Information Dump

It's official.  I'm the busiest person in the world.  I just nominated myself, voted for myself and declared myself the winner.  Not that winning that particular category is a good thing.

The last two weeks have been brutal, mostly due to end-of-school activities. We've been hit with three, all-day field trips (I've been to the zoo twice), three concerts, three classroom parties, two sleepovers, Matthew's birthday and subsequent party and Katie's graduation with a party following that.  Throw in track practice, ballet, cub scouts and a track meet and I'm ready to light my hair on fire.  Tomorrow is our last day of school and all I can say is: BRING ON THE SUMMER, BABY. 

My folks visited for a large part of the last two weeks and saved my life by helping with all the chaos.  They are so fun to have around - real easy-going and adaptable.  Their visits are always too short and they left last Saturday.  Mom and Dad please come back!  I'm runnin' on fumes here! 

Gramps helped the boys with their reading homework almost every night. I certainly couldn't help them. I was busy keeping my mom supplied with sangria while she made dinner. It was a

situation that worked for everybody.  By the way, that sangria?  It's the most AWESOME sangria in the history of sangria in the universe.  I'll make you some, too, if you make me dinner.  

When I wasn't using my mom as slave labor in the kitchen, I let her play games with the kids.

 

Gram and Gramps even got in some badminton with the boys.  I let the folks go outside occasionally, and get some fresh air.  Which brings me to the kids' first track meet . . . .

Look at Daniel run!  More importantly, look at that smile.  Talk about a change in attitude. He's still a little hesitant to take part - only wanted to run the 100m - but he loved it.  What a change from our first track practice.

Gram and Gramps were there to cheer him on.

We had a lot of fun during their visit and kept them pretty busy with all the activities I mentioned above. Translated: they left here exhausted and ready for a vacation.  

Not really.  My mom has more energy than I do, probably because she's such a health aficionado.  She fixed about 800 pounds of salad and veggies during their visit.  She also helped me bake.  Like, a lot.   

We had the Bonners over after Katie's graduation and Mom and I made treats. As in the NON-HEALTHY kind.  Poor Mom.  Heavy cream, butter and lots of white sugar.  She's in detox as I write this.  

Dawn and Glenn, you guys expect treats at our house, right?  I mean, if I didn't promise a buffet of sugar, would you come? Unfortunately, Lilly couldn't make it.  She was probably afraid her manicure would be repeated, er, I mean ruined.  

Continuing our baking extravaganza, mom and I made a cake, brownies, rhubarb cobbler and homemade ice cream.

I didn't become a fan of rhubarb until the past year, never realizing how wonderfully tart and tasty it is.  Lord have mercy, the rhubarb cobbler we made was, in a word, sublime. My interest is caught by any new recipe that has something quirky about it.  The biscuit recipe that tops this cobbler was exactly that.  It called for 2 hard-boiled egg yolks to be ground up in the food processor along with the dry ingredients.  Isn't that odd?  That sparked my interest but the flavor of the biscuits is what made me a fan. This is my new, go-to cobbler recipe.  Try it and tell me what you think.

Better yet, make it then CALL ME.  I'll bring the homemade ice cream and we can have us some good eatin'. 

Oh, Baby Girl!

My baby graduated last week. I should clarify - she graduated from kindergarten. That means, beginning next fall, all my kids will be in school full time. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm just selfish enough to think, "Woo Hoo! An entire day of quietness - FIVE DAYS IN A ROW! Yee haw!" Then I remember how much fun my kids are and how good they are and I know I'll miss them when school rolls around. I'm great at chewing on something that WON'T EVEN HAPPEN FOR ANOTHER THREE MONTHS. Sheesh - like I don't have anything else to concern me now. Anyway, back to kindergarten graduation and the antics there.

Gram and Gramps were here from Kansas for the big event. . . .

. . . . and Gram curled Katie's hair. Katie LOVED it and kept playing with it. Even during the program.

Since Katie's tall, she always stands on the back row of the risers during her programs. She must have fixed her hair twenty times during the pre-graduation program. Do you think anyone noticed?

Do you think anyone noticed when she opened her diploma folder and KEPT IT OPEN THE ENTIRE TIME THE REST OF THE KIDS WERE GRADUATING? All the other kids kept theirs folded neatly and held them down by their sides. I wonder if the parents of the little girl, receiving her diploma here, wanted Katie's diploma in the background of the pictures they were inevitably taking? Never mind, they probably didn't notice.

Do you think anyone noticed when, as the class was all standing together on the risers, getting their picture taken, she was doing this? I don't know where she gets it. Probably from Duane's side of the family.

We can only hope that she will someday break out of her shell and become a confident young lady instead of the painfully shy, insecure, little girl she appears to be.

For You Mitford Fans

My folks have been visiting from Kansas for a little over a week and we've had so much fun! The days have been packed with field trips, ballet, track and (drumroll, please) cooking. To be more specific, baking. Whenever Mom is here, we always come up with a new recipe to try. It's usually something decadent and sugary. Seriously, if you're going to the trouble of baking from scratch, shouldn't it be decadent? Sugar content is key, people.

In the past we've made cover recipes from Bon Appetit, new and improved zucchini bread, whole wheat bread (grinding our own wheat for the flour, thank you very much) and whoopie pies. I must confess, we made the whoopie pies not only because they looked good, but also because the name is a hoot. Really - doesn't saying the words "whoopie pie" make you smile?

So does eating them, my friends, so does eating them.

This week we made a cake we've both had our eyes on for several years. It's a cake that is mentioned frequently and with great reverence in the Mitford books. These are a wonderful series of books written by a gifted writer named Jan Karon. Her books are a heartwarming, cozy glimpse of lives in the fictional town of Mitford. Mom and I both love these books. If you haven't read them, I can't recommend them more highly. Ooh, sorry. Major tangent. I could go on and on about Mitford but let's move on to the caloric part of the blog, shall we?

One of the characters in Mitford is a lady named Esther Bolick. Esther is known for her famous two-layer orange marmalade cakes. They published the recipe several years ago and Mom and I gave it a whirl this week. The cake was great but my expectations were so high, I think I doomed it from the start. I mean, I've been reading about this cake for almost 10 years. I wanted it to be the best thing I'd ever put in my mouth. I wanted it to change my life. Neither of those things happened but it was still a good cake. It was moist and flavorful and the best part was the frosting. Whipped cream (the stuff that dreams are made of - really.) with sour cream folded in. Can I just say - oh . . my . . word. The frosting was fabulous. I want to marry the frosting.

We baked more things this week but this cake was the first one out of the chute. I'll tell you about the others soon. We have so many high-calorie leftovers around here. It's definitely not helping my looking-hot-in-Hawaii self-improvement project.

However, since you're such good friends and all, I'll save you a piece of cake if you bring me a latte. I'm easy that way.

Lilly The High Maintenance Dog

Lilly, the sweetest dog in the world, spent the weekend with us. It was a short visit this time but we managed to corrupt her as much as we could. She ate cat food. She got hugs and pets and cuddles all day long. She also got . . . .

. . . a manicure. Riddle me this; how many people does it take to paint a lab's toenails?

Answer: three. Me (doing the actual painting of said toenails), my mom (who, along with my dad, is visiting from Kansas and who came up with the idea of the manicure ((dogicure?)) and Katie, who scratched Lilly's tummy and fed her a steady stream of cat food pellets to keep her quiet while we were doing our artistry.

Lilly's toenails are "Caribbean Coral" a lovely shade of hot pink. It coordinated well with her pink tutu which is laying off to the side in the above picture.

When Dawn and Glenn came to pick her up last night, Lilly was in the full regalia, complete with a gold crown. I took a ton of pictures of the shenanigans, hoping to have a bunch from which to choose. But, being the big dork that I am, they were mostly blurry because I was laughing so hard I couldn't hold the camera still.

Lilly's such a good sport. So are you, Dawn and Glenn. We'll watch Lilly any time. ANY TIME AT ALL.

We girls do better with a spa day every now and then.

I Want to Be High Maintenance

That's right. I want to be high maintenance. But I don't want to WORK at it, for crying out loud. I guess that means I just want to look high maintenance. Is that possible? I know it's shallow but is it possible?

See, I have friends who always, always, ALWAYS look good. Jenny, Davi, Patti, Dawn - you guys know who you are. My sister-in-law, Jennifer, is another one. They have on makeup every time I see them. They wear cute clothes every day and they do this thing called ACCESSORIZING (did I say that right?) with, you know, jewelry and . . and . . . SCARVES and stuff.

Don't even get me started on the manicures and pedicures. They do that on a regular basis too. It's all part of the high maintenance package. When I look at these girls I think, "WOW!" In a I-wish-I-could-look-like-that way. AND ANOTHER THING - they don't just look good, they look hip and groovy.

Long, long ago, I used to look good, minus the manicures and pedicures and groovy part. I worked at Talbots and wore their style of clothes - blazers, khakis, skirts, tailored shirts. You have to admit, Talbots clothes look nice but hip and groovy are not words I'd use to describe the Talbots look.

So, when did I lose it? What in the good Lord's Name has happened to me? Look at this:

This is me, circa yesterday, on Mother's Day. This is as good as it gets. This is MY BEST. Scary, huh? I'm wearing a necklace I saw on somebody else. I didn't pick it out myself - Davi is the one with taste - I just copied her. I wear jewelry once a week. To church.

I used to look like this on a regular basis:

I know you recognize the hot guy on the right, that's Duane. The woman to his right is me, 11 years ago. OK, I understand I'm skinnier in this picture - WILL YOU QUIT LOOKING AT DUANE AND LOOK AT ME - but it's not just that. My hair looks good, I'm wearing makeup and jewelry and I look put together. "Put together" are two words that people do not generally associate with me. Words people associate with me (besides smart ass) are "sweat pants, blue coat and bad-hair day". Is it possible for me to change? Even if it's possible, I don't know what's hip and groovy anymore and the thought of researching it makes my brain freeze.

The thing that's brought about this identity crisis, besides having to look at myself every fracking day, is that we're going to Hawaii in June. Prior to this trip, I'm going to attempt something relatively high maintenance. I'm going to start tanning.

I'll wait for you to stop laughing. Waiting . . . still waiting . . . STOP LAUGHING I TELL YOU.

So, I'm going to start tanning - will you PLEASE stop laughing - DON'T MAKE ME STOP THIS CAR. I figure tan cellulite will look better than pasty white cellulite.

Another thing that's making me want to light my hair on fire? I need to get clothes for the trip. ARRRGGHHH! How am I ever going to pull it off? Honestly, I've turned into this person who goes into camera stores and drools over lenses and battery packs and filters. I'd LIKE to be a girlie-girl who goes into Chicos or J. Jill and has a clue but I'm overwhelmed by the thought. I just have no style or taste anymore. I'm a mutant.

But at least I'll be a tan mutant. So there.

OCD? Sadly, yes.

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I bandy this term around quite a bit, mostly in reference to myself. I certainly don't mean to insult anyone who has a legit diagnosis with a legit prescription for Prozac. However, it sure is easy to call myself OCD when I look at my lists and my high expectations for dishwasher loading.

This is my planner, thoughtfully decorated by Katie with a peeling Disney princess. I can only find this planner at expensive office supply stores. I've been buying this thing since 1996. It's around $28 which means I've spent close to $400 on planners. Somebody help me. If the At-a-Glance people ever stop making this baby, I'll need an intervention.

This is the inside, ingeniously turned to this month. This thing has the months displayed in full plus other pages for weekly planning. The pink page holds The List - my ongoing list of tasks for the month and lookey there! It's only the eighth of May and The List is half-way down the page. I'm constantly checking this list and adding to it. Here's where the OCD kicks in: I LOVE to check things off. I have been known to put something on The List - something I've already done - just so I can check it off. You already knew I had issues.

I actually have three different lists going on this page; tasks, shopping and cards. The shopping list is for gifts, and this month is a whopper. Yesterday I mailed seven gifts for birthdays, graduations and Mother's Day. There are more waiting in the wings. The card list is for cards I want to make to send with the gifts.

I love to make cards. I made this card for my father-in-law's birthday. He's a farmer, hence the tractors.

*SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT*

Please don't hesitate to call Karenpie for all your card and invitation needs!

This is the weekly part. I like to plan meals and put our appointments and practices here. If I have a busy day, I put my daily list here too. Which brings me to today. I have no less than eight things to do, all before track practice at 5 pm, and all which will take at least 1-2 hours each. I'm over-scheduled but will kill myself trying to do it all. Then when I can't, I'll beat myself up about it and feel like a failure. And it will all be my fault because I have unrealistic, OCD expectations. I always (jokingly) say I'm "one of those women who can do it all" but I'm really not. I just wish I was.

Anybody up for a (volunteer) job as a personal assistant?

Oooh! I'll pay you in cards!

These people used to live with me.

When my kids were babies, people would tell me, "Enjoy these days. They grow up so fast." At the time, I was sleep-deprived, breast-feeding every 3 hours and a bit isolated. I would say to myself, "Right. Whatever." Well, whaddaya know - it's true. My babies HAVE grown up. They've changed so quickly it boggles my mind. I'm sure I'm the first parent who's felt that way.

Just look at those cheeks - I want to kiss them, drool and all.

And this one? Oh, you're killing me with that toothless smile.

Chubby cheeks and twinkly eyes. I'm a goner.

I'll just have to content myself with these kissable cheeks . . .

. . . and this toothless smile . . .

. . .and these twinkly eyes.

Every so often I'll indulge myself and make them act like my babies again. I grab them, pull them onto my lap and ask, "What's a baby say?" They get irritated and say, "Mo-om! Quit it!" I tickle them and by the time they eventually force out the words, "ga-ga, goo-goo", we're all laughing. Oh, I tell you it's hard, corralling those long legs and arms and dodging those sharp, boney elbows and knees.

I'll be paying for therapy some day but it'll be worth it.

I lie to my kids. Is that a problem?

Before I make you aware of yet another of my character flaws, I thought I'd share a little of what's going on in my yard . . .

Look - my lilacs are blooming! Oh, how I love the smell of lilacs. Duane got me lilac bushes for Mother's Day the first year we lived here. We have eight of them and they grow in big hedges in the front yard along the property line. When they're blooming I can open my front windows and let the fragrance into my house.

I big-puffy-pink-heart them so!

The tulips are blooming, too. Our tulips are so yummy, they make my mouth water.

Let's move on to the reason you are going to shell out your own money to pay for my therapy.

I lie to my kids.

Does anybody else do it? C'mon, throw me a bone here - I absolutely CANNOT be the only warped parent, can I? OK, let me say I don't lie about everything - sheesh, I have some scruples - I just lie about the important stuff.

A couple of weeks ago, I got into a conversation with the kids about cooties. Cooties are HUGE in grade school. The possibility of catching cooties makes the kids curious. There they were, all three of them, lined up at the kitchen counter eating an after school snack (because I want to be June Cleaver, minus the pearls and hairdo). I was distracted and barely listening to their conversation when the word "cooties" came up. Unfortunately, they sought my opinion.

Daniel: "Hey, Mom. Are cooties real?"

Matthew: "Yeah, Mom. They aren't real are they?"

Me: "Well guys, yes they are, and you need to protect yourselves from them."

Matthew: "No sir! Um . . what happens when you get cooties?"

Me: "You get sick so the best thing to do is stay away from cootie carriers."

Daniel: "How do you get cooties, Mom (not sure if he believes me yet)?"

Me (thinking fast): "Boys get cooties from girls and girls get cooties from boys. You get them when you hug or kiss or hold hands. You can't get them from just sitting by somebody. You also can't get cooties from somebody you're related to - me or Katie or Gram and Gramps.

By this time all the kids were looking at me with a faintly concerned look. Should they be worried? Should they believe me? Am I, yet again, messing with them?

Me: "Cooties are dangerous and you need to be careful until you're thirty. That's when you become immune to them. After thirty, cooties get really weak and can't make you sick."

Oh, I tell you, it was HARD keeping a straight face. I'm OK with my kids not dating until they're thirty. I figure, if they ask me, I'm going with the answer that will make my life easier. Here's another scenario that happened last Easter, as we were coloring eggs:

Matthew: "Hey Mom, is the Easter bunny real?"

Me: "Well buddy, what do you think? Do you think a giant bunny hops around once a year and delivers colored chicken eggs to people?"

Matthew: "No. I don't think the Easter bunny's real. I think it's you and Dad."

Me: "You're right, it's us. Easter is about Jesus and what He did for us on the cross. Easter bunny stuff is extra."

Daniel then jumped into the conversation, "What about the tooth fairy?"

Me: "What do YOU think about the tooth fairy?"

Daniel: "I think it's you and Dad."

Me: "Well, you're right. Dad and I pretend to be the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy. How do you feel about that? Are you disappointed or sad?" They thought about that for a few seconds and said,

"Nah. We don't care".

Then came the biggie. The monster question. The mother of is-this-for-real questions. The one I've been dreading since the day they were born.

"Mom, what about Santa Claus? Is he for real?"

I didn't even hesitate.

"Oh yes, Santa's real. He's the real deal. The other ones? The tooth fairy and Easter bunny? Not real. But Santa sure is. You can totally believe in Santa. But you know that Christmas is about Jesus' birth, right? Santa is a really fun part of Christmas but not the best part, OK?"

Hook. Line. Sinker. I'm NEVER ratting out Santa. Ever. I will proclaim the realness of Santa until the day I die. If the kids go on their first dates as thirty year-olds, still believing in Santa, so be it.

We can all be in therapy together.