Perhaps Madame should try zee Vichyssoise

Chef Rascal decided today would be a good day to bake cookies with Mama.

I carefully measured out the ingredients and handed them to him. He reached his arm up high and trickled them into the bowl from two feet up. The kid's got good aim.

I realized late in the game that I would not have enough chocolate chips. Rooting around in my cupboard I managed to find some walnuts, bypassing the raisins altogether; I only made that mistake once. Call me crazy, but I think any recipe can be jazzed up with the simple addition of some nuts - especially one with 1½ cups of shortening in it.

The creamy mush was ready to be spooned onto the cookie sheets. I let Rascal lick the beaters. He finished before I did and immediately reached for the tempting bite-sized lumps on the tray.

"No honey, those have to bake first."

"What you doing? I have, I HAVE!" he screeched.

"First they go in the oven. Then you may have some."

He watched grumpily as I shoved a sheet into the hot oven. Thinking to himself how Mama was ruining some perfectly good dough. He stood with crossed arms by the oven window, eyebrows crumpled skeptically.

After 8 minutes it was time to take them out, and 5 long, mouth-watering minutes later they were ready to be tasted. Rascal crammed a whole cookie in at once. Chewed happily for a few seconds.

Slowly, a suspicious look crept over his face. His tongue started to sort out the cookie fragments. Moments later, 3 pristine walnut chunks were expelled onto the kitchen floor.

"What you doing, Mama? What dat?" he pointed accusingly.

Kye and Tweenie came in clamoring for a taste.

"What did you put in there, Mom?" accused Tweenie, as Kye spit most of his cookie out with a wet splat. "You know I don't like nuts!"

"Well I like them. You should try new things more often you know."

As Tweenie stalked off, I caught her mumbled complaint: "What's she gonna make us eat next?"

I guess escargots and sushi are out...

Back to School

I am a regular reader of this fabulous blog. Maybe it's because she's a geek like me?

She recently used a Venn diagram to tell one of her hilarious stories, and I was so impressed that I knew one day I'd follow suit.

My life yesterday was a study in grammar and math.

Why grammar? Because everything that happened must be described using superlatives. For example:

Yesterday, the house was the messiest it has ever been. Part of the reason is that the boys discovered my tampon stash. I discovered this after they had finished off the better portion of my new extra value pack of OB.

They performed a wonderful science experiment. The central hypothesis is that different fluids are absorbed differently by the tampon. So for example, toilet water vs. cereal milk leftovers vs. sippy-cup juice. They discovered that the tampon will expand to an equal extent in all test liquids. Another (unanticipated) result is that Mama gets maddest when the used experimental objects are flung around the living room.

They spent the longest amount of time sequestered in their room, approximately the time required for Mama to have the largest midday rum and coke. Ok, truth be told I never drink during the day, so it really wasn't that much. But the fact that I needed one tells you something!

Over the last week or so, I have had the worst headache. This happened a few weeks ago, just before our trip up north. At that time, I went to the doctor suspecting a sinus infection. It turned out I had runaway blood pressure. The symptoms being similar this time, I assume it is the same problem.

Here is where the math and grammar collide.

When I have high blood pressure, I have terrible headaches, insomnia, and general bitchiness. This is all inversely correlated to the hours of sleep I have lately enjoyed. Which is to say, very few.

As this diagram illustrates, as my sleep hours approach zero, my BP goes to infinity.


Time to deal out some Ferber, methinks.

Someone check this kid's midi-clorian count

Rascal is no longer a generic scary wowoff. He is Dark Bayder.

Apparently Husband and I have different standards with respect to age-appropriate movies. While I was busy ranting against Shrek 2 because of the sexual references, Daddy and the shrimps were watching The Empire Strikes Back.

I would soon learn that Grandpa approved. Our recent trip back home included a weekend at his cottage. In Rascal's world, the only things that occurred during that visit were:

1. Grandpa has a ski boat.
2. Grandpa has a jepski.
3. Grandpa drives very fast on the boat and Rascal gets to steer.
4. Grandpa gives great presents, say for example a light saber.
5. Dark Bayder wanted to joust with the saber on the jepski.
6. Mama is mean. She said no.
7. Rascal made a new friend. He also thought the light saber was the coolest thing ever.

Back in town, Rascal wanted to impress everyone with his new moves. The saber glows in the dark, so Mama had to quickly make a rule about Outdoor Toys. This was no deterrent; Gramma's doogy lives outside and looks enough like an Ewok to satisfy Dark Bayder.

Tantie and Gramma ran to doogy's rescue, but The Force alerted Rascal to their approach. We don't point weapons at people, Gramma reminded him. He hesitated briefly, threw down his saber, got down on all fours and went T-Rex on them. They screamed dramatically and he was immensely satisfied.

"Somehow" during the packing-up process, the light saber got left behind. Rascal was very disappointed. So now we're back to Buzz Lightyear, which is probably for the best.

Driver Ed 101

Kye, who I may start referring to as Rascal 2.0, is getting an education.

"Come, Kye! We go droving!" Rascal chirped. He snatched my car keys and headed for the van, little brother following in his wake.

And by "wake", I do not exaggerate. The as yet unpacked groceries were standing conveniently in the path to the back door. It seems that two 25-30 pound boys running through does a great job of uniformly strewing said foodstuffs around the back end of the kitchen. It was all I could do to hurdle over the upturned Bisquick and Special K boxes to reach the giggling twosome before they keyed our van.

Undeterred, they made a beeline for the shed. Rascal and sidekick Kye vaulted onto the PowerWheels Harley and buzzed around the yard. This was Kye's first time on, and he fell off the back several times.

I decided it was time to intervene. Kye now sat up front and steered while Rascal pressed the accelerator. This unit has 2 speeds, fast and slow. I set it to the latter and walked alongside.

Enough of this, thought Rascal, and punched it into high gear. They went careening over the lawn and dangerously close to the creek. I shrieked and ran after them. Mission accomplished! Their gales of laughter were contagious and I lost all credibility by chuckling along.

Well, it could be much worse - they could both be yaykit.

It's music to my ears

I'm turning into my mother.

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, but it's something every girl swears will never happen when they grow up. Interesting, since as a Gen X-er, I am supposed to be breaking free of whatever came before and forging ahead into uncharted territory.

Maybe it's that the terrain is new to me, and these are my kids we're talking about here. In other words: bring on the long johns, healthy snacks, G-rated movies, and Sunday School CDs.

Growing up, we weren't allowed to listen to Michael Jackson or Madonna and I didn't even know about Guns 'n Roses or AC/DC. Our friends' parents were less worried about such things, and after we got over our initial shock at hearing such music for the first time, we quickly invented new lyrics to sing over the original ones. We figured we'd get in less trouble if we ever got busted.

One year after a particularly successful chocolate bar fundraising drive at school, I was awarded a Top Gun soundtrack cassette. I was so excited (even though I had certainly never seen the movie and had no idea what to expect), so you can imagine my consternation when mom confiscated it and blanked the tape out. She tried to make a big deal about how I could now dub my Rapunzel LP so I could listen to it on my Walkman.

I stared at her, not amused. In those days, I had to whip that one out quite a bit.

Soon after that everyone was listening to Nirvana. Looking back, I'm sure she was nostalgic for a little MC Hammer.

As a mom now, I didn't deliberately keep my kids from popular music. We just wouldn't show them our collection, other than a brief stint with some classical and opera while they were still in utero. Lately this is changing.

It is probably totally unrelated to my recent clamping down on TV time and banning anything rated higher than PG for movies. We've started listening to more music, and as long as that included a lot of Josh Groban and Michael Bublé, I was happy. Husband-- not so much. I have banned Def Leppard to his car stereo.

One day, Tweenie was sifting through our collection and happened upon an Aqua album. "Barbie Girl?" 'Nuff said. Anyone who's familiar with the song knows it starts with Ken and Barbie going for a ride, engine revving. Parlez-vous vroom-vroom, Rascal?

So now I spend my time inventing harmless lyrics again, except this time it's to protect them (not me!). Looks like some things never change...

I've got that certain "je ne sais quoi"

The word on the street is that I'm bossy.

Moi?

I overheard Tweenie scheming with BFF for a possible weekday sleepover, or at least a bowl of ice cream before dinner.

"Mom's not the type, like if you beg and beg and beg, she totally won't give in. Even the fluttery eye thingy only works on Dad anymore."

Indistinct mumbling from BFF.

"Anyway, she said I have to clean this pigsty up this instant. And, well, I believe her. She's kinda, you know, bossy."

That's kids for you, right? They always think their parents are tyrants whose only pleasure lies in inventing odious chores.

Recently, Husband tried to help out by throwing a load of laundry in the washer. I came swooping from another room and shooed him away. He doesn't read the tags, ok? Doesn't make me bossy.

"Helping" Tweenie pick out her clothes for school isn't bossy either. It's a teachable moment.

I was observing Rascal today in a quiet moment. I have always said he takes after Husband, in looks and attitude.

He was "helping" Kye.

Lesson #1: When pouncing on Big Sister, you must land on the soft mushy stomach part, not the bony pelvis. If you make a mistake, you will have to repeat the maneuver until you have it right.

Lesson #2: When tossing rocks at the cat, you must throw overhand. No sissy stuff, got it?

Lesson #3: You are not allowed to eat the part of the sandwich that has no peanut butter smeared on it, even if Mama has taken care to cover every millimeter. Also, Mama is not allowed to re-smear or cut the offending part off. The whole sandwich would be ruined.

Rascal: "No, Kye. Nooooooooo dat. I show. Dis, okee?"

Kye: "Deh?"

I guess he was paying better attention than I thought.

Not so funny anymore

You may have noticed that I try to find any scrap of humor that may be found in what are otherwise exasperating situations.

Sometimes, I think the most intolerable circumstances eventually yield the best stories. But then there are times when Mama is just worn down and the smallest problem is overwhelming.

Today was one such day. I hate to write a bummer post, but in the interest of authenticity I figured my readers should know that for this camel, that straw weighed a freakin' ton.

Those of you who have been keeping up to date know that I was recently away visiting family with my kids. Husband was enjoying the peace and quiet because he had to "work". Apparently that also covers going over to his friend's place to admire the rifle collection. Not that I'm upset; I'd rather he admire someone else's deadly weapons than collect them himself.

During my trip, we tried to control our Hectic.
Hectic Rule #1: only one outing per day, or only one batch of visitors invited to my mom's house per day.
Hectic Rule #2: get kids to bed at a reasonable hour, with some small allowance for the fact that we were on vacation and leaving places at 7:30 pm is (surprise, surprise) an unpopular idea.
Hectic Rule #3: get in a nap every day, even if it's only 10 minutes.
Hectic Rule #4: resort to alcohol if Rules 1-3 fall through.

I relied on Rule #4 a lot. But then, so did Tantie and all the other adults scattered around the house. Both of my sisters plus husbands were staying there too. I think they were even more tired than I by the end.

I go on autopilot when I'm in stress. Like cramming for finals or finishing my term paper in the few small hours before it was due, and still feeling alert at 4:23 am. Like going through my wedding day all serene and calm.

When it's all over I crash. In my pre-child life, it meant getting a roaring migraine shortly after the fireworks ended. These days I don't have time for migraines, so it basically means I turn into a fire-breathing dragon with no fuse and black periods of self-pity.

Luckily these don't last long. I can already feel the fog lifting, although that might have been one too many hits with the nasal spray (oh yeah, I also always get a cold after repressed stress). I think there might be a Coors Light in the fridge, too.

Today's freak out started with Kye's fever and fussing (who also has a bad cold), continued with a long wait at the doctor's office, compounded by Tweenie's soccer practice on a crunchy field under a scorching sun, and topped off by a tantrum from Rascal who didn't want to use his usual brand of toothpaste - at least, that was his jumping-off point. He branched out from there.

I of course kept my cool through it all. Ok, I lie. I spent the day in simmering anger. I must not hide it very well, because my kids are like mirrors of my moods. I didn't blow until much later, but my black mood was infectious from the first moment. I am annoyed at myself that I couldn't get a grip.

And so I sit here now, spilling my catharsis into cyberspace for all you fine folks to read. Feeling a lot better already. Hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Sleep: the Final Frontier

We fogeys (a.k.a. pretty much anyone over 25) have vastly different priorities than them young'uns.

So, for example, we appreciate:
-spinach
-road trips
-sleep

This last is particularly underrated by the ankle-biter gang, as I discovered over the course of the last 24 hours.

I assumed myself more or less in the clear once we completed the infant-based night schedule. I cheerfully accepted the maximum 6-hour nights dictated by the twin demands of Husband/Mama Quality Time and freakishly early school bus pickups (we were lucky to pull the last stop on the route, which is 7:12 am).

While I held out some vague hope of the occasional nap, I have developed the (instantaneous) ability to squeeze 5 winks out of an episode of Berenstain Bears. Or, just hypothetically speaking, watch my boys play with their cars on the dining room floor and fall asleep beside my breakfast plate unexpectedly.

Fast-forward back to recent events...

Last night, Tweenie and Rascal decided they wanted a sleepover. I didn't care one way or another; they weren't going to sleep on their own anyway after nearly an hour of shenanigans. They both solemnly promised to go to sleep instantly (those were my exact instructions) and not be heard from until the next morning.

I wasn't even 10 steps out of the door when I heard a rasping sound from my boy. With a sigh of resignation, I turned back to deliver the threatened consequences but paused at the door when Tweenie said,

"What are you doing?"

"I seeping. See? Zzzzzzzzzzzz."

"Be quiet!"

"I seeping. Shhht! Mama be angey."

More snores.

"Maaaaaaaa!"

Of course I had to separate them after all, but at least they didn't want to share a bed after that.

After preschool today, Rascal wanted to play with Kye. Unfortunately, this was during the planned naptime. Rascal was not impressed. He stomped outside and sulked. I ignored it and brought Kye up to bed, then started on some chores.

Eventually I heard Rascal come back in and head for his stack of cars. I didn't check on him right away and this was just the opening he needed. From Kye's bedroom upstairs, I heard Rascal's characteristic singsong:

"'Ake up, Kye! You come play me."

I zoomed up the stairs.

"Come, Kye! We play now, okee?"

I discovered them both sitting in the crib, proud of themselves. I scowled, banished Rascal, and tucked Kye back in. He howled.

Later, I attempted to sneak a catnap while Rascal watched TV and ate soda crackers.

"Mama, 'ake up! Noooooo seeping, okee?" Crumby fingers jabbed my eyelids open before they could crack voluntarily. I yelped as salty bits burned in my eyes.

"Sowwy, mama! Is you hurtid? Nooooooo seeping, okee?"

Message received loud and clear. I went upstairs and woke Kye up myself.

That Sweet Child of Mi-y-ine

Maybe I'm too new to this game.

I take an excessive amount of pleasure in rolling Tweenie's eyes, especially when it's with my inherent geekishness. Exaggerative efforts are like cheating, because I know I can achieve my ends almost instantly.

We were driving somewhere the other day, just the two of us. I flipped through stations, trying to find something mutually enjoyable. I landed on one of those Top 100 channels where they play Justin Timberlake at least 10 times each hour.

"Mom, this is totally lame."

"Oh reeeeeeally?" I started switching.

Axl's powerwhine came wailing over the airwaves. I haven't listened to his captivating caterwaul since high school, which was--

...um...

--several years ago.

I cranked it, boosted the bass, started grooving at the wheel. I sneakily glanced over, expecting to see white orbs centered in a scowling face framed by hands jammed over ears.

I only saw air guitar.

"This is awesome!" she hooted.

Now, whenever it's just us in the car, we turn to the 80s power rock station and bond in a strangely fascinating way. Husband would most definitely approve.