Ooooh, Babies

A week and a half ago, we were in Kansas.

As I was going through the photos from our trip, I noticed a trend.

Nearly every photo of Atticus also includes a baby being smooshed and loved by our son.

Norah playing with a TOY pistol, my children looking enormous.  And old.

I have no idea where he gets it.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Honesty

It's that time of year, where you lie to yourself and those you love most about the possibility of getting a decent family photo for the yearly Christmas card.  You go to all the trouble of corralling children whose very last intention is cooperating in crafting a mendacious image of a smiling, happy, everything-is-awesome-and-so-are-we picture to send out to all your friends and family who would more likely benefit from receiving an envelope full of candid pictures snapped on cranky mornings and that day you made your son wear the most masculine of his sister's clothing because all his were still dirty (I'll get to the laundry when I get to it, ALL RIGHT?), with perhaps a hastily scribbled note admitting that your life isn't anywhere near perfect, and you'd be willing to bet the recipient's isn't, either, but that you still love them and wish them the very merriest Christmas.

And these were the good ones, friends.  

An Imperfect Week

Sunday night we got back from our trip south, and checking in after four days away from the internet resulted in me finding out/being reminded of all the things I had going on this week.  They were all good things, but they made me want to crawl in bed and pull the covers up over my head.  I'd just spent the past several days peopling, and I couldn't people anymore.  I spent the week channeling Rabbit and crying, "Nobody!" anytime any of my well-meaning Winnie the Pooh's asked "Isn't anybody at home?"  I would apologize, but believe me when I say it is for your own safety that I recuse myself at times like these.  

Still, stuff did happen this week.


It snowed, which means we busted out the snow boots, which means this happened:

Which means I was like,

Except I most likely won't kill anyone as a result of my frustration.  I'll probably just go buy them new boots to outgrow in another six months.

Derek and I dragged Caedmon around most of the day Tuesday shopping for new appliances (a post all its own for next week- I know, appliance blogging!  Things are about to get cray-zeeeee!), which prompted him to desperately ask, "Are we ever going home?" right around noon and our fourth stop of the day.  I remember being goose-stepped around Lowe's with my parents when I was a kid; I did not handle it as well as Caedmon did, possibly because I did not derive joy and entertainment out of opening and closing and opening and closing and opening and closing washer and dryer doors.  The salesmen loved us, I'm sure.

The above gif has nothing to do with Caedmon, but is instead the way I imagine each of your faces looked when you read the words "appliance blogging."  You guys are hilarious.

Wednesday.  Oh, Wednesday.  

Wednesday I broke the fridge.  Don't worry, Derek fixed it Wednesday night.  It turns out our fridge is like those divas who insist on Evian And ONLY Evian, Do Not Bring Me Any Of That Ozarka or Poland Spring Water, I Can Tell The Difference, except with the water filter.  Or it might be that I'm supposed to pay attention to the giant arrows on the fridge and filter and line them up.  Whatever.

Our fridge after the Water Filter Incident.  Thank goodness our fridge doesn't read this blog, or it would know I went from calling it a diva to a genocidal dictator, and then there would be no living with it.

Wednesday I also forgot our children.  But only two of them!

See, what happened is this:  Every Wednesday the school has an early out, and I spent the morning thinking it was Tuesday, so when a friend called that afternoon, I assumed she was asking me to pick her daughter up from the bus stop along with our kids, but her first few words, "It's Wednesday, and the kids have an early out" had me springing off the floor and freaking out because IT'S WEDNESDAY AND LIKE 15 DEGREES OUTSIDE PAAAAAAANIC, but thankfully she came to the rescue and Atticus and Adelaide were delivered to our front door via the safety of a warm car maybe 90 seconds later, which is better than they would have gotten if their own mother had been on top of, you know, their survival.

It's nice to think that this is the kind of thing I would Mother Torture myself over but the kiddos wouldn't even think twice about, but I can already tell that's not the way this is going to go.  That night at supper both the A's Worst Things involved that day's abandonment (every evening at supper we do Best Thing, Worst Thing where everyone gets a turn to share the best and worst part of their respective days, and oh, yes, the word "abandoned" was actually used).  

The one redeeming part of Wednesday was this book I got from the library:

It's WWII historical fiction whose narrative flip flops between a blind French girl and a German orphan boy fascinated by radios.  I'm about 100 pages in and it's excellent so far.  Thanks for recommendation, Deanna!


And just to round out the week:

This guy's spent the week in his snow pants, foam sword tucked into the back of his shirt, princess wand safely in a belt loop for easy access, running around the house yelling, "Fierce!  Fierce!  Fierce!" while brandishing the bedazzled wand at imaginary foes.  This makes me collapse in helpless laughter, because really, Fierce + Glittery Wand Accessory can only equal some sort of Project Runway Superhero and I know this is the very antithesis of the effect he's going for, especially when he tells me the wand shoots dragon fire at bad guys and BURNS THEM TO DEATH (emphasis his).  

How I see Caedmon this week:

How he sees himself:

The end.

Back to the Future, Food Edition

I spent a solid hour Monday after school doing panicked winter yard prep.  The afternoon high was 60 degrees, but I could feel the temperature rapidly dropping and the wind picking up as I planted front porch mums, dumped potting soil into divots in the flower beds, turned the compost heap, and stacked terracotta in the shed.  These are all things I've been meaning to do for weeks now, preferably at a leisurely pace, enjoying the last of the year's pleasant temperatures, not running in actual circles around my front yard with a rotting jack o'lantern under my arm because I can't decide which chore is the most urgent and thus must be done first or my life will just be over, do you hear me, over, but nothing motivates like the promise of a 40-degree drop in temperature from one day to the next.

Sometimes I attach too much importance to the mundane.  But you already knew that.

I got the most pressing of the outdoor needs squared away, and retreated indoors.  Yesterday morning we woke up to snow.  Just a dusting, but still- snow.  In November.  BLAAARGH.

The one good thing about cold temps- aside from drawing in those deep breaths of cold air, I love that, but not the kind of cold that makes your lungs feel like they're turning into brittle shards of ice and makes your throat wonder just what it ever did to you to deserve this treatment- aside from all that, the good thing is, of course, baking.  Temperatures plummet and my oven beckons.  But not in a creepy, come-hither way, you understand, more of a slide-some-apple-pie-into-me-baby way, which gracious sakes, is still creepy.  I don't understand what I've done to this post or how I've managed to violate my own oven.  I'm beginning to think I shouldn't be allowed to write after 11 p.m.

Right.  Baking when it's cold out.  Let's focus.

All this cold weather is rather fortuitous, as while we were in Kansas over the weekend celebrating a wedding and eating an early Thanksgiving meal and fighting over whose turn it is to hold the babies, my mom also passed on a recipe book my grandma picked up at an auction recently.

About 3/4 of its contents are dessert recipes and include titles such as Inspiration Cake (above), Peach Luscious, Plain Cake, Sugar-Saving Icing (to get you through all that pesky sugar rationing), and Saucepan Cookies.  It contains instructions like "bake in a slow oven" and enough shortening to choke a whale.  

My first thought had been to slowly bake my way through the dessert portion, but even I can't stomach the thought of feeding my family that much shortening- do any of you know if butter can be equally substituted?  Only one recipe cites its source- McCall's, May 1950- but the few savory recipes only serve to reinforce my opinion of mid-century American cuisine (ooooh, the salad molds):  Deviled Frankfurter Filling, Salmon Loaf, Cottage Cheese Salad (it involves cooked prunes and mayonnaise.  You don't want to know.  Save yourselves.) and Dressing Mold for Left-Over Fowl ("When preparing dressing, fix an extra amount.  Grease salad ring mold and fill with dressing.  Store in refrigerator.  Bake it next day, and fill the center with the remains of the fowl, creamed.  Garnish with greens."  GACK).

And somebody, PLEASE, shed some light on this untitled recipe:  "Mix ground coffee, unbeaten egg, salt and enough cold water to mix easily- corn bread batter- Heat water until steaming- add coffee mixture and bring to rolling boil- Simmer 10 minutes then remove from heat- Add 1 c cold water and let stand 5 minutes.  Ready to drink- Dip off carefully.  Coffee isn't done until foam breaks."  

Ice Box Cookies!

My sister Kelli and I were also both a little disturbed to find "B.M." as a common ingredient, but our combined sleuthing prowess led us to conclude that she meant Butter Milk and not, um, something else.  (Hey, this thing contains "Mystery Cheese Ball & Crax."  Anything seemed possible.)

Once I solve the shortening-to-butter conversion, I'm not sure where to start.  Devil's Food Whirligig Cake?  Sea Foam Fudge Cake with Sea Foam Frosting?  Or go more seasonally appropriate and try the Pumpkin Chiffon Pie?  All I know is I'm staying completely away from the pages labeled "Attractive Salads."

A List

• Burning Kansas:

Or not.  You know, whatever. 

(Image shown with permission from the artist.  Find out more about Dave Loewenstein and his work right here.)

• This book:

You should only read this book if it's an ignore-the-dishes, I-can-function-on-only-three-hours-of-sleep, I'm-sure-the-children-are-fine (wherever they are), we-didn't-need-clean-clothes, eating-supper-is-overrated-anyway kind of day.  It's hilarious and thoughtful and engrossing and I sent Shonya a half-hostile, half-thankful message for recommending this book to me and robbing me of most of a night's sleep.  I have ordered three more of Ms. Moriarty's books through interlibrary loan and may or may not have promised cookies to whichever librarian could get them for me the fastest.  

• #blessed

This post from the Very Worst Missionary very precisely mirrors how I feel about the Christian over-/ misuse of the word "blessed."

#blessed

#blessed

#blessed

Make Them Listen to You

It's election day.

Adelaide has been asking more and more about elections, the political process, etc, and I was happy to hear her interested and questioning until a couple weeks ago when she off-handedly said, "I don't think I'll ever vote."  

I took a deep, deep, deeeeep breath, and although my nostrils may have been flaring while I did so, that was the only part of me I allowed to have its way; the rest I kept admirably under control, and very calmly told her, "Huh.  Maybe you should have been born a hundred years ago," (a continuation of an ongoing conversation we have on what era we believe we would have thrived in).  She asked me why, and I explained that women weren't allowed to vote at that time, so she would have fit right in!  Exclamation Point!  

When she then questioned just why women weren't allowed to vote, I said, "Oh, didn't you know?  Women aren't smart enough to vote!  They- you and me, haha!- simply don't have the proper intellect or decision making skills needed to have a say in who runs our government."  

Oh, was she pissed, but she was pissed and is now eager to vote.  Crisis averted.

The Right Thing To Do

Last Friday afternoon, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma:  Stay home in our warm, cozy house with our three children after school, maybe read a few books with them, leisurely prepare the French Dip sandwiches from the roast that had been deliciously scenting our house while cooking in the crock pot all day; or, go to the apple orchard in the 40-degree, windy weather with three kids who had been sick for the better part of a month.

I chose the orchard, not just because I hate myself, but also because Adelaide had received free passes to the orchard over the summer, and we'd been meaning to go all autumn, but, well, there's always been at least one of us who's been ill- only then I found out the farmyard/ joy-inducing part of the orchard was closing Sunday, knew we weren't going to have time to go Saturday or Sunday, and that Friday after school was it, our only window to go.

It was even worse because I knew Adelaide wouldn't complain if we didn't end up going.  I had warned her we probably wouldn't be able to make it, and she did her sad, put-up-a-brave-front face that's about a million times more guilt-inducing than any whining or tantrums, and maybe you're good with playing Miss Minchin to Adelaide's Sara Crewe, but I'm not quite that heartless.  Except first thing in the morning.  And right around 5 o'clock nearly every single day.  And really anytime I've waited too long to eat.

So we went.

And it turned out great.

This orchard/pumpkin patch/kid-topia is a large operation, and most of the other times we've gone before it's been anywhere from busy to packed, but this time, there was only one other family there with two tiny kids who couldn't have bothered us if they'd tried.  Apparently the time to go is on a Friday Halloween late afternoon when it's cold and windy and yes, you have to layer and bundle up, and yes, you're all still recovering from the viral nastiness and perhaps standing out in a bitter wind isn't the best idea ever, as evidenced from Caedmon's worsening cough as it got colder, to the point where he coughed 'til he vomited, whatever, he's done that almost every other night for the past week and it was just a tiny bit in the grass.  There's wasn't even anyone else around to gross out/ judge me for not tucking my wee bairns into their beds and spoon-feeding them clear broth.  

And really, they all had such a fun time.

Another bonus to no one else around:  Patently ignoring the sign beside the corn pool that read:  DO NOT BURY PEOPLE.  (Relax, Derek.  She asked to be buried, and I made them stop when they got close to her chest lest the weight of the corn crush her organs.  BECAUSE I AM A GOOD MOTHER WHO THINKS OF THINGS LIKE PUREED CHILD ORGANS.)

Click to embiggen and see the sweetness that is these two together.  You have no idea how much they adore each other when they're not irritating one another to death.

My other justification for taking the kids out to the orchard was exercise, and I made sure to tell them so at least every four minutes.  This slide, for instance, was on a long and steep hill, so every time they made it to the bottom, they had to wriggle their way off the slide and begin the long-haul climb back up, over and over again, each like a tiny Sisyphus but with burlap instead of a crushing stone.  Every time they'd begin the trudge back up, bitter wind blowing in their reddening faces, I'd holler, "Isn't this good exercise, children?"  Obviously I couldn't help them; that would negate the effects of the exercise on our Halloween candy-stuffed children.  (And by "candy-stuffed," I mean each child had been allowed to have all of two pieces each by that point, because I am a shameless dictator who sees nothing wrong with sternly saying, "You may have one piece," then eating as much as I want after they've gone to bed.  I am thisclose to making our children hail me as "Dear Leader.")  

I do believe I made the right choice, after all.