Cheap and Easy Potato Soup

I used to make this every Sunday for about four years.  It makes enough to take to lunch every day for the week and costs about $10.00 total for the entire recipe (less if you buy store brand like me). 
So if you are saving your calories and watching your wallet this time of year, this is the recipe for you.

Potato Soup:
One big bag frozen hashbrowns
1 packet white southern gravy mix (dry)
One or two boxes chicken stock
One small onion, minced (or chopped if you are lazy like me)

Dump it all in a slow cooker, stir it all together and cook until kind of creamy; about four to five hours on high.

If you want to make this for dinner, add some shredded cheese, a little bacon, some chives, and a dollop of sour cream, which is probably more caloric than the soup, itself.  I always like the accoutrements, though. 

So save a little money, save a little dough; Christmas is coming, doncha know?

The C Word

Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean Christmas. 

I have a hard time with the commercialization of this holiday.  I get worked up over back to school stuff in July;  I'm irritated by Halloween stuff going up right after school starts; and I really, really can't stand Christmas hooey hitting the aisles before I have even completely thawed a turkey for Thanksgiving.  And what is it with bathing suits stocking the stores before I even get the courage to step on the scale in January? There is subliminal commercial insult there.  I know it.

I am also Grinched Out by the fact that people spend way too much money on this holiday, not to mention that some actually begin buying for the following year the day after Christmas.  Indeed, I am not a fan of this holiday.  I prefer Thanksgiving: eat, drink, be merry, but don't decorate the house, the lawn, or buy pesents.  I  know that I may be talking out of both sides of my mouth, given that I have been posting recipes for the holidays for a couple of weeks now.  I should have titled them as Thanksgiving Holiday Recipes, but I was remiss. 

Now, if I could get away with bagging the C word altogether, I would be full in; however, I have a husband who loves the C word and children who should probably have it as part of their childhood memories.  I would love to drop the decorations, the tree, and the suburbian pressure to decorate the house with lights, tacky blow up figures, and sleighs on the roof. I saw a sign the other day for a company that "does Christmas lights".  Seriously?  I almost called to see how much they charged just so I could feel superior.

My very first adult Christmas tree came into my house because my roommates at the time, Jonathan and Stephen, decided that I needed a little holiday cheer.  I bah humbugged them, but I lost the battle.  The house looked great, the outside was uplit like nobody's business, and the boys were smug.  The bastards moved out right after Christmas, though, leaving me to clean up all that Crap (another C for Christmas). 

Then I got married, and we had our first "couple tree".  The "couple tree" was really a "baby-makes-three tree", because the girl child appeared  in the womb approximately five days after we said, "I do."  That's another story for another blog (actually, I touched on that in one of my first forays into this blogging business).  So we did the Christmas thing. It was small; it was quaint;  I'm not a huge fan, remember?  Then the girl child appeard in the flesh, and Christmas took on a whole new meaning.  Toys and books from inlaws, beautiful layettes from others, and more stuff than a child could ever need began to appear under the tree. 

Now we have two little ones roaming around with sparkles in their eyes and lots of ideas for what Santa will bring.  They don't watch television that has commercials, but pre-school is enough of a commercial for anyone. Everything that H sees goes on the list for Santa.  The boy child is still unable to articulate anything of consequence but Santa and "Sunshine", our Elf on the Shelf bribe/blackmail to ensure decent behavior from Thanksgivng to Christmas.  On the 26th, we are kind of screwed; H likes tomake up for her goodness and kindness with a month long streak of bad.

Given the demand for gifts, gifts, gifts, and given my senitments about the C Day, I have new rules in place for the holiday this year. Three presents each under the tree.  NO MORE!  Christmas is about...get ready for it...Christ.  You know, His birth?  In a manger? No room for a bed and all that? The Three Kings each brought one present for Jesus, and the little kid with a drum sang a song.  If three presents and a ditty are enough for the world's Savior, I'm thinking that my children will do just fine with three presents under the tree on the 25th.  I can't speak for the grandomthers and their benevolence, but I would love a college donation instead of clothes and toys for my kids. 

And NOTHING goes up until all Thanksgiving leftovers are either inhaled or thrown away. Period. 

Because of these new edicts, I am in hopes that I can single handedly take the C(rap) out of Christmas and bring in something more important like the F words:  Family and Friends.

Quick, Easy Dessert That Will Impress Even the Discerning Hostess

This has a scant three ingredients, and it takes ten minutes to put together! 
You do have to pull out the food processor for it, though...sorry.

For the chocolate lover in all of us,

CHOCOLATE LAYER TORTE
It's really called Chocolate Icebox Cake, but that sounds so plebeian.

2 15 Ounce containers of Ricotta Cheese
12 ounces of melted semi-sweet chocolate morsels (cooled enough to touch)
1 nine ounce pack of chocolate wafers (these can be found in the ice cream aisle...just saving you the twenty minutes it took my husband to find them)

Line a standard loaf pan with parchment paper, leaving an overhang on two sides.  Layer the ricotta mixture and half of the chocolate wafer cookies in the prepared pan (three layers of the ricotta mixture and two layers of the cookies, beginning and ending with the ricotta).

Refrigerate for at least 12 hours and up to two days.

To serve, remove from the pan, slice and sprinkle with shaved semi-sweet chocolate.  If you are feeling uppity, add some real whipped cream (more rich, more better!). 

For those of you who are wary of the ricotta, don't be; it's great to use in desserts. 

I'm thinking about changing this one a bit and using white chocolate instead of semi-sweet and raspberry preserves as the middle part.  It would be lovely for the holidays, garnishing with fresh raspberries, raspberry glaze, and sprigs of mint.  Just a thought.  If you try it, let me know how it turns out!  If I try it, I'll not only post my findings, but also a picture. 

This recipe came from Real Simple Magazine. August, 2010. 

Quick and Easy Candy for the Obligatory Cookie Exchange

When I was pregnant, I ate Take 5 candies by the truckload.  I started off with Peanut M&Ms, but my friend Shannon got me hooked on Take 5.  I still get a hankering for these tasty treats, so I was really excited when I saw these Pretzel things that a colleague made.  The only thing missing from them was the peanut butter in the Take 5.  I had more than my fair share in the English Office.  In fact, I believe I ate all of them. When I asked her how to make them, she laughed. 

Here you go:
1 Bag of mini pretzel twists (the thick ones are best...Snyder?)
1 Bag of Rolo Candies
Tray of Pecan Halves

Place a piece of parchment paper on a cookie sheet.
Place pretzels on them
Relieve each Rolo of its pretty gold foil
Put a Rolo on each pretzel
Top each Rolo with a pecan half
Bake at 350 until the candy melts (about eight minutes).

Cool. 

YUMMMMM.

"Tis the Season...To Cook! Pumpkin Spice Cake for Your Pleasure

It's been a while since I last blogged; life can do that to a girl.  But here is my promise to all of my twelve faithful followers:  Now that Halloween candy and costumes are past; now that the new job is somewhat in hand; now that all birthdays are done; and now that I can catch my breath for five minutes at a time, I, your humble parent, will be putting up easy recipes for THE SEASON. 

What with parties, school gatherings, family, and other things that require gluttony, I am going to post recipes that can be mixed up and put together for THE SEASON, beginning with:

Pumpkin Spice Cake and Honey Frosting
So here's the deal with this recipe:  It's a cake or a bread.  It can be for dessert, breakfast, or burnch.  It even soothes the savage toddler or husband (when T comes home and smells this cooking, he is pretty geeked).  The frosting can be used as a spread, as well. 
Is this good for low carb?  No.  For low fat?  Ummmm...not even close. 
Is this a good recipe?  You betcha.  It takes ten minutes to put together.  Then sit back, drink a cup of tea, and watch the Hallmark Channel while your family salivates.

Ingredients:
1 Stick Butter, melted
2.5 Cups All Purpose Flour (you can also mix with whole wheat flour, too)
2 Teaspoons Baking Soda
.5 Teaspoons Salt
2 Tablespoon Pumkim Pie Spice
2 Large Eggs
1.5 Cups Sugar
1 Can Solid Packe Pumkin Puree (or just the stuff you use for pumkin pie)

Directions
Preheat the oven to 350 F
In a medium bowl, mix flour, soda, salt, and pumpkin pie spice
In a large bowl, whisk eggs, sugar, butter, and canned pumkin (NO beater neccessary) until smooth
Add dry ingredients to the pumkin mixture
Turn batter into prepared pan (loaf pan or a 9" square pan)
Bake until toothpick comes out clean, about 45-50 minutes
If putting into a bread pan, cook for 75-80 minutes
Cool for ten minutes in pan and then turn out on a rack.

Frosting/Spread
1 Stick Butter, softened
1 Package Cream Cheese, softened
.25 Cups Honey
Directions
Beat together until smooth (you do need a beater for this part) 

So if you do a bread, use the cream cheese stuff as a spread.

YUMMY, quick, and easy. 
I can't guarantee that the other recipes will be this simple, but I will do my best.

On This Day...

Ten years ago today I was teaching Acting I to a group of students who were at best interested, and at worst ready to fall asleep.  It was a beautiful, clear morning, and no one was very excited about being cooped up in a black room with no windows, which was the Lab Theatre.  During the class I got an all call to the faculty to check email.  I did, and was told that there was something going on in New York.  I had another email that asked about my parents.  Were they okay?  Then Scott, a colleague, came into my room and told me to turn on the television.  The look on his face was something that I will never forget.  I did turn on the television.

The Twin Towers were on the screen; one of them had smoke coming out of it.  My students were wondering what was happening; I tired to assure them that everyting was okay, but I had no explanation for the smoke and panic from the media.  I asked that we simply watch quietly.  Within two minutes the second plane hit the second tower.  At that point, we knew that something was wrong. 

Soon thereafter. there was an all call for teachers to turn off their televisions. I waited a minute or two, and then I saw the surreal. One of the Twin Towers collapsed.  I then knew that what we were witnessing was not only horrific, but also historical.  I also knew that my students should be spared this.  What if one of thier family members were working in New York?  What if one of them was in the Towers?  I turned off the television, and I tried my best to do what teachers and schools do: keep the students safe and secure; it was a difficult task. 

Throughout the day, there were questions being asked that I could not answer; there were worries that I could not assuage.  In fact, I was worried, as well.  Mom and Dad were flying home from Montreal that morning.  I was to meet them for dinner in the evening.  As per their itinerary, they were to be flying over New York right about the time that the Towers were hit.  I was devastated by worry for them and for my fellow countrymen.  I was almost debilitated with fear that I might lose two of the people that I cared about most: my parents.

But my calling was to teach children. My most important job that day was to ensure the safety and the security of those in my charge:  my students.  I worried about the kids in my classroom;  I worried about my former students who were in New York for study or for work; I worried. 

One of the most beautiful things about being a teacher is the ability to get lost in the lesson and get lost in the day.  I was able to do that. I was able to help students try to understand what was happening, even though I was unable to help them understand why it was happening.  School should be a safe place for children.  I hope that I and my colleagues gave the extra understanding and support that day to our charges. 

I found out during my planning that my parents were safe in Atlanta.  Theirs was the only flight not cancelled simply because someone important was on the plane.  Each of my students who were in New York had graciously checked in at the school letting their former teachers know that they were safe.  Michelle, in particular, wrote on her online diary about what she was experiencing.  What she wrote was dark and scary, but told through the eyes of someone young and...innocent, for lack of a better word. 

I cancelled rehearsal that day; it was the right thing to do, but I stayed at school in case my students needed to be somewhere safe.  I think that I needed them more than they needed me.  I then met my family at my parents' house.  September 11, 2001 was not the night to go to dinner; September 11, 2001 was the night to stay at home and cook with family and spend time with family and pray with family. 

That is what we will be doing this evening, the tenth anniversary of one of the most terrible tragedies to hit our soil.  Where were you when the world stopped turning, and how will you spend your day?

Recent Books; I've Been Remiss

So I have read two books recently that were really good.  Apparently, I read dark literature, and I am probably not going to change that.  I guess it's because I have good life with good friends, good family, and good (okay, debatable) children. 

Bel Canto

Story of terrorists who invade a private party for a Japanese man.  The man is visiting from Japan to the South American country because his favorite opera singer has agreed to perform.  The story is in third person omniscient and opens the reader up to the minds and hearts of not only those held captive but also the terrorists. 

It's a slow read in the beginning, but as the book progresses, the reader finds himself/herself engaged in the intimate details of why one does what one does. 

Three Stars; the ending was a bit truncated, and the epilogue a bit too "happy"

Zeitoun

 Read this one in about a week, and for those of you with children, you will understand that this is a feat.  It accounts a Muslim family before, during, and after Katrina.  The book shows the effects of a government gone awry, and the people within the government agencies gone power hungry. 

For those of us who are sucked into tragedy and feel empathy for those who experience tragedy, you will understand why I read this.  When Katrina hit New Orleans, I sat in front of the television and cried until my husband turned off the television and forbade me to turn it on again.  I sent money, I gave blood, and I adopted a family in need (probably to no avail after reading this book).

This non-fiction tempts the reader into believing that New Orleans may have been much better off if the federal government, more specifically FEMA, had not gotten involved in the disaster.  I was completely sucked into the narration of the book.  The ending, which I had to go to early on in the book, depicts a triumph of the human spirit that is admirable~I, myself, would not have fared as well as the protagonists. 

The Tale of the "Sneaky Penis"

Okay, it sounds more risque than it really is, but I feel the need to share...

In our family we are very open about private parts. I grew up in a puritan Catholic manner, so the words penis and vagina were not uttered.  In fact, as a child, I was pretty certain that if I went farther than first base, I would be killed in a horrific car accident and end up with a front row seat in hell while pregnant.  It took me until I was in university to...well, whatever.

We decided that we would be very factual about boy and girl parts with our children, and we have called them by their medical terms since they were born.  Which is why I was shocked when my husband came out to the porch one morning this week while I was enjoying my coffee to tell me this story.

Apparently Daddy went upstairs in his undies to get the kids ready for school.  The girl child would have none of this, and she told him in no uncertain terms that he was to go and put on some pants.  He complied but was a bit befuddled.  Upon returning properly clad in full dress to get the four year old, she said to him, "Now your sneaky penis won't get me."  I asked her about it, but she clammed up like a kid getting into trouble, so I let it be.  I mean, did she hear about the sneaky penis at school?  At church?  From Dora?

In a way, I'm glad that she thinks penises are sneaky. She's not wrong in her assessment that men's appendages have caused many a heartache. The sooner she realizes that boys are sneaky and so are their penises, the better off she will be, and the better her father and I will sleep at night.  Lord knows I don't want to have "the talk" with her any time soon (double digits, but I'm not fooling myself), so this was refreshing.

On the other hand, I don't want her to be all worked up over a penis.  They have their place.  Without one in particular, she would not be here to talk about sneaky penises.  I don't want her to be afraid of men and their penises, but being wary of them and their sneakiness would not be a bad thing.

Would it? 

I'm chalking this one up to childhood and calling it a day. Thoughts?

The New Millenium and the RSVP

I like to think of myself as an Emily Post follower.  I know how long I have to write thank you notes; I am aware of when and where to take gifts, big or small; I know where the water glass, wine glass, and all utensils go on the table; however, until I was 37, I was unaware that RSVP stood for "respond, please".  I blame my mother for this; I blame that sweet woman for a lot of things, but for 37 years, I thought that RSVP, stood for "reserve, please." 

I found out about the "respond" versus the "reserve" when I was called out for not showing up to a senior recital for one of my former students. She is now a professional opera singer, so I kind of feel regrtful in addition to being embarrassed...still (Catholic Guilt runs deep, friends~I'm sure Mom still feels the sting of not enlightening me of the RSVP).

Since that time, though, I have become a bit of an RSVP snob.  I would judge people who did not RSVP in an appropriate manner or in an appropriate amount of time.  When we have parties at our home, I get all worked up about people who don't RSVP, and then I simply delete them from the invitation the following year.  I mean, really; how hard is it to RSVP, especially in today's world of Evites, and Facebook, and email follow ups.  I even ask people to email the RSVP to save time and a phone call that requires small talk, which is never small. 

Then I found an invitation to a party for one of my daughter's many birthday parties that she is invited to stowed away in the catch-all basket that also contains seeds, scrap paper, receipts, a jump drive, a few screws, tape measures, and any other thing that is homeless in our home.  I was doing the "holy god, I can't take this mess any more," and I found an invitation to a party for THAT DAY!  It was yesterday, so this is still fresh in my mind, and I am mortified. 

As a self-proclaimed RSVP snob, I am horrified that not only do I have to apologize for not sending appropriate response, but I am feeling so guilty that I think I need to send a gift...

So I appeal to my twelve readers and ask your help.  Do I simply call and apologize?  Do I rescind my snobbery and become one of the unwashed masses who still think that RSVP means "reserve"?  And what about Facebook?  Does that even count, any way??? 

Maybe we/I should be a little more understanding about things over which we/I have no control. I mean, it may be enough to leave a restaurant for grammatical errors on the menu; being and RSVP Nazi might be taking the snobbery factor too far.

Whatsay you?

Sour Cream Poundcake for the Southerner in You

I got this recipe from my husband's deceased aunt.  In their family, one does not deserate the deceased by making their recipes.  I don't know why, but it's true; or it was true until Lynette, Sis' daughter-in-law, got uppity and made this poundcake.  Since that time, Sis is living through her recipes, which, in my humble opinion, are completely awesome.  Legend has it that Sis would spend her days in the kitchen making everything from homemade buscuits to peach pies.  Her sloppy potaotes are epic (recipe forthcoming). 

I was posting recipes that were easy to fix and good for you, but this is much more fun, and, now that summer is here, I have more time to get back to my southern roots and pay homage to a woman whom I have never met, but who has recipes that really speak to the southerner in us all. 

First up: 

Sour Cream Poundcake
You must follow this recipe exactly;  A Kitchenaide is best, but I kick it old school and use a hand mixer. If anyone would like to procure me a Kitchenaide, I will happily take it off your hands.  I hope my better half is reading this. Never mind.  I would weigh 750 pounds...

5 Eggs
2 Sticks Butter
3 Cups Sugar
1 Cup Crisco
3.5 Cups Flour
1tsp Baking Powder
.5 Cups milk
.5 Pints sour cream
1.5 tsp lemon extract
1 tsp vanilla

Cream shortening, butter, and sugar in a really big bowl.  Add eggs one at a time, while continuing to mix and scraping the bowl. 
Mix flour and powder together in a separate bowl. 
Add flour mixture alternately with milk and sour cream.  This takes a while, but it is imperative to get the cake to rise properly.  I put a third of the flour in and beat it well, then add the milkl, beating it well; flour and sour cream; flour.  The batter is pretty thick.
Pour into a coned bundt pan (the really tall one with the removeable bottom?).  This requires a helper because the batter is really heavy.
Bake at 325 for 1.5 hours

In honor of Aunt Sis. 

On This Mothers' Day

I would like to take a moment to wish all moms a happy day. 

I never really appreciated my mother until I became one, myself.  It is truly a job that is not for the faint of heart.  Being a mom requires stronger stuff.  I am not a gushy person; I am more of an in-your-face-realist.  In that vein of thought, I have decided that Mothers' Day is overrated for those with small children. The only ones who really think that Mothers' Day is awesome are old moms whose children have grown up. These people have been able to get their young ones out of the house with some reasonable sense of sanity remaining, and because of that, they deserve to be celebrated.  I am not in a hurry for my children to grow up too fast, but on days like this, I do look forward to seeing how they will turn out and what I will get from them when I am old and, hopefully, appreciated.

I am looking forward to being old with grown children with my sanity in tact so that I will be able to enjoy the beautiful roses my husband buys me for more than thirty minutes because after thirty minutes one or both children decide that the roses are for other things than admiration:  a paint brush, or a stirring stick, or just to be taken apart so that the petals may be counted.

I am looking forward to having my grown children having me over for dinner and telling me how awesome I was as a mom, even if they are lying through their teeth.  On this one magical day of the year, I will be celebrated as not only wonderful, but also insightful, patient, kind, patient, caring, patient, beautiful, patient, giving, and patient.

I am looking forward to being served breakfast in bed that is for me alone unless I want to share.  Upon waking up in the daylight, I will have this fabulous meal on a tray with an unbeaten rose in a small vase, and I will be able to eat with relish...in silence...and not have grubby fingers digging my strawberries out of my bowl. First person singular possessive pronouns will be a part of my vocabulary again in reference to inanimate objects.

I am looking forward to celebrating Mothers' Day when I am old because I can then say that I have survived motherhood.  I will have conquered the most difficult job on the planet, and will have come out on the other side with dignity, respect, and only half of my hair pulled out.

Moms everywhere, I salute you.  Whether you are on the other side watching and being celebrated, or, like me, you are looking forward to being celebrated, I hope you enjoy your day. 

It's Official, I'm a Soccer Mom

Not only am I a soccer mom, I am the Team Mom.  Now before you judge, thinking that I run around in a minivan all day, please do not.  I run around in a truck all day; my husband drives the minivan.  I always made fun of the minivan until my friend Dana told me not to be a hater; minivans rock.  When H was born we became believers. Even the dog thinks that the minivan has super positive qualities.  He likes simply stepping up into the car instead of making a running jump (he’s getting older, poor guy).  I also made fun of the way that these soccer moms have coffee together and shop together and get their nails done together.  I am not much of a joiner.  My exercise consists of a morning run with my four legged child as a partner since he doesn’t talk or yoga by DVD, and I have never played team sports.  I do think that they are important, though.  “No man is an island” and all that. So when the opportunity to have the girl child involved in some team sports, I was in.

Some of the other moms at H’s school wanted to join a soccer league, and we thought that it would be a good way to get the girl child to exert some energy on a Saturday morning and learn to play well with others, as she struggles with that.  What I didn’t think about was that I would have to get up early, cook breakfast early, get two children dressed early, and get us all out of the house before 9:30 (thank God we didn’t sign up for the 9 am games!).  I also, innocently enough, offered to be “team mom”.  What I didn’t realize was that I would be in charge of ensuring that everyone knew about any changes, any postponements, any announcements, any anything. 

The first game, I did all of the above, threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, popped a baseball hat on my head, and off we went to our first soccer game.  I was in for quite the awakening.  Not one mom had a baseball hat on her head, and forget about any of them walking around without make-up.  Shit!  This meant that I had to shower before each game?  Cleanliness is something that I have never considered to be a virtue.  In fact, I subscribe to one of my sister’s thoughts as to cleanliness being overrated rather than a virtue.

These moms were also very well prepared for their children’s matches.  While I had a big bottle of water in the boy child’s stroller and the camera as an afterthought, these parents were equipped with camping chairs, sports drinks by the case, blankets, cameras, video cameras, and jackets with colors corresponding to their kids’ team shirts all organized neatly into a wagon.  I kept wondering what time these chicks woke up on Saturday.   I felt like I was at a college soccer game, not one for four year olds. 

Well, I quickly became one of those parents.  I shot about a hundred photos (not all of my kid, mind you), I jumped and clapped and cheered like I was at a pro-football game, and told the four year old that she was awesome, even though she was more interested in picking dandelions than actually kicking the ball.  I gave her a pep talk before the second half, and made mental notes~all I had was a water and a camera~ about what I was supposed to bring to the next game, and planning what I will do for snacks.  Even the snacks are a one-upmanship.  I'm waiting for someone to break out the hibachi at some point (what ever happened to tossing out some juice boxes and rice crsipy treats?).  I'll probably make something homemade, more for budget's sake than anything, right?

What in theory was to be a Saturday morning diversion became an epic adventure in keeping up with the Joneses.  I still don’t have coffee with the moms;  I still wear my baseball cap to the games without showering; I refuse to haul a bunch of stuff to the field in a wagon; however, I am into the game when we get there, taking lots and lots of pictures and posting them to Kodak for the other parents to see.  My question, though is, "How did I get sucked into this? When did I become 'one of those parents?'"

I'm Busting Outta Here!

On Thursday this week, my husband encouraged the boy to swing his foot up and to get himself out of the pack and play.  Mind you, that the pack and play is a holding area while husband showers and I struggle to get the girl child ready for school.  We have/had a system that worked.  Due to my husband's positive reinforcement, the plan is now defunct, where I have to come up with another one.

It's only common sense that the little man would take his new found knowledge and figure out how to get out of his crib in short order, and that is exactly what happened during nap yesterday.  I was resting with a book when I heard a loud thump, which I thought was the work of my daughter.  I went to the door and rang the doorbell so that she would think the witch was coming for her.  I did not hear any running back to the bed; in fact, all I heard was a giggle from my son's room.  I then heard a shaking of the door.  Upon investigation, I saw Houdini standing in his room just itching to run out. 

After we got everyone back down for a nap, I slept on the floor of his room to ensure no more shenanigans.  My children absolutely need naps, and it is my job to ensure that they sleep at least two hours during the day.  I need for them to take those naps, as well.  I don't know what the age of naplessness is, but I don't think that seventeen is too old for them to lie down for a couple of hours on the weekends. 

In the afternoon, we converted the crib to a daybed so that the toddler wouldn't fall on his head in the middle of the night.  I am not a fan of waking up for midnight emergencies, even head trauma.  I figured that if he can sleep on a matt at school without gettng up, then he can stay in his bed.  I was so very wrong.  According to the father, little guy woke up around four times last night.  It was not my night to get up with the little darlings, so I was unaware of the wakings.  I think that my husband would have loved for me to feel his pain, but tonight is my night, a school night.  I will feel the pain shortly, assuming Little T hasn't mastered the art of staying in bed. 

I am always pointing out my daughter's short comings, but I neglect to give her props where props are due.  She slept through the night at 8 weeks, and is still an awesome sleeper. She is a three hour nap girl when she finally drops off, and is quite compliant when it is time for bed in the evenings.  Her younger brother, however, is not as easy.  I kept them on the same militant schedule, so I'm at a loss as to what his deal is.  The girl child was also convinced that she could not get out of the daybed, either.  Little T was found in the middle of the room last night crying. 

I write this with a bitter sweet thought.  My babies are growing up, which is good and bad.  It's good because this means diapers may be a thing of the past shortly.  It's sad because we are done at two children.  No more for us.  Now I have to wait at least 20 years before I can snuggle with an infant that is directly related to my womb.  I say 20 years because if anyone shows up at my house with child, somebody's going down.

Recipe Sunday

Sausage and Spinach over Linguini

This is a Weight Watchers recipe variation that has found its way into our hearts...and tummies.  Takes literally 15 minutes to prepare, so it's awesome for busy nights. 

One Package Sweet Turkey Sausage Links, cut into thin slices
One Package Fresh Spinach
3T Pine nuts (or more)
1T Olive Oil
Red Pepper Flakes (around 1t)
Whole Wheat Linguini

Boil linguini according to directions.
While pasta cooks:
Sautee sausage links in olive oil until browned.  Add pine nuts and red pepper flakes, toasting the pine nuts.  Toss in the bagged spinach and stir until wilted.
Drain pasta, reserving 1/3 cup of the liquid.
Pour starchy water into the sausage mixture, tossing well and serve over the pasta.
Add Parmesan cheese because no pasta dish is complete without it. 

You can add mushrooms, garlic, and onions to this too, sauteeing with the sausage, but my husband is quite the purist.  I quote: "Can we please just follow the recipe as it was written?"

When we are off carbs, I use two bags of spinach for bulk.  Celiac friendly.

A Whopper with Pee

The other morning I woke up to my son’s mewling at about 6 am.  I got his milk heated up and went to his room, whereupon I was greeted with the most noxious smell ever.  I pulled my t-shirt up over my nose (sexy lingerie went by the wayside a long time ago; in fact, I think I have worn a cute nightie twice~on my honeymoon).

I pick up the sweet thing and take him to change his diaper.  What I encounter is the largest diaper in the world.  I mean, it was huge.  It was so huge that I set it aside to show it to my husband.  After we got all cleaned up and changed, I took him downstairs with said whopper. 

I then got out the old Weight Watchers scale, which I knew would come in handy one day, albeit not for this, and I weighed the thing: 16 ounces straight up.  A POUND of excrement came from my kid! Of course I post this on Facebook, and get quite a few comments.  One of which was from my cousin who wanted to know what the Tare weight of the diaper was.  I love Susan.  I’m an English teacher, so I had to look up “tare weight”, even though I was pretty sure of what it meant through context.  The diaper, unladen, is one ounce, so Little T peed and crapped fifteen ounces in a ten hour period. 

I’m impressed.  I’m dumbfounded.  How does a child excrete three percent of his body weight?  Now, I call him Little T only because his daddy is named T.  He is not a small child.  He was smaller than his sister at birth, but H was a bit of an anomaly, clocking in at nine and a half pounds. He’s a big boy.  But a pound of shit?  Really?

Recipe Sunday

Hot Chicken:

Yes, you can pick this up at the local grocery store, but there's someting about roasting my own that makes me feel just a little bit superior.

One chicken, innards removed and cavity rinsed.
Pat dry
Rub with olive oil and sprinkle with salt.
Place on a roasting rack, breast side up.
Roast at 425 for 30 minutes
Turn heat down to 350 and roast for another 30+ minutes, until the meat thermometer reads 170.

You can put potatoes and carrots and onion in the roasting pan, too.  They catch all the juices and brown up nicely.

DONE!

The 2 for 1 Deal

Little T got tubes put into his ears on Monday.  After six ear infections; twelve trips to the doctor, including dagnosis and follow-up, each with copays; and six doses of antibiotics, we finally got to see a specialist who agreed that he needed these tiny things that prevent infections that he had been getting. I did the math, and we spent over six hundred bucks before we got to get the tubes.  Now we get to pay our deductible for surgery.

I'm thinking that there should be a two for one surgery for boys and a get it while it's hot surgery for girls at birth.  For boys, put the tubes in right along with the circumcision.  I mean, they've already got a scalpel, and how much more pain can it be to poke a hole in the kid's eardrum after cutting his penis ( a whole other story about Little T and his circumcision issues.  Men, beware:  it'll make you squirm)?

And since girls aren't subjected to the "birth cutting", I'm thinking they should share in the pain, as well by having the tubes put in.  Yeah, I know we women have lots of other things that we have to deal with simply because we're women, but let's level the playing field a little bit with the surgeries.

Red Light, Green Light

While talking over coffee, a friend told me that her daughter had to go to yellow in school.  She was aghast, as her daughter had always been on green.  My daughter also has the traffic light system.  For those of you who may not be aware of the system, it goes a little something like this:

Green:  All is well, and the child had a good day.

Yellow:  A couple of re-directions, and a “Peace Time”.

Boohoo Blue:  Two “Peace Times”

Red:  More than two “Peace Times” or something egregious

It used to just be the three colors, but Boohoo Blue is new, and I believe that it was added for no other reason than my daughter.  H is…well…difficult (See “Unto Us a Felon Is Born”).  As I said, I think it was put there because of her.  They probably worried about her self-esteem and the fact that her name was on Red a lot.  Now most parents are horrified when their children are in Red; however, in our house, Red occurs so often, that we look at it as a common thing.  In fact, we consider it a pretty good week if she is on red only twice.

Now, before we get into the issues of the traffic light system, of which there are many, I have to admit that I like having consistency, and I also like to know how the kids’ days go simply by looking at the wall and finding a red, blue, yellow, or the ever elusive green sticker next to their names. I also find comfort in the fact that there are consequences at home for the respective colors.  If H is on green, she gets to watch television for thirty minutes; if she is on Yellow, then Mommy watches the news;  Boohoo Blue is her room until dinner; and Red is straight to the bedroom, out for dinner, and back to her room afterward.  We may be moving to no dinner, but I'm getting a lot of negative feedback about this idea.

Don’t judge the consequences.  If you think that I am too harsh, come and hang out with my daughter for an hour or two.  I will have your full support in less than 120 minutes, guaranteed. 

What do your kids’ schools use as behavior modification?  There has to be something out there that is foolproof, and since we’re not allowed to recommend to the school that they use corporal punishment on our kids (although I think that Red would be more rare, and green more common, but that’s just me), I want one that really works.

Recipe Sunday

Here's a little ditty that my husband and children love.  It's from Real Simple.

Curried Chicken Thighs with Carrot Cous Cous

4-6 Bone in Chicken thighs with the skin on
1 minced shallot
2T lime juice
1T fresh grated ginger
1T curry powder
2T olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Mix the shallot-the olive oil in a little bowl.  Put some under each skin of the chicken thighs. 
Bake at 400 until the skin is crispy and the juices run clear (40 minutes???)

Cous Cous with Carrot
1/2 Cup shredded carrots
4 servings Cous Cous
Boil water according to cous cous recipe
Put in carrots and boil for a couple of minutes
Put in cous cous and cook according to directions.

Pour Chicken juices over cous cous

Serve with steamed broccoli.

Your turn. 

Back in The Saddle Again

As a child I hated routine.  I was one of the kids who got really excited by a fire drill; I would change my “style” often and in a dramatic way; I would remind my mother that the monthly cycle of recipes was redundant.  I am so happy that school is back in session, I am back at work, and the kids are back at “school”. After five days of being literally snowed under, I was losing all sanity.  I am still trying to regain the patience that I lost while stuck in the house without a physical outlet that didn’t involve my children.  Sledding would have been great had I a chance to do it for five minutes by myself.  It got pretty bad.  I actually shoveled the driveway to get out some energy.

So here’s what I have solidified about myself:

I need employment outside of the home.  I have utmost respect for moms who stay at home with their children.  I find that I am a much better mother and person when I have something outside of my babies on which to focus.  I see these moms at the park during the summer who are all fresh faced and happy, chatting it up with the other moms, and I am a bit jealous.  I wish that I could be happy focusing all of my attention on my family and home.  Maybe I am selfish. 

The second thing that I have solidified in my self-knowledge is that I absolutely need a schedule, or nothing will get done.  I am not so sure that I showered more than three times in the ten days of Snowmageddon, and I sure as heck didn’t clean the house. Dinners weren’t extra special gourmet affairs, even though they could have been; we had plenty of ingredients. I got no exercise except for the driveway. 

When I am working, I am at the gym three times a week before Little T even wakes up.  On the days that I am not at the gym, I am hanging out with my yoga friend, Rodney Yee and his DVD.  Dinner is promptly served between 6:30 and 6:45, and the house is kept clean.  Papers are graded in a timely manner, and lesson plans are complete. 

So here’s my question:  How is it that I can be so productive when I am super busy, and such a slug when I have nothing to do?  Is this malady particular to me, or do any of you share in the disease?

Recipe Sunday...Okay, It's Monday, but, whatever.

Because everyone could use a quick, easy, inexpensive, and healthy recipe, I am going to open up the blog for Recipe Sunday. I'll start.
If you can, keep your recipes to the four guidelines above:  Quick, Easy, Healthy, Cheap.

Crock Pot Chicken au Vin (I got this from my friend Shannon)

Frozen chicken boneless breasts (or thawed)
1 Bag mini carrots
A head of garlic, peeled or 10+ garlic cloves that come in a jar
Half a bottle of white wine (chicken stock works, too)

Depending on how long you will be at work, put the chicken on warm or low. Since I am gone for a while, I use frozen chicken and cook on low (I also think that I have an overly hot crockpot)
Mash up the garlic that you can find.
Serve over wild rice.

Whatchya'll got?  I could use a boost in my week night portfolio.

Humbled Again

When I began this blog, I thought that it would be a simple, fun, mindless kind of diversion.  I think that I am going to have to change the format (I will be introducing "Recipe Sunday" tomorrow). But being a thinking kind of gal, and given the fact that I read more than I probably should, I had to talk about this book that I finished four hours ago and can't get off of my mind. I don't know that I ever will get it out of my mind.

I just spent the last thirty hours reading Sarah's Key.  I started the book around 3pm yesterday, and have read it every chance that I have had.  My mom loaned me her Kindle, but I have had a large aversion to non-print.  It makes me feel like I am in Fahrenheit 451.   But I was without a book, and she had the one that I have been itching to read, so I took it.  I am now considering buying one because it is much easier on the hands, and I can download at will, which will make my husband nervous, I can assure you. I took H to a party this afternoon and took the Kindle along with me. I cooked dinner with the big print on. I let H watch more cartoons than I have ever before because I could not put this thing down.

Sarah's Key  is about a ten year old girl in France who is rounded up during the Vel' d' Hiv' (never heard of it?  Me, neither.  Please Google it, as it is fascinating).  Her four year old brother is too scared to go with the police, so she locks him in a cupboard with a promise that she will come back for him.  I won't give the rest away, but you can probably see where this is going.  The novel follows Sarah and another family who took over the apartment after she and her family were taken to the deportment camps in France.

I spent most of the night last night reading the book.  I think that I finally turned off the light at 2:30.  Between chapters, though, I found myself going upstairs to look in on H and Little T.  They were fast asleep, looking so innocent, so lovely, so...untouched that it took my breath away. They are fortunate enough to not know hunger, pain, loneliness, or apprehension. These children are so lucky to be able to live without fear.

I am aghast at my cowardice when I honestly confront myself with the situations that the protagonist faces in Sarah's Key.  I am a strong woman.  I would do anything to guarantee my children's safety and happiness, but what if that happiness and safety is not ensured?  I believe we live in the greatest country in the world with the greatest minds and the greatest freedom. I always have that fear that I may become too complacent, too reticent to really question the decisions that our leaders make.  I choose to believe that our leaders have our best interests in mind when they are elected.  I also choose to believe that none of the things that occur in these books will ever happen in our country.  But what if I am wrong?  What would I do then?

Have any of you read this book?  What is your take on it?  I want to go back and read Sarah's Key again; I want the story to change and have a happy ending because as I question my actions in the face of adversity, I want to think that I would do something akin to the protagonist's actions.  I don't think that I am that big of a person, though.

The Best Day Ever?

My very favorite day of the month is when the cleaners come.  I anticipate their arrival like a giddy school girl on her first date. I pick up the house, and when I come home from school, the whole place smells clean; there is no dust on the shelves, no dog hair in the corners; the beds are made, and if I can get my act together, there are actually clean sheets on them (YES! They will even change your sheets~ I LOVE these people); the counters, refrigerator, and mirrors shine; the stove looks new.
My joy turns to despair, however, when the first family meal is served.  Little T is quite the messy eater, and I find myself on hands and knees picking up his crumbs from the freshly mopped floor.  My dispair turns to misery when the kids take a bath, and the gleaming tub gets tarnished.  My misery turns to abject desperation when we brush teeth the next morning, and my daughter sprays the shiny mirror with her toothpaste spit. 
I would love to have 24 hours with a shed free dog and two children who knew how to wipe their hands on napkins instead of each other and the furniture.  It seems that the minute the rest of the family walks into the house, it loses its Eau de Pine Sol odor and begins to once smell like wet dog and dirty children. 
I'm wondering if this whole cleaning thing is worth the money.

Contents of a Tired Mother’s Pocketbook

Okay, so we don’t really call them pocketbooks anymore, but the allusion wouldn’t be the same without that particular word. For those of you who forgot 10th grade English, "The Contents of a Dead Mans' Pocket is a nice little read that can be found on the internet when you get done reading this.

I was cleaning out my purse today in an effort to organize my life.  One of the things that makes me feel better about myself other than a clean house, a made bed, and folded laundry is an organized purse.  Please bear in mind that the purses have become progressively bigger since BC (before children).  I used to be able to slide everything I needed into one of those hip mini-purses.  The mini-purses went away when the mini-van came into play.  Now the purse has become a catch-all.  If I died in a car wreck before a clean-out and my purse were searched, it would be a bit like an archeological dig. 

Below are the contents of a tired mother’s pocketbook in the order of which they were retrieved:

1. Wallet with quite a few receipts, no cash, and umpteen “member cards”, of which I am becoming wary
2. Empty make-up bag
3. Scrabble Slam in a worn Ziplock to practice alphabet recognition for the girl child and just a fun game whenever one is bored
4. Six used tissues (um, ewww)
5. A torn open Shout wipe with the wipe still inside
6. A dried out Tide pen
7. Lip liner without a lid (I now know where the pink marks in the lining of the purse have come from)
8. Eight ball point pens (no wonder we never have any writing utensils around the house)
9. A phone cover
10. More grocery receipts (none with alcohol as a line item; huh)
11. A dog biscuit (I have no explanation for this)
12. A very linty Carmex tin.  I cannot for the life of me figure out how the stuff gets on the outside of the tin, making it all sticky
13. A wallet Christmas photo of the kids with a bite out of it...a small, human bite
14. A long lost camera lens 
15. Baby sock (again, no explanation)
16. Snack bag of what were once pretzles
17. Mascara
18. Expired Visine
19. Post Its with various cryptic notes and numbers on them
20. Business cards
21. An empty business card holder
22. Lipstick that I have never worn
23. A gift certificate to Starbucks!!!!!!!!!  It looks NEW! I'm hedging my bets.
24. Winnie-the Pooh DVD with Sing-a-long songs
25. Lint
26. Lint
27. Diaper that the baby grew out of a while ago.  Always check the side pocket
28. Lint
29. Crumbs

Here's the crazy thing:  All of this will probably get put back into the purse.  I have no reason for this. I would like to think that I will actually put on lipstick or find a use for the outsized diaper, but I know that I am lying to myself. 

Okay, your turn.  Strangest thing that you have found in your purse.  Go.

Unto Us A Felon Is Born

We  decided to try the Mexican restaurant by the school on a very cold Saturday shortly after the boy child was born and right before Christmas.  We had never been there before because it looked a bit sketchy, but Taco Mac's wait was not conducive to a two and a half year old, and I was tired of deciding where we should go to eat. Off we went.

Dinner was less than stellar, but I got my cheese dip fix, the oldest  was well behaved during the meal, and the newbie slept. It was a fine family meal without any drama...and then...(I love ellipses)

As my husband went up to pay for our meal, my toddler saw a pretty red box on the wall by the cash register.  This is another reason why I hate sit down restaurants with cash registers, but I digress.  The pretty red box happened to be the FIRE ALARM for the ENTIRE strip mall, icluding the really nice Italian place next door!

My glorious husband grabbed the girl and scooped up the baby in his bucket seat, shouting "Sorry!" in a voice that only coaches and ex-coaches possess to the patrons of the joint.  Then he bolted like the yellow bellied coward that he is, leaving me to attempt to muddle through my tarnished Spanish skills.  As I am attempting to apologize and wait for the authorities, various members of the kitchen staff are bolting out the back door; I'm assuming that their visas had expired?  I decided to wait it out.  I had the keys to the car, and I was silently praying that the criminal and her accomplice froze to death.  The only one who I had any concern for was the infant, who stoically endures enough at the hands of his sister.

After countless mean looks from not only the patrons but also the now short-handed kitchen staff, I decided that the family had suffered long enough and went to the car.  As we get them all bundled into their respective safety devices, we begin to hear the sirens.  My “better” half shouts to me, "Drive, woman, drive!!!"  I refuse his kind request and tell him that fair is fair; he deserted me in the restaurant, so he has to go and fess up to the men in uniform.  Reluctantly, the deserter/coward/father of my children speaks with the firemen while, I  in turn have a little heart to heart with my daughter about pretty red boxes, telling her that the sack man (another story) was, indeed, coming to her house, and Santa had absolutely stricken her from any list of his, including the one entitled "Coal". 

The next morning in a good faith effort at quality parenting, I took the felon to the fire department so that she could get the bejeezus scared out of her and hopefully redeem herself  in the eyes of Santa.  I marched her into that garage, and I made her tell the men what she did.  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and in her frightened two and a half year old speech, the story came out.  The men listened intently, nodding their heads and looking to me for confirmation.  One asked when this happened.  I told him, and he said, “That was YOU?”  He reminded me that the owner of the art gallery on the other side of the place had driven 30 miles to ensure the safety of her products.  I winced in shame. 

Meanwhile, my daughter is being shown around a fire truck and inside the firehouse.  She left the premises with a fireman’s hat, a bag of candy, a book on fire safety, and all those firemen wrapped around her finger. I left being pissed off. 

When a Man and a Woman Really Love Each Other...

Instead of popping right into my recent escapades as a working mom, I should tell you all how I got here...

I am now 42.  I got married at 36.  In the time it takes to get a college degree these days, I got married and produced two children.  Before I got married, I was happy.  I was content.  I had my house, I had a dog, and I had a very fulfilling career as an educator.  I come from large family, so if I was sad or lonely, I would simply call up one of my siblings and bemoan my singleness or loneliness.  Then, when I heard children crying or screaming in the background, I forgot my singledom and thanked the heavens that I could go to bed in the quiet with my glass of wine and wake up at my own leisure. 

Then I met my husband-to-be, who was sort of a male version of me.  Long story short, I hooked him good, and we were married in two years. 

Marriage is a compromise.  Marriage at 36 is a huge one.  We had few rules in our house, but going to bed angry fit our lifestyle quite well, as did slamming doors and hurling epithets at each other when angry.  But the October 14 wedding came and went, and, much to our surprise and pleasure, things were working out well. 
Then Thanksgiving hit, and something was amiss: my period.  I am not one of those women who cramp or become “moody”.  I have a period every 21 days without fail.  I am also very energetic, so when I had to be shaken awake in the mornings and I began to snore, we thought that something (or someone) may be up.  On Day 34, I bought a pregnancy test and a bottle of wine to drink with dinner.  On Day 35, I peed on the stick and went to go and make a cup of coffee.  About two sips into the blissful stuff and my pen poised for a crossword puzzle, I hear, “Holy $%*T, have you seen this thing?” 

One month into my marriage, and I was knocked up. 

Now, I should probably confess that we lived in sin for a short while after we got engaged, and that I was not ever interested in The Pill, so this should have come as no surprise.  But Grandpa Harper, bad Catholic that he was, must have had a choke hold on Saint Who-ever-it-is-that-prevents-these-things-from-happening because a month, a month after we became betrothed, I was on my way to becoming a mom. 

We cleaned up our act (and our house) and got ready to be parents. 

First thing on our list was to count back and make sure that all the Baptists in my husband's family couldn’t hold this pregnancy thing against me (Reader, please note, that this would have been my fault entirely).  In Catholic World, it’s pretty normal to have shotguns on a wedding invitation, so it was the Baptists we had to convince of our innocence.  The doctor said that we were in the clear. In fact, Grandpa Harper must have released his choke hold right after "I do," because according to the doctor, the great event happened on our three day honeymoon.  

Second on this responsible parenting list was to…well, become responsible parents.  Again, not easy when one has lived alone for 20 odd years. We were both very used to sleeping in whenever we wanted to do so, eating adult food, occasionally drinking too much, and the other debauchery that accompanies life without children. We threw out the caffeine, stored the alcohol, and went whole grain.  There were to be no slammings, no epithets, and very few goings to bed angry.

Finally, we had to decide whether the house we lived in was suitable for a little one.  It was small for a single woman with a dog.  It got even smaller when a six foot two man moved in with me and Jerry, so I had a really hard time wrapping my brain around having a little human sharing our space, as well.  But we liked the area; we liked our neighbors; we liked not having to pay a lot a month; and we liked the idea that I could stay at home with the baby if I so chose and not cry every month from financial distress.  So we stayed put. 

All of these things had an impact on my becoming a mother.  A thrilled, pregnant mother; a mother who was ready to take on parenthood; a mother who was able to bend thirty, nay fifty children in a classroom and on stage to her will.  A mother who threw all bets out the window when she saw that damn stick turn blue. 

The Raw End of the Deal...

Snowmaggedon 2011 has wrecked havoc on the five of us.  My children are rosy literally from head to toe, and the dog is ready to sell one or both children into slavery.  Poor guy has been pounced, pulled, and bitten by the kids. Three days without any means of getting out and about is not for the weak of heart. For those of you who don't live in the south, you would be wise to remember that when snow hits, the state pretty much shuts down, thus leaving innocent parents to actually spend lots of time with their offspring.  You should also be advised that in Georgia, buying booze on Sunday is not allowed.  So while we were all wise in hoarding bread and milk, we were unable to stock up on the finer things in life.  I tell you, sledding with your children is probably a lot more fun with a coffee laced with something.  I would have taken anything today, but all I got was fat free half and half.
But today I have come up with a wonderful invention.  I should preface this with the fact that I am an idea person.  Follow through is not my forte.  I do it when I have to, but then and only then.
Before the brain child is unveiled, I'd like to give a little background.
The kids have been sledding a lot.  The neighbors have all collectively submitted boogie boards. mini-surf boards, and one transplant actually had a real sled.  It was fun watching them take turns going down a side yard with a steep hill.  Until the three year old got tired of waiting and decided that her posterior would work just as well.  Daddies were in charge at the moment, and I was chatting it up with the other mommies when I looked and saw my daughter scooting/sliding down the hill on her tuckus.  I mentioned to her that this was probably not a good idea, but was immediately silenced by all who were in attendance.  Call me a lot of things, but please don't call me a helicopter mom.  I will take offense.  I shut up, and she continued down the hill multiple times without assistance from any sort of sledding device. 
About an hour later, I decided that it was time to go in.  The baby was crabby, I was cold, and dinner wasn't going to make itself.  Off we went.
After the obligatory changing of the wet clothes into the dry ones for the thirtieth time today, we settled down for some coloring and cooking.  All was well until the girl child decided that her bottom itched..."very, very bad."  I made her drop trou and was horrified to discover that she had what I will refer to as Ice Rash.  It looked like she had face planted on ice except with her other end. 
Now I am no doctor, but I immediatetly became one for a moment and took action.  I lubed that kid up within an inch of her life.  A&D Ointment, Cetaphyl, Vaseline, and that stuff for burns.  I put her in cotton jammies, and am hoping for the best. This the point where I ask for confirmation that I am, indeed, a good parent, and did the right thing with all the lotions and potions.  Thanks for the comments below.
Now this is where the invention comes in.  I have another one that is equally brilliant, but it can wait until another date. It's a Slickersuit!  I can envision the commercial now: "It's a slicker!  It's a snowsuit!  It's the all new Slickersuit!'  There will be cherubic toddlers and children running around and body sledding down hills staying toasty and dry all the while.  Parents will look on fondly as they drink hot cocoa (hopefullly they will have had more forethought than I and gone to the package store on Saturday) and smile knowingly that they haven't a care in the world when they get home.  All clothes under the Slickersuit are dry, and the wonderful parent simply hangs the suit up in the garage to dry.  As an added bonus, the Slickersuit  could have a zip in furry/fuzzy lining, or it could be used alone for spring and puddle jumping. 
Whatsay you?  Any enterprising person with follow through want to tackle this?  Copyright it yourself.  Just remember your humble parent when you make your first million  I accept checks and money orders. 
God, I am brilliant!

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time...

Everyone under the sun has a blog these days.  As one who has never really been a joiner, I was (am?) reluctant to start writing about my musings and such.  I mean, how exciting can one person be, really?  I'm not famous except to my kids and dog; I'm not setting the academic world on fire, except that I am a teacher; and I am not a political pundit, except for the time I ran for state office.  So, really, how interesting could this blog really be? 
But here's the deal.  I have great material.  I have a husband who makes me laugh every day and children who make me laugh multiple times a day.  The dog even cracks me up.  This  means that either my sense of humor is way off, or they really are funny.  I'm going to go with them being funny.  My take on their adventures may be a little bit different than many moms' takes, but I guess that's where this blog comes in. 

I hope that you enjoy reading it a fraction of the amount that I am having writing it because really, you can't make this stuff up.