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.