Stop Screaming I'm Driving!

Does Time Magazine Really Care How YOU Parent?

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 10 May 2012 21:38:00 +0000

Dear Time Magazine,

Congratulations. You're probably going to sell more issues this week than you have all year due to the "controversial" photo you chose to put on your cover asking us all if we are "Mom Enough."

Mom Enough? Really? Do we need to stand in front of millions of magazine viewers nursing a 3-year-old to be MOM ENOUGH?

I don't think so.

And no, I have nothing against Attachment Parenting - heck, I breastfed my own children for a total of 3 years (there are 3 of them, I nursed each for approximately one year - NOT THAT IT MATTERS OR MAKES ME LESS OF A MOTHER) and my 8-year-old daughter can often be found in my bed or glued to my side. What I do have a problem with is your decision to stir the Mommy War pot with this ridiculous media stunt.

Online, you can already see hate and criticism spilling out via keyboards and smart phones from the minds of people who are completely outraged by the photo followed by those who vehemently support this mother's choice. Was that your goal?

You knew darn well that this photo would evoke strong feelings from everyone who saw it. You knew that a statement like "Are You Mom Enough" would make mothers crazy. You knew and you did it anyway, to sell magazines. The article, which is about Dr. Sears "Attachment" method and not about the mom nursing her kid on the cover, is completely lost because of the frenzy created by the photo.

This mom says, "Shame on you."

You know that mothers have strong opinions and voices. Mothers are louder and prouder than ever before despite the enormous challenges facing us today. We need to be free to parent any which way we choose, as long as it's not hurting anyone. We need to be supported in our parenting choices and we need to be encouraged to embrace our differences instead of being propelled to make war against mothers who don't do it the way we do.

What we do not need is your magazine poking fun at a parenting choice just to sell a few copies. We don't need your magazine poking a stick in the hornets nest that has been come to be known as The Mommy Wars. You don't care about how we parent, you care about your bottom line. You chose a photo that you knew would create buzz and while yes, I did take Marketing 101 in college and earn a fairly decent grade, I still believe that you should always place your moral obligation to society above your desire to increase your profit.

It seems to me that you care nothing about American mothers and even less about the real-life people who agreed to do this shoot. How do you think this 3-year-old boy is going to feel about this cover when he's 21? My guess is he won't be thrilled (and maybe I will be wrong about that which would be super), but hopefully his mother will have provided him with enough confidence and back bone to stand up to the crap that will most likely be flung his way at some point in his life due to his mom's decision to blast their private parenting moment on the cover of a national magazine.

Because that's what this really is, private.

Mothering, breastfeeding in particular, isn't something intended for mass consumption, to be gobbled up by those who oppose it or those who prefer it done only one way. Breastfeeding isn't a political tool or a crutch upon which to boost magazine sales. Mothering is an intensely personal life experience and while it's an experience that is very universal, it's also done in all kinds of ways, in all kinds of cultures and in all kinds of families. And the last thing we need to be doing is drawing lines in the sand telling mothers how they should parent.

So yes, Time Magazine, shame on you.

Hoping you Publish Something Better Next Time,
Carrie

Married Texting

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:10:00 +0000

No, this isn't a post about some hot, heavy and lurid texting that takes place between a husband and wife. You'll have to check out the Fifty Shades of Grey books if you are looking for that.

Instead I bring you the REAL texts of a married couple.

Because I'm all about keeping it real.

HIM: You want a sub?

HER: No thanks, unless it's covered in a cupcake.

HIM: You want BOTH?

HER: No thanks, I had lunch.

The question is, will he or won't he come home with a cupcake?

Stay tuned...

The Break that Wasn't

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 19:24:00 +0000

Having just deleted a lengthy post about how we don't have time to go anywhere or do anything fun over Spring Break because we have jobs and baseball and jobs (yes I know I said jobs twice), I decided to let it go.

Yes, our schedules are hectic this week.

Yes, it sucks trying to work from home with 3 busy kids (aren't they supposed to get easier as they get older?). In fact, it sucks to a level of suck that I don't think I've ever experienced.

Yes, I've had to break up more wrestling matches, headlocks and general rough-housing sessions than any human should ever have to and I'm not happy about it. Add in a dash of crazy mother-in-law, sullen teenaged boy who thinks the world owes him a leer jet, a cat that keeps missing the litter box and the fact that there seems to be no end to the mountain of laundry that is collecting and you pretty much have my week.

But.

There are exactly 3 days left of this so-called Spring Break and I refuse to let them get the best of me.

Even though my husband is still at the fire station and will be there again in 48 hours, leaving me to not only deal with all of the boisterousness but also the Easter egg dying all by myself, I can do this.

Right?

Are you there Xanax? I think it might be time to get to know you, well.

Sometimes a girl just needs a little reassurance.

HVEN

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 19:19:00 +0000

I used to think of a Danish breakfast as being one made of pastry and sweet cream cheese. And before our trip last summer, you couldn't have convinced me otherwise.

But our first official morning in Denmark, en route to the Swedish island of Hven, proved to be educational...

We woke up in our little bunk beds at Brett's Aunt and Uncle's house in Copenhagen feeling well rested, excited and more than a little giddy at what the day would hold. It was the 8th anniversary of my father-in-laws passing and a special day for us all to spend together. July 14th, "Spike" day.

Sos and Finn, longtime family friends who also knew my father-in-law, met us in the morning. We'd seen photos of them for years and they of us. We already felt like kin and falling into an easy relationship was instant. Raincoats buttoned up, we walked the few blocks to the metro station near Jodi and Mogen's house and caught the train downtown.

It was hard not to stop and stare at everything. But we had a boat to catch, and we knew we'd be back along all of this...the history, the architecture, the people, the food - oh my! We'd see it all in due time.

Along with about 20 other brave souls, we boarded our vessel and quickly found ourselves jostling and bumping along the whitecaps on the way to the island. I have never loved Dramamine more in my entire life than I did that morning, watching Sos turn green as she tried to focus on the horizon.

And this is where I made my first faux pas in Europe, thank god I was among friends.

Do you see this? This was what was on our table for breakfast...take a good look - a basket of baked goods, cheese and some type of cured meat with a garnish of colorful peppers. Mmmm...

Brett's aunt, who is probably the nicest person on the face of the earth and I love dearly, advised me to "help myself," to the basket so what did I do? I reached for one of those delicious looking croissants.

I mean, isn't that what anyone would do? After all, they did have chocolate on them.

She and Sos giggled and said something about eating dessert first - I blushed. They assured me that it didn't matter. We poured our coffee and discussed everything from cultural differences to books as we watched the weather rain down on the water. That croissant was FILLED with chocolate and it wasn't long before I was kicking myself for being so impulsive, although it didn't stop me from enjoying the delicious meat and cheese (and a few of those pretty peppers) afterwards as I slugged down a 2nd cup of coffee, feeling it's warmth do the trick as it seeped through my veins.

I couldn't be happier.

And before I knew it we were there:

HVEN.

Kind of like "heaven" without the first "e" and "a" if you're into that sort of thing.

Brett and I restrained ourselves from being overwhelmed with the beauty of the place, but it was difficult. We climbed a hill, feeling very European at this point what with the tall grasses, adorable cottages, cobblestone and hidden gardens peeking at us every few feet, until we reached an endless plateau of gently rolling fields, flowers and clusters of small buildings.

This was where we picked up our bicycles.

And off we rode, in the rain, trying to keep our smiles closed as we peddled along so as not to end up with a salad of gnats in our teeth (always a concern while bicycling), through the fields in a place that felt very much like heaven.

Note to self: eat the meat and cheeses BEFORE the chocolate croissant when enjoying a Danish breakfast.

And They Said it Couldn't Be Done (Green Onions in the Windowsill)

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 00:31:00 +0000

If you've been to my house recently and I've pulled you into the kitchen to marvel at my indoor-gardening feat, I apologize, for you already know the wonder that exists in the little canning jar on my windowsill.

For those of you who haven't experienced this, here you go.

Yup. You really can grow green onions in your window sill, even if you have the least green thumb on the planet (like me)!

Really!

All I did was snip the tops of a bunch of green onions that I was using for a recipe down to the usual area where I would stop snipping and plunge the remaining roots into a cute little canning jar filled halfway with some pretty rocks collected from our travels (there are lots more where those came from) and voila! Within days, these puppies were at least 2 inches tall.

Now they are practically giants and I think I may need to string them together for fear that they may topple over into my lemon verbena kitchen soap.

I can't wait to use them in another recipe or a salad or heck, even just sprinkle them on top of some soup. And then do it all over again.

My little homegrown green onions.

You see...anything is possible.

A Trifecta of Terrible

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 17:47:00 +0000

It all started with a rash. An angry, red, unidentifiable rash that suddenly appeared. Out of place, unexpected and totally unprovoked it came.

Did she eat something weird? Did we change laundry soap? Do we have a new pet in the home? Has she been in contact with any unfamiliar plants? Were they working with any strange materials at school, perhaps in art class, that could have caused her hands and feet to suddenly become so red and so angry?

The answer was no, to everything.

We gave Benadryl. We gave oatmeal baths. We watched and waited.

The rash came and went, each time growing in size and the amount of skin it was deciding to appear on. After a few more days, it was all over her body and it brought it's friends fever, upset stomach and sore throat along for the ride. Oh, the fun.

We went back to the doctor for the second time. Eureka! A virus. A virus was causing her body to do this to itself. An immuno reponse via histamine to a virus...most likely. We tested for Strep (NEGATIVE) and we waited. The week slithered by, the fever disappeared along with the sore throat and tummy ache, the rash still coming and going. She, existing on school work sent home by her teacher, lots of coloring books and a nightly dose of Zyrtec. Things were looking up until...3AM - swollen hands and a rash that would have scared anyone.

More lotion, more Zyrtec, another oatmeal bath and a trip to an urgent care clinic because really, what was going to swell next, her airway? And why?

(I do believe this was the day I found my first GRAY eyebrow hair)

We left with 2 EpiPens, just in case. Which made it possible for this mama to actually sleep with her eyes shut instead of nervously watching and waiting for some other weird symptom to appear. We'd follow up with the doctor after the weekend, as long as nothing else happened.

Just before bedtime on Sunday night (because the fun always happens JUST BEFORE BEDTIME) she ran into her brother's room and tripped on his baseball bag, landing pretty hard on the side rail of his bed. Tears. Kisses. Ice and lots of love and she was finally asleep. When morning came, she could hardly raise her right arm. We already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for Tuesday so I dismissed any idea of taking her to the doctor AGAIN for this sore arm thing. Besides, there wasn't any swelling, it wasn't red or bruised and it didn't hurt if she didn't move it.

I gave her an old sling of mine from when I fell on some ice in the 5th grade and called it good. She was fine with that. But then...

Tuesday: X Ray time! Guess what? Broken clavicle.

WHAT?

Now you all know that I have teenaged boys, right? Boys that tackle each other every chance they get. Boys that think couch jumping should be an Olympic sport. Boys that play baseball and football and have been through all levels of taekwondo. Crazy, physical boys that I am convinced will act like puppies well into their 40's.

And has either one of these hooligans ever broken a bone? No.

Let's just say their little sister's coolness ranking grew a thousand times that day when they came home from school and their after school activities (WEIGHT TRAINING = no broken bones) and learned that she had a broken collar bone.

(I'm pretty sure this is the part where she felt like Wonder Woman inside)

So now we have a broken collar bone to accompany the mysterious rash and hand swelling that has had us in a complete and utter state of wonder the past few weeks.

The good news: The rash hasn't come back since that day when we (I) freaked out and got the EpiPens. She kept taking the Zyrtec for the remaining week and now it's been exactly 3 days since her last dose and no rash. I'm crossing everything I have to cross that it never comes back and we're over this hurdle.

The bad news: She got a migraine 2 nights ago. The throwing up, don't touch me, don't talk to me or anyone else, do not breathe near me, all I want to do is lie here very still and try not to think about the pounding in my head or the raging in my stomach before I run to the bathroom and get rid of everything I ate for dinner kind of migraine. No 8-year-old should have to go through this. Me? I can understand. I have a body full of confused hormones and a history of dealing with them. But her? It's not fair. But she soldiered on, migraine, bum arm and that lingering thought in the back of all our minds that the rash may come back at any minute.

The good news: It's not mono.

The good news: The rash seems to be gone and I can now go back to actually eating oatmeal for breakfast instead of stuffing it in a stocking and floating it in the bath for my itchy child (incredibly soothing, by the way, works better than any of the fancy creams and lotions we bought).

The good news: That's 3 things universe. 3. She is done now. For a very long, long, long time you can leave her alone and go inflict your havoc upon someone else because my little girl is done.

And I'll just leave it at that.

The Day I Fell Back in Love With The Caller ID

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 00:47:00 +0000

As the boys get older, it has become increasingly harder to find meaningful punishments for them, other than the old standby, “Go to your room!” When they were little, the mere mention of “If you keep that up, I will have to take away your Transformer” would cause whatever offending behavior was taking place to fly the coop. All I had to do was threaten an earlier bedtime, no Legos or taking their skateboards away and they would straighten up.

Unfortunately, they don’t stay young and impressionable (manipulable) forever. It is harder to dole out consequences when they really aren’t into their boyish toys like they used to be. Say I told them I was going to take away their Hot Wheel cars, they would probably tell me, “Go ahead,” and then they’d find themselves in even more trouble than they started out in and I’d be searching fruitlessly for an even more applicable punishment, one that actually mattered to their tween minds.

As I sat and wracked my brain for meaningful consequences, reread the parenting manuals searching for the magic cure and spoke to my own parents about what I should do, I was interrupted by the ringing phone.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi, may I please speak to McRae?”

Oh, it’s a girl, I think to myself. I glance down at the caller id, confirming my suspicion and try harder than humanly possible to resist the urge not to listen in on their conversation. Although, from what I could tell from my son’s end, it wasn’t much of a conversation at all, unless you count “I’m bored,” and “What are you doing?” as conversation.

I sat there; painful as it was, and waited the excruciatingly long fifteen minutes for his phone call to be over. Then, it occurred to me. I wasn’t going to find the solution to my inability to find a consequence that mattered to my middle school bound son in any parenting book. No magazine would have all the answers and although my parents did a bang up job raising me, I was not my son, not by a long shot.

The answer was in the phone. The phone, which had become, in the past few weeks, an object of great curiosity. The phone, whose inbound calls had increased so much so that I had to explain the finer points of answering call-waiting so that I would not miss a call while he was busy “conversing” with the girl in his class. The phone!

That’s it. That’s the magic bullet, the deliverer of truth and justice in this household. The phone is the ticket for my trip out of what-kind-of-consequence-will-matterdom. The phone it is!

A few days passed without any significant rule-breaking taking place. I was beginning to think that I’d never get the opportunity to wield my new superpower, that being the threat of losing phone privileges. Not that I was complaining about my kids being well-behaved, every mother knows that these brief moments when children get along with one another and go to bed without a tantrum are mere mutations in the usual daily grind of parenting.

Finally, the day had come. Some backtalk was thrown haphazardly from my son’s lips and no greater joy was found within my black, mean mommy heart. I’d finally get the much-anticipated chance to test out the new material.

“If you continue to speak to me in that tone of voice, you will lose your phone privileges for the rest of the week,” I delivered.

His eyes got as big as saucers. His lips pursed, the sassiness trying like a caged bull to escape his mouth. I swear, I saw steam coming from his ears. . .

“Okay Mom,” was all he could say.

All I could say (to myself) was BINGO.

*Originally posted in 2008...reading this now, nearly 3 years and lots of gray hairs later, I long for the days when consequences were this easy.

Lemon Littles

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 23:39:00 +0000

Once upon a time, long, long ago...way back in 2006, before Pinterest exploded every awesome recipe on the planet onto the cork board of all cork boards, I made these. I totally thought that I made them up because who else would think of putting lemon pie filling into a mini muffin tin and top it with meringue?

Obviously nobody.

Lately though, I've been seeing reincarnations of my little lemon pies all over the place and I think to myself, "Self, you should have patented that recipe." Not that I can't be completely 100% sure that I was the first person ever to make these delightful little treats, but back in 2006, I can guarantee that nobody else was "pinning" these to an online cork board.

Anyway, these are as wonderful today as they were back in 2006.

Just check them out, sitting there in their mini muffin tin glory, waiting to be popped into the oven so that meringue gets a nice suntan:

For some strange reason, I took a picture of my kitchen at the end of the whole process:

I'm not sure why the toaster was out on the counter...maybe I got hungry midway and had a snack? And yes, there sits my beloved Diet Coke. That was back in the day when I slugged that stuff day in and day out like a sailor on leave. There is a knife holding my place in a Martha Stewart cookbook - why? And I also see that super awesome square glass container on top of the microwave...I wonder what ever happened to that? Must. Go. Searching.

But first, the recipe!

Best Ever Little Lemon Meringue Pies

One package pre-made pie crust

I can never get homemade pie crust just the way I like it, so I cave and buy the stuff in the store, all ready to go. Just unwrap that baby from the packaging, give it a quick little roll out on a dusted butcher block and press into a mini muffin tin sprayed with a little Pam. Prick the bottom of each "pie" with a fork to let out the air and bake for about 10 min at 325 until just golden brown because there is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, worse than a burnt pie crust.

While that is cooking make the filling:

3 egg yolks

1 1/2 cups sugar

1/3 cup cornstarch

1 1/2 cups water

3 tablespoons butter

2 teaspoons lemon zest

1/2 lemon juice

yellow food coloring

Beat egg yolks in a small bowl until they all look the same. Heat the sugar and cornstarch in a medium saucepan over medium heat, gradually stir in water, stirring constantly. Do this until the mixture thickens and boils then cook for about 1 minute.

Now here is the tricky part, the part where you don't make scrambled eggs: Stir half of the sugar, cornstarch, water mixture INTO the egg yolks, stirring constantly. When that's all mixed together, add that back into the mixture in the pan and boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. As in, DO NOT LET THAT SPOON BECOME IDLE. Remove from heat. Add the butter, lemon juice, lemon zest and as much yellow food coloring as your little heart desires. Pour into the little pie crusts.

Make the meringue:

3 egg whites

1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

6 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Beat egg whites and cream of tartar on high until foamy. Add the sugar, one tablespoon at a time, until thick and glossy. I think it's basically impossible to beat this too much, so have at it. When the meringue is just where you want it to be, beat in the vanilla. Now you are good to go. Dollop a little meringue on top of each lovely little lemon pie and pop back into the oven for about 10 more minutes at 350. Watch carefully! You don't want to cook them for too long and end up with a dried out, burnt meringue. Because that would just be sad and these aren't supposed to make you sad, they're supposed to make you happy!

Personal Day

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 20:17:00 +0000

I'm glad to see the sun is finally out. I know, some of you may fall down (actually tripping) over your jaws to hear me say that, especially so dangerously close to the morning hours but yes, I'm happy to see something other than the usual slog that has been falling from our skies for what seems like months.

And I haven't even had a drop of caffeine.

I know.

It could be that I'm so sleep deprived that I am not embracing my usual "I'm fine with the rain, what's the matter with the rest of you people?" Pacific Northwesterness or it could be that I'm simply not on my game because my husband left me alone with 3 kids who keep calling me "mom" while he attends a most important conference for the career that puts a roof over our head and food in our bellies and vodka in my...

That could be it.

Which also explains the sleep deprivation.

The thing is, I sleep perfectly fine when he's gone for 24 hour shifts at the firestation. But for some reason, having him a few hundred miles away is a completely different story. I find myself restless after I finally get the kids to bed, squirmy even. Last night around 11:30 I was actually scrubbing the baseboards in the kitchen, which distracted me as I was filling up the cats food bowl yet again due to her meowing.

Having a cat is a lot NOT like having a newborn. Newborns cry for 1 of 3 reasons - they are hungry, they are colicky or they need their diaper changed. Tackle one of those and you're gold. Cats? Not so much. I had no idea why she kept meowing and kneading the arm of the couch like a zombie after fresh blood (yes, I was watching The Walking Dead, don't judge) so I fed her. And she quieted down, so that must have been the trick. Seems she isn't the only one a little off their rocker with daddy gone.

Wyatt was also all out of sorts. And I shouldn't limit the weirdness to him either because my oldest is being a total you-know-what but I had chalked that up to the fact that he's turning 15 in a few days, which has nothing to do with being off your game because one of your parents is out of town. Although his extreme bossiness is another story and could very well be attributed to him thinking he's the "man of the house" or it could just be that he's almost 15. Whatev.

Anyway, Wyatt was in a really bad funk last night. He even went to sleep in my bed as I was downstairs trying to decode the cats meowing. The other reason that he wasn't in his own bed could be because his room has been in a state of disarray since Friday and his bed is piled high with school yearbooks and Guiness Books of World Records for the past 6 years along with about five thousand legos, but his trouble didn't end there.

Sometime around 3am, the nighttime shuffle began. That's what I like to call the fun activity that is otherwise known as "little girls who don't want to stay in their own beds." I had finally abandoned any hope of making it through an OnDemand episode of the PBS show chronicling Bill Clinton's early years (riveting, yes I know but my mom recommended it and we all know how I feel about the things my mom recommends - because she is cool and all) and was happily dreaming about cats (I wonder why?) when I felt a strange tapping sensation on my shoulder.

What did my wondering eyes appear? Katie, standing there rubbing the sleep from her face proclaiming what I bad mommy I was because I didn't fetch her from her bed and bring her into mine when I retired for the eve. I wanted to tell her to get her fanny back underneath her rainbow colored bedding and go back to sleep. But instead Wyatt grumbled that he'd just sleep on my floor so his sister could have his spot (really, MY HUSBAND'S SPOT) in the bed next to me and we could all carry on with the sleeping.

But that didn't happen.

Except for Katie, because she could sleep through a tornado.

What it boils down to is this: Wyatt skipped school today.

I shouldn't say "skipped" because that implies that he was off doing something fun, exciting and definitely non-school related. Instead, my sleepy-eyed child stood before me at o'dawns crack stating his case for his tiredness and talked me into letting him stay home for the day. Upon which I quickly deduced that a) this kid never grumbles in the morning, in fact, he's one of those rare birds who leaps up from slumber and immediately showers and readies himself for the day no matter how godawful early it is and b) everyone deserves a day off once in awhile.

Some mom guilt for last night's clown car of sleeping arrangements may have also had something to do with it.

Anyway, after I called his school and told him that he'd be staying home today because he just didn't feel well, which is mostly true. More true than false. I carried on with my morning and you know what? That kid slept until noon. Which tells me 1 of 2 things, that either having my husband out of town is REALLY messing with the powers that be or that the kid REALLY needed his rest.

I'm going to go with the second idea.

Because that makes it less of a lie.

And yes.

The kid gets a personal day.

Surviving Boys

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 22:45:00 +0000

Every time I see a mom wrangling little kids in the store, on the sidewalk, at a restaurant or basically anywhere, I'm in awe. It's like I'm observing the ancient domestic rituals of an unknown people. A fascinating and enthralling spectacle in juggling. A high wire act. A performer on a flying trapeze...

You get the idea.

And while I marvel at her incredible two-handed feats, like simultaneously loading 10lbs of potatoes into a shopping cart while keeping a 3 year-old from climbing into the veggies to "take a shower" in the produce section, feeding an infant, talking on her cell phone and keeping the cart from rolling in the opposite direction with her foot, I'm one part amazed and one part, "Thank god I don't have to do that again."

They didn't have cell phones when my boys (who coincidentally are 18 months apart) were little.

Okay, maybe they did have them. But they certainly weren't as commonplace in 1998 as they are now and I think the only one that existed in our home belonged to my husband. It was for work. It was as large as a brick of good cheddar and had an antennae that could probably pick up signals from Mars. It was a beauty.

I can't imagine the kinds of accidents I would have had if I were trying to be that multitasking. And yet, here they are, modern mamas with all the distractions of today's technology, doing just fine.

I'd never survive if my kids were born today.

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook of what was left after her toddlers (boys, I might add...I completely understand the world she lives in right now but let me make this very clear, have no desire to trade places with her because oh, the work) decided to make waffles early one morning. Graham crackers, salt, pepper, powdered sugar, green food coloring and over $100 worth of vanilla beans (I would have sat down and wept myself into a puddle right there) covered a small area in her kitchen...

I wrote to her and told her about how we had to install a latch at the top of our kitchen door that led to our garage when our oldest was a toddler because he used to sleepwalk. I was petrified that he'd toddle his way out into the garage in the middle of the night and get hurt or worse...escape. Because isn't that what we with children of a certain age are really always afraid of, their escape?

Or was it poking their eyes out? I can't remember.

And then I said those words, "This too shall pass." And right then and there, I became my mother.

Not that that's a bad thing, because I think my mom is pretty cool, but no daughter wants to become her mother...ever. Not even when she's 85. Not that my mom is 85, she's really young. She's only...never mind.

Anyway, I said those words. I became my mother. I should probably avoid looking into any mirrors today because guess what I'll see? Yup. My mother. And if there's anything more annoying for a mom with toddler-aged kids to hear, it's those words. Because right there, in the moment, when your house is splattered with all kinds of goo and even though your sweet kiddos are safe and happy and perfectly unharmed all you can think of is, "When do I get a time-out?" At least that's what I used to think, when I'd sit at the table, observing their lunch of grapes cut in half (so they wouldn't choke), water (so they wouldn't get cavities) and sandwiches I'd made on bread that I baked (so they wouldn't eat chemicals and DIE!), and slugged caffeine like it was the last drop of sanity left on the planet before cleaning up the lunch mess, wiping their sticky faces and fingers and making a batch of homemade play-doh because who doesn't need one more project in their day?

You see, I do remember!

And yes, dear friend of mine with little ones, this too shall pass.

I promise.

LOVE STORY

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 01:00:00 +0000

There are those stories that get passed down, generation to generation, with no need for embellishment or flourish because they are just so amazing. You know the ones, the stuff movies are made of, the kind which inspire the scenes in The Notebook, Bridges of Madison County and When Harry Met Sally. The ones which leave one sitting in her jammies on the couch, popcorn eaten, cozy pants on and big, giant tears taking up residence on the front of one's shirt...those scenes.

We all know them.

Some better than others, a'hem.

I am a sucker for a good love story. I cry every time I watch Definitely, Maybe. I cry every time I watch Sleepless in Seattle. Don't even get me started on Love Actually for you will, perpetually, find me with a wet face and unable to breathe during the end. Every. Single. Time.

It isn't a pretty sight.

But these are the movies. And I know this, really I do, yet there I go - falling into their magical trap as if I had no warning at all.

Once upon a time, in a hick town in Eastern Washington, there lived a girl, a barmaid, of not yet 24, who was finishing up her college degree. It was the kind of place with rustic wooded floors and Naugahyde booths. There may or may not have been a pool table or two.

She met his dog first, an aging Golden named (appropriately) Brandy.

Although the details are for only the two of them to know, really, the story goes something like this:

He walked in and we began an easy conversation, discovering early on that we were both transplanted "west siders" (that is what people who come from the west side of the mountains are referred to in hick towns east of the Cascades). It was just before President's Day weekend and I was going to go home to Edmonds to spend some time with friends and family. He mentioned that there was this party he was going to in Fremont and asked if I'd like to go.

It was a date.

I met him in Seattle a few days later, bringing my little mutt Abbie along with me, and we talked and talked and talked. At some point in the evening, Abbie was lost. I was scared I'd lost her forever. He stayed out all night with me, looking for that little dog and it was then that I knew I'd found someone special. I mean, who spends an entire cold night looking for a girl's dog that he hardly knows?

We had decided to drive back to Ellensburg together, after the weekend. Just after Snoqualmie Pass, at the West Nelson Siding Road exit, he pulled over.

My heart knew he was the one. And we made a decision right then and there, after only a few days, to keep on driving to Idaho to elope. It felt like the most perfect thing in the world to do.

We called and told my brother (your Uncle). We called and told my sister (your Aunt). We called your future godfather to ask for some money to be wired so that we could pay for the ceremony, but later decided we could "do it on our own." We made it to Idaho and had to wait one extra day because of the holiday and then, on the 7th day, we were married! And we have been ever since.*

This is how I remember my mom telling me the story of how she and my dad met and were married.

40 years ago.

40 years after only one week.

Reckless, silly, irresponsible! I used to think. I, who was with my husband for 7 years...not 7 days before we were married. How could they know? I used to wonder. How?

After they eloped, my grandparents held a reception for them, in which I am sure more than one person muttered, "This will never last." I mean, who wouldn't think that? What person in their right mind would believe that this kind of love, the kind that makes you have butterflies for 38 years, the kind that brings you through all that life throws in your direction, good and bad, the kind that truly does endure...who would have thought that this kind of love could be found and more importantly, recognized, after only 7 days?

I know now that it doesn't matter how, what matters is that it is. It is.

Happy 40th Anniversary Mom and Dad.

Thank you for giving me a love that I can believe in, and a love story that still makes me cry, no matter how many times I hear it.

*Originally posted in 2009...and here they are 3 years later celebrating the big 4-0!

The Gift

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 21:44:00 +0000

Too many times I find myself telling the boys, usually after some kind of disturbance from their younger sibling, "You're lucky to have a little sister that looks up to you."

They roll their eyes, look at me like I'm nuts and continue on with the art of avoiding doing anything that could even remotely be considered girly.

We go through this scenario at least 2 times a week.

"When you were her age, you didn't have cool older brothers to look up to," I plead with them.

"You are her heroes," I say.

Even though their expressions give me the feeling that my words are falling on deaf ears, I know that deep down inside, somewhere, they really do love their sister (especially when I catch them being so good to her). I remind them that I understand what being the oldest is like since I was one myself - and I consider each of them the same in this respect, as their age difference is so very tiny compared to the 5 year gap between them and their sister.

When I stop and appreciate the moments when they really are all getting along and marching to the beat of a drum that the rest of the world cannot hear, I am so very, very grateful. I'm grateful for these kids, these children, these treasures that the universe trusted me with for not enough time. I know that in 3 years one will be gone, on an adventure of his own. The family dynamic will change again, just as it did the day we brought that screaming little pink alien home from the hospital. But no matter how many times life changes, they will always have one another.

Of course, I had to stop writing this mushy meandering mama love for a few minutes to run interference between a 14-year-old who wouldn't get out of his sister's room. OF COURSE.

My point is, I'm in awe of their love for each other, when they chose to show it. No matter how you slice it, they are stuck together, forever and for always. Despite the bickering, the arguing over whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher or who scooped the kitty litter last, they are stuck like glue.

Their bond is a gift, and I'm (we are) just an observant outsider. I hope the laughter never ends.

Cheesy Bread - Perfect for Superbowl

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 22:44:00 +0000

When I saw my brother-in-law making this cheesy bread a few weeks ago I said to myself, "Self, that CANNOT be good for you. In no way, shape or form must you go anywhere near that cheesy bread."

Well guess what?

I did.

Go near that cheesy bread and all it's horrible-for-you glory.

And I liked it.

"Simple and Nice" Cheese Bread (recipe courtesy of my sister-in-law):

1 loaf french bread (I used leftover hamburger buns from the FREEZER and it was just fine)

1/2 cup butter (I told you this was bad for you)

1 cup mayonnaise (no, I wasn't kidding)

1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese

1/2 cup shredded monterey jack cheese

grated parmesan

oregano

Preheat oven to 350. Slice bread in half lengthwise. Melt butter in a small saucepan over med-low heat. Stir in mayonnaise and cheese and melt/stir until it's all combined. You may want to go ahead and do a few squats to make up for the sinning you are about to do, it couldn't hurt.

Place the bread on a large cookie sheet and slather the cheesy mixture on top. Sprinkle generously with parmesan and as much oregano as you prefer (I used very little because I really just was interested in the cheese).

Bake for 5-8 minutes or until lightly browned. Slice and serve.

Now the hard part...don't eat too many pieces. Unless you're a teenaged boy, in that case - have at it.

The Hummus Among Us

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 17:54:00 +0000

It was most definitely a rare treat, being at the grocery store stocking up for the week with only one child. And I was relishing every live long moment of the experience. Pausing while selecting cantaloupe, having enough time and attention span to pick out just the right one. Actually reading the price label on the tomatoes. Finding the best deal on bagged salad, and that elusive block of muenster cheese that I needed to go with the wine I'd be drinking later on that night with my best girlfriend in the world.

All without the distractions of, shall we say, a certain little dictator named Katie.

Not that I don't love spending time with my children, because as much as I kid about their ways and never having enough time to myself, they are pretty awesome. But when you remove one child from the equation (and more so when you remove two) the parenting experience changes...drastically.

Shopping with my 12-year-old is almost like having no children at all - plus he likes to push the cart and doesn't run into senior citizens.

Which leads me to the section of the grocery store known as the "refrigerated and prepared foods" department.

In other words, hummusville.

While I know that making hummus from scratch requires little or no skill - just a reliable food processor or a lot of pent up anger and a very fine tool with which to smash chickpeas into a smooth paste - I prefer to buy mine ready-made.

Have you been in hummusville lately?

Like most delicious and necessary items in the grocery store, hummus is available in an endless amount of varieties and sizes.

Who knew?

As tempting as it was to buy the largest tub with the sundried tomatoes layered on top, all I was really after was a healthy alternative to ranch dressing for my kids to dip their carrot sticks in, and sundried tomato anything is really not their thing...or my husbands. In fact, sundried tomato anything is so far from being his thing and so much a part of things I find irresistible that he will tease that if it has lemon, vanilla, cinnamon or sundried tomatoes in the ingredients, I will eat it...no matter what it is. The it in question could be a steaming heap of cow dung, but if sprinkled with a little sundried tomatoes, I'd have a hard time keeping my fork off it.

So now that you understand how much I really love sundried tomatoes and I'd have bought a whole GALLON of the sundried tomato hummus had I had the opportunity, you can understand my displeasure upon finding only a tag with the words sundried tomato hummus on it, below an empty spot on the shelf where the goodness should have been. I hung my head in disappointment, held back the tears.

There was garlic hummus, traditional hummus, hummus with ingredients I'd never heard of. There was hummus in large containers and small containers and containers in between. Hummus. Hummus. Hummus.

How on earth would I choose?

Garlic? Maybe, but what if the kids run around with garlic breath all week thinking they can scare away the entire cast of the Twilight movies?

Big, super-sized container? Maybe, but what if we don't eat it all and then it goes to waste? Or, what if they leave it out on the picnic table accidentally and the dog gets ahold of it and then has accidents all over the house (on the carpet) and I have to clean it up in the middle of the night like that one time he ate the raw egg?

As I stood there, pondering the effects of each variety of hummus available, it suddenly dawned on me, like a neon light flashing "OPEN" in the middle of nowhere or that funny lady in the commercials standing outside the department store the morning of a huge sale opening and closing her hands rapidly saying, "OPEN OPEN OPEN," I'd just get the traditional, in a size I knew would make sense.

Problem solved.

But do you know how long I stood there, trapped in some kind of alternate hummus universe actually thinking?

A long time.

Thing is, I love - rather, appreciate - that we live where there are so many choices available to us. No better place is this more evident than down a supermarket's aisles, with rows upon rows of everything under the sun available in fat free! light! jumbo! reduced! low carb! high fiber! single serve! economy pack!

But sometimes, all I want is a little hummus. Enough for my kids to dip their carrot sticks in all week without an added flavor that nobody but me would love (although guessing from it's lack of being on the shelf, that stuff is pretty tasty).

I realized that having my kids in the grocery store with me - tagging along begging for candy and squirt guns - keeps me from standing in one place, pondering pondering pondering, why it is there are so many kinds of hummus.

Because don't I have better things to do with my time?

*Originally posted in 2009

Cupcake

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 19:25:00 +0000

Local Cupcake

That husband of mine, he knows me well...

Thank you, Oven Monkey Bakery

Good For Your Heart Lemon Tart

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 23:09:00 +0000

Don't let the looks of this thing fool you, it's really incredibly easy. And if you're feeling like I am - kinda run down, kinda tired, kinda uninspired and in need of a long winter's nap when it isn't even winter yet*- well, this may be the tart for you!

I'm not kidding.

It will make you feel like summer.

Next thing you know you'll be running around in your tankini with your sunglasses on and a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic in your hand (and your neighbors will all think you've lost your mind).

Well, maybe.

Good for your Heart Lemon Tart

3 large eggs
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice (2-3 lemons)
3/4 cup sugar
4 TBsp unsalted butter, room temp, cut in small pieces
1 TBsp lemon zest

for pastry crust:

1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 tsp salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg

Lemon curd: In a stainless steel bowl placed over a saucepan of simmering water, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and lemon juice until blended. Cook, whisking or stirring constantly (to prevent it from curdling), until the mixture becomes pale in color and quite thick (like a hollandaise sauce or sour cream). This will take about 10 minutes. Remove from heat and immediately pour through a fine strainer to remove any lumps. Cut the butter into small pieces and whisk into the mixture until the butter has melted. Add the lemon zest, cover, and let cool to room temperature before filling the pastry crust. Put in the refrigerator, covered with plastic wrap to avoid getting a film on top of the gorgeous curd you just slaved over.

Try with all of your might not to dip your finger in there and sample. I won't tell if you do.

Now, it's time to make the pastry crust.

Mix the dry ingredients together in a separate bowl. In a mixer, beat the butter until smooth. Add the sugar and egg until well blended, then slowly add the dry ingredients. Form the dough into a ball and cover in plastic wrap, flattening slightly until it resembles a disc. Or a spaceship. Whichever you prefer. Chill for about 30 minutes.

Take dough out of refrigerator and turn out onto a lightly floured surface. Roll it out to about a 12 inch circle. Don't worry if it doesn't look perfect - pastry dough never looks perfect but believe me, nobody will notice when they're devouring the finished product!

Place the pastry into a tart pan and press the dough up the sides so that a nice "lip" is formed on the outer edge. Prick the bottom of the pastry with a fork several times and bake in a 400 degree oven until just slightly golden brown. You do not want to overbake this bad boy because you want it to be delicate and flaky.

After the pastry has cooled, spread it with that tantalizing lemon curd you made earlier (if there's any left). You can get super fancy and make designs with it or even pipe sweetened whipped cream around the edges. I like to keep mine simple and just spread it in there and then top with fresh raspberries. Oh yes. Yum.

And if that doesn't cheer you up, I don't know what will!

*Originally posted in October, 2010

Just. Because.

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 00:37:00 +0000

They kinda make me smile.

Not My Turn

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

Written on January 6, 2011 - it has a happy ending...

I'm writing because I have to. In one hour I will be in the car, on my way yet again to the Comprehensive Breast Center and I won't be able to write. I won't be able to think. I'll function on auto pilot, letting the valet park our car, checking in like everybody else does and sitting in the crowded waiting room trying to keep my husband calm as we both wait for them to call my name.

Then I'll go back into the little room resembling a locker room, except with really ugly "shirts" that all patients wear. They look like the material on the couch of a really old RV, with teal ties to secure them shut. I'd like to have a few words with whoever chose this pattern and thought, "Hey, what a wonderful thing for a woman to sit around in while waiting for her mammogram."

I'd rather be naked.

Ok, maybe not.

Last time I was there 2 weeks ago, a woman paced like an angry cat waiting to be called back for her ultrasound after they "found something" on her mammogram. I sat there, with my locker key springing up and down from my wrist, pretending to read Coastal Living as I tried with all my might to will good thoughts in her direction as she walked back and forth, back and forth. They finally called her name and I forced a smile in her direction, although I know she never saw it, as she exited the room.

I so don't want to be that woman today.

Obviously, I have to go back. Obviously, I'm petrified. I've been fighting with myself all week since getting the call that there had "been changes" in my left breast and I needed to come back in for "further testing."

I resisted the urge to google, for about a day. Dense breast tissue. Abnormal mammogram following a hysterectomy. What causes dense breast tissue? Mom had breast cancer, should I be worried? Abnormal mammogram at age 38.

I highly recommend not googling anything more intense than how to bake a mayonnaise chocolate cake or how to remove grass stains from baseball pants.

I go back and forth in my mind between telling myself that everything is fine, only a few abnormal mammograms actually end up being cancer and I have no reason to worry. I figure that positive thoughts are they only way to occupy the days between getting the call and getting more information. I mean, why waste all of my time worrying and stressing out, right? But then I start worrying even more because if I don't worry, I'll surely have cancer and then what will I do?

Does it have to be like this everytime I get an abnormal mammogram? Is it going to be like this for the rest of my life?

I had a few minor breast issues before, but they never ever have called me back for MORE TESTING.

And that is exactly what I'm so freaked out about. The more. The call. The lack of an envelope in my mailbox telling me "all tests were normal, please come back and see us in a year." That is what is making this week of waiting hard. That is what is causing the fear and the crushing feeling that my time could and may very well be limited. I can't help myself. What else am I supposed to do?

In the past year and a half, my mother and THREE friends have all been diagnosed with breast cancer. My mom finished radiation and has been doing great following her lumpectomy in July 2010. My friends have all had double mastectomies. They are all under 45.

Will I be as strong as they have been? Will I need to be? Am I making no sense at all and worrying over absolutely nothing?

I have no idea.

But I'd like to be surprised with the news that my worrying was for nothing.

Because I'm not sure I could fight like they did. I'm not sure I could do what they're doing. Every month I stand up in front of the Relay For Life crowd here in my hometown and encourage our teams to fundraise and educate themselves about cancer prevention. How am I going to do that if I have cancer too? And if I don't have cancer, how come I got off this time while so many others don't?

It could drive a person crazy, this type of thinking.

I just want to be wrong.

I want to have warded off cancer. I don't want it to be my turn. I don't want to be 1 in 8. I want to be brave enough to face each future mammogram thinking only about the fact that Aflac will give me a check for getting this necessary test done and not one little bit about the fact that it could be me. I could have cancer. And then I hate myself because I feel like I'm asking too much, I'm being selfish.

So for today, for right now, since I have to leave here in 20 minutes (yes, it took me a long time to get this out via my keyboard), I'd like to have worried for nothing, selfish as that may be.

And some crazy part of me thinks that by writing this, I will have accomplished that.

*Turns out, hysterectomies (even if they DO leave your ovaries) can cause some pretty major hormone fluctuations (which I kind of assumed, given oh, the HOT FLASHES, MOODINESS, IRRITABILITY, INSOMNIA and WEIGHT GAIN) that can also cause breast changes as well, which is exactly what landed me back at the Comprehensive Breast Center.

While I now understand why they needed to take a closer look at my breast, I also received a very stark reminder of why it is so, so, so important to have these tests done regularly and early, especially if you have a family history.

And I also know that next year, when they keep me longer to take a closer look, I won't be so scared because this is me. This is my normal, and that's nothing to be afraid of.

It's Only Monday

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:06:00 +0000

I smoothed her creased forehead, her arms practically strangling my neck during the nightly ritual of putting her to bed. I don't mind the not being able to breathe momentarily while she clings to me, just one more hug mama. But it's the breaking away that becomes so difficult, especially during this time of year when all I can think about is getting them all to bed so I can bake and wrap and do all the things that busy people everywhere are doing to get ready for the holidays, which seems like an endless (but fulfilling when you collapse to bed after midnight 10 days in a row) chore.

I love Christmas.

I love the closeness we all feel, even if sometimes I get a tad bit claustrophobic from the togetherness. I love the tree, lit up, glowing in the window while the outside blankets itself in frost for the night. I love the stockings hanging over the fire, the candles lit and a few kiddos playing a board game on the floor. I love the cookies and the treats and the libations. I love it all.

But I'd be lying if I said it was easy.

No matter how much I plan ahead, how prepared I think I am or how ready the house looks, I am a complete mess during this time of year. How do I get it all done? How do I keep my kids from fighting everyday? How do I make sure I didn't forget anyone on my list? How do I keep my sanity?

Nighttime has and always will be my soft place to land. I pry her fingers from my neck one by one, reminding her that yes she does really have almost 2 whole weeks of Christmas vacation left and yes it's only Monday, I promise. I sprinkle her forehead with no less than 10 sprinkles for sweet dreams, refresh her ice water and tuck her and her monkey in under the soft comforter. Then and only then is it time to get to work on the things that seem impossible to do during the day.

And it's like this every day until Christmas. The constant busy.

While I feel incredibly blessed to have wonderful family and friends to share holiday memories with, I wish there was a way I could not make it all feel so...so...much. I wish I knew how to give myself peace, everyday, so I could pass that along to my kids, instead of the frenzied mess of a mom I feel like. And it's only Monday...

An Open Letter to THOSE PARENTS

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 17:55:00 +0000

For all you parents who are brave enough to drive your small children to school everywhere, this one's for you.

Dear Crazy Parent (usually a Mom, but I don't want to stereotype) in the Drop-Off Loop at the Elementary School,

GET A CLUE.

Parking loops are not a new-fangled thing. In fact, they have existed for a very long time and should be no surprise to anyone when they encounter them in a school parking lot. Unlike the round-about, there are no complex set of rules or multiple lanes going several directions to confuse you. There are just a few guidelines, and they are very simple.

You go in.

Your child gets out of your car.

You go out.

See? Simple.

NOT ROCKET SCIENCE.

This does not mean stop your car in the middle of the line, go around to the other side, unbuckle your 4th grader, give them a lecture and a kiss on the head, pat their bottom as you stand there (car door ajar) waving, fighting back a lone tear watching them walk to the doors until their entire body is inside the school while the cars in line behind you begin to back up into the street.

The school has about 4 helpers out there in brightly colored vests seeing to it that the children get inside the school, I'm pretty sure that nothing is going to happen to your kid in the 10 yards from your car door to the school. But I guess you can't be too careful...

Do not stop your car after you've just ejected your child out the sunroof to talk to a girlfriend you haven't seen since yesterday after the morning spinning class when you met for a grande quadruple iced caramel mocha americano. Making it an americano doesn't make it healthier, by the way.

Do not gun up one of the center parking lanes and try to cut in line. This is an elementary school for goodness sakes! If you're in that much of a hurry please just stop on the corner and push your child out of your car. Then you can be on your merry little way.

(I don't suggest that anyone actually DO that last one)

And one more thing, if you are being particularly impatient and decide to go into the center parking area to walk your child in, please LOOK BOTH WAYS before crossing the line of cars who ARE actually following the rules. Nobody likes to see that much blood that early in the morning if you happen to get hit by a car. Besides, that would scare the children.

So you see, like I said before, NOT ROCKET SCIENCE.

Happy Holidays,
A Concerned Parent

PS. If you have any problem understanding the rules, please just send your child on the bus and save us all the headache and exasperation.

I heart Oslo

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 00:37:00 +0000

After cleaning up the kitchen, running the dishwasher for a 2nd time because that's what happens when you cook a big Sunday dinner, I sat. The kids were all sleeping, the dog was quietly snoring, dreaming of chasing something. The cat had decided to grace us with her presence, something she does every night around ten when the house becomes hers.

The fire in the fireplace warmed the room as we decompressed after the busy weekend.

Nights are my favorite.

My husband thinks I'm nuts but this time, when everything is done, is my time (well, and the cats too, but don't tell her I said that). It's like the world is on hold and I can breathe because nothing else is going to happen for at least six or even seven hours if I'm lucky.

Sunday nights are our TV night. Until last week we would engage in a 3-show marathon that went like this: The Walking Dead, Homeland and Dexter. Last night, it was only a 2-show night because The Walking Dead is on break until February. There are only 2 more weeks of Homeland and Dexter so who knows what we'll do for fun on Sunday nights after that?

I'm sure we'll figure it out.

If you've been watching Homeland on Showtime (and a'hem, why wouldn't you????) you know it's a CIA/espionage/political thriller. We really enjoy it. I joked with my Aunt (who also watches) over Thanksgiving that it reminds me a little of her when I watch it because once upon a time, long, long ago, she was in the CIA.

But she can't talk about it.

Don't even ask her.

I'm serious.

Anyway, the main character is a CIA agent played by Claire Danes and yadda yadda yadda...it's obviously got us hooked.

I sat with the bulk of the Sunday paper on my lap, sifting through the holiday ads, making piles of those I really wanted to look at later and those that were just going straight to the recycle bin. Brett sat plucking as quietly as he could at his new guitar (thank you eBay). Suddenly, a bomb went off in a park.

On the TV, not in my living room.

But I may as well have been.

I clutched the flimsy advertisements, stacking them into a neat pile, looking away from the screen. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't swallow. I'm sure I appeared completely normal on the outside, but on the inside I was a mess.

When we came home from our trip to Denmark in July, I tried to compartmentalize everything that had happend when we visited Oslo. First, I had to explain it to my children. We didn't want my parents trying to tell them that their mom and dad were fine, but these are the facts about what happened because really, what kid needs to hear that while their parents are still half a world away? Then, I tried to understand it. I tried to learn about it. I tried to understand the events in a way that would make sense to me. I told the story to friends. I told the story to family.

We shared that day in Oslo with our loved ones hoping that by retelling it, we would give it less power over us. At least that is what I was trying to do.

Turns out, that doesn't always work.

I remember in the first few weeks home, I read a beautiful article written by a young man who had a connection to the Utoya event that immediatley followed the Oslo bombing. He wrote that the bomber, Anders, could not take anything away from him or the people of Norway. He was stong and brave and full of hope. I took strength from his words. I felt peace when I read them. I felt happy that in the wake of violence, light still existed.

And I wonder, and I hope as I go through this day of incredible emotion and sorrow for the experience that we had on that day, the day my husband took my hand after the people started running towards us in downtown Oslo after the explosion, looked at me and said "Nice, easy jog back to the boat, here we go." I wonder how those other people are feeling, those who experienced much more than we had. Those who lost so much more, not just a few hours of a vacation abroad.

I hope they're doing okay.

Teenage Wisdom

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 22:00:00 +0000

A hockey puck makes an excellent drain stopper for your bathtub.

A frisbee does not.

~ McRae, age 14

And so, the mystery of why I kept finding a hockey puck in the kids bathtub has been solved.

She

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 00:19:00 +0000

After many, many years of trying she had finally learned how to whistle properly.

I can't even type the word properly without smiling because really, is there a proper way to whistle? I suppose so. And I would suppose the notes escaping my daughters pursed lips don't resemble anything even remotely close to proper whistling - but that matters not.

When she began this newly acquired trick a few months ago, she was so so proud.

"Check it out mom, I'm whistling!" She would shout while running past me in the kitchen. Up until then, all whistling was done by inhalation only, so I suppose the magic of finally doing it while exhaling was quite exhilarating for her.

A few hours later, still whistling.

The next day, still whistling.

A week later, still whistling.

My husband and I exchanged many a glance, widening our eyes and chuckling just a teeny tiny bit (quietly so nobody could hear us) and we wondered if it would ever stop.

Of course, there was no whistling allowed at the dinner table.

And no whistling past bedtime.

No whistling in school and no whistling during homework.

But other than that, the air in our home (and outside of it for that matter) was filled with the sounds of a whistling 2nd grader. Whistling while she played with her paper dolls. Whistling while she brushed her teeth (she's a talented one, that she is). Whistling while drawing. Whistling while Wii-ing (that's a verb, right). Whistling. Whistling. Whistling.

So much so that I became rather immune to it.

And then I didn't realize that the whistling had actually become a little bit less, until it did.

A few hours ago she grabbed a brightly colored glass from the dishwasher as her older brother was emptying it. She held it up in front of her left eye and peered at me through it's purple-hued bottom, grinning. I thought she was going to laugh. Instead, she whistled.

And I remembered that I kind of missed that sound.

Whistling, in the car

#804

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 08:46:00 +0000

Sometimes when I'm feeling all gushy and nostalgic, or searching for those feelings, I'll go back and read old posts; which, much to my surprise, there are exactly eight hundred and three of!

And you people wonder why I don't write as much as I used to?

I've already said everything there is to say!

But ah, that is not the way life is. I may think I have already exhausted every known subject regarding mothering on the face of the planet, but I would be so so wrong. Because really, I've probably only just begun. Life twists and turns and pulls and it's never over at the end of the show when the fat lady sings, oh no, that is when all the fun begins.

And so.

Here I am with TWO teenaged boys and a brand-new eight-year-old daughter.

She was two-years-old when I started writing online. Practically her entire existence has been documented in this vast, voyeuristic, viral world called blogging...which kind of freaks me out just a little bit. To put it in perspective, she was still potty training when I began sharing our lives with The Internet.

And now she talks about getting her ears pierced - which, by the way, she will have to wait another four years for. I may have shared her bathroom accomplishments with the entire world, but I won't let her get her ears pierced before she's twelve. Exactly what kind of mother do you think I am?

Don't answer that.

I have written probably no less than twenty posts about what I lovingly have referred to (IN THE PAST) as "the loud." The loud is what my boys are; my loud, goofy, wrestling one another like he's an alligator boys. For some strange reason, I thought this state of being would only be temporary, certainly not an existence that would span years. Boy was I wrong. Just today, while they were wrestling a la alligator style, one of them sprained his TOE.

Seriously.

I had just about had it come 9pm, when all I wanted was a little (just a bit) peace and quiet so that I could bake my Thanksgiving pies without all that negativity and shooting arrows from my eyeballs karma infecting the delicious desserts we would be consuming tomorrow. It really wasn't so much to ask, at least I didn't think so.

But he who shall remain nameless (okay, my husband...I'm not fooling anyone) disagreed and wanted to spend more quality time with the kids.

Quality time? Are you kidding me. These are the same offspring who no less than 3 hours ago were snorting and running around the house like those hoofed animals in that last Hannibal Lector movie...

But he and I don't always see eye to eye on these issues.

And so a compromise was negotiated and a later bedtime was achieved. I took this opportunity to fold more laundry and sulk in our office because it was the only place in the house not occupied by teenagers or American Girl paraphernalia. As I carefully matched socks and placed t-shirts on top of their respective piles, I dreamed of a 3,000 square foot house with a man cave so many levels below me that I would never, ever see them. I relished in my fantasy as I unloaded the dryer and inhaled the clean scent of the warm towels (incidentally, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the instant gratification of completing - which means from washer to put away - a load of laundry...or 12), folding each one in threes and readying them for their spot in the linen closet. A big house...lots of room...no kids or husband in sight...

And then the buzzer on one of the pies I had in the oven rang and I realized something.

I would miss them.

And for that, my friends, I am truly grateful.

Are you there Chocolate? It's me, Carrie

noreply@blogger.com (carrie) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 00:34:00 +0000

Published in November, 2008. History is repeating itself...

We're already in full holiday swing over here at Casa de Screaming, which brings much joy, happiness and juggling to our already busy schedules.

But it's all worth it, right? The togetherness, the gatherings, the seeing of folk you haven't seen since last winter. Looking out over a crowded kitchen at the happy faces working together to whisk some gravy, stir some ham sauce, or assemble a salad and I can tell you that yes, it is definitely worth it. Even though the thought of getting up in the morning to do it all over again with a different group of people is overwhelming, I'd rather live this full, bursting life than none at all.

As long as there is wine*.

Over the weekend, at the first of our Thanksgiving celebrations, I was talking with a few other moms about raising kids. We discussed the differences in parenting older children versus younger children.

(For the record, I am of the school of thought that parenting, in general, is HARD, no matter what age. I think the challenges just change as kids move from one stage to the next and so you have to adjust accordingly. Potty training to prom dates - while one stage may be more your cup of tea than the other, they both have the potential to be difficult. Thus, upping the ante that if you're experiencing either during the holidays, your chances of becoming an alcoholic by the New Year are increased twofold*.)

We also talked about books. None of them had read any of the Twilight series, so I could not discuss my love for the teenage, angsty, vampire novels and the aftermath of the opening weekend of the movie. One of the moms, when I asked her if she had read any good books lately, answered, "Do Disney books count?"

It's okay, I love her anyway.

Which reminds me, I'm in need of a good book. Any suggestions?

We came home that night just in time to throw the sticky children into bed, put the left over turkey in the refrigerator and watch the first half hour of SNL. Is it me, or is SNL not as funny now that the election is over?

Only to face another bouncy house filled, cake, ice cream, presents, happy kids followed by another family dinner day. Which was perfectly fine by me, in retrospect, because I would need to draw strength from sitting and watching the sunset with my mom the next day when I got an email from a certain Someone Who Shall Remain Unnamed's (aka SWSRU) teacher saying his/her science grade had fallen below a passing mark.

Darn those automatic parental emails!

(Which I totally love.)

So yes, the news that SWSRU's grade has been down graded from a B to an F did not exactly make my day. Further investigating and emailing revealed that there was a missing assignment, a parent signature, of all things, which we had indeed signed, pulling his grade down. All this coming from a child (despite the fact that he/she claims to be mature) who is fully capable of pulling an A in science from his back pocket, left ear or whatever.

Point is, the kid is smart. Scary smart. This should not be happening. So we, as the parents, have to question and second guess and stare into his/her big brown eyes and wonder if he/she is doing everything he/she can to succeed in school, or if there is some form of "the messing around" happening that we should know about.

The good news is that all the kids who have "issues" at school are sent to the Vice Principal, who happens to be the father of a girl in Katie's preschool class. So far, he has no idea who SWSRU is, which means that he/she is staying out of trouble.

But oh, the worry!

Which is why I'm thinking about chocolate when I should be thinking about making pies for Thursday. I'm also hoping that if I drink enough egg nog* I'll forget all about it. And if that doesn't work, maybe watching another sunset will.

Unfortunately, this is one of those rough patches in parenting an older child that I'd, quite frankly, like to skip. I'd take potty training over this any day.

So, yes, read any good books lately?

*Not that I'd know from personal experience. All references to alcohol in this post are purely for dramatic effect.