Oh, Teenagers

I almost died three times this weekend at the hands of teenagers.

The first time was Friday evening.  Having secured our favorite sitter, Derek and I went to the movie theater.  We settled into our seats.  We observed the fellow movie-goers around us.  All was well with the world.  Until a long line of teenagers filed into the row behind us.

You wanna talk about obnoxious?  Oh. my. stars.  Cursing and speaking loudly in crushingly obvious bids for attention.  And the things the girls were saying.  Aaaaah.  I like to think that girls don't do that thing where they try to make out that they have an impossibly low intelligence quotient around boys, but it was either that or these girls were actually that stupid.  I really don't know which I would rather.  Either way I was so, so embarrassed for their future selves, who will surely cover their faces in shame when they look upon these memories.

Still, I was willing to have a little patience, extend a little grace, because I'm aware that I was not a model teenager.  I'm still not entirely sure how my mother didn't kill me in the six months following driver's ed, as I had to have been the worst backseat driver in the history of mankind.  ("Mom, you're supposed to put your turn signal on half a block ahead of your actual turn."  "Mom, are there at least two car-lengths in between you and that car in front of you?  Because it looks like one at the most to me."  "Mom, did you even look before crossing that railroad track?  Do you have any idea what humans look like after they've been hit by a train?  Because I do."  I'm surprised she didn't purposely wreck just to put the other passengers out of their misery.)  As long as these hormone-carriers piped down once the actual movie started, we'd all get along just fine.

So they squealed and giggled and OMG'd and Derek gripped his armrests and scowled at the empty screen.

The previews started.  The inane comments behind us didn't so much as wane.

The previews ended.  The movie started.  It became clear that these children were going to treat us to what they clearly viewed as commentary worthy of Mystery Science Theater 3000, which it was, except for being neither funny nor clever.

I began to fear for my life, as my proximity to Derek surely marked me as collateral damage once the violence almost visibly brewing within him finally exploded.  To say that he has no patience for out-of-control teenagers would be like saying Jenny McCarthy should not be heralded as a viable medical expert: both understatements so vast they could contain their own galaxies.  I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands.

I, myself, had some rather choice and scathing remarks ready for this band of merry movie-disturbers, but I showed remarkable restraint, if I do say so myself, and merely turned around, and with a tight smile, pleasantly but pointedly said, "Hi.  I can't hear."  I kept eye contact for several seconds with the worst offender, who shrank back in her seat, mouth open, lower jaw jutting out, obviously offended.  When I turned back around, she started giggling again straight away, but this time was quickly shushed by her compatriots, who seemed properly abashed.

The second and third time I was literally almost killed by another teenage girl who was driving a driver's ed car while I was out running.  She ran me off the road twice.  The first time her driver's ed instructor calmly if clearly pointed to me while gesturing to her that she has to share the road.  The second time he was jabbing his finger in my direction while yelling at her, and the two boys in the backseat stared openly, as if in awe that they almost just saw my guts spilled across the road.  In my defense, I was on the very edge of the road, there was no sidewalk, and I was wearing bright colors.  In her defense, she's a teenager.


Honestly, if it weren't for our wonderful teenaged baby-sitter Hannah, I'd have lost all faith in adolescents completely.  I also hereby give all who read this permission to publicly admonish any of our children if you see them to start to act a fool in 5-10 years.

A Thursday Night List

• It's a summer Thursday night, which means I'm going over online garage sale listings for tomorrow morning.  Depending on what's listed, the kiddos and I will either head north or south; south is where I tend to head for our children's clothing, to a suburb chock-full of relatively fancy, high-end neighborhoods, and bless every one of those overspending mamas' little hearts.  North is my usual destination for vintage stuff and miscellany.  As for tonight's listings, south is full of vague descriptions like "kids items and clothing" and "TONS of kids clothes, all sizes."  Thanks for the maddening vagueness, South.  (For the LOVE, garage sale hosts, please, please, please list sizes of clothes!)  North, however, promises sales like "books, books, and more books!" and "library of beloved books going on sale," and "beautiful, low-care plants for sun or shade, starting at $2."   Well, jeez, twist my arm.  North it is!

• Why can't I figure things out for myself?  You'd think I'd see all those yellow irises (iris irises iris irises.  Which do you say to express the plural of iris?  I say irises.  Except when I say iris.) that had fallen over, you know, the ones that I keep almost mowing over, and would realize that hey!  Those would make beautiful cut flowers to place around our home!  But noooo, I have to read it on Cassi Renee's blog, because apparently, I must be told to do even the simplest things.

And then, because we had enough for two vase-fuls (vase-fuls? vase-fulls? vases-full?  I apologize, it would appear that my brain shuts off at 10 pm.), we took the second vase to the local nursing home.

And by the way- if you have small children, this is a great thing for them to do.  It's almost free (those flowers are growing in your yard anyway, right?  And you can stock up on crazy-cheap vases at garage sales and Goodwill.), your kids will look almost criminally proud marching them into the nursing home, and the residents tend to love visits from little ones (one of our children may or may not have once referred to the nursing home as "the den of loneliness," which may or may not have almost made me cry).  For me, one of the hardest parts of multiple-small-children-in-our-home stage of life is the fact that it feels like you are always the one asking for help.  So any way that we can give back, such as small, do-able volunteering or acts of service that I can accomplish with our children are always welcome, and this is a good, easy one for us.

• It's officially summer vacation, which means that our days are full of scenes like this one:

This appeared to be a trampoline game they were engaged in- I believe it was called "Crazy Chipmunk."  It seemed to consist of shoving each other around in a rough manner and then laughing hysterically.  Shockingly, this ended in tears.

FOOD

Last winter, I went through a phase where every new recipe I tried was crap.  It was incredibly discouraging, because when you go to the effort of gathering all the (often unfamiliar) ingredients and painstakingly following the directions and mixing and sauteeing and dicing and on and on and on, you expect to have something delicious to show for it, not a huge pan of  food-like substance that every single member of your family is trying to force down their collective gullets so as not to hurt your feelings.

Over the past week, however, the food pendulum has swung the other way.  Every new recipe I tried was delicious.  Husband was happy.  Children were happy.  I was happy.  A near riot broke out this morning over who got the last of the rhubarb-mint lemonade.  

So here a few quick linky-poos to these belly-pleasing recipes, with my own additional notes, of course, because it would seem that I am incapable of posting a simple link and then leaving well enough alone.

Rhubarb-Cherry Sauce:  I served this over pork chops Derek was kind enough to grill.  I did make a couple variations to the recipe based on what was and wasn't in my pantry- I omitted the large red onions and instead chopped up about half a large white onion, in part because I didn't want as strong of an onion flavor, and in part because white was all I had, and instead of dried cherries, I put in 1/2 cup of my mother-in-law's homemade cherry pie filling that she was kind enough to stash in my freezer a few months ago, again, because that's what I had; I also omitted the granulated sugar and cut the brown sugar down to 1/8 cup because the cherry pie filling was so sweet.  This stuff was dee-lish, and a nice alternative the barbecue sauce I usually serve with pork.

Rhubarb Mint Lemonade:  For this one, you just take a can of frozen lemonade concentrate (or make fresh if concentrate offends your delicate sensibilities), make it according to the directions on the can, add a sliced fresh lemon, three cups of chopped rhubarb, and a handful of crushed mint leaves.  Stir it up, then let it steep in the fridge for at least three hours.  The best part of this one, aside from sucking it down as fast as I could because it was so refreshing, was pulling half the ingredients from my backyard (rhubarb) and kitchen windowsill (mint plant).  

New York Cheesecake:  I wasn't sure about this one, as the author/baker lists its difficulty level as "Easy," while in my (entirely unprofessional, at-home cook) opinion, any recipe requiring a bain-marie should automatically be upgraded to at least "Moderate."  It really was easy, easy, easy, however, especially if you read the directions ahead of time and set out all the ingredients to soften/come to room-temperature and allot enough time for the baking/cooling on the counter (I have got to start reading recipes IN FULL, ALL THE WAY TO THE END before I get to making them), because while the actual work involved is easy peasy, you're going to need to be at home for awhile/not make it right before bedtime.  My only variation is that she calls for a springform pan, and I'm not fancy enough to have one of those.  I instead used two 9-inch round cake pans, and they turned out great, plus I got to skip all that tinfoil nonsense.  I also whipped up a simple graham cracker crust and pressed it into the bottom of one of the pans, because while her recipe doesn't call for one, I love a crust on my cheesecake.  Our family preferred the one with the crust.  This one was easy to make, easily the best cheesecake I've ever made, and one of the best I've ever had, period.

Anyone else have any tried-and-true rhubarb recipes?  Because I've still got a bunch back there, but don't really feel like making the standard rhubarb crisp or rhubarb pie.  

The Terrific Two's

On the drive back up from Kansas, Derek noted how each trip south gets easier for us; we no longer have to pack mass amounts of diapers and wipes or the Pack 'n' Play or baby food or various other baby-related paraphernalia, and the children are aces at distracting themselves for 14 hours in the van, in part thanks to around 8 hours of that time being spent watching movies (ach, I cringed just writing that), but also because they've had plenty of practice distracting themselves after countless circuits on that stretch of highway.

Both my sisters are right in the middle of that phase, and let me just say that is so much easier to be the one that holds the baby and reads books to the two-year-old and then says, "Okay, great, see you in the morning!" than it is to be the parent that changes the diapers and nurses the baby and tries to keep their fussy child quiet in the middle of the night when sharing a house bursting with family.  I mean, I loved visiting family when our kids were teeny, but it was so incredibly stressful, after returning home from each and every trip I would vow never to leave my house again.  Then a few months would go by and I'd miss my loved ones and magically only remember the sweet, fuzzy memories from the most recent long-distance excursion, and off we'd go again.

So while my sisters are probably still working on filling in their sleep deficit and just getting back into the swing of blessed, blessed routine, I'm up north happily trilling, "When can we do it all again?!"  Because while two-year-olds get a bad rap, they are so much fun when you're not the one having to be the mean mommy.





This girl.  Oh, Vada.  I have a feeling your parents are going to say that a lot in the years to come.  Half the reason I check Facebook regularly is to see the photos Steph posts of Vada:  Vada got into Mommy's new lipstick.  Vada got into the giant tub of margarine.  Vada is curious and she's a climber, a dangerous combination for her mom and dad, hilarious for the rest of us.

Oh, Vada.

She's also, like, pathologically friendly, and I mean that in the absolute best way possible.  If you need a hug, Vada is your girl, and she won't just do a cursory little side-hug; she will plaster her roly little body to yours and rest her sweet head on your shoulder.  She also won't say no to a little back rub while she's there.  She only has to catch the most fleeting of glimpses of a camera and she's smiling and saying, "Cheeeese!"


And then there's Charlotte.  Just that sentence makes me laugh, because I have a feeling people used to say that about her mom when we were kids:  "And then there's Kelli."  Kelli once received a report card from school when she was in younger elementary school, and in the comments section the teacher noted, "Kelli is a unique child," which is teacher-speak for, "Dude, your kid's kinda weird."  Charlotte is evidently intent on following in her mother's footsteps, which delights me to no end.  Derek got a big kick out of calling out to Char as she'd walk by him, "Hey, Charlotte!"  "Want to come sit with me, Charlotte?"  "Charlotte?  Can you give your Uncle Derek a hug?" which would cause Char to give the kind of suspicious, unsure look usually reserved for oily men in white-paneled vans, which in turn led to endless laughter for all observing.  Charlotte's affection is to be earned, but I will say it gives you a ridiculous sense of pride when she graces you with a smile or actual physical contact.  She had a bit of an anxious night the first night we were there, and so her parents went out and got her an action figure of the Hulk, because they'd forgotten hers at home, which was rather foolish on their part as she loves the Hulk and believes that he protects her, because of course she does.

The Hulk can now add "Comforter to little girls" to his resume.

Adelaide managed to ingratiate herself to both Charlotte and Vada by playing countless games of Ring Around the Rosy.

You should really click to embiggen this one and see the look of pure Ring Around The Rosy-induced joy on Char's face.

Ring Around the Rosy and the Hulk:  The Keys to Charlotte's Heart.  (That sounds like the title to a really bad book.)


Of course, I know I'll blink and those two-year-old's will be teenagers and the babies won't let me hold them and snuffle at their delicious necks anymore.  There's mutterings in the ranks about turning the niece-faucet off, but I'm not worried.  I'm confident my sisters wouldn't do that to me.  Because, you know, it's all about me.

Surely they wouldn't deprive us of more of this.  Elliot's face.  My goodness.

Or this.

Seven grandkids in eight years.  Oy.

The Baby Whisperer

I've decided one of the things I like best about babies is that they can't talk.

Our children talk all the time.  It feels like there is never a time one of them is not opening their mouths and letting a cataract of words spill from them.  (Although as I type this, Adelaide is sitting silently at the table, reading The Neverending Story and eating a bowl of oatmeal, and Cade is down for a quiet nap.  Atticus, on the other hand, is currently taking a not-so-quiet "rest time.")  And half of that time they're contradicting whatever it is that I'm saying.  Caedmon and Adelaide in particular appear to be vying for the crown of Tsar or Tsarina of All Knowledge; I could tell you that the sky is blue and Caedmon would say it's really more of a gray-blue, while Adelaide would inform me that it actually only appears blue to our eyes.  THE SKY IS BLUE, CHILDREN, ALRIGHT?  Sheesh.

Babies, on the other hand?  Especially sweet, squishable, lovable babies like my darling, darling nieces?  They can't contradict anything I say.  As far as they know, my opinion is their opinion, just the way it should be (I have no idea where our children get their contrary streak, fyi).

For instance, if you look closely in the above photo, you will see a handful of my face flesh in sweet Norah Mae's right little fist.  This is obviously because she loves me so much that she never wants to let me go.  See also the evident baby kiss she is planting on my eyebrow.  I can choose to disregard the fact that she is in a phase where she wants to gum everything in sight and go with my own interpretation, because she's not saying otherwise.


Or this one:

See how Norah is gazing soulfully into Adelaide's eyes?  It's obvious she's trying to communicate what her mouth cannot:  That she loves her oldest girl-cousin and is desperate to move to Iowa so she can be with her all the time.  I won't presume to narrate Adelaide's expression, as I'm sure whatever I say will be capital-W Wrong, and I really don't feel like hearing why for the next three days.

You could say that the look on our newest niece Elliot's face is one of shock and perhaps stunned fear, but I would posit that she is stunned- stunned that she's been alive for six weeks and is just now experiencing the joy to be had when being held by yours truly.  Oh, her parents will be hearing about this.

Here's Ellie again, lifting a hand to the heavens so that God would hear her plea never to be so cruelly separated from Adelaide again.

And here's Norah clearly telling us that although she is a smiley, cheerful baby in general, she always holds a little something back with the world at large; that extra affection is reserved for her Daddy.  Plain as day.

And here I can tell just by looking at her that Norah is utterly blissful at being ham-handedly loved by a five- and three-year old boy.



Now tell me:  How obvious is it that I'm going through some serious medical-grade Baby Withdrawal this week?  Because I feel like I'm being pretty subtle about it.



Tomorrow?  TWO YEAR OLDS.

Fee Fi Fo Fum

Last week when I went to put in my garden, I discovered something peculiar.

I decided that these were not the Commander Hybrid Zucchini seeds their package advertised; no, surely seeds as blue and sparkly as these would grow into, if not a beanstalk reaching into the heavens, at least a glittery shrub or a tree that only produces bedazzled fruit.  So far the seedlings that are coming up look suspiciously ordinary, not a gem in sight.  (Note:  Do yourself a favor and DO NOT do a google image search for "bedazzled zucchini."  The internet is a strange place, y'all.)  Raise your hand if you suspect these are the kind of seeds God used to plant the Garden of Eden.  And yes, I realize he spoke it all into existence, but the image of God hoeing rows in a divinely tidy garden, pausing every so often to glance down in annoyance at the hem of his soiled robe- well, it really tickles me.  No worries, though, he'd just say "CLEAN" or something and the stains would evaporate.  They didn't have Oxiclean back then, you know.

What has happened to this post?  Hijacked yet again by God and gardens.

Does anyone have any legitimate knowledge about why these seeds look this way?  Not that my theories are completely implausible or anything.  You were so helpful yesterday- that mystery white flower is columbine!  (Thanks, Common Household Mom and Cassi Renee!)  I confirmed it today by going by the flower stand I bought them from, and sure enough, there they were.  I celebrated by picking up some Clementine Dark Purple and Clementine Blue varieties of columbine, because I thought the white looked awfully lonely, didn't you?

In other, scarcely related gardening news:  Hyacinth-wise, I had a terrible year.  The Midnight hyacinths came back for their third or maybe it's fourth year, but they looked as if they were doing so under protest.  Scraggly and wilted-looking from the first day they bloomed, I do believe it's time to yank them out.  I had five promising-looking shoots whose photo I'm pretty sure I optimistically posted about a month ago, but as it turns out, I didn't plant them in a sunny enough location; the iris and hostas around them grew up and over them enough to block their much-needed sunlight.  They never did flower, nor did all but one of the hyacinths I planted next to the steps of the front porch.  Again, not enough sunlight.  I might try to dig those up and put them somewhere else, see if they'll do anything next spring.

My lone flowering hyacinth of the year.  I did love its peach color.

The tulips and hyacinths by our front porch were so underwhelming this year I was anxious to get some color out there, so I got the big container done as soon as I was sure we were done with the evil flower-killer that is frost:

I was a little surprised at myself, adding those yellow Gerbera daisies; I generally find Gerberas to be fickle and high maintenance, and since I don't truck with divas, even the flowering variety, I usually avoid them except for maybe a sneer thrown their way when I'm in the nursery picking out my easy-going petunias and lantana (which I have yet to find this year).

Now I'm off to go plant the new columbine.  I'll be sure to talk to them about making new friends and not leaving anyone out, and warn them against those awkward ice breaker games everyone's forced to play when forming a new group.  (Hey, have I ever told you guys about the time I went to a Mom's group at my church in Connecticut, somehow got seated at a table with Rich Connecticut Women, but somehow couldn't find anything in common with them during the get-to-know-you game that consisted of the instructions "Find something everyone at your table has in common, and no cheating with things like blue eyes and nose jobs!"  I have no idea why we couldn't find any common ground, what with their suggestions consisting of things like, "Okay, who has at least four fireplaces in their house?  Well, what about just three?" and "We all went to Tuscany within the last year, right?"  Meanwhile I'm there like, "I live in a 600-square-foot condo and I know I'm in a church but I'm pretty sure even Jesus would have a hard time loving on all of you."  Good times.)  

A Back-Home List

Last night we got back from a long weekend visit with my family, so rest assured, there will be an avalanche of adorable baby photos soon.  In the meantime, I do believe it's time for a list of

Reasons It Was Great To Return Home Yesterday

• The house was clean(ish).  When we leave for an extended period of time, it's always my goal to leave our house in a state in which I would be happy to come home to.  And yesterday, it was.  The living room was picked up.  The kitchen was clean.  The bathrooms had been wiped down.  It felt amazing.  While this is always the standard to which I ascribe, almost inevitably when returning from a trip, we come home and it looks like I spent the two days before we left doing seven loads of laundry a day and packing clothes for four people and on-the-road lunch and snacks and drinks for five people and mowing so that it's not immediately noticeable that our house is deserted and cleaning out the van and packing presents and borrowed items for whomever we're visiting and supervising the kids' packing of toys and books for the drive and charging the portable DVD players and negotiating which DVD's may be brought on the trip ("But why can't I bring Happy Feet?"  "Because I hate it- Atticus, what is this workout video featuring a scantily clad Jillian Michaels doing in your DVD pile?"  "I want to watch it on the trip."  "No.  No way."  *shifty eyes from our 5-year-old who is evidently on an accelerated course for the hormone-drenched* "But... what if I want to do a workout in the van?"  "NO.").  Somehow, Thursday-of-last-week Kristy managed to do all that and execute a quick cleaning run-through of our house.  Thursday-of-last-week Kristy is my favorite.  I do wish she'd come back.

• My garden.  Apparently, Iowa is gunning for rain forest status, as it has rained nearly every day since I stained the front porch.  This means that although I mowed last Thursday, when we returned home last night, it appeared as if we were trying to turn our property into a habitat conducive to snakes and ground-nesting birds.  On the upside, my garden has really taken off.  I planted most of it from seed last week, and last night I had to muffle my squeals as I hopped around the garden (it was muddy), looking at the gourds and onions and zucchini and broccoli seedlings that all pushed their way through the soil while I was gone.  The tomato plants are flowering, and the pepper plants look pretty dang close.  I also found some new flowers around our yard:

Pink Champagne Clematis

I lost the little card that came with this, so I have no idea what it is.  It's about a foot tall, and really lovely in person.

I also found some pale purple asters that are blooming, but any photos of I took of it washed out the flower and made it look white.  I tend to buy plants when they're small and have little to no blooms on them because a) it's loads cheaper, and b) it would appear that I believe smaller, younger plants are more likely survive transplanting than big, showy ones.  I'm not quite sure where I heard this; it's entirely possible I made it up myself but have adopted it as established wisdom.  Whichever, it seems to work for me.  As a result, I'm thrilled when these plants flower for the first time, as I've never seen their flowers before, I'm just going off of the photo on their tags.  

• It's just good to be home.  I'm never ever leaving again.  Until Derek and I leave on our 10-year anniversary trip later this summer  (SO EXCITED.  YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW.).