl smiles slightly and ignores Voice.

Voice: There's really no need to go all the way. Just a fourth of a mile left? Why are you so legalistic?

Girl smiles bigger, striding confidently.

Voice: That's far enough, really. Let's stretch, you know, to work out the kinks in those legs.

Girl completes run.

Voice: Just remember how tired you are. Next time will be even harder. I'm just saying.

Boobalicious

Haul out several giant soap boxes. Stack them several stories high. Climb on top. Here we go.

Boobs have really received the slimy banana peel end of far too many jokes, songs, commercials, and lurid photography. Because of all this feminine "liberation" in the 70s those of us who'd rather keep the girls strapped in than flaunt them in a two-inch triangle bikini are left in a pickle. We've retreated to the polar opposite viewpoint. We resent our chest because it represents a nasty cultural aberration rather than celebrating them as God intended. Enough is enough!

I can't legitimately despise what has been carefully designed by the Creator for his creation.

Reasons why my boobs are awesome:

1. They feed my children. How cool is that!?! Insert body part and suck. Fascinating!

2. They keep other members of the house happy as well. Please don't use your imagination.

3. Boobs make me look different from men in a good way.

4. If I'm ever stranded in the ocean, they'll help me stay afloat.

5. They have all these ducts and nerves and sensors that I can't explain.

6. Unlike legs or arms or feet they morph into different shapes. How fun is it to travail through life with two little buddy water balloons!

7. I swear I can sense a change in barometric pressure from my boobs. No joke.

8. And did I mention they feed babies?

So enough bemoaning, grumbling, begrudging of our woman parts! Sure bras are the bane of my shopping existence (Victoria's Secret: WE KNOW THEY AREN'T REAL!!), but these two mounds are as female as apple pie is American. Let's enjoy the workings of every part of us.

The rant continues tomorrow on breast feeding in public...

Introducing...SkipppyDon Juan!

I'd like to say that nicknaming our children comes naturally, that it rolls off the tongue. That it's original and cute and completely apropos. But I resort to stealing from children's literature.

So Little Dude it is no more!!

My handsome, googley eyed honey is now officially:

****SkippyDon Juan****

If you haven't read the SkippyJon Jones books yet, you're missing out on a side stitch of fun. And, well, Little Dude casts spells with those peepers. Puss in Boots or Dandy Manny came very close, but I thought he might not appreciate either one.

So, my tiny chunky hunk, my SkippyDon Juan, you are becoming quite the little boy.

• We cut your last twelve baby hairs so they don't tickle your elbows. The Great Uncle Lionel, barber extraordinaire, did the honors at 3:30 on Sunday, May 31st. There was much fanfare and you sat very still for the paparazzi.
• Today was pool day! The plastic one on the patio. You rocked that swim shirt! And thank you for not pooping whilst commando.
• You love to Diaper Jam with the Hot Tamale after bath. Both of you lock hands and open your mouths soooooo wide and try to eat each other. You're losing, but not for long.
• Get it going with that Electric Worm! It will become a crawl very, very, very soon. Dang! Can't park you on the bed anymore.
• Peas, sweet potatoes, carrots, and squash are officially part of your culinary repertoire. But that squash burned the crud out of your hiney area. Sorry bud.
• I just want to kiss your face all day!! And you let me! Thank you, and I apologize in advance for smooching when it becomes embarrassing for you.
• The ladies at the church nursery don't want to let you go. EVERY time we show up YOU are making eyes at them while all the other babies are on the floor.
• What is that squeal noise?!? It's like a half dead kitty falsetto.

SkippyDon Juan, why you are the second of who knows how many children I can't say. I just know that your gentle spirit is a gift to you--not a result of Parenting Book X or your own effort. Please remember that God has placed that tiny, patient heart in your body for a specific reason and your whole existence depends upon using it for just that.

And don't forget that when I disappoint you, when I fail you, when you grow up and realize I'm human too, Jesus will always come through. He loves you and me more than we can fathom.

Buenas, mi amor...

Potty Talk: Would Poop by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

When to start the marathon of potty training? Ask any woman over 50 and she'll swear her sweety britches had it mastered by 14 months. Ladies, you are LYING! Or entering the fog of dementia. In which case I should pray for you.


I'm really tired of the advice already and haven't even read much of it. Some people (you know, in the chat rooms on the internet) even do this elimination training whereby baby doesn't wear diaper (??). Mom "senses" when Precious is about to bm and holds him above the toilet. I'm guessing co-sleeping needs to happen so mom can "sense" those leaky little pipes at 2 am. Apparently said kid is "mostly" trained by one year but then it takes until two to be fully accident free. These are the same people whose mutant offspring are on Your Baby Can Read.

The complication continues with entire aisles at Baby MegaPlex devoted to the Holy Potty Grail. Some are insets that perch inside the big person toilet. Others are transformers--whipping from stool to seat within a certain time limit. And, yes, some even sing when tinkled in. Kid MUST be immediately freaked out when the pee starts a rollin'!


But that trash is boring and it's not even worth a few more words on the subject. As long as rich people have rich little babies, product developers and their marketing leeches will always go for the jugular. We have something far more important to decide:


What will we call the excrement????? This will decide what my children call it for their entire childhood. Stories will emerge from these words. It better be good.


The most comprehensive potty dictionary I can develop in ten minutes:


If it's brown, flush it down...

• Poop: Concise. Easy to say. Very public friendly. But it's just no fun and it reminds me of dogs. I hate dogs.
• Poopie: Cute, petite brown floaties. Very playdate-ish. We're liking the poopie. Although not cute coming from my son--he's already a bit on the dandy side.
• Caca: Multicultural, somewhat discreet. Too bad Olivia loves her Kashi cacas. Off the list!
• Doo doo: This says, "I'm a 5th grade boy." Or, "I'm from Arkansas."
• S--t: By far the most appropriate. Very German in inflection. Too bad our society slapped an inappropriate label on it.
• Crap: The WORST verb in human language. As a noun it's not so bad. But I'll keep this one for a fender bender exclamation.
• Fecal Matter: Need a rubber glove and stethoscope for the rights to say that one.
• Turd: Caddyshack Baby Ruth.
• Shite: Love, love, love this one. Why do British folk sound so fancy and talk so good?

If it's yellow, let it mellow...

• Pee pee: That stupid potty book that sold like a bazillion copies somehow uses this to describe a body part on a GIRL. Crazy dumb. No thanks.
• Wee wee: Willy Winky runs through the town! Upstairs, downstairs...
• Piss: Redneck Bubba in a port-a-potty.
• Tinkle: Ooo! Yes! The Tinkle Fairy whisks around the bathroom...I see a wand in the near future.
• Tee tee: Nice. This one feels neutral. Unoffensive, simple. A subtle slam at golf. My kind of word.
• Urine: "We're going to have to put a catheter in, ma'am."
• Number 1: Lame.

Say them all out loud.

Hmm...

I think we'll go with...

iPad: Beginning of the end?

So I'm trying to watch the end of fill-in-the-blank reality show and that stupid Apple commercial pops up again. Stevie J gave us the best TV ads, perhaps ever, and we've sunk to this? I'm treading on thin ice here since I know less than nothing about anything with wires, but "iPad is thin. iPad is beautiful"?!? iPad's iHair flows through the iBreeze on a motorcycle. Do I really need a reminder how ugly and fat I am from an electronic device?

This is not a PC/Mac debate. Those people who say each are great for different purposes just don't have enough money for Apple. My laptop shuts down in five seconds, your Toshiba takes five minutes. So is PC good for people who have inordinate amounts of time to waste? No, the folks in Cupertino have that argument in the bag. Where they screw up is in Pied Pipering the skinny jean crowd to fall for the Emperor's new clothes. By using a Suave commercial template.

So, listen up lemmings! If you fell for the iPad, you are a complete sucker. It is an iPhone that doesn't make calls and doesn't fit in your pocket. Maybe the point is to carry it in a sling, like a newborn baby, and invite others behind you in Chic Coffee House to coo at it. Good luck with that. It doesn't even have the applications that actually help you get work done. You bought the iPad because 1.) it's Apple; and 2.) that commercial about it being sleek and sexy made you want to be part of the in-crowd.

I'm not saying that the iPad isn't a step toward the future norm. But remember all those folks who fell for Vista? Or laser disc players? Give a thing at least four generations before shelling out some serious dough.

Development Dept. at Apple: watch yourselves. When the lemmings find out you're scamming them, your next new iDevice will fall flat.

Back to mommyhood, where paunchy midsections and dark under-eye circles reign.

Hot Tamale Heads to Kinder

If we thought no day could be more thrilling than the annual Easter mEGGa Hunt, today came very, very close. The Hot Tamale was not only in heaven--she was in the very best parts of it where people eat dark chocolate bon bons by the carload and still keep a cut six-pack. She was so exhausted from exuberance that she requested a nap. At 11:30.

Kindergarten! Land of tripping, slipping, jumping, dancing, singing large-ish little folks. With five days left until summer break, these kids had a bad case of kinderitis and Hot Tamale did her best to keep them even more distracted. Entertain them, she did. Mrs. Gigi loves having bite-sized visitors to spice things up in class, so we decided to introduce HT to the world of alphabet puzzles, home centers, and dull scissors.

"Let's show Hot Tamale how we do calendar. I'm looking for a very quiet boy or girl sitting in their spot." And HT sprints to the carpet. She picks the Qq to sit on, which is perfect since Owen is home sick. She stays there, criss-cross apple sauce, for about 43 seconds and then she's off to inspect backpacks in the cubby area. Oh how big kids straighten up for littler ones! One mommy in particular, Penny, knew exactly how to woo the HT:

"No, Hot Tamale, sit down and look at Mrs. Gigi. Can you dance with us? Let's read this book. No, you can't eat it. [To me with utter confidence.] I have a little brother and a little sister. My mom really wanted a boy and he's the last one. I KNOW how to take care of babies."

Can I take you home in my diaper bag, Pretty Penny? Delicious! HT half listens to the days of the week and skip counting songs and half pesters the big boys (who really want to play with her but don't want the other big boys to know it). In just over four minutes my extra spicy Hot Tamale has demolished the morning routine.

The rest of our hour-long visit HT tippy toes around the room with an entourage of at least five kindergarteners giving her the down low on Oscar the Grouch, alphabet buckets, and how to use the in-class potty. Had P.E. not interrupted the morning, she would easily be reading Dr. Seuss by lunchtime.

Hot Tamale soaked in every ounce of attention showered on her. Hip hip hooray for our second best day ever!

I've got a lovely bunch of coconut...chocolates

Life is like a __________.

You know you said "box of chocolates" in a weird southern accent! Don't lie! My favorites are the cherry filled kind. Or the ones with oozing dark chocolate that you have to slurp. The carmel filled kind are mid-tier. But I hate the coconut ones and always put them back half eaten--not worthy of a trip to the garbage can. That trash is disgusting.

I desperately want to believe God doesn't dole out coconut chocolates when he's disappointed with me. Yes, I know I know I know! He doesn't work on tit-for-tat, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours basis. But when those coconut chocolates start rolling in by the truckload, that evil voice starts spouting, "Well, remember that time you did that thing you shouldn't have? What goes around comes around, honey!"

Let's just say we're in the Valley of Mounds with Almonds right now. Every day we are showered with our manna of chocolate covered coconut flakes and it just stinks. Since going back home we moved in with family, originally by choice but now out of necessity (more on how that happened later). Coordinating life with two adults and two itty bitty babies is confusing and challenging enough without adding doting grandrents and an unhealthy lump of guilt into the daily routine.

It could always be worse. We could have a life-threatening disease. Or be stranded in eel infested waters near the Cliffs of Insanity. But that kitchy silence filler never really comforted anyone. Tell somebody with Stage III cancer that they should be glad it isn't Stage IV. Oh I feel much better! Thank you!

Since suffering is relative, it's very believable that Hot Tamale's time out sentence is as traumatic for her as infertility is to a young couple. So my big battle right now is accepting that God wants more for me than a comfortable, house-wife with picket fence existence. It's pretty lame when I write it down since "it could always be MUCH worse." But I wrestle with so many parts of being an extended guest in someone else's house. Trying to keep it clean. Hiding my milk-making boobs. Finding storage for the kid crap. Maintaining a healthy relationship with Hubs. Truly loving people who are very different from me.

He has work to do through me living with my in-laws. That's clear. And he'll keep me here until that work is done. I get it! He cares far more for my soul than to leave it untested. If I can't be faithful with this tiny trial, what about when the levies really break? Just for the record: God, if you'd rather send me suffering to a beach hut in Costa Rica, I'll leave it all (the bouncy seat and everything) right now. We're talking Friday, May 21 1:45pm! Until then, I'll let you teach me how to love chocolate coconuts...