Captain Obvious Dabbles in Culinary Arts

You know the guy who always seems to know exactly what's wrong and how to fix it? I'm not that guy. Most of the time it takes me a couple beats longer than Joe Public to even realize that something is wrong in the first place. Case in point: my oven.

Last weekend, Chris was gone on a backpacking trip. I had planned some healthful meals for my kids while he was away. Okay, so I didn't really. Most of them went from freezer to oven to plate.

Friday night was fish sticks and while I was working my culinary magic, something went horribly wrong. The oven began emitting a sputtering noise and it looked like a sparkler was going off inside of it (or a welding torch, but I was too slow to think of that). But then it stopped. I assumed it was just some food burning off and let it be (come to think of it, food would have created more smoke). The fish sticks were cooked and I went on with dinner despite the fact that there was a vaguely familiar smell in the air. Why was I suddenly thinking of my Sophomore year circuits lab? Anyway there was too much standing between me and some well earned peace to think too deeply about that.

The rest of the weekend went fine and I managed to actually not make any more freezer to oven fare for the remainder of the time. I put the oven out of my mind until yesterday after lunch when I went to make caramel bars. The elders were coming over for dinner and I wanted to make sure the bars had plenty of time to set.

I set the oven to preheat and began my prep work. Prep work done. Oven still cold. Crap! The sparks! They must have meant something! Maybe the element went bad. But how can I tell? Finally, after four days I stick my head in the oven (don't be alarmed - it's not gas). What I saw wasn't good. In fact, it was quite bad (please excuse my oven. I refuse to clean it by hand and self clean isn't exactly an option now).

Note the right hand side: the completely severed element. The white material is a result of the electrical fire that caused the severing. The black bits are slag (yes, slag - as in resolidified molten metal). Here is one up close:

The new element is on the way. It will be here Monday. But now I'm craving cookies. Homemade cookies. Probably because I can't have them. Or maybe because I make them too much and now I'm in withdrawals. Either way, there will be no cookies until Monday. Or lasagna. Or brownies. Or fish sticks, frozen pizza or corn dogs. At least caramel bars are still in the realm of possibility. It turns out that they do beautifully on the bottom rack under a broiler set to low.

The Big P

Today was Emily's first day of preschool. When I went in to wake her up this morning, she started screaming, "Preschool! Yay! Oh, I'm so excited!".

Once we arrived, she was ready to go and tried to leave me in the hallway.
(She's supposed to be tracing her name here but she's decided to go a different way and color it in instead)

Then as I was leaving the tears started. As hard as it is to leave a crying kid, I knew she would perk up once I left.

And she did once her BFF arrived.

At pickup, of course, I wanted a full report of the day. Kenneth Starr had an easier time getting a full report out of Bill Clinton. Here's what I did get:

• There was a sandbox incident. Reprimands were issued. Tears flowed. 
• Cheetos were had (I'm not crazy about this one.)
• A new friend was made. 
• Emily has her very own cubby.
• Paintings were painted.
• Clay smells weird.

At first she had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she will only go two days a week; she wants to go back tomorrow. Then she said she never wanted to go back. Now she's back to wanting to return to preschool A.S.A.P.



I think once the dust settles, Emily will enjoy this new stage in her life, Jane will miss Emily less on her preschool mornings and I won't feel traumatized two mornings a week.

Shoe Love

Every now and then, when I'm in the mood to be simultaneously fascinated and repulsed, I will tune into TLC's gem of a reality show, Hoarders. If you've seen Hoarders, you know what I'm talking about. If not, do you really require an explanation beyond the name of the show?

I am the opposite of a hoarder. I am a throw-awayer (You can thank the Brits for that awkward description. I was going to say I'm a tosser. But I'm not.) I take great pride and satisfaction in going through a room or a toy box (shhhh... don't tell the kids) and emerging with a sack of expendables. I hate excess stuff.

There are a few exceptions to this rule. One of these exceptions became abundantly clear to me today when Chris had to install some sort of wiring (don't ask me why) in the closet. This involved the clearing out of the shoes. It was embarrassing to see my problem dragged into the light like that. There they were- in a pile next to the bed- every pair of running shoes I've ever owned.

I've been running for fourteen years. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but running is my drug of choice. (My secondary drug of choice is food which is why I don't look like a runner.) I am not a fast runner, but I am consistent. I have run through sickness, pregnancies and (in the days before I had a treadmill) blizzards. I need to run in order to feel like myself.

Somewhere along the way I developed a bond with my shoes. Their worn soles represent accomplishment. They remind me that I can run farther today than I could at seventeen. And I love them. Every single pair.

Seeing them there made me realize it was time to let go. 10 pairs are now in the garbage can. I kept my current pair for running, another for walking and one for yardwork. The rest had to go. It was past time. Before I threw them away, I gave them one last photo op.

Five pairs of asics, one pair of New Balance, five pairs of Sauconys and two pairs of Nikes. Thousands of miles. I love these shoes.

Race for the Cure

Every year, we run in the Race for the Cure. When we started this tradition as newlyweds, the only members of our family that had been diagnosed with breast cancer were my grandma and Chris' grandma. Since then, Chris' mom and sister in law have both battled (and won) against breast cancer, so the race has taken on new meaning for us.

I have to say I am kicking myself for not bringing the camera to the race, but it's entirely my fault that we were rushing out the door that morning. So I went on the RFTC website to get a generic picture of the race. They don't yet have pictures up for this year, but I found one from last year that was priceless.

That's Chris pushing Jane and Emily beating out dozens of hardcore runners. I can't remember his time last year, but this year he pushed the girls again and finished in 25 minutes even, pushing 61 pounds of kid. The best thing I can say about my run is that I finished less than 10 minutes later. It wasn't much less, but it was undisputedly less. 

The kids love running with daddy and Chris loves passing people with the double wide stroller. I love not running with the kids. Everybody wins. 

My parents came up for the race this year, which was a treat. My dad cheered us on and my mom ran in memory of her dear friend, Kathy, who lost her battle with breast cancer last year. 

I hope to see a cure in my lifetime, but for now, it gives me a great feeling to know that we are doing our small part in the fight against breast cancer. 

Sisters

This past week we have been an incomplete family. We have been missing the most vocal member of our cast. Emily has been to visit her grandparents this week and I have never seen a kid as lonely as Jane. While it makes me sad to see Jane missing her sister so much, I am glad they are such good friends.

When Jane was born, everyone told me to get ready for the backlash from Emily. I heard horrific tales of regression, sibling rivalry, fighting, fighting and more fighting. I was surprised when the kids started interacting so differently from what I had expected. Thus far, they have been the best of friends. Of course, we have the occasional argument over a toy, but for the most part Emily and Jane have been the finest partners in crime our generation has seen.

(Here they are trying to fax something. They actually got a sheet saying the number was busy. Don't worry, it's not hooked up to a phone line)

This week I have been missing the sound of them laughing as they fall over each other. I have missed Emily sneaking food from the fridge not just for her own gain, but for Jane's as well. I have missed them yelling "hide, hide, hide!" when they have done something wrong and they know I am about to find out. I have missed them dressing up as princesses and twirling in the living room to the Clavinova's demo songs. I have missed Emily giving lectures on every topic while Jane does her best to ignore her.

Chris and I are looking forward to Emily's return tomorrow, but I think the most joy will come from a little blond girl who will finally be reunited with her partner in crime.

The Not So Triumphant Return

Last week we finally made our return to the Children's Garden. The plants and flowers that had been seedlings in June were big and beautiful and bursting with color. It was the same wonderful place. But it wasn't as much fun. While we were there, I was my children's warden rather than their mother. Wherever Jane went, Emily had to go. I kept both kids within arm's reach the entire time we were there. It wasn't fun.

We did the same old things - made sand butterflies, played on the wobbly raft and had a puppet show. It didn't feel the same. Neither do any of the places we love. Having two kids on the extreme end of the activity and mischief spectrum and only one of me has been frustrating to say the least. Everywhere I go, I notice moms sitting, chatting and watching their kids play. I long to sit. I long to chat. If only for a moment. I almost never do. It would increase my reaction time to unacceptable levels. I feel like when we go out, it's one long round of crisis prevention with the occasional crisis recovery. By the end of a day out with the kids I feel beat up.

The worst part is that no matter how hard I work to keep my kids happy and safe, they sometimes get away from me. And when they do, the criticism starts. Criticism from other moms, from people without kids who think they have any clue what they're talking about, and criticism from people whose children are grown.

Worst of all is the criticism from myself. Every time my kids get out of my sight, I beat myself up for days. When they don't get out of my sight, I am constantly criticizing myself for being too overbearing and for yelling too much. All I know is that I am one cranky mom.

I wish we could go to the Children's Garden and once again have an enjoyable day. But for now, that's something that will have to wait. Perhaps until I am a grandma.

The Idiot Plot

The idiot plot is a storyline in a move where the audience is saying, "C'mon, you  idiot, the bomb is in the car", or, "she is just marrying him because she thinks you don't love her", or, "if you pick up the phone, the car warranty salesman will know you're home". Last week, I had my own idiot plot.

Lest the haze should fall over my days as a young mother leading me to think I was perfect, I have to record this incident. When my girls are mothers and they make a mistake, maybe they won't feel as bad.

Last week I started to get a sore throat. I thought it was just allergies. Then it got worse. I thought I'd take a peek in the mirror and I noticed two large bumps at the very very back of my mouth where one of my tonsils would be if I had tonsils. I dismissed them as super bad canker sores and went about with my life. After all, I don't have tonsils. And I didn't have time to be sick. Chris was super busy at work and we were getting ready to leave town and we had promised the girls we would participate in a few CFD events.

Fast forward several days. After much misery and crankiness on my part, my "canker sores" have finally healed and I can once again swallow without pain. But now Jane starts to get cranky. Three days later, I know something has to be wrong. This is as bad as colic (and I know colic like nobody's business). She's screaming all day. So last night, as the screaming hit its peak, Chris volunteered to take Jane to Healthreach. By now, anyone reading is thinking, "C'mon, you idiot, Jane has strep throat and you gave it to her!"

Tomorrow she'll be better, noncontagious and ready to conquer the world again. But I gave this sweet innocent kid four days of misery because I was too busy to be sick.

Jane, I owe you one.