I’m nothing if not consistent in my inconsistent blogging. It’s incredibly annoying, I realize.
Anyway.
So, for some reason, Noah has had a post-Christmas obsession with the holiday tune, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”. Possibly because he understands the lyrics to say, “Walkin’ around the Christmas tree...”, which gives him the opportunity to strut deliberately around the room to the beat of the music, as if circling an imaginary tree.
We have a few versions of this song in iTunes (why? not sure.), and I always call up the Bobby Rydell arrangement when it’s requested. Yesterday, after Noah enjoyed his laps of rhythmic walkin’ around nothing in particular, he frowned and told me, “I want Mrs. Claus.” Since I’m quite used to the confusion brought on by random three-year-old whims, I automatically began to search my brain for the answer to the riddle. “Mrs. Claus? I’m not sure what you mean, Noah...” There was a song from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer playing now. Was Mrs. Claus in that movie? Yes, I think she was...I remember her squawking at Santa to put on some weight to fill out the red suit. But did she have a song? And come to think of it, has Noah even seen that movie?
“Mommy! I want Mrs. Claus. Please?”
Ok, he pulled out the magic word. Still trying to figure this out. “Mrs. Claus....does she sing a song, honey? How does the song go?”
Immediately, he jumped off of my lap and started his jolly pace around the room, singing his high-pitched, “Walkin’ awound the Cwismas twee...”
Um, ok. What does this have to do with Mrs. Claus? Finally, I had to admit defeat. “I'm sorry, Noah. I’m not sure which song you’re talking about.”
And then, the slightly exasperated voice of the wise big sister spoke up from her coloring book. “He means the one where the lady sings it.”
The one where the lady sings it? Wait a minute...does he think....?
Yes, yes he does.
He thinks Amy Grant is Mrs. Claus, and he is requesting her version of his favorite Christmas song.
Priceless.
I’m guessing he’s preferential to “Silver Bells” as covered by the three wise men, as opposed to the abominable snowman’s less-jazzy take.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Some bits of completely riveting information
1. So, I've switched practically my whole online life over to Google now. As a creature of habit, I was reeeally reluctant to make the change. It took days and days of baby steps, but finally one night last week I set up camp in my iGoogle profile, hoping for the best. And OH MY WORD. Why oh WHY did I not do this sooner? I'm totally infatuated with my whole setup. My e-mail perched right above my Reader subscriptions and right next to my Twitter feed...the fun backgrounds and gadgets...LOVE.
2. You know what else I love? Helpful store employees who aren't irritated by moms having airhead moments. I was at Martin's the other day and I don't know what to say other than that I don't know what was going on with my brain. I couldn't locate something obvious, I remembered half-way through check-out that I'd forgotten a crucial item, I left my keys in the cart. It was...epic. But everyone was so great, never once letting on that they noticed my idiocy. It's like the time a few months back when Maya dropped a full grande-sized cup of ice water on the floor in aisle 5, and when I slunk up to report it, the checkout guy bent over backwards to relieve my stress. "You have your hands full, ma'am. It happens all the time. Just let us take care of it, and you have a great day!"
And that's why I keep going back there. That, and the Starbucks kiosk. I mean, let's be real.
3. Know what I don't love? Walking out of the public library with my two-year-old, and being harassed with lewd comments and suggestions from a random man sitting on a bench near the front door. Really? You're going to speak that way to a woman? In front of her child? And what exactly do you think the outcome of this exchange is going to be? Are you under the impression that I will find this charming in some way? Perhaps the "Are you kidding me?" look I shot your way will convince you otherwise. (Not likely.)
4. We took the kids to their first minor-league baseball game the other night. I purchased us some excellent seats, right up front by the action. The weather was gorgeous. And three of us loved the experience. One of us did not. I won't name names, but he's the shortest, blondest member of our family. Thankfully, the manager of the home team handed him a baseball halfway through the fifth inning, which kept him semi-happy and occupied until we left. Note to selves: attempt again in another year. And take a baseball.
5. And just for the sake of total lack of cohesion - a list of more things making me happy these days:
- The sight of Maya skipping joyfully into school each morning and running excitedly out to the van in the afternoon with hugs and kisses and stories to tell.
- The promise of cooler temperatures just around the corner. (70's and sunny for Labor Day weekend? Yes, please!)
- The return of the pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks. A sure sign of autumn, and a sure sign of where a good chunk of my money will be going for the next two months, at which time my beverage loyalties will switch to the peppermint mocha in the holiday cup. Amen.
- Project Runway on myLifetime.com. Top Chef on Hulu. Cake Boss on Netflix on Demand. And not paying for cable.
- The fact that Kohls keeps e-mailing me coupons for $10 off any purchase, despite the fact that I shop at Kohls exactly never - until receiving such coupons, at which time I go find something for $10 and walk out having paid nothing.
- Noah's sunny personality, and his ability to find the joy in any and everything. "That was SO FUN at the library today, Mommy!" "This lunch is SO dewicious, Mommy!" "I LOVE going to the grocery store today, Mommy!" It's infectious.
- My church. I love my church. The end.
With all of that said, I shall now depart to Kohls, where I will search for a nice, $10 item, then to Starbucks for another dose of pumpkin spice perfection. And all of this will be deemed exciting and amazing by my toddler sidekick.
2. You know what else I love? Helpful store employees who aren't irritated by moms having airhead moments. I was at Martin's the other day and I don't know what to say other than that I don't know what was going on with my brain. I couldn't locate something obvious, I remembered half-way through check-out that I'd forgotten a crucial item, I left my keys in the cart. It was...epic. But everyone was so great, never once letting on that they noticed my idiocy. It's like the time a few months back when Maya dropped a full grande-sized cup of ice water on the floor in aisle 5, and when I slunk up to report it, the checkout guy bent over backwards to relieve my stress. "You have your hands full, ma'am. It happens all the time. Just let us take care of it, and you have a great day!"
And that's why I keep going back there. That, and the Starbucks kiosk. I mean, let's be real.
3. Know what I don't love? Walking out of the public library with my two-year-old, and being harassed with lewd comments and suggestions from a random man sitting on a bench near the front door. Really? You're going to speak that way to a woman? In front of her child? And what exactly do you think the outcome of this exchange is going to be? Are you under the impression that I will find this charming in some way? Perhaps the "Are you kidding me?" look I shot your way will convince you otherwise. (Not likely.)
4. We took the kids to their first minor-league baseball game the other night. I purchased us some excellent seats, right up front by the action. The weather was gorgeous. And three of us loved the experience. One of us did not. I won't name names, but he's the shortest, blondest member of our family. Thankfully, the manager of the home team handed him a baseball halfway through the fifth inning, which kept him semi-happy and occupied until we left. Note to selves: attempt again in another year. And take a baseball.
5. And just for the sake of total lack of cohesion - a list of more things making me happy these days:
- The sight of Maya skipping joyfully into school each morning and running excitedly out to the van in the afternoon with hugs and kisses and stories to tell.
- The promise of cooler temperatures just around the corner. (70's and sunny for Labor Day weekend? Yes, please!)
- The return of the pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks. A sure sign of autumn, and a sure sign of where a good chunk of my money will be going for the next two months, at which time my beverage loyalties will switch to the peppermint mocha in the holiday cup. Amen.
- Project Runway on myLifetime.com. Top Chef on Hulu. Cake Boss on Netflix on Demand. And not paying for cable.
- The fact that Kohls keeps e-mailing me coupons for $10 off any purchase, despite the fact that I shop at Kohls exactly never - until receiving such coupons, at which time I go find something for $10 and walk out having paid nothing.
- Noah's sunny personality, and his ability to find the joy in any and everything. "That was SO FUN at the library today, Mommy!" "This lunch is SO dewicious, Mommy!" "I LOVE going to the grocery store today, Mommy!" It's infectious.
- My church. I love my church. The end.
With all of that said, I shall now depart to Kohls, where I will search for a nice, $10 item, then to Starbucks for another dose of pumpkin spice perfection. And all of this will be deemed exciting and amazing by my toddler sidekick.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
And I didn't even require a sedative.
I'll admit it. Fevers have always sent me into some level of panic. I've heard all of the biological facts a million times: a fever in itself is nothing to worry about...it just means the body is fighting off infection...no need to administer a fever-reducer unless your child is uncomfortable...kids can tolerate very high fevers without any danger...
I know, I know.
But there's something about putting my hand to a burning-hot forehead and watching the digital display count higher and higher that can turn me into a crazy person.
On Thursday it climbed higher than I've ever seen in my half-decade of parenting. I watched the screen as 102 passed...then 103...then 104...(oh my WORD), then finally stop at 104.5. Temptation to panic? Massive. But instead? I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, walked said sick child directly to the bathroom and stuck her in a lukewarm bath, began Tylenol in alternation with the ibuprofen already in her system, pushed fluids like a madwoman and checked in with the doctor's office, where the nurse confirmed the course of action. And all the while I imagined the calm voice of my mother-of-seven friend Karen in my head.
I wasn't completely without overreaction, of course. At one point that evening, Mark had to stop me from paging the doctor-on-call just to check in, when there was literally no rational reason to do so. And I did sneak into Maya's room once or twice in the night, feeling her forehead until a sleepy hand batted mine away in annoyance.
But all in all? Light years better than the way I've handled moments like this in the past.
Could it be that maybe, just maybe, five-and-a-half years into this parenting gig, I'm starting to figure a few things out?
I know, I know.
But there's something about putting my hand to a burning-hot forehead and watching the digital display count higher and higher that can turn me into a crazy person.
On Thursday it climbed higher than I've ever seen in my half-decade of parenting. I watched the screen as 102 passed...then 103...then 104...(oh my WORD), then finally stop at 104.5. Temptation to panic? Massive. But instead? I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, walked said sick child directly to the bathroom and stuck her in a lukewarm bath, began Tylenol in alternation with the ibuprofen already in her system, pushed fluids like a madwoman and checked in with the doctor's office, where the nurse confirmed the course of action. And all the while I imagined the calm voice of my mother-of-seven friend Karen in my head.
I wasn't completely without overreaction, of course. At one point that evening, Mark had to stop me from paging the doctor-on-call just to check in, when there was literally no rational reason to do so. And I did sneak into Maya's room once or twice in the night, feeling her forehead until a sleepy hand batted mine away in annoyance.
But all in all? Light years better than the way I've handled moments like this in the past.
Could it be that maybe, just maybe, five-and-a-half years into this parenting gig, I'm starting to figure a few things out?
Monday, August 16, 2010
Found
My schoolgirl had an unsettling moment this weekend.
While mingling with friends after our Sunday church service, Maya's friend interrupted my conversation with the report that they'd been playing, but he suddenly couldn't find her anywhere. Not a bit concerned at first, I gave the sanctuary a quick scan, my eyes not detecting the familiar sight of the bouncing hair and pink-striped shirt I'd tracked moments before. Assisted by my sister-in-law, I began to scout around. She headed for the nursery, I checked the stage. No luck. She searched the Sunday School rooms downstairs while I walked through the main women's restroom, my heart beginning to beat more anxiously. Meeting up back in the lobby, both of us empty-handed, we were just beginning to ask the other adults in the vicinity to aid in the search, when my eyes fell on the doorknob of the small lobby bathroom. It jiggled back and forth, panic obviously on the other side. Running over, I pressed my ear to the door and heard faint crying.
"Maya?"
"Mommy! Mommy, I'm stuck!"
Relief flooding over me, I called encouragement to her through the door, giving instructions on how to open the lock. In almost no time at all, the door was open, and she collapsed into my arms, cheeks streaked with tears.
Throughout the next several minutes, I attempted to calm her down as we sat together on the floor. I stroked her hair and whispered, "It's ok, it's ok." I told her that the lock on that door was tricky, and assured her that I would work with her to figure it out. I spoke about how, had she been unable to open the lock, we could have removed the door to get her out. Still, she wept and trembled. And then, finally...
"Mommy...I was afraid that maybe you would never find me."
And there it was. The fear underneath the tears. Finally understanding, I looked into her eyes and spoke the words her heart needed to hear. "I would never leave without finding you, Maya. Never. I would just never stop looking."
Within seconds, smiles replaced tears.
In Tim Kimmel's book, Grace-Based Parenting, he cites three core needs that all children possess: a secure love, a significant purpose, and a strong hope. I witnessed all three of those needs manifested in Maya in the aftermath of her experience being trapped in the church bathroom. The very first thing she needed was the security of my embrace. The next was the assurance that so significant was she in our lives that we would never, ever give up on her.
And then, the third. As I tucked Maya in bed last night, she spoke again of the bathroom incident, however this time it was to recall something Mark told her after she relayed the story to him later at home. "I was worried I wouldn't be found, but Daddy told me that I'll always, always be found," she said, sighing contentedly.
Hope. A strong hope.
The hope of being found.
It's a hope, a need, that beats in my heart as well. The incomprehensible love of a Shepherd who guides my life and counts me as precious. The grace and forgiveness of a Father whose welcome never grows weary and whose promises stretch across eternity.
In a life wrought with circumstances that leave me rife with insecurity, heavy with insignificance, weary with hopelessness - the lock is loosed, the door is opened and I fall into the arms of a Savior who whispers the truth that I am found.
I will always, always be found.
Several times yesterday after our return home from church, Maya requested that I recount for her the tale of what happened when she was locked in the bathroom. No fear left in her voice, she eagerly asked again and again, "Mommy, tell me again about how you were looking for me everywhere. Tell me about how you found me." All smiles as she takes it in. What could have haunted her memory as a frightening experience instead has taken root in her heart as one that proved love, significance, and hope.
My challenge is to live the same story. To cultivate a joy that wells up in my heart as I sit in His presence, come before Him in prayer, ask Him to speak to me through His Word.
"Tell me again about how You found me."
While mingling with friends after our Sunday church service, Maya's friend interrupted my conversation with the report that they'd been playing, but he suddenly couldn't find her anywhere. Not a bit concerned at first, I gave the sanctuary a quick scan, my eyes not detecting the familiar sight of the bouncing hair and pink-striped shirt I'd tracked moments before. Assisted by my sister-in-law, I began to scout around. She headed for the nursery, I checked the stage. No luck. She searched the Sunday School rooms downstairs while I walked through the main women's restroom, my heart beginning to beat more anxiously. Meeting up back in the lobby, both of us empty-handed, we were just beginning to ask the other adults in the vicinity to aid in the search, when my eyes fell on the doorknob of the small lobby bathroom. It jiggled back and forth, panic obviously on the other side. Running over, I pressed my ear to the door and heard faint crying.
"Maya?"
"Mommy! Mommy, I'm stuck!"
Relief flooding over me, I called encouragement to her through the door, giving instructions on how to open the lock. In almost no time at all, the door was open, and she collapsed into my arms, cheeks streaked with tears.
Throughout the next several minutes, I attempted to calm her down as we sat together on the floor. I stroked her hair and whispered, "It's ok, it's ok." I told her that the lock on that door was tricky, and assured her that I would work with her to figure it out. I spoke about how, had she been unable to open the lock, we could have removed the door to get her out. Still, she wept and trembled. And then, finally...
"Mommy...I was afraid that maybe you would never find me."
And there it was. The fear underneath the tears. Finally understanding, I looked into her eyes and spoke the words her heart needed to hear. "I would never leave without finding you, Maya. Never. I would just never stop looking."
Within seconds, smiles replaced tears.
In Tim Kimmel's book, Grace-Based Parenting, he cites three core needs that all children possess: a secure love, a significant purpose, and a strong hope. I witnessed all three of those needs manifested in Maya in the aftermath of her experience being trapped in the church bathroom. The very first thing she needed was the security of my embrace. The next was the assurance that so significant was she in our lives that we would never, ever give up on her.
And then, the third. As I tucked Maya in bed last night, she spoke again of the bathroom incident, however this time it was to recall something Mark told her after she relayed the story to him later at home. "I was worried I wouldn't be found, but Daddy told me that I'll always, always be found," she said, sighing contentedly.
Hope. A strong hope.
The hope of being found.
It's a hope, a need, that beats in my heart as well. The incomprehensible love of a Shepherd who guides my life and counts me as precious. The grace and forgiveness of a Father whose welcome never grows weary and whose promises stretch across eternity.
In a life wrought with circumstances that leave me rife with insecurity, heavy with insignificance, weary with hopelessness - the lock is loosed, the door is opened and I fall into the arms of a Savior who whispers the truth that I am found.
I will always, always be found.
Several times yesterday after our return home from church, Maya requested that I recount for her the tale of what happened when she was locked in the bathroom. No fear left in her voice, she eagerly asked again and again, "Mommy, tell me again about how you were looking for me everywhere. Tell me about how you found me." All smiles as she takes it in. What could have haunted her memory as a frightening experience instead has taken root in her heart as one that proved love, significance, and hope.
My challenge is to live the same story. To cultivate a joy that wells up in my heart as I sit in His presence, come before Him in prayer, ask Him to speak to me through His Word.
"Tell me again about how You found me."
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Schoolgirl
I blinked and it happened.
My eyes closed and she toddled toward me, all chubby-armed and wild-haired, babbling her first words.
They opened and she sat next to me on the couch yesterday, all lean with freshly-cut bangs, easily reading books aloud to me from cover to cover. My heart swells proud and breaks open with the bitter sweetness of it all.
I breathed in and she was two, no interest in pink frills or princesses, much preferring trains and trucks and wholly unimpressed with the world of branded merchandise. We were so pleased with ourselves for avoiding the gender-stereotyping and character-driven madness that lines the toy aisles.
I breathed out and she'll skip into Kindergarten tomorrow, clutching her beloved, personalized Ariel backpack. And a significant piece of my heart.
They told me it would happen. All of those veteran moms and wise friends and elderly strangers at the grocery store. With wistful sighs and pats on her head, their own memories playing like filmstrips behind misty eyes. At times I could glimpse the future and see it happen, could recognize it happening already. At others I was too caught in the momentary struggles to appreciate the perspective.
It goes so fast.
Each night this week as I've tucked her into bed, we've snuggled up together, she and I, for some “special, big-girl talks”. It's a tradition we plan to continue one night every week for as long as she'll allow. She pours out excitement about school and meeting new kids and meals in the cafeteria, sprinkled with worries about bullies and who will help when she needs a Band-aid. I speak reassurance and reminders, offering words about kindness to all, and seeking for close friends those who make her feel good about herself; about confidence in who she is and the work of her Creator within her. She takes it all in, and asks if grown-ups still have trouble with those things. I smile and say yes. We do. “I thought you would say that”, she replies. And I marvel at these moments when she's wiser than her years.
She bursts with delighted giggles as I remind her how very proud her Daddy and I are of her. Our big five-year-old girl who collects Care Bears, loves Jesus, and names her favorite activity as “snuggling up with my Mama”.
We pray and lie close. We blink in the dark and breathe deep.
And I savor every blink and breath, because now I know.
My eyes closed and she toddled toward me, all chubby-armed and wild-haired, babbling her first words.
They opened and she sat next to me on the couch yesterday, all lean with freshly-cut bangs, easily reading books aloud to me from cover to cover. My heart swells proud and breaks open with the bitter sweetness of it all.
I breathed in and she was two, no interest in pink frills or princesses, much preferring trains and trucks and wholly unimpressed with the world of branded merchandise. We were so pleased with ourselves for avoiding the gender-stereotyping and character-driven madness that lines the toy aisles.
I breathed out and she'll skip into Kindergarten tomorrow, clutching her beloved, personalized Ariel backpack. And a significant piece of my heart.
They told me it would happen. All of those veteran moms and wise friends and elderly strangers at the grocery store. With wistful sighs and pats on her head, their own memories playing like filmstrips behind misty eyes. At times I could glimpse the future and see it happen, could recognize it happening already. At others I was too caught in the momentary struggles to appreciate the perspective.
It goes so fast.
Each night this week as I've tucked her into bed, we've snuggled up together, she and I, for some “special, big-girl talks”. It's a tradition we plan to continue one night every week for as long as she'll allow. She pours out excitement about school and meeting new kids and meals in the cafeteria, sprinkled with worries about bullies and who will help when she needs a Band-aid. I speak reassurance and reminders, offering words about kindness to all, and seeking for close friends those who make her feel good about herself; about confidence in who she is and the work of her Creator within her. She takes it all in, and asks if grown-ups still have trouble with those things. I smile and say yes. We do. “I thought you would say that”, she replies. And I marvel at these moments when she's wiser than her years.
She bursts with delighted giggles as I remind her how very proud her Daddy and I are of her. Our big five-year-old girl who collects Care Bears, loves Jesus, and names her favorite activity as “snuggling up with my Mama”.
We pray and lie close. We blink in the dark and breathe deep.
And I savor every blink and breath, because now I know.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Stepping Again
Once upon a time I was a blogger.
Not a great blogger or a frequent blogger. Not one with fancy graphics or an easy-to-navigate layout. But it was my little space on the internet; my safe-haven for feelings and thoughts that longed to escape the confines of my nearly-always-spinning mind. I wrote about things that made me laugh and parenting moments etched on my heart for eternity, and my faith and my friends and the ridiculous adventures of finding particular pant styles and my reflections on the world around me – just trying to sort it all through.
And then blogging hurt me.
So I did the only thing I knew to do with the pain and just forced the door shut. It wasn't worth it anymore.
The problem is that the words were still there. My heart was still there. Paralyzed by a straightjacket of fear.
I spent a long time trying to convince myself that I was better off living under that fear. That I simply wasn't strong enough to open myself up again to the possibility of hurt.
I had forgotten two important things. That He has not given me a spirit of fear (2 Timothy 1:7). And that He is made strong in my weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).
And so here I am again. Trembling fingers gently wiping the dust off of this web address. Choosing to trust not in my anxieties, but in the hope of He who has given me a love for the written word. And more importantly, who desires that I learn to lay my fears at His feet.
Here we go again.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Noah
Nineteen months old. So hard to believe. You've entered the wildfire age of toddlerhood, where you grow by leaps and bound seemingly every day. This week you discovered the thrill of momentary flight, hurling yourself repeatedly off of the couch into Daddy's waiting arms...and attempting the same tricks when he wasn't quite ready for the catch. And this week we discovered that you don't so much enjoy taking turns with your sister (not surprised) and that you can count to ten (completely shocked).
And tonight...oh tonight. My favorite moment of the whole week. When I laid you down in your crib, sleepy-eyed but still awake, I covered you with your favorite fuzzy green blanket and stood there a moment, leaning over to gently rub your tummy and return your big smile. After a moment I let my hand just rest on your chest, feeling the gentle up and down of your breathing. And then I felt your two little hands grasp two of my fingers, continuing the circular motion of the tummy massage. And so I stayed a minute more, gazing down at you as you gazed up at me. It was one of the occasions I've had so far as a parent where I suddenly knew without a doubt that I was to savor this moment. That I'll look back on this night as I dissolve into a sentimental puddle on your first day of school. That I'll remember it wistfully when you're fifteen years old. That I'll tell you about it someday when you're all grown up, causing you to smile, shake your head, and say, "Oh, mom."
Finally, I gave you a little pat.
"Night night, Bubba."
"Nah Nah"
"I love you."
"luh loo"
Melt my heart, why don't you. My sweet, crazy little boy. You seem more grown up to me all the time. So for now, I'll treasure these days when you love puppies and bunnies and "choo choos" and Barney and platefuls of cheese and blueberries and reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear 14,367 times a day. When you think your big sister is the coolest thing ever and follow her around all day long, preferably wearing her shoes and jewelry. When you announce the people you love every single time they enter a room. When you dance your heart out to the Wiggles and sing everything to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. When you charm friends, family, and total strangers with that big, mischievous grin.
I love you.
And tonight...oh tonight. My favorite moment of the whole week. When I laid you down in your crib, sleepy-eyed but still awake, I covered you with your favorite fuzzy green blanket and stood there a moment, leaning over to gently rub your tummy and return your big smile. After a moment I let my hand just rest on your chest, feeling the gentle up and down of your breathing. And then I felt your two little hands grasp two of my fingers, continuing the circular motion of the tummy massage. And so I stayed a minute more, gazing down at you as you gazed up at me. It was one of the occasions I've had so far as a parent where I suddenly knew without a doubt that I was to savor this moment. That I'll look back on this night as I dissolve into a sentimental puddle on your first day of school. That I'll remember it wistfully when you're fifteen years old. That I'll tell you about it someday when you're all grown up, causing you to smile, shake your head, and say, "Oh, mom."
Finally, I gave you a little pat.
"Night night, Bubba."
"Nah Nah"
"I love you."
"luh loo"
Melt my heart, why don't you. My sweet, crazy little boy. You seem more grown up to me all the time. So for now, I'll treasure these days when you love puppies and bunnies and "choo choos" and Barney and platefuls of cheese and blueberries and reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear 14,367 times a day. When you think your big sister is the coolest thing ever and follow her around all day long, preferably wearing her shoes and jewelry. When you announce the people you love every single time they enter a room. When you dance your heart out to the Wiggles and sing everything to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. When you charm friends, family, and total strangers with that big, mischievous grin.
I love you.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I guess you could put it that way...
This afternoon, I was doing some pre-nap reading to Maya from her children's Bible storybook. We finished with the story of Jesus restoring the blind man's sight, and as I shut the book, the stalling questions commenced.
"Mama, why were that man's eyes closed?"
"Well, that man was blind. He was born unable to see. His eyes didn't work. So Jesus healed him and he could see again."
"How did Jesus do that?"
"Do you remember in the story about how Jesus put mud on his eyes?"
"Yes, but I mean, how can Jesus DO that?"
"Oh, well Jesus is so powerful that he can do anything, remember?"
"Like what things?"
"Um, anything."
"But like WHAT? Please tell me!"
('Please tell me' is the ultimate in stalling tactics, when she senses the end of a conversation approaching. But I decided this was an important line of questioning, so I listed a few things that Jesus could do, and then remembered another story reference.)
"Hey Maya, what about the other story we just read? Do you remember the one about the storm? When Jesus and his friends were in the boat and the storm came and his friends were scared? Remember how Jesus talked to the storm? And the storm stopped. So even storms listen to Jesus. He made the storm stop."
She considered this a moment and then observed, thoughtfully...
"Oh. Well, that was clever."
Indeed. Yes. Divine...astounding...clever...something like that.
"Mama, why were that man's eyes closed?"
"Well, that man was blind. He was born unable to see. His eyes didn't work. So Jesus healed him and he could see again."
"How did Jesus do that?"
"Do you remember in the story about how Jesus put mud on his eyes?"
"Yes, but I mean, how can Jesus DO that?"
"Oh, well Jesus is so powerful that he can do anything, remember?"
"Like what things?"
"Um, anything."
"But like WHAT? Please tell me!"
('Please tell me' is the ultimate in stalling tactics, when she senses the end of a conversation approaching. But I decided this was an important line of questioning, so I listed a few things that Jesus could do, and then remembered another story reference.)
"Hey Maya, what about the other story we just read? Do you remember the one about the storm? When Jesus and his friends were in the boat and the storm came and his friends were scared? Remember how Jesus talked to the storm? And the storm stopped. So even storms listen to Jesus. He made the storm stop."
She considered this a moment and then observed, thoughtfully...
"Oh. Well, that was clever."
Indeed. Yes. Divine...astounding...clever...something like that.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Perspective. It's a good thing.
Earlier this week I was having one of those days where life felt frantic from the moment my eyes opened. The kids were cranky, my plans for the day were getting altered right and left, and I had a pile of errands to run and tasks to accomplish. By the time noon rolled around, I found myself loading up a fussy baby and sketchy three-year-old, facing the prospect of not one but TWO grocery store stops. Without yet having had lunch. So let's just say I wasn't in the best frame of mind from the get-go.
Store visit number one was not pleasant. We don't shop there often, so I was completely turned around as we navigated unfamiliar aisles, searching for items that (inexplicably) didn't exist in this particular shopping establishment. (You have strawberry, lemon, and funfetti-flavored gallon buckets of ice cream, but not VANILLA? That is bizarre. And inconvenient.)
Oh, and compounding all of this? The Halloween display towards the front of the store that featured a blow-up pumpkin that slowly opened every thirty seconds or so to reveal...eventually...come on now...yep, almost there...seriously now...a friendly little ghost, "popping" up (I put that in quotes because popping should really constitute quick movement) with some fake bags of candy. Why was this problematic? Because although one repetition of this process is enough for any sane person, the suspense is not lost on a preschooler on the second round. Or third round. Or...well, you get the point. So every time we would come within eyesight of that area of the store, Maya would yell, "Mama!!! I want to see that ghost again! He might pop out with the candy and I want to see him because he's a nice ghost and not a scary one and he has candy and why is it pretend and if it was real could I have some and could I have some candy sometime and why does he pop up like that and does he have friends and why does he live in a pumpkin and who gets to eat the candy and why is it all orange and why does the store smell like cinnamon and sometime can you make a pumpkin that blows up and can I touch the ghost and why is he nice and can I SEE him again because he's REALLY COOL, Mama!"
Or something to that effect.
So by the time we headed back to the van, having viewed the wonders of rudimentary Halloween decor several dozen times more than necessary, we were all a little frazzled. Maya was upset because we were leaving "such a fun place and I want to come here again sometime PLEASE...(repeat)..." and Noah was crying because I wouldn't let him eat my cell phone. And I was feeling a bit like George Costanza's dad in the Seinfeld episode with the self-help tape. ("SERENITY NOW!")
Arriving at store number two, I had one thing in mind. Get in and get the heck out. Well the thing is, though, that this store has car carts. Not the kind with the video screen, because I do not do those. And that's a rant for another post. These are just the kind where your child can sit up front, spin a little wheel, and yell things back to you that you can't possibly hear because you're about two cart lengths behind, with a thick layer of red plastic blocking all sound travel. It's actually not a bad situation... Anyway, Maya likes to clean her vehicle before driving. So as I'm strapping Noah into the front of the cart, she grabs a sani-wipe from the nearby dispenser and begins her car wash. (Focusing, mind you, on the TOP of the car. Not any part that her hands will actually be touching.)
But here, finally, was where it happened. Noah was babbling excitedly at the prospect of gnawing on the seat strap, Maya was singing a little song as she cleaned an obscure section of her car, and I was silently counting the minutes until naptime. And that's when a woman, in probably her mid-fifties, enters the store. And as she passed by, she slowed down for just a moment, took in the scene, gave me a wistful half-smile, and simply said, "I miss those sounds."
Now, I frequently have people stop when we're out in public to coo at my kids, talk to them, or tell me they're adorable. I've had more people than I can count tell me things like, "Oh, hold on to every minute...they grow up too fast." And while I know it's true, and know I should be taking that advice more to heart some days, I hear those things so often that I tend to forget them mere minutes later. But this woman's statement stopped me in my tracks. Both literally, as I paused mid-buckle to stare at her back as she walked briskly past us through the entry doors, and emotionally, as there was something about the look in her eyes when they met mine that spoke volumes about the reality of her words. I imagine that her children are grown, or nearly so. That those simple times of car seats and cart straps, urgent mid-store potty breaks, baby babbles and silly songs, are now just precious memories. I miss those sounds. She meant it.
So as I looked down at my sweet boy, now happily grinning a three-toothed smile at me, and over at my daughter, now working at disinfecting the car's wheels, I suddenly felt a welcome rush of contentment. A small part of that, in all honestly, was likely the knowledge that a Starbucks kiosk awaited me just inside those automatic doors. But mostly, it came from the much-needed dose of perspective that God had just gently placed before me. There will come a day very soon when I will walk, without thinking, towards those bright red and yellow carts, only to realize that my child has neither the desire to use one nor the ability to even fit inside. There will come a day when the only things I need the front section for are my purse and a latte. There will come a day when the sounds around me are quieter, calmer, more predictable. And while those days will bring new blessings and joyous seasons, I know I will likely notice the young mother, looking slightly rattled as she maneuvers her noisy children through the store, and I will both smile and ache at the same time. And I will miss those sounds.
Store visit number one was not pleasant. We don't shop there often, so I was completely turned around as we navigated unfamiliar aisles, searching for items that (inexplicably) didn't exist in this particular shopping establishment. (You have strawberry, lemon, and funfetti-flavored gallon buckets of ice cream, but not VANILLA? That is bizarre. And inconvenient.)
Oh, and compounding all of this? The Halloween display towards the front of the store that featured a blow-up pumpkin that slowly opened every thirty seconds or so to reveal...eventually...come on now...yep, almost there...seriously now...a friendly little ghost, "popping" up (I put that in quotes because popping should really constitute quick movement) with some fake bags of candy. Why was this problematic? Because although one repetition of this process is enough for any sane person, the suspense is not lost on a preschooler on the second round. Or third round. Or...well, you get the point. So every time we would come within eyesight of that area of the store, Maya would yell, "Mama!!! I want to see that ghost again! He might pop out with the candy and I want to see him because he's a nice ghost and not a scary one and he has candy and why is it pretend and if it was real could I have some and could I have some candy sometime and why does he pop up like that and does he have friends and why does he live in a pumpkin and who gets to eat the candy and why is it all orange and why does the store smell like cinnamon and sometime can you make a pumpkin that blows up and can I touch the ghost and why is he nice and can I SEE him again because he's REALLY COOL, Mama!"
Or something to that effect.
So by the time we headed back to the van, having viewed the wonders of rudimentary Halloween decor several dozen times more than necessary, we were all a little frazzled. Maya was upset because we were leaving "such a fun place and I want to come here again sometime PLEASE...(repeat)..." and Noah was crying because I wouldn't let him eat my cell phone. And I was feeling a bit like George Costanza's dad in the Seinfeld episode with the self-help tape. ("SERENITY NOW!")
Arriving at store number two, I had one thing in mind. Get in and get the heck out. Well the thing is, though, that this store has car carts. Not the kind with the video screen, because I do not do those. And that's a rant for another post. These are just the kind where your child can sit up front, spin a little wheel, and yell things back to you that you can't possibly hear because you're about two cart lengths behind, with a thick layer of red plastic blocking all sound travel. It's actually not a bad situation... Anyway, Maya likes to clean her vehicle before driving. So as I'm strapping Noah into the front of the cart, she grabs a sani-wipe from the nearby dispenser and begins her car wash. (Focusing, mind you, on the TOP of the car. Not any part that her hands will actually be touching.)
But here, finally, was where it happened. Noah was babbling excitedly at the prospect of gnawing on the seat strap, Maya was singing a little song as she cleaned an obscure section of her car, and I was silently counting the minutes until naptime. And that's when a woman, in probably her mid-fifties, enters the store. And as she passed by, she slowed down for just a moment, took in the scene, gave me a wistful half-smile, and simply said, "I miss those sounds."
Now, I frequently have people stop when we're out in public to coo at my kids, talk to them, or tell me they're adorable. I've had more people than I can count tell me things like, "Oh, hold on to every minute...they grow up too fast." And while I know it's true, and know I should be taking that advice more to heart some days, I hear those things so often that I tend to forget them mere minutes later. But this woman's statement stopped me in my tracks. Both literally, as I paused mid-buckle to stare at her back as she walked briskly past us through the entry doors, and emotionally, as there was something about the look in her eyes when they met mine that spoke volumes about the reality of her words. I imagine that her children are grown, or nearly so. That those simple times of car seats and cart straps, urgent mid-store potty breaks, baby babbles and silly songs, are now just precious memories. I miss those sounds. She meant it.
So as I looked down at my sweet boy, now happily grinning a three-toothed smile at me, and over at my daughter, now working at disinfecting the car's wheels, I suddenly felt a welcome rush of contentment. A small part of that, in all honestly, was likely the knowledge that a Starbucks kiosk awaited me just inside those automatic doors. But mostly, it came from the much-needed dose of perspective that God had just gently placed before me. There will come a day very soon when I will walk, without thinking, towards those bright red and yellow carts, only to realize that my child has neither the desire to use one nor the ability to even fit inside. There will come a day when the only things I need the front section for are my purse and a latte. There will come a day when the sounds around me are quieter, calmer, more predictable. And while those days will bring new blessings and joyous seasons, I know I will likely notice the young mother, looking slightly rattled as she maneuvers her noisy children through the store, and I will both smile and ache at the same time. And I will miss those sounds.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
I'm thinking relocation was a good decision for Grandma...
At dinner last night, Maya asked us who makes water. Choosing the simple answer over the scientific, we told her that God makes water. The trail of resulting, unsatisfied questions finally led to an explanation, by Mark, of how there is lots and lots of water on the earth. He gave a very nice, detailed description of rivers, lakes, oceans, etc.
Taking this all in, Maya nodded seriously and said, with understanding, "Ohhhh. Is that why the Indians live in Mexico?"
*blink*
- - - - - -
Last week Maya was feeling sad one morning about Daddy going to work, so in order to cheer her up, he hopped out the door on one foot. The plan worked, as she dissolved in giggles and waved a happy goodbye. Then she turned to me with a logical question.
"Mommy, did you do that when you used to go to work for cats?"
Me: "Ummm...did I...when I...what?"
Maya (exasperated): "Mommy! You know! When you worked at your job before I was in your tummy and you worked for cats!"
Through much sorting, I discovered that she was thinking of the story I had told her about how we came to own our second cat Bogey, after he was hanging around outside the office where I once worked. Apparently, she thought that was why I went to work - that I was paid in cats or something? Which is only slightly less odd than the scenario I was originally envisioning out of her question - that I was actually employed by cats.
- - - - - -
Maya has a fictional grandmother. This grandmother is neither of her two actual grandmas, but is a character that she brings out in conversation sometimes. Apparently, this grandmother is sometimes involved in stories from her Sunday School lessons...
(One recent conversation)
Me: "Maya, do you think you'd like to take swimming lessons sometime?"
Maya: "Oh yes! I love to take swimming lessons. They're my favorite! I used to do that with my grandmother."
Me: "Oh. Really?"
Maya: "Yes. She used to live at Sodom and Gomorrah, but she doesn't live there anymore."
(pause)
Me (inwardly): "EEEEEEK!"
Me (outwardly): "Oh, I see. Well...great, then. So, about those swimming lessons..."
- - - - - -
Three-year-olds. Their minds collect information so quickly that it results in a delicious combination of incredible insight and total confusion.
Taking this all in, Maya nodded seriously and said, with understanding, "Ohhhh. Is that why the Indians live in Mexico?"
*blink*
- - - - - -
Last week Maya was feeling sad one morning about Daddy going to work, so in order to cheer her up, he hopped out the door on one foot. The plan worked, as she dissolved in giggles and waved a happy goodbye. Then she turned to me with a logical question.
"Mommy, did you do that when you used to go to work for cats?"
Me: "Ummm...did I...when I...what?"
Maya (exasperated): "Mommy! You know! When you worked at your job before I was in your tummy and you worked for cats!"
Through much sorting, I discovered that she was thinking of the story I had told her about how we came to own our second cat Bogey, after he was hanging around outside the office where I once worked. Apparently, she thought that was why I went to work - that I was paid in cats or something? Which is only slightly less odd than the scenario I was originally envisioning out of her question - that I was actually employed by cats.
- - - - - -
Maya has a fictional grandmother. This grandmother is neither of her two actual grandmas, but is a character that she brings out in conversation sometimes. Apparently, this grandmother is sometimes involved in stories from her Sunday School lessons...
(One recent conversation)
Me: "Maya, do you think you'd like to take swimming lessons sometime?"
Maya: "Oh yes! I love to take swimming lessons. They're my favorite! I used to do that with my grandmother."
Me: "Oh. Really?"
Maya: "Yes. She used to live at Sodom and Gomorrah, but she doesn't live there anymore."
(pause)
Me (inwardly): "EEEEEEK!"
Me (outwardly): "Oh, I see. Well...great, then. So, about those swimming lessons..."
- - - - - -
Three-year-olds. Their minds collect information so quickly that it results in a delicious combination of incredible insight and total confusion.
Friday, July 18, 2008
10 Years
10 years ago today, I married a guy who just about four years earlier had been a 15-year-old boy, sitting next to me on the band bus, asking me to be his girlfriend.
10 years ago today we were both nineteen. We were children, really.
10 years ago today we had no idea what was ahead of us. All we knew is that we were vowing to face it together.
10 years ago today we stood in front of 200 friends and family members in a wedding ceremony that we laughingly agree we would do quite differently if we were planning it today. Looking back, it really didn't match our personality as a couple, didn't really mirror who we were. But then again, did we really know who we were at that time?
10 years, 3 homes, 2 beautiful children, 2 oft-neglected cats, countless joys, many arguments, quite a few changes (for two people who don't handle change all that well), and multitudes of memories later, here we are. All grown up. (Well, kind of.) Different people than we were. But still, and even more so, ridiculously happy together.
You could say we were too young, or that we hadn't experienced enough life yet. You could say that we didn't know ourselves enough at that point to know what we wanted. We would simply say, however, that we knew. Without a doubt. And still do. And I look at it this way - I was blessed enough to have a jumpstart on a lifetime spent with the man I love.
Happy Anniversary, honey. I'm looking forward to the next ten years. And I love you like crazy.
10 years ago today we were both nineteen. We were children, really.
10 years ago today we had no idea what was ahead of us. All we knew is that we were vowing to face it together.
10 years ago today we stood in front of 200 friends and family members in a wedding ceremony that we laughingly agree we would do quite differently if we were planning it today. Looking back, it really didn't match our personality as a couple, didn't really mirror who we were. But then again, did we really know who we were at that time?
10 years, 3 homes, 2 beautiful children, 2 oft-neglected cats, countless joys, many arguments, quite a few changes (for two people who don't handle change all that well), and multitudes of memories later, here we are. All grown up. (Well, kind of.) Different people than we were. But still, and even more so, ridiculously happy together.
You could say we were too young, or that we hadn't experienced enough life yet. You could say that we didn't know ourselves enough at that point to know what we wanted. We would simply say, however, that we knew. Without a doubt. And still do. And I look at it this way - I was blessed enough to have a jumpstart on a lifetime spent with the man I love.
Happy Anniversary, honey. I'm looking forward to the next ten years. And I love you like crazy.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Vacation Memories, June '08
The sunrise over Ohio on a quiet Thursday morning.
Waking the kids as we pulled into a Bob Evans for breakfast.
Maya's oft-repeated exclamation, "This is going to be the Best TRIP EVER!"
Going to bed at 9:00 PM for the first time in many, many years.
Surprisingly beautiful Pittsburgh, ornate homes dotting the tree-covered hills, tunnels leading to the water-framed skyline, a small-town feel in a big city.
Enjoying a morning meal at the local bagel shop, where a group of elderly men met for their regular morning social time, joking with each other and with passers-by as they sipped their coffee. And, in a nod to the changing times, each one had his cell phone casually placed before him on the table, ready to take a call from a wife or grandchild at home. Such delicious contrast between old and new.
Pink sparkly sand, multi-colored rice, huge tubs of water, a Mr. Rogers Neighborhood exhibit, and an afternoon gelato treat all adding up to a delightful day at the Pittsburgh Children's Museum.
Purchasing a coveted pink baseball cap (reading: "Pennsylvania"), along with some not-great sandwiches, at a rest stop along the PA turnpike.
Thanks to the people at Wee Sing, several hundred repetitions of "Jimmy Crack Corn" sung by a three-year-old who only knew four lines of the song, one of them incorrect. ("...Jimmy Crack Corn and I don't caaaaaare, he lives on Drury Lane!" [repeat]) Then having the question occur to us as we walked through a Target store still being serenaded quite loudly by said tune, that it could, possibly, have racist undertones. And having that worry confirmed by a quick Google search on Mark's Blackberry. And then quickly encouraging another song as the anthem of the evening, while making mental notes to hide that CD for the rest of the trip.
Hershey's Chocolate World. Complete chocolate overload with giant walking Kit Kat bars and a ride featuring singing cows ("there's real milk in Herrrrrshey's Milk Chocolate..."). In other words, a preschooler's heaven!
Also at Hershey's Chocolate World - the older woman who insisted on locating her husband by standing in the center of the chocolate aisles with her hand on her hips, angrily bellowing "Mitchell! MITchell!! MITCHELL!!" (rather than strolling over a few rows to where he was innocently checking out some M&Ms) thus causing me to jump a mile and my sleeping son to wake prematurely from his nap. Thanks, lady. And Mitchell...run. Run like the wind.
Happening across "A Day out with Thomas" along our route from Hershey to Philly, fairly certain that we wouldn't be able to get tickets for the train ride at such late notice...and the joy of finding out that we could! My sweet girl in her new pink hat peering down the track to see Thomas pulling in to give her a ride...well, I don't think I'll ever forget that.
My constant thanks to the makers of the Leappad, which occupied Maya for hours and hours of drive time.
One miserable evening spent attempting to get to a restaurant...any restaurant...as bedtime approached and the confusing center lanes of the highway caused us to reroute frustratingly close to several dining options that we just couldn't seem to access. Ending up at a Red Lobster and wolfing down dinner just before Noah entered meltdown mode.
The palpable excitement as we drove into Sesame Place amid light rain showers on our way to Breakfast with Elmo. And having a fully-satisfying experience (despite the less-than-stellar buffet options) as Maya's eyes grew wide with wonder watching her TV friends approach to give her hugs and say hello. So priceless. Actually, there was a price, but we're choosing not to think about that...
The rain clearing as we left breakfast to go explore the rest of the park, beginning with a successful merry-go-round experience, a terrifying Elmo ride "I didn't like the up-and-down, Mama!", and the redeeming teacups, hot air balloon chase, and Elmo fish attractions.
The somehow cozy atmosphere in spite of the theme park setting. Seeing the same families throughout the day, and having plenty to do without feeling overwhelmed by territory to cover.
Three stage shows, where the best entertainment was watching Maya's eyes dance along with the characters.
The "Rock around the Block" parade, which didn't disappoint, even as it left me humming Huey Lewis' "The Heart of Rock and Roll" and Gloria Estefan's "Conga" alternately for several days straight afterward.
Spending hours in the shallow sections of the water park, enjoying the sight of Maya tirelessly scampering through the sprinkling jets and tiny fountains, and letting Noah have the first feel of his tiny feet in the pool.
Uneaten $8.00 chicken strips, passed over for the far-too-tempting Elmo cupcake. Why did we allow that? Vacation mindset, I suppose.
Dinner at Macaroni Grill that night, where watching Maya was like watching an addict come down from a high. And taking a huge piece of cheesecake back to the hotel to share after the kids were asleep.
A peaceful drive from Philadephia to Baltimore, immediately followed by a hair-raising leg from Baltimore to Washington D.C. Highway driving + screaming six-month-old = frayed nerves.
Having family portraits taken by a stunningly talented photographer who also happens to be a friend that we got to meet in person for the first time.
All of us sleeping in one morning after a few particularly exhausting days, getting an unexpected but so totally worth it late start on our next travels.
Eating dinner one-at-a-time a couple of evenings as Noah decided that he had been traveling for too long to allow us a peaceful restaurant experience close to bedtime. He did become the official greeter at the Outback Steakhouse in Maumee, OH one such evening, however - charming all who entered, even as he protested entering personally.
The joys of traveling with a GPS device and constant internet access. So freakishly cool...I don't ever want to do it another way again. Spoiled? Yes. But admitting it is the first step.
10 days of hotel stays and restaurant meals. My kind of vacation!
The close proximity of everything on the East Coast. Several major cities within a couple hours of each other, compared to the wide expanses between areas of activity in our Midwestern surroundings.
The realization, once again, of just how big the world is. And the wonder of God's creation as reflected in the familiar flatlands of Indiana and Ohio, the gorgeous green hills of Pennsylvania, the brilliant views from the edge of the Appalachians...as well as in the beautiful uniqueness of each person we were privileged to cross paths with - the vast array of differences that remind me that the world doesn't revolve around my life and circumstances, and the similarities that underscore the elements of humanity that bind us together.
The incredible love and appreciation I have for my husband and children. I am blessed beyond belief.
It was fantastic.
Waking the kids as we pulled into a Bob Evans for breakfast.
Maya's oft-repeated exclamation, "This is going to be the Best TRIP EVER!"
Going to bed at 9:00 PM for the first time in many, many years.
Surprisingly beautiful Pittsburgh, ornate homes dotting the tree-covered hills, tunnels leading to the water-framed skyline, a small-town feel in a big city.
Enjoying a morning meal at the local bagel shop, where a group of elderly men met for their regular morning social time, joking with each other and with passers-by as they sipped their coffee. And, in a nod to the changing times, each one had his cell phone casually placed before him on the table, ready to take a call from a wife or grandchild at home. Such delicious contrast between old and new.
Pink sparkly sand, multi-colored rice, huge tubs of water, a Mr. Rogers Neighborhood exhibit, and an afternoon gelato treat all adding up to a delightful day at the Pittsburgh Children's Museum.
Purchasing a coveted pink baseball cap (reading: "Pennsylvania"), along with some not-great sandwiches, at a rest stop along the PA turnpike.
Thanks to the people at Wee Sing, several hundred repetitions of "Jimmy Crack Corn" sung by a three-year-old who only knew four lines of the song, one of them incorrect. ("...Jimmy Crack Corn and I don't caaaaaare, he lives on Drury Lane!" [repeat]) Then having the question occur to us as we walked through a Target store still being serenaded quite loudly by said tune, that it could, possibly, have racist undertones. And having that worry confirmed by a quick Google search on Mark's Blackberry. And then quickly encouraging another song as the anthem of the evening, while making mental notes to hide that CD for the rest of the trip.
Hershey's Chocolate World. Complete chocolate overload with giant walking Kit Kat bars and a ride featuring singing cows ("there's real milk in Herrrrrshey's Milk Chocolate..."). In other words, a preschooler's heaven!
Also at Hershey's Chocolate World - the older woman who insisted on locating her husband by standing in the center of the chocolate aisles with her hand on her hips, angrily bellowing "Mitchell! MITchell!! MITCHELL!!" (rather than strolling over a few rows to where he was innocently checking out some M&Ms) thus causing me to jump a mile and my sleeping son to wake prematurely from his nap. Thanks, lady. And Mitchell...run. Run like the wind.
Happening across "A Day out with Thomas" along our route from Hershey to Philly, fairly certain that we wouldn't be able to get tickets for the train ride at such late notice...and the joy of finding out that we could! My sweet girl in her new pink hat peering down the track to see Thomas pulling in to give her a ride...well, I don't think I'll ever forget that.
My constant thanks to the makers of the Leappad, which occupied Maya for hours and hours of drive time.
One miserable evening spent attempting to get to a restaurant...any restaurant...as bedtime approached and the confusing center lanes of the highway caused us to reroute frustratingly close to several dining options that we just couldn't seem to access. Ending up at a Red Lobster and wolfing down dinner just before Noah entered meltdown mode.
The palpable excitement as we drove into Sesame Place amid light rain showers on our way to Breakfast with Elmo. And having a fully-satisfying experience (despite the less-than-stellar buffet options) as Maya's eyes grew wide with wonder watching her TV friends approach to give her hugs and say hello. So priceless. Actually, there was a price, but we're choosing not to think about that...
The rain clearing as we left breakfast to go explore the rest of the park, beginning with a successful merry-go-round experience, a terrifying Elmo ride "I didn't like the up-and-down, Mama!", and the redeeming teacups, hot air balloon chase, and Elmo fish attractions.
The somehow cozy atmosphere in spite of the theme park setting. Seeing the same families throughout the day, and having plenty to do without feeling overwhelmed by territory to cover.
Three stage shows, where the best entertainment was watching Maya's eyes dance along with the characters.
The "Rock around the Block" parade, which didn't disappoint, even as it left me humming Huey Lewis' "The Heart of Rock and Roll" and Gloria Estefan's "Conga" alternately for several days straight afterward.
Spending hours in the shallow sections of the water park, enjoying the sight of Maya tirelessly scampering through the sprinkling jets and tiny fountains, and letting Noah have the first feel of his tiny feet in the pool.
Uneaten $8.00 chicken strips, passed over for the far-too-tempting Elmo cupcake. Why did we allow that? Vacation mindset, I suppose.
Dinner at Macaroni Grill that night, where watching Maya was like watching an addict come down from a high. And taking a huge piece of cheesecake back to the hotel to share after the kids were asleep.
A peaceful drive from Philadephia to Baltimore, immediately followed by a hair-raising leg from Baltimore to Washington D.C. Highway driving + screaming six-month-old = frayed nerves.
Having family portraits taken by a stunningly talented photographer who also happens to be a friend that we got to meet in person for the first time.
All of us sleeping in one morning after a few particularly exhausting days, getting an unexpected but so totally worth it late start on our next travels.
Eating dinner one-at-a-time a couple of evenings as Noah decided that he had been traveling for too long to allow us a peaceful restaurant experience close to bedtime. He did become the official greeter at the Outback Steakhouse in Maumee, OH one such evening, however - charming all who entered, even as he protested entering personally.
The joys of traveling with a GPS device and constant internet access. So freakishly cool...I don't ever want to do it another way again. Spoiled? Yes. But admitting it is the first step.
10 days of hotel stays and restaurant meals. My kind of vacation!
The close proximity of everything on the East Coast. Several major cities within a couple hours of each other, compared to the wide expanses between areas of activity in our Midwestern surroundings.
The realization, once again, of just how big the world is. And the wonder of God's creation as reflected in the familiar flatlands of Indiana and Ohio, the gorgeous green hills of Pennsylvania, the brilliant views from the edge of the Appalachians...as well as in the beautiful uniqueness of each person we were privileged to cross paths with - the vast array of differences that remind me that the world doesn't revolve around my life and circumstances, and the similarities that underscore the elements of humanity that bind us together.
The incredible love and appreciation I have for my husband and children. I am blessed beyond belief.
It was fantastic.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Pass by quickly and carefully on your way to The Gap.
I faced a fear head-on this weekend. I wish I could say that it was one of those inspiring, courageous leaps that would earn me one of those little feature spots in Readers Digest, my picture placed next to the tale of a triumph over adversity. But alas, it was instead one of those fear-facing moments that caused me to (literally) turn on my heels and go scuttling back in the direction from whence I came, certain to never make the same mistake again...
I entered a Hollister clothing store.
Oh, I've walked by them many a time. Averting my eyes so that the half-dressed teenage employees standing at the entrance with glassy-eyed expressions that prove their coolness will not have the opportunity to beckon me with their mumbled "welcometoHollistereverything's 20percentofftoday" enticements. But I've never actually entered one. For two reasons. One, I'm nearly twenty-nine years old. Which makes me approximately twice as old as their typical shopper. And two, the place scares the bejeebers out of me. I mean, there are those aforementioned scary kids at the door. Then there's the throbbing music that you can feel pulsating through the floor as you pass by. But the weirdest thing? It's, like, pitch black in there. Seriously, were it not for the music and mumblers outside, I'd have no clue that the store was even open. I read once that cats can see perfectly in a dark room using only the light from a VCR clock. So I have a theory that pre-teens are part feline, in that they can see inside a Hollister store simply using the light from the cash register. Or each other's cell phones.
Anyway, why did I go in? Particularly when I have such an aversion to this store that I've already placed a lifetime ban on my children shopping there? I know, looking back it was totally hypocritical and completely regrettable. But you see, I was in a cargo pants-induced frenzy. My sister and I hit the outlet mall to find me some clothes that actually fit. Shedding this pregnancy weight, while lovely, has left me with very few pairs of pants that don't hang off of me. So I found some jeans, but I really wanted a pair of lightweight cargo pants for summertime. My old standby, Old Navy, let me down. Seriously, their stuff is weird this year. And after scouring several more stores, we were stumped. Where were the cargo pants? Out of style? I don't care. Finally, my sister turned to me and said, exhaling deeply, "Ok...we could look at Hollister."
We stared at each other solemnly, neither one of us wanting to face the reality of what she had just suggested. But she's a few years younger than me and about a million times more style-conscious, so I knew that if there were cargo pants to be found, she'd know where to find them.
"Can we even do that?", I asked.
"Yes." She answered. "It's scary and it's weird and we'll hate it. But they might have cargo pants."
And so focused was I on the task at hand that I agreed.
As we approached the store, she gave me a pep talk, "Let's just move quickly...and don't look directly at anyone while we're in there..." And soon, that cave-like entryway was right in front of us, the freakishly loud music already making it hard to hear each other. With a deep breath, we pushed our way into the chaos. Another element that you can't appreciate from the outside? The smell. Teenage perfume, apparently piped in through the vents, and covering everything with the subtle scent of hormones. Peering into the darkness, we made a beeline for what we could just make out as a clothing rack about 20 yards ahead. Shirts? Pants? Who knew. They really need to provide seeing-eye dogs for any shopper over the age of twenty-one.
On the way there, an employee called out (they're louder inside) "How are you today?"
"Hrmna mrnma", we mumbled, careful not to make eye contact.
When we reached the rack, we hurriedly brought a couple of articles of clothing a few inches from our faces, in an attempt to determine what exactly we had stumbled upon. Pants! But (going completely on feel, here), apparently corduroy flare trousers. Strike one. "Over here!", my sister shouted. I followed the sound of her voice to another rack, where she had found something with promising zippers and buttons. "Hmmm, no!", she called over the music. "They feel like capri-length!." Strike two. We lurched around the check-out station which had suddenly appeared to our right, as we stepped quickly in time to the driving beat of the music. "Hey, I think my eyes are adjusting!", I said, spotting a row of pants that appeared as though they may be in the cargo family. They were...but they were also men's. We had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the store. Strike three. I'm out. "That's it, I'm done!", I said. And we rushed toward the light, the fresh air, the calm and quiet of the outside.
"Well." We walked thoughtfully a few moments before mutually deciding, "Won't do that again."
We ended up back at The Gap. The nice, calm, unscented Gap. Where the light switches were set to the "On" position, the music played at an appropriate volume, and the employees were fully dressed and appeared old enough to drive. And I did buy a pair of pants there. They weren't exactly what I had been hoping for, but they will do. And I purchased them, in part, in thanks to a store that didn't make me feel like I needed to shower immediately after leaving the premises.
So that is the harrowing tale of my search for cargo pants. The moral of this story is, pants - no matter how comfortable, flattering, adjustable, and fun - are not worth ignoring that little voice in your head. And I'm not talking about God's voice this time, although certainly pants aren't worth ignoring His either. I'm talking about that voice that says, "Don't go in there. You're not part-cat anymore. And you will hate it."
I entered a Hollister clothing store.
Oh, I've walked by them many a time. Averting my eyes so that the half-dressed teenage employees standing at the entrance with glassy-eyed expressions that prove their coolness will not have the opportunity to beckon me with their mumbled "welcometoHollistereverything's 20percentofftoday" enticements. But I've never actually entered one. For two reasons. One, I'm nearly twenty-nine years old. Which makes me approximately twice as old as their typical shopper. And two, the place scares the bejeebers out of me. I mean, there are those aforementioned scary kids at the door. Then there's the throbbing music that you can feel pulsating through the floor as you pass by. But the weirdest thing? It's, like, pitch black in there. Seriously, were it not for the music and mumblers outside, I'd have no clue that the store was even open. I read once that cats can see perfectly in a dark room using only the light from a VCR clock. So I have a theory that pre-teens are part feline, in that they can see inside a Hollister store simply using the light from the cash register. Or each other's cell phones.
Anyway, why did I go in? Particularly when I have such an aversion to this store that I've already placed a lifetime ban on my children shopping there? I know, looking back it was totally hypocritical and completely regrettable. But you see, I was in a cargo pants-induced frenzy. My sister and I hit the outlet mall to find me some clothes that actually fit. Shedding this pregnancy weight, while lovely, has left me with very few pairs of pants that don't hang off of me. So I found some jeans, but I really wanted a pair of lightweight cargo pants for summertime. My old standby, Old Navy, let me down. Seriously, their stuff is weird this year. And after scouring several more stores, we were stumped. Where were the cargo pants? Out of style? I don't care. Finally, my sister turned to me and said, exhaling deeply, "Ok...we could look at Hollister."
We stared at each other solemnly, neither one of us wanting to face the reality of what she had just suggested. But she's a few years younger than me and about a million times more style-conscious, so I knew that if there were cargo pants to be found, she'd know where to find them.
"Can we even do that?", I asked.
"Yes." She answered. "It's scary and it's weird and we'll hate it. But they might have cargo pants."
And so focused was I on the task at hand that I agreed.
As we approached the store, she gave me a pep talk, "Let's just move quickly...and don't look directly at anyone while we're in there..." And soon, that cave-like entryway was right in front of us, the freakishly loud music already making it hard to hear each other. With a deep breath, we pushed our way into the chaos. Another element that you can't appreciate from the outside? The smell. Teenage perfume, apparently piped in through the vents, and covering everything with the subtle scent of hormones. Peering into the darkness, we made a beeline for what we could just make out as a clothing rack about 20 yards ahead. Shirts? Pants? Who knew. They really need to provide seeing-eye dogs for any shopper over the age of twenty-one.
On the way there, an employee called out (they're louder inside) "How are you today?"
"Hrmna mrnma", we mumbled, careful not to make eye contact.
When we reached the rack, we hurriedly brought a couple of articles of clothing a few inches from our faces, in an attempt to determine what exactly we had stumbled upon. Pants! But (going completely on feel, here), apparently corduroy flare trousers. Strike one. "Over here!", my sister shouted. I followed the sound of her voice to another rack, where she had found something with promising zippers and buttons. "Hmmm, no!", she called over the music. "They feel like capri-length!." Strike two. We lurched around the check-out station which had suddenly appeared to our right, as we stepped quickly in time to the driving beat of the music. "Hey, I think my eyes are adjusting!", I said, spotting a row of pants that appeared as though they may be in the cargo family. They were...but they were also men's. We had somehow ended up on the wrong side of the store. Strike three. I'm out. "That's it, I'm done!", I said. And we rushed toward the light, the fresh air, the calm and quiet of the outside.
"Well." We walked thoughtfully a few moments before mutually deciding, "Won't do that again."
We ended up back at The Gap. The nice, calm, unscented Gap. Where the light switches were set to the "On" position, the music played at an appropriate volume, and the employees were fully dressed and appeared old enough to drive. And I did buy a pair of pants there. They weren't exactly what I had been hoping for, but they will do. And I purchased them, in part, in thanks to a store that didn't make me feel like I needed to shower immediately after leaving the premises.
So that is the harrowing tale of my search for cargo pants. The moral of this story is, pants - no matter how comfortable, flattering, adjustable, and fun - are not worth ignoring that little voice in your head. And I'm not talking about God's voice this time, although certainly pants aren't worth ignoring His either. I'm talking about that voice that says, "Don't go in there. You're not part-cat anymore. And you will hate it."
Monday, May 12, 2008
Bake this. Like, now.
Ok people, so you know I love to bake. And over the past few years, as I've expanded that hobby quite a bit, I've made lots (and I mean LOTS) of cakes. And strangely enough, I am slowly but surely shedding my pregnancy weight in spite of this pasttime. But anyway, I was drafted to whip up a cake for a Mother's Day celebration yesterday, and decided to try my hand at a recipe I randomly came across at Velvet Lava. Ann's description of her Red Velvet cake had me very intrigued indeed. I've never been, like, blown away by a red velvet cake, but I wanted to pick something different.
Oh. My. GOSH. This one blew me right over and knocked me out. Quite honestly, not only one of the best cakes I've ever made, but one of the very best I've ever tasted. The texture is sheer perfection, the flavor is outstanding, and the icing - ohhhh the icing - is a delightful departure from a traditional buttercream or cream cheese variety, and instead comes out as a mild, almost pudding-like, vanilla fluff that compliments the cake flawlessly. This one is flying to the top of my favorites list!
Red Velvet Cake & Icing - at Velvet Lava
If you like to bake...or eat...I recommend that you drop whatever you're doing and go make this. Immediately.
Seriously, go.
Oh. My. GOSH. This one blew me right over and knocked me out. Quite honestly, not only one of the best cakes I've ever made, but one of the very best I've ever tasted. The texture is sheer perfection, the flavor is outstanding, and the icing - ohhhh the icing - is a delightful departure from a traditional buttercream or cream cheese variety, and instead comes out as a mild, almost pudding-like, vanilla fluff that compliments the cake flawlessly. This one is flying to the top of my favorites list!
Red Velvet Cake & Icing - at Velvet Lava
If you like to bake...or eat...I recommend that you drop whatever you're doing and go make this. Immediately.
Seriously, go.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
If it gets up to fifty cents, she may prescribe Levatol...
It's too true what they say about how you spend far less time tending to your own needs once you're a parent. I'm past due for a dentist appointment, am doing well if I get my hair cut every six months, and can look around my living room and spot several piles of hobbies/projects that are just waiting to be started as soon as I can find the time. (Ha!)
One area, though, where I need not harbor unnecessary concern is my health. And that is because I am undergoing a rigid schedule of frequent checkups with my current primary doctor...my preschooler-turned-physician. She calls herself "Doctor Maya", makes convenient house calls (she lives here, and all), and she takes her job very seriously. She also utilizes top-of-the-line equipment, i.e. the Fisher Price Medical Kit, circa 1978. Lest you concern yourself about my current physical state, I will fill you on the report I received at this morning's appointment...
Doctor Maya began her exam, as per usual, with her trusty stethoscope. It's missing the original foam padding, but that makes it all the better for shoving confidently against any spot on the victim *ahem* I mean patient's chest, leaving a perfect red circle on said patient's skin, to the doctor's delight. At this particular check-up, she chose not to listen to my heart at all, actually, after deciding that testing hers would be "a really great idea". Seemed like a rather unusual method, but I guess once you've heard one heartbeat, you've heard them all.
My reflexes were tested next. You'll be glad to know that I showed remarkable response. Granted, it's hard to say how much of that was due to my fabulous reflexes and how much could be attributed to the sight of a three-year-old approaching me wielding a hammer. But regardless, my reaction upon being whacked in each knee proved most satisfactory to the doctor.
My temperature was judged "pretty perfect", when taken in the space between where my forearm rested on my thigh. An unorthodox choice of locations, to be sure, but I was nonetheless happy to hear the good report.
The multipurpose light tool was Dr. M's next selection. You won't even believe this, but she's such an experienced medical professional that she need not even look through the back of the instrument during the exam. In fact, by merely pressing it to the tip of my nose, jamming it forcefully into each ear ("This part tickles", she warned me. "ACK...erm...yes, yes it does", I replied.), and then holding it in frighteningly close proximity to my twitching eyes, she is able to give a diagnosis. "Looks good."
The blood pressure test is arguably Doctor Maya's specialty. She's exacting in her technique. So dedicated is she to getting an accurate reading, that if the Velcro tabs on the cuff don't line up to her specific liking, she thinks nothing of removing and repositioning it as many times as it takes to get it "just right". She's also quite thorough, squeezing the bulb approximately 21,345 times, all the while reminding me to "hold verrrrrry still". But never fear, I came through the check just fine, and she cheerfully gave me a reading of "Twenty-nine Cents". Phew! I don't have to tell you what a relief that was. I was hoping for under a quarter, but what can you do.
The final stage of the check-up, the grand finale, is always the shot. No matter how recently my last check-up happens to have been, I somehow always need an immunization of some sort. Doctor Maya relishes this task. With a sober expression, she loads up the medication, borrows an appropriate quote from the Berenstain Bears ("You won't even have time to say 'Ouch', Mama..."), and then plunges the blunt plastic syringe into my arm, punctuated with the spoken declaration - "Shot!" It's actually a nice touch. If you're going to get the shot anyway, you might as well celebrate it. I might suggest that to the nurse next time I need a tetanus booster.
So all is well, I checked out fine. She did suggest that I go straight to bed, for some reason. After having been up four times last night with her baby brother, I was actually quite excited by those orders. Unfortunately, she recanted them almost immediately when it was time to turn the tables and receive a checkup from Doctor Mama.
Ahhh...nice to know that I'm in such good hands.
One area, though, where I need not harbor unnecessary concern is my health. And that is because I am undergoing a rigid schedule of frequent checkups with my current primary doctor...my preschooler-turned-physician. She calls herself "Doctor Maya", makes convenient house calls (she lives here, and all), and she takes her job very seriously. She also utilizes top-of-the-line equipment, i.e. the Fisher Price Medical Kit, circa 1978. Lest you concern yourself about my current physical state, I will fill you on the report I received at this morning's appointment...
Doctor Maya began her exam, as per usual, with her trusty stethoscope. It's missing the original foam padding, but that makes it all the better for shoving confidently against any spot on the victim *ahem* I mean patient's chest, leaving a perfect red circle on said patient's skin, to the doctor's delight. At this particular check-up, she chose not to listen to my heart at all, actually, after deciding that testing hers would be "a really great idea". Seemed like a rather unusual method, but I guess once you've heard one heartbeat, you've heard them all.
My reflexes were tested next. You'll be glad to know that I showed remarkable response. Granted, it's hard to say how much of that was due to my fabulous reflexes and how much could be attributed to the sight of a three-year-old approaching me wielding a hammer. But regardless, my reaction upon being whacked in each knee proved most satisfactory to the doctor.
My temperature was judged "pretty perfect", when taken in the space between where my forearm rested on my thigh. An unorthodox choice of locations, to be sure, but I was nonetheless happy to hear the good report.
The multipurpose light tool was Dr. M's next selection. You won't even believe this, but she's such an experienced medical professional that she need not even look through the back of the instrument during the exam. In fact, by merely pressing it to the tip of my nose, jamming it forcefully into each ear ("This part tickles", she warned me. "ACK...erm...yes, yes it does", I replied.), and then holding it in frighteningly close proximity to my twitching eyes, she is able to give a diagnosis. "Looks good."
The blood pressure test is arguably Doctor Maya's specialty. She's exacting in her technique. So dedicated is she to getting an accurate reading, that if the Velcro tabs on the cuff don't line up to her specific liking, she thinks nothing of removing and repositioning it as many times as it takes to get it "just right". She's also quite thorough, squeezing the bulb approximately 21,345 times, all the while reminding me to "hold verrrrrry still". But never fear, I came through the check just fine, and she cheerfully gave me a reading of "Twenty-nine Cents". Phew! I don't have to tell you what a relief that was. I was hoping for under a quarter, but what can you do.
The final stage of the check-up, the grand finale, is always the shot. No matter how recently my last check-up happens to have been, I somehow always need an immunization of some sort. Doctor Maya relishes this task. With a sober expression, she loads up the medication, borrows an appropriate quote from the Berenstain Bears ("You won't even have time to say 'Ouch', Mama..."), and then plunges the blunt plastic syringe into my arm, punctuated with the spoken declaration - "Shot!" It's actually a nice touch. If you're going to get the shot anyway, you might as well celebrate it. I might suggest that to the nurse next time I need a tetanus booster.
So all is well, I checked out fine. She did suggest that I go straight to bed, for some reason. After having been up four times last night with her baby brother, I was actually quite excited by those orders. Unfortunately, she recanted them almost immediately when it was time to turn the tables and receive a checkup from Doctor Mama.
Ahhh...nice to know that I'm in such good hands.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Mmm...regular
My toothpaste makes me laugh. Seriously, I giggle every morning and evening. Why? Because the people at Colgate have apparently decided to cut costs in the area of advertising.
Our current tube of basic white paste bears a label that boasts about it's "Great Regular Flavor!" Really? This is how you want to make the sale? By trying to drum up excitement using the word regular? You may as well market it as "Fabulous in it's Lack of Improvement!" or "Our Least Creative Version!"
Seriously, I'd suggest either using the word "Classic" or "Original" as slightly more positive replacements. Or stamp the product simply"Regular Flavor"without the unnecessary enthusiasm. When was the last time you raved to someone about the fantastically regular movie you saw last night, or the delightfully regular dessert at the new restaurant in town?
I'm such a backseat advertiser. I will say, though, that my teeth feel satisfyingly regular after having brushed them with my Colgate toothpaste...
Our current tube of basic white paste bears a label that boasts about it's "Great Regular Flavor!" Really? This is how you want to make the sale? By trying to drum up excitement using the word regular? You may as well market it as "Fabulous in it's Lack of Improvement!" or "Our Least Creative Version!"
Seriously, I'd suggest either using the word "Classic" or "Original" as slightly more positive replacements. Or stamp the product simply"Regular Flavor"without the unnecessary enthusiasm. When was the last time you raved to someone about the fantastically regular movie you saw last night, or the delightfully regular dessert at the new restaurant in town?
I'm such a backseat advertiser. I will say, though, that my teeth feel satisfyingly regular after having brushed them with my Colgate toothpaste...
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I guess they do have Biblical names...
Maya's been asking me frequently in recent days to act out the story of Noah's Ark with her Fisher Price set. One day, while the animals were in the process of boarding the ark, she requested that I wait to close the boat's door until two extra passengers had a chance to take their places inside...Thomas the tank engine and James the red engine.
"Can Thomas and James go on the ark too, Mama?"
"Um, sure." I answered. After all - if talking, feeling, thinking trains had existed back in the day, I'm sure God would have included a pair among the ark-bound menagerie.
The updated twist on the classic tale grew more involved a few days ago when I was interrupted again, this time in the middle of the Lord's monologue to Noah about the upcoming flood and his related instructions.
"And Noah listened to God, " I was explaining, "and obeyed what he was told about..."
"And THEN, " Maya interjected excitedly, "Noah heard a 'Peep peep!'! Here comes Thomas the Tank Engine!"
That's right - in current repetitions of this story, Thomas and James have developed speaking roles. The new version also involves Thomas carrying all of the animals to the ark. He's sort of a railway assistant to Noah.
It's all good, I suppose. She's taking an interest in Bible stories and exercising her creative muscles at the same time. It does make me wonder what new fusion will show up next. Elmo at the nativity? Boots the Monkey curled up next to Moses in the woven basket floating through Egypt? Only time...and my three-year-old director...will tell.
"Can Thomas and James go on the ark too, Mama?"
"Um, sure." I answered. After all - if talking, feeling, thinking trains had existed back in the day, I'm sure God would have included a pair among the ark-bound menagerie.
The updated twist on the classic tale grew more involved a few days ago when I was interrupted again, this time in the middle of the Lord's monologue to Noah about the upcoming flood and his related instructions.
"And Noah listened to God, " I was explaining, "and obeyed what he was told about..."
"And THEN, " Maya interjected excitedly, "Noah heard a 'Peep peep!'! Here comes Thomas the Tank Engine!"
That's right - in current repetitions of this story, Thomas and James have developed speaking roles. The new version also involves Thomas carrying all of the animals to the ark. He's sort of a railway assistant to Noah.
It's all good, I suppose. She's taking an interest in Bible stories and exercising her creative muscles at the same time. It does make me wonder what new fusion will show up next. Elmo at the nativity? Boots the Monkey curled up next to Moses in the woven basket floating through Egypt? Only time...and my three-year-old director...will tell.
This week in my kitchen (Week of April 14th)
Late edition this week, but here it is!
My featured dinner is one that Mary Ann posted on her blog the other week, and I knew I had to try it! Totally yummy chicken and asparagus dish. I made biscuits to go with it and they were so good with the extra sauce!
Here's the link to Mary Ann's post...
*****
Saucy Chicken & Asparagus Bake
*****
And my baking venture? A spur-of-the-moment decision to whip up something for a playgroup gathering I hosted yesterday resulted in a delightful new favorite...Strawberry Bread! First time I made it, but it won't be the last.
*****
Strawberry Bread
2 1/2 cups fresh strawberries
3 cups + 2 T. all-purpose flour
2 c. sugar
1 T. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
1 1/4 c. vegetable oil
4 eggs, beaten
Preheat oven to 350. Butter & flour two 9 x 5 inch loaf pans. Slice strawberries and place in bowl. Sprinkle lightly with sugar and let sit while preparing the rest. Combine flour, sugar, salt, and baking soda in large bowl. Mix well. Blend oil and eggs and stir into strawberries. Add strawberry mixture to flour mixture, blending until dry ingredients are just moistened. Divide batter between pans and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until toothpick in center comes out clean. Let cool 10 minutes, remove from pan and cool completely.
*****
My featured dinner is one that Mary Ann posted on her blog the other week, and I knew I had to try it! Totally yummy chicken and asparagus dish. I made biscuits to go with it and they were so good with the extra sauce!
Here's the link to Mary Ann's post...
*****
Saucy Chicken & Asparagus Bake
*****
And my baking venture? A spur-of-the-moment decision to whip up something for a playgroup gathering I hosted yesterday resulted in a delightful new favorite...Strawberry Bread! First time I made it, but it won't be the last.
*****
Strawberry Bread
2 1/2 cups fresh strawberries
3 cups + 2 T. all-purpose flour
2 c. sugar
1 T. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
1 1/4 c. vegetable oil
4 eggs, beaten
Preheat oven to 350. Butter & flour two 9 x 5 inch loaf pans. Slice strawberries and place in bowl. Sprinkle lightly with sugar and let sit while preparing the rest. Combine flour, sugar, salt, and baking soda in large bowl. Mix well. Blend oil and eggs and stir into strawberries. Add strawberry mixture to flour mixture, blending until dry ingredients are just moistened. Divide batter between pans and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until toothpick in center comes out clean. Let cool 10 minutes, remove from pan and cool completely.
*****
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
This week in my kitchen (Week of April 7th)
For dinner last night I made one of my favorite spring/summer time salads. I usually serve it alongside some French bread with olive oil & dipping spices. Mmm...
****
Grilled Chicken Salad
2 - boneless, skinless chicken breasts; grilled, seasoned, & diced
1 - head romaine lettuce, rinsed & chopped
1 - or 2 Roma tomatoes, chopped
1 - yellow pepper, cut into thin slices
1- avocado, diced
shredded cheese
honey mustard dressing (my favorite store-bought brand is Marzetti's, but I'd like to start making my own)
Toss chicken, veggies, & cheese together and top with dressing.
*****
This was my new baking recipe of the week! All I can say is...holy crap. These. Are. Good.
*****
Oatmeal Carmelitas
****
Grilled Chicken Salad
2 - boneless, skinless chicken breasts; grilled, seasoned, & diced
1 - head romaine lettuce, rinsed & chopped
1 - or 2 Roma tomatoes, chopped
1 - yellow pepper, cut into thin slices
1- avocado, diced
shredded cheese
honey mustard dressing (my favorite store-bought brand is Marzetti's, but I'd like to start making my own)
Toss chicken, veggies, & cheese together and top with dressing.
*****
This was my new baking recipe of the week! All I can say is...holy crap. These. Are. Good.
*****
Oatmeal Carmelitas
| Crust | |
| 2 | cups All Purpose or Unbleached Flour |
| 2 | cups quick-cooking rolled oats |
| 1 1/2 | cups firmly packed brown sugar |
| 1 | teaspoon baking soda |
| 1/2 | teaspoon salt |
| 1 1/4 | cups margarine or butter, softened |
Filling | |
| 1 | (12.5-oz.) jar (1 cup) caramel ice cream topping |
| 3 | tablespoons All Purpose or Unbleached Flour |
| 1 | (6-oz.) pkg. (1 cup) semisweet chocolate chips |
| 1/2 | cup chopped nuts |
DIRECTIONS
| Heat oven to 350°F. Grease 13x9-inch pan. In large bowl, combine all crust ingredients; mix at low speed until crumbly. Reserve half of crumb mixture (about 3 cups) for topping. Press remaining crumb mixture in bottom of greased pan. Bake at 350°F. for 10 minutes. | |
| Remove partially baked crust from oven; sprinkle with chocolate chips and nuts. Drizzle evenly with caramel mixture; sprinkle with reserved crumb mixture. Return to oven; bake an additional 18 to 22 minutes or until golden brown. Cool 1 hour or until completely cooled. Refrigerate 1 to 2 hours or until filling is set. Cut into bars. ***** |
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
This week in my kitchen (Week of March 31st)
Ok, so the two recipes I'm posting today are not health foods, by any means. But boy, are they good ones!
Maya and I baked up these cookies this afternoon...
****
Oatmeal Scotchies
1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups quick or old-fashioned oats
1 1/2 cups butterscotch chips
Mix together flour, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt. In separate bowl, beat butter until creamy. Add sugars gradually, then eggs and vanilla, and beat well. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in oats and butterscotch chips. Bake at 375 for 7-8 minutes. Allow to cool on pan for 2 minutes, then remove to wire rack.
****
And later this week, I'll be serving this awesome macaroni and cheese for dinner. It's a recipe I got from my sister, and it rocks.
****
Macaroni & Cheese
3/4 box elbow macaroni
2 cups sour cream
2 cups cottage cheese
1 egg, beaten
4 cups cheddar cheese, shredded
salt & pepper, to taste
Cook macaroni to package directions. Mix with remaining ingredients and spread in 9 x 13 pan. Sprinkle with buttered breadcrumbs, if desired. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes.
****
Maya and I baked up these cookies this afternoon...
****
Oatmeal Scotchies
1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups quick or old-fashioned oats
1 1/2 cups butterscotch chips
Mix together flour, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt. In separate bowl, beat butter until creamy. Add sugars gradually, then eggs and vanilla, and beat well. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in oats and butterscotch chips. Bake at 375 for 7-8 minutes. Allow to cool on pan for 2 minutes, then remove to wire rack.
****
And later this week, I'll be serving this awesome macaroni and cheese for dinner. It's a recipe I got from my sister, and it rocks.
****
Macaroni & Cheese
3/4 box elbow macaroni
2 cups sour cream
2 cups cottage cheese
1 egg, beaten
4 cups cheddar cheese, shredded
salt & pepper, to taste
Cook macaroni to package directions. Mix with remaining ingredients and spread in 9 x 13 pan. Sprinkle with buttered breadcrumbs, if desired. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes.
****
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)