I seriously just read, befuddled and followed the most complicated recipe ever! When it could have been summed up as: Roll dough in to 1 in. balls and dip in sugar mixture.
It was all like, roll dough out between two pieces of parchment paper into a flat disk. First, what's wrong with using flour and a rolling pin like most normal people do? And second, you have to search back to fourth grade math when you learned about disks.
Cut this into quarters, fourth grade math again, and divide each quarter into 11 or 12 equal portions. Shape potions into balls. Ummm, have you ever tried to cut a piece of pizza into 11 or 12 equal portions? Who came up with these directions?! You cannot cut a piece of pizza, a triangle, into equal parts without driving yourself crazy! At this point I scooped up all my dough and threw it back in the bowl.
Roll in reserved lime-sugar mixture and gently reshape. This seriously almost had me dumping what was left of the sugar and lime peel into the bowl with the dough. What SHOULD have happened was had the subject (balls) re-introduced and read, "Roll dough balls in reserved lime-sugar mixture and gently reshape. Ugh! Where was the editor? Or maybe the editor doesn't bake and had no idea this would be so complicated. After all, the two sentences were connected with a semi-colon, therefore the subject would just carry over to the other part of the sentence without having to be re-stated. What they didn't take into account is a person following directions does one step at a time, period. Roll dough in balls. Period. Done. Cross it off the list! Don't look at the last part of the sentence and try to connect it to the first part.
What they really could have left off was the whole cutting and dicing. Roll dough into balls 1 in. in diameter and be done with it. No need to waste some perfectly good parchment paper. Or cause any heart attacks because said baker doesn't have any since it wasn't on the ingredient list. Oi.
After I got through the muddle of the recipe I decided these are as simple to make as snickerdoodles and taste way better. If you like ginger and lime - together. Which I guess, why not?
I am really bad at remembering to smoosh cookies before putting them in the oven. Rolling into balls and dipping in sugar is really enough steps for me. Add smooshing before shoving them in the oven to bake is a little too much on my mind. Needless to say, I looked at the directions one item at a time before I shut that oven door the first time. I even went back down the ingredient list, making sure I didn't forget the vanilla or salt or something else that would be impossible to mix in at this point.
I thought I knew what I was doing the second time, neglecting to check each step, and forgot to smoosh them down before I took them out after 6 minutes and had a mini freak-out that they didn't look like the rest. Until I remembered that I had forgotten the smooshing. So I went ahead and smooshed them down (huge no, no) and put them back in the oven for another 4 minutes to puff themselves back up. And, you know what, those cookies taste WAY better than the firsts that went through the oven. So I purposefully forgot to smoosh the rest of them until the 6 minute mark and then cooked for another few minutes.
Someone should have followed that recipe themselves before publishing it and my copy now has notes all over it about "just like a snickerdoodle" and about not smooshing until cooked for 6 minutes.
This recipe also is one of those 'choose your own adventure' recipes. '2 or 3 tsp ground ginger, to taste', was on the ingredient list. I've never cooked anything with ginger before and was at a total loss as to whether 2 or 3 would be better. So I put two, knowing that when it was cooked the taste would change again. I now know to do three. And that is circled, because I know it will be a year before I do this recipe again and by that time I will have forgotten this learning experience and would have to think really hard about what I did the year before and whether or not it worked and whether or not I want to do what I know or try for something different. This way, with a circle, I have no need to think, just do and pour it on.
I cannot believe something so seemingly complicated ended up being so easy. I will no longer be afraid about cutting recipes from magazines when their instructions look too long to handle. It really could be as simple as dipping dough balls into remaining sugar.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Pizza at 10
Growing up, living in the boonies, there was never a pizza joint close enough to deliver to the door. The kind where they bring your pizza to you in a heat-safe case, dripping cheese and that crumbly flour they put on the bottom. Where they ring the bell and you hurry to the door, on your way gathering up all the five dollar bills you rummaged for in your jean pockets. And maybe you pay a little extra for a tip because you don't want the poor guy to have to balance everything for some change. Besides, seriously, you really just want him gone asap so you can dig in and burn your tongue on that first bite.
I love ordering pizza for delivery. No hunting around for socks and shoes. No having to put a bra back on after you've gotten so comfy in your sweats and sweatshirt. No having to rock-paper-scissors for who has to go pick it up. It's just there, brought right to you. And I love, love, love it. Our local Papa Johns even has an online ordering system and you can get points for using it instead of calling in your order. Life just got better.
It was one of those nights where I had a late lunch and wasn't hungry at dinner time. Handsome Husband had the same problem and it wasn't until 9:47 that we got the munchies. 13 minutes to close and we sent our order in via online. 30 minutes later the doorbell rang and we ate pizza in bed that night while watching Brave.
Brave. I didn't think I would like it. The trailers had all seemed a little heavy on the bathroom humor and I am not much into that. But it was good. Really good. Watch twice in a row good. It's one that we will definitely be buying. Except for that bear. That bear is humongously scary and torturous looking and scared the squeal out of me when he entered the stage. If that wouldn't give a five year-old nightmares then maybe Snow White would. That evil queen is pretty evil looking. And in Sleeping Beauty, too.
I love ordering pizza for delivery. No hunting around for socks and shoes. No having to put a bra back on after you've gotten so comfy in your sweats and sweatshirt. No having to rock-paper-scissors for who has to go pick it up. It's just there, brought right to you. And I love, love, love it. Our local Papa Johns even has an online ordering system and you can get points for using it instead of calling in your order. Life just got better.
It was one of those nights where I had a late lunch and wasn't hungry at dinner time. Handsome Husband had the same problem and it wasn't until 9:47 that we got the munchies. 13 minutes to close and we sent our order in via online. 30 minutes later the doorbell rang and we ate pizza in bed that night while watching Brave.
Brave. I didn't think I would like it. The trailers had all seemed a little heavy on the bathroom humor and I am not much into that. But it was good. Really good. Watch twice in a row good. It's one that we will definitely be buying. Except for that bear. That bear is humongously scary and torturous looking and scared the squeal out of me when he entered the stage. If that wouldn't give a five year-old nightmares then maybe Snow White would. That evil queen is pretty evil looking. And in Sleeping Beauty, too.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
That Good of an Idea
We were invited to a wedding reception. Steven's cousin's wedding reception. And if you go to a reception, you have to have a present to go with it. I found it's the easiest way to make money ever. Send out a wedding announcement that costs 50 cents if you're me and $1.79 if you're someone else. The return is a card with most often $20 folded inside. Personally I would prefer an envelope with $23.64 inside, forget the card and just tack on the extra dough. You would be saving the receiver a lot of stress and worry. No one really wants to keep 100 cards around after their wedding, but the guilt is just too much to just toss them. Save them the anxiety I say!
But really, gifts. We weren't organized enough to get to either target or bed, bath and beyond for a gift card, let alone walk in to look at their registry and go grab a specific plate or throw pillow. Nor did we have the foresight to think of getting any kind of gift until we were on our way to the reception. It's just the way life works. We will know we have hit maturity when we have the gift purchased and wrapped three days before the reception. That is going to take awhile.
We also had to make a costco run before heading on our way. And when I say run, I mean literal run as Alaska and I sit in the car and Steven sprints in like Jesse Jackson and throws a few needed things in a cart while I wait in the parking lot. Not parked, mind you. I am literally sitting in an isle that doesn't have a lot of traffic waiting for Handsome Husband to make his grand appearance. I then proceed to meet him in front of the store while cars back up behind me as he throws everything into the trunk. *Everyone was really nice about it, and then as I looped around an isle to leave they all honked at me. Thanks.
My idea going into all this was that Steven would grab up one of those huge containers of licorice for them to take on the honey moon with them. You know the kind. The one that you take to girl's camp with you and lasts the whole week even with 24 girls eating out of it. He forgot it. He forgot all about getting a gift.
I thought we would just get going on our way since we were running late as it was. Apparently it was that good of an idea, though. Steven rushed back into the store to get it, coming out with reeses instead because apparently there are a lot of licorice lovers out there on a saturday night and all the licorice was gone.
It wasn't wrapped and it was bright orange. It looked really good among their other gifts. No card. But we did have the decency to tape some scrapbook paper to it with our needed information. You know, instead of writing on the box with sharpie. I thought it was a step up.
But really, gifts. We weren't organized enough to get to either target or bed, bath and beyond for a gift card, let alone walk in to look at their registry and go grab a specific plate or throw pillow. Nor did we have the foresight to think of getting any kind of gift until we were on our way to the reception. It's just the way life works. We will know we have hit maturity when we have the gift purchased and wrapped three days before the reception. That is going to take awhile.
We also had to make a costco run before heading on our way. And when I say run, I mean literal run as Alaska and I sit in the car and Steven sprints in like Jesse Jackson and throws a few needed things in a cart while I wait in the parking lot. Not parked, mind you. I am literally sitting in an isle that doesn't have a lot of traffic waiting for Handsome Husband to make his grand appearance. I then proceed to meet him in front of the store while cars back up behind me as he throws everything into the trunk. *Everyone was really nice about it, and then as I looped around an isle to leave they all honked at me. Thanks.
My idea going into all this was that Steven would grab up one of those huge containers of licorice for them to take on the honey moon with them. You know the kind. The one that you take to girl's camp with you and lasts the whole week even with 24 girls eating out of it. He forgot it. He forgot all about getting a gift.
I thought we would just get going on our way since we were running late as it was. Apparently it was that good of an idea, though. Steven rushed back into the store to get it, coming out with reeses instead because apparently there are a lot of licorice lovers out there on a saturday night and all the licorice was gone.
It wasn't wrapped and it was bright orange. It looked really good among their other gifts. No card. But we did have the decency to tape some scrapbook paper to it with our needed information. You know, instead of writing on the box with sharpie. I thought it was a step up.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
10 Months with Alaska
Well, Punky, 10 months together and you are your very own person. Lots of tricks came out of the woodwork this month and I am so happy to call you mine!
We've also known each other for equal amounts of time inside and out. I can't believe it was you gently kicking little bubbles against my outsides from the inside, you have such strong opinions about how things should be done. Our power struggles continue, however. When you were on the inside you would push against me at times that would cause me to say, "Hey, stop that. Stop that right now." And I would most definitely push you back. It always reminded me of kneading dough. Your little bum would stick off to one side and make my belly a little lopsided and I would pat you back in to place.
Now we're constantly struggling over who should hold the spoon when you eat and which cupboards you get to climb into. And believe me, soft-spoken as I may be, I am just as stubborn as you are. We've had many arm wrestles over spoon handles and you are stronger then you know. Those times that I get it away from you, believe me, it was with all the muscle mass I own. Sometimes I have to cheat and uncurl your fingers. And those times that I give in and get a second spoon so we both have one are the times when I am picking my battles. I love you so much! You are a little ball of personality and I will be your proud momma standing behind you as you accomplish so much good in this world.
Favorite Things: Reading books. You will take time out of your busy world of exploring and curiosity to sit still for long minutes at a time turning the pages of your very own cardboard books.
A Month of Firsts: First steps! You took 5 steps out from the windowsill yesterday into the oblivion of the living room. No real aim, your little legs just took off without you. And you didn't seem to mind so much. Which is the way it usually is. I don't think you even know what's going on, just that you're moving a little faster toward what you want before you trip.
Remember When: You figured out all about shaking your head 'no'. Even though that's not what it means. It's your way of dancing. And it looks ridiculous and is so cute all at the same time. We had stake conference and we all got up to sing the rest hymn and there you were in your daddy's arms, shaking your head like crazy like you were rocking out to One Direction.
Special Talents: Opening up drawers and cupboards on the first try. Most especially in the bathroom when I am getting ready. I can always count on you to strew tampons all over the bathroom.
Favorite Pastime: I would most definitely say shopping. Which is really nice since 'tis the season for shopping. You just love watching people and don't even care so much any more if they pay attention to you, just so long as you can watch them. Your happy attitude lasts much longer in a store filled with people then if we go to a boutique where there are not so many people.
Sleep: Your bed time is still 7:30 but I could see it easily slipping to 8 in the near future. You will take a two hour nap at least once a day and on Fridays twice. Guess I wear you out during the week.
Crying: You let us know what you want and sometimes I just ignore it and you stop and get interested in something else. Thank goodness. Your daddy noticed and has decided to take on sign language with you since he can't stand you being whiny about things that you want.
Dislikes: When I won't let you get into the DVD cupboard. It's a constant battle since the entertainment center is made of oak and the screws for baby proof latches won't screw in.
My Favorite Part: Your cheese smiles. They are so dang adorable and uber cheesy.
We've also known each other for equal amounts of time inside and out. I can't believe it was you gently kicking little bubbles against my outsides from the inside, you have such strong opinions about how things should be done. Our power struggles continue, however. When you were on the inside you would push against me at times that would cause me to say, "Hey, stop that. Stop that right now." And I would most definitely push you back. It always reminded me of kneading dough. Your little bum would stick off to one side and make my belly a little lopsided and I would pat you back in to place.
Now we're constantly struggling over who should hold the spoon when you eat and which cupboards you get to climb into. And believe me, soft-spoken as I may be, I am just as stubborn as you are. We've had many arm wrestles over spoon handles and you are stronger then you know. Those times that I get it away from you, believe me, it was with all the muscle mass I own. Sometimes I have to cheat and uncurl your fingers. And those times that I give in and get a second spoon so we both have one are the times when I am picking my battles. I love you so much! You are a little ball of personality and I will be your proud momma standing behind you as you accomplish so much good in this world.
Favorite Things: Reading books. You will take time out of your busy world of exploring and curiosity to sit still for long minutes at a time turning the pages of your very own cardboard books.
A Month of Firsts: First steps! You took 5 steps out from the windowsill yesterday into the oblivion of the living room. No real aim, your little legs just took off without you. And you didn't seem to mind so much. Which is the way it usually is. I don't think you even know what's going on, just that you're moving a little faster toward what you want before you trip.
Remember When: You figured out all about shaking your head 'no'. Even though that's not what it means. It's your way of dancing. And it looks ridiculous and is so cute all at the same time. We had stake conference and we all got up to sing the rest hymn and there you were in your daddy's arms, shaking your head like crazy like you were rocking out to One Direction.
Special Talents: Opening up drawers and cupboards on the first try. Most especially in the bathroom when I am getting ready. I can always count on you to strew tampons all over the bathroom.
Favorite Pastime: I would most definitely say shopping. Which is really nice since 'tis the season for shopping. You just love watching people and don't even care so much any more if they pay attention to you, just so long as you can watch them. Your happy attitude lasts much longer in a store filled with people then if we go to a boutique where there are not so many people.
Sleep: Your bed time is still 7:30 but I could see it easily slipping to 8 in the near future. You will take a two hour nap at least once a day and on Fridays twice. Guess I wear you out during the week.
Crying: You let us know what you want and sometimes I just ignore it and you stop and get interested in something else. Thank goodness. Your daddy noticed and has decided to take on sign language with you since he can't stand you being whiny about things that you want.
Dislikes: When I won't let you get into the DVD cupboard. It's a constant battle since the entertainment center is made of oak and the screws for baby proof latches won't screw in.
My Favorite Part: Your cheese smiles. They are so dang adorable and uber cheesy.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
It's Not You, It's Me
It's not Alaska's fault she hates solid food. It's my fault.
Give me a blow-out diaper and two wipes, I can make it happen. Let a kiddo puke all over my clothes and allow only one burp clothe. Take all the pots and pans out of the cupboards and make me pick them up whilst having a pounding headache. But do not make me clean up a baby from a messy meal given a hose and seventeen wash clothes. I can't do it.
Seriously, armed with two wash clothes, what do you logically do first? Clean the high chair tray to prevent more mess, clean the kid to get them out faster, wipe the hands, wipe the face, wipe the pants that somehow got pureed green beans on them? And what about all that food that dropped in their lap and slid out of the highchair? Just where does that go if you have no dog? So many things to do at once and I am no expert.
Not to mention, this takes time. It takes a lot of time to get a spoon into a baby's mouth, have them slurp half of it while the other half runs down their chin, scoop that off their chin and give them another spoonfull while dodging the little hands that want the spoon. And then all the nodding, hand waving and general wiggling that goes along with the process is not my forte. Not at all.
We were sitting down 5x a day sometimes to get through one jar and it was wearing me out. We were on the brink of snacking on cheerios and eating bottles forever. I couldn't stomach the inefficiency of the process nor the mess. Those two together does not make a happy momma over here.
But luckily two little angels stepped in. We had house guests for a week while their dad/husband hunted in the great Wasatch mountains and they love, loved feeding Alaska her food. The messier she got, the cuter she was. The longer it took for her to get down her breakfast, lunch and dinner the better because that meant more one-on-one play time with the girl who was feeding her. And any small victory was a victory none-the-less. I still remember Geni saying, "Oh! She ate half the spoonfull!" And that was just enough encouragement for the spoon to continue its path toward Alaska's mouth.
Watching their enthusiasm for feeding Alaska was contagious and I learned a few things. You gotta be quick. Lightning quick. You've got a trap door that isn't going to stay open for long and you never know exactly when it's going to open. You've got hands to dodge, but luckily grown-up arms are stronger then hands and if you don't mind a little rice cereal on your sleeve you can ward the bullies off. You've gotta mix those nasty green beans with applesauce to get them down and those carrots are pretty powerful as well. You've gotta reach around sometimes and stick food in her mouth while she's preoccupied looking at the floor wondering what's down there. You've gotta keep feeding her, around her fingers she may have in her mouth, around the other spoon she's got in her mouth and around those front teeth that are coming in. As long as she's not crying she'll open her mouth for that spoon.
Things are going much smoother now and we're going beyond cheerios and cheese slices. We've got pureed baby foods in the bag and marching on. It wasn't Alaska fault she couldn't get that stuff down past her waving hands, it was me. And now that I am not so paranoid about getting a little messy things are going smoother. Although I still don't know what to tackle first with the wash cloth. Face, clothes, tray. I have taken to washing her hands in the sink and not even bothering with the wash cloth for getting the food jam between those baby fingers.
Give me a blow-out diaper and two wipes, I can make it happen. Let a kiddo puke all over my clothes and allow only one burp clothe. Take all the pots and pans out of the cupboards and make me pick them up whilst having a pounding headache. But do not make me clean up a baby from a messy meal given a hose and seventeen wash clothes. I can't do it.
Seriously, armed with two wash clothes, what do you logically do first? Clean the high chair tray to prevent more mess, clean the kid to get them out faster, wipe the hands, wipe the face, wipe the pants that somehow got pureed green beans on them? And what about all that food that dropped in their lap and slid out of the highchair? Just where does that go if you have no dog? So many things to do at once and I am no expert.
Not to mention, this takes time. It takes a lot of time to get a spoon into a baby's mouth, have them slurp half of it while the other half runs down their chin, scoop that off their chin and give them another spoonfull while dodging the little hands that want the spoon. And then all the nodding, hand waving and general wiggling that goes along with the process is not my forte. Not at all.
We were sitting down 5x a day sometimes to get through one jar and it was wearing me out. We were on the brink of snacking on cheerios and eating bottles forever. I couldn't stomach the inefficiency of the process nor the mess. Those two together does not make a happy momma over here.
But luckily two little angels stepped in. We had house guests for a week while their dad/husband hunted in the great Wasatch mountains and they love, loved feeding Alaska her food. The messier she got, the cuter she was. The longer it took for her to get down her breakfast, lunch and dinner the better because that meant more one-on-one play time with the girl who was feeding her. And any small victory was a victory none-the-less. I still remember Geni saying, "Oh! She ate half the spoonfull!" And that was just enough encouragement for the spoon to continue its path toward Alaska's mouth.
Watching their enthusiasm for feeding Alaska was contagious and I learned a few things. You gotta be quick. Lightning quick. You've got a trap door that isn't going to stay open for long and you never know exactly when it's going to open. You've got hands to dodge, but luckily grown-up arms are stronger then hands and if you don't mind a little rice cereal on your sleeve you can ward the bullies off. You've gotta mix those nasty green beans with applesauce to get them down and those carrots are pretty powerful as well. You've gotta reach around sometimes and stick food in her mouth while she's preoccupied looking at the floor wondering what's down there. You've gotta keep feeding her, around her fingers she may have in her mouth, around the other spoon she's got in her mouth and around those front teeth that are coming in. As long as she's not crying she'll open her mouth for that spoon.
Things are going much smoother now and we're going beyond cheerios and cheese slices. We've got pureed baby foods in the bag and marching on. It wasn't Alaska fault she couldn't get that stuff down past her waving hands, it was me. And now that I am not so paranoid about getting a little messy things are going smoother. Although I still don't know what to tackle first with the wash cloth. Face, clothes, tray. I have taken to washing her hands in the sink and not even bothering with the wash cloth for getting the food jam between those baby fingers.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Nine Months with Alaska
Favorite Things: Playing Rawr. You love hiding behind the chair in the living room and will take off for it when I am slow in changing your diaper or when your daddy chases you.
Special Talents: Standing all by yourself consistently.
Remember When: You were so grumpy being at home so we spent the day exploring station park and you loved all the attention people gave you.
A Month of Firsts: You've got two top teeth coming in and you grind them all the time. It drives me crazy and I am always pinching your cheeks to make you stop. The sound makes my ears ache! You also got through your first jar of baby food in one day. It was a huge accomplishment!
Favorite Pastime: Climbing in and out of cupboards. You also love your books. You've found they make crawling a lot easier and you'll put your right hand on one and use it to slide on as you push with your left hand, paddling the ground.
Nickname: Punky has taken over, but Alaska Paska still slips in there sometimes.
Sleep: To bed at 7:30, up at 7:00. You are ready for a nap at 10 and sleep until 12.
Crying: You don't get mad too often but it seems like you are shedding more tears lately even if it's not real crying that you're doing. Probably because you are usually bopping your head on something as you explore the house.
Dislikes: Please. You love everything right now. Except maybe having to be quiet during sacrament. You usually get your bottle around then to keep you busy and quiet.
Likes: Playing and reading books.
My favorite part: Kisses. Alaska style. You'll wrap your little fingers in the back of my hair, which is most often in a bun or ponytail, hold on tight and push your open mouth onto my jaw bone.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
We Need Crazy Back
Me: When was the last time we did something crazy, anyway?
Steven: I don't know. We need crazy back.
Enter Justin Timberlake music: I'm bringin' crazy back. bumb bumb, bumb, bumb, bumb, You other families don't know how to act.
Steven: Please don't ever infer that what I say should be referenced to a 'Boy Band' song.
*Note: That above part is all Steven. All I had written was the top line and then left the computer to put Alaska to bed.
Seriously though. We need to do something karazy. More crazy then spelling crazy in a crazy way. And I thought that by now we would have a good story to tell. But we don't. We're still looking.
Steven: I don't know. We need crazy back.
Enter Justin Timberlake music: I'm bringin' crazy back. bumb bumb, bumb, bumb, bumb, You other families don't know how to act.
Steven: Please don't ever infer that what I say should be referenced to a 'Boy Band' song.
*Note: That above part is all Steven. All I had written was the top line and then left the computer to put Alaska to bed.
Seriously though. We need to do something karazy. More crazy then spelling crazy in a crazy way. And I thought that by now we would have a good story to tell. But we don't. We're still looking.
Zucchini and I: Best Friends
True Story: I hate zucchini. It is the epitome of gardens gone wrong. It will overtake a garden given one summer. Because of its easiness to grow it's hard to refrain from planting just one due to the accomplished feeling that comes from watching it sprout and grow so quickly. A true plant wrecker's dream, it is an unstoppable plant. All it takes is some water and soil and you've got yourself a monster. Unfortunately one plant can suffice a family of twelve. Two and zucchinis start getting left at houses that are frequented for visiting teaching and babysitting. Three plants and you're hopping fences after doorbell ditching someone with a zucchini taking up their doormat.
Another True Story: My mother-in-law gave us a zucchini the size of a small child. I do not exaggerate. It sat on our kitchen counter for a long while before I got over my prejudices. I vowed to make the best zuccchini muffins the world has ever known. And I did. We couldn't stop eating them! And what's more, they had zucchini in them. So they were healthy. Riiiight. To remedy my problem I cut out some sugar, added some wheat flour and felt better about eating so many. They weren't nearly as good, which meant we didn't eat as many, but they were still the best I have ever had. Even with them being less amazing then the first batch.
I got crafty the way that I do and started adding orange zest and later lemon zest and finally concluded with a peach zucchini muffin that really wasn't that good. Peaches don't cook so well. But that orange zest, that was a keeper.
I was making zucchini muffins every day for a week and we've got loads of them storing in the freezer. Handsome Husband likes taking them to work for lunch. Faster then making a tuna sandwich.
And now I LOVE zucchini. We are the best of best friends. I have dreams of planting a whole gardenfull next summer and how much fun it will be to make muffins all the time and to drop those off instead of zucchinis and have people beg me for the recipe and wonder what in the world my secret ingredient is because they sure don't taste like zucchini muffins.
Well, the secret that I will let out is this. Peel and discard all the green. That's the dead give-away. Without the green the muffins are a nice yellow and look much more appetizing to my eyes. Less like, "try this vegetable in your delicious muffin" and more like, "THIS is the secret ingredient!"
Onward Zucchini ditchers! Leave them here!
Another True Story: My mother-in-law gave us a zucchini the size of a small child. I do not exaggerate. It sat on our kitchen counter for a long while before I got over my prejudices. I vowed to make the best zuccchini muffins the world has ever known. And I did. We couldn't stop eating them! And what's more, they had zucchini in them. So they were healthy. Riiiight. To remedy my problem I cut out some sugar, added some wheat flour and felt better about eating so many. They weren't nearly as good, which meant we didn't eat as many, but they were still the best I have ever had. Even with them being less amazing then the first batch.
I got crafty the way that I do and started adding orange zest and later lemon zest and finally concluded with a peach zucchini muffin that really wasn't that good. Peaches don't cook so well. But that orange zest, that was a keeper.
I was making zucchini muffins every day for a week and we've got loads of them storing in the freezer. Handsome Husband likes taking them to work for lunch. Faster then making a tuna sandwich.
And now I LOVE zucchini. We are the best of best friends. I have dreams of planting a whole gardenfull next summer and how much fun it will be to make muffins all the time and to drop those off instead of zucchinis and have people beg me for the recipe and wonder what in the world my secret ingredient is because they sure don't taste like zucchini muffins.
Well, the secret that I will let out is this. Peel and discard all the green. That's the dead give-away. Without the green the muffins are a nice yellow and look much more appetizing to my eyes. Less like, "try this vegetable in your delicious muffin" and more like, "THIS is the secret ingredient!"
Onward Zucchini ditchers! Leave them here!
Where Have You Been All My Life Butternut?
Butternut would be such a cute nickname! But honestly. Where has that squash been all my life?
Popping around pinterest and walking around the neighborhood I have seen butternut recipes and butternut squash all over the place. And I thought to myself, "Self, try a little experiment, would ya?" See, this week is healthy week. Couldn't loose my required weight eating cinnamon rolls, peach cobbler and apple crisp so I am going to have to go about it another way. Eating way too many fruits and vegetables. I was on the hunt for some new recipes.
My mind was a little skeptical when Handsome Husband came home with a squash that would before have found a place on my doorstep as a halloween gord with the pumpkins. But I had my recipes and I was bound and determined to learn what to do with this thing. And with three different recipes calling for 3-4 cups each I was pretty sure I could finish that sucker up. Whether it actually got eaten or not, that would be another party of the story.
I even looked up on line how to cut and prepare it for cooking titled, "Peel and Cut with Confidence". Intriguing name for a book for surgeons. Step 4 was to scoop out the seeds and membranes. Membranes! Good thing I was cooking this up into a stew, otherwise it may come and get me in the night with a handsaw!
Following the directions directly is always my idealistic way of following a recipe but there's always something in the way. Like the fact that I thought I had more paprika left than I actually do or that I had ground coriander at all. So my recipe got varied a little. But it was so yummy! My kitchen smelled like an expensive thai restaurant for the rest of the evening.
The most impressive part though was how the butternut squash tasted. Amazing! Buttery and nutty. No joke. It's like whoever named it had tasted it first.
We've got a winner on our hands! And a winner of a nickname, though we'll have to wait for a girl since Butternut provokes thoughts of soft yellow and toasted almonds. Any boy of mine needs something with a little more oomph. You know, like Orson Porson. To match our Alaska Paska. We're still brainstorming, obviously. Orson Porson is not very threatening. At all. Really.
Popping around pinterest and walking around the neighborhood I have seen butternut recipes and butternut squash all over the place. And I thought to myself, "Self, try a little experiment, would ya?" See, this week is healthy week. Couldn't loose my required weight eating cinnamon rolls, peach cobbler and apple crisp so I am going to have to go about it another way. Eating way too many fruits and vegetables. I was on the hunt for some new recipes.
My mind was a little skeptical when Handsome Husband came home with a squash that would before have found a place on my doorstep as a halloween gord with the pumpkins. But I had my recipes and I was bound and determined to learn what to do with this thing. And with three different recipes calling for 3-4 cups each I was pretty sure I could finish that sucker up. Whether it actually got eaten or not, that would be another party of the story.
I even looked up on line how to cut and prepare it for cooking titled, "Peel and Cut with Confidence". Intriguing name for a book for surgeons. Step 4 was to scoop out the seeds and membranes. Membranes! Good thing I was cooking this up into a stew, otherwise it may come and get me in the night with a handsaw!
Following the directions directly is always my idealistic way of following a recipe but there's always something in the way. Like the fact that I thought I had more paprika left than I actually do or that I had ground coriander at all. So my recipe got varied a little. But it was so yummy! My kitchen smelled like an expensive thai restaurant for the rest of the evening.
The most impressive part though was how the butternut squash tasted. Amazing! Buttery and nutty. No joke. It's like whoever named it had tasted it first.
We've got a winner on our hands! And a winner of a nickname, though we'll have to wait for a girl since Butternut provokes thoughts of soft yellow and toasted almonds. Any boy of mine needs something with a little more oomph. You know, like Orson Porson. To match our Alaska Paska. We're still brainstorming, obviously. Orson Porson is not very threatening. At all. Really.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The Momma I Want to Be part 1
Remember my woes of being a stay-at-home momma? How it was getting a little dry around here and my self-worth was depreciating like ants on a sugar stick?
Well, she-bam, she's back! Well, almost back. I still need to do a few personal things. New wardrobe. New hair. New system of getting out of bed. New bit of craftiness. But things have been looking up, my friends.
I offered to switch babysitting hours with a couple of mommas and now have 4 hours a week that are JUST MINE. And I am looking for one more to split time with. This means Alaska has a play-date every single day, which is fabulous for her since she loves them so much!
My most favorite, though, is getting to watch my cousin's little boy three days a week. Believe me when I say that watching two kiddos is much more fun and fulfilling then watching just one. Which is a big step for me since I was almost convinced that Alaska would be any only child. Pregnancy is no good. No good at all. But babies, babies are ok. The best? Toddlers. Yes, the best.
He is such a sweet-heart with more energy than could be corralled in a house of monkeys. But more about that later, this post is supposed to be about me and how I am trying to get awesome back.
My resume of activities:
Mondays: Watch Elijah until 2:30 and then Zumba at 8:45. I know. It's late. Most of the time I am too tired and would much rather go to bed. But I put on my purple kool-aid shoes and strap myself into the car with a water bottle and don't return until said water bottle is empty and I have sweat streaks on my forehead.
Tuesdays: Watch Elijah until 2:30 and this week Chloe is coming over to play while her momma goes to a doctor appointment to check up on Chloe's soon-to-be-born brother.
Wednesdays: Water aerobics at 9am. Alaska will go to Ethan's house and play for a couple of hours.
Thursdays: Watch Elijah until 2:30. Interior Design at the Davis High School at 6:30 pm.
Fridays: Alaska and I have together. We usually spend the day in our PJs and practice eating baby food. Or eating cheerios off the ground. *Note to self: find something more productive to do with this day.
Saturdays: Water aerobics at 8am. Alaska goes to Chloe's house to play for a couple of hours.
Throw in some visiting teaching, a couple hours for me to re-pay Ethan's mom by watching him and I am just about set to be awesome again!
Oh, and I also found that it is helpful to always be reading a book that I can talk about. Interesting things. Like about how the brain works, how the atonement works or something else educational. While Nicholas Sparks is so much fun to read I have got to stop my 'dessert reading' which is what books like that could be called. Not too much to talk about other than a little sugar of something light to read.
Well, she-bam, she's back! Well, almost back. I still need to do a few personal things. New wardrobe. New hair. New system of getting out of bed. New bit of craftiness. But things have been looking up, my friends.
I offered to switch babysitting hours with a couple of mommas and now have 4 hours a week that are JUST MINE. And I am looking for one more to split time with. This means Alaska has a play-date every single day, which is fabulous for her since she loves them so much!
My most favorite, though, is getting to watch my cousin's little boy three days a week. Believe me when I say that watching two kiddos is much more fun and fulfilling then watching just one. Which is a big step for me since I was almost convinced that Alaska would be any only child. Pregnancy is no good. No good at all. But babies, babies are ok. The best? Toddlers. Yes, the best.
He is such a sweet-heart with more energy than could be corralled in a house of monkeys. But more about that later, this post is supposed to be about me and how I am trying to get awesome back.
My resume of activities:
Mondays: Watch Elijah until 2:30 and then Zumba at 8:45. I know. It's late. Most of the time I am too tired and would much rather go to bed. But I put on my purple kool-aid shoes and strap myself into the car with a water bottle and don't return until said water bottle is empty and I have sweat streaks on my forehead.
Tuesdays: Watch Elijah until 2:30 and this week Chloe is coming over to play while her momma goes to a doctor appointment to check up on Chloe's soon-to-be-born brother.
Wednesdays: Water aerobics at 9am. Alaska will go to Ethan's house and play for a couple of hours.
Thursdays: Watch Elijah until 2:30. Interior Design at the Davis High School at 6:30 pm.
Fridays: Alaska and I have together. We usually spend the day in our PJs and practice eating baby food. Or eating cheerios off the ground. *Note to self: find something more productive to do with this day.
Saturdays: Water aerobics at 8am. Alaska goes to Chloe's house to play for a couple of hours.
Throw in some visiting teaching, a couple hours for me to re-pay Ethan's mom by watching him and I am just about set to be awesome again!
Oh, and I also found that it is helpful to always be reading a book that I can talk about. Interesting things. Like about how the brain works, how the atonement works or something else educational. While Nicholas Sparks is so much fun to read I have got to stop my 'dessert reading' which is what books like that could be called. Not too much to talk about other than a little sugar of something light to read.
Monday, September 24, 2012
8 Months with Alaska
Favorite Things: The fridge. You will hear it open from around the corner and put on your turbo-charged crawling pace to get there before it closes.
Special Talents: Cruzing along the couch, the chair, anything that will hold you up. You've started to lift yourself from the ground in a stand and when you are up-right you look a little startled as to how you got there and sit back down carefully.
Remember When: We were so excited the first time you stood up we cheered and clapped and scared you enough to make you plop down and shed a few tears on the floor.
A Month of Firsts: Your two bottom teeth are in and almost lined up. The left is still a little lower because it didn't get the head start. I didn't even know you were teething until I went to reach in for a piece of leaf that you love putting in your mouth when we're outside and felt something hard and nubby on your gums. That doesn't make me a bad mom, that makes you an awesome little girl to not be grumpy when you've got teeth popping in.
Favorite Pastime: Climbing stairs. You love it. And you're good at it.
Nickname: Alaska Paska most times, Punky others.
Sleep: To bed at 7:30, up at 7:30. You are ready for a nap at 10 and again at 1.
Crying: When you are hungry. I've gotten kind of busy and you usually need to remind me to feed you. You love kisses and don't cry too long when you bump a head or smash a finger.
Dislikes: Baby food. We're still mostly struggling with that. You will sit on my lap and eat two or three spoonfulls and refuse any more. In the high chair you are only interested in one or two spoonfulls. If we do that 5 times a day we can get through half a bottle of baby food.
Likes: Play dates. You have gotten so lucky! I am watching my cousin's little boy three times a week and you LOVE following him around. I have also started water aerobics and trade babysitting hours with a mommy in the ward. You love going over there to play.
My favorite part: I am your favorite person right now.
Rookie Mistakes
It's been a month for rookie mistakes. Of the dating sort. If I were still writing chapters in the 'looking for Mr. Right' book of my life I would definitely have lost a few dates.
Rookie Mistake #1: Hairy legs. We're talking HAIRY legs. Not just a little stubble, but the kind that you can see from 5 ft away. When I am in the shower I am washing my hair as fast as I can, grabbing a towel, and jumping out before Alaska even knew that I was gone while she was doing her exploratory rounds of the house in the morning. You know, to make sure no one came in and stole her toys right from under her and that they are still laying by the kitchen sink, smooshed up against the fridge, scattered through the hall and sprinkled in the living room. And then there I am, not even a second thought to those prickly legs, as I tear through my dresser drawers looking for something that isn't in the wash. Because, let's face it, wash is hard to get around to when you have to haul not only the laundry, but a 17 lb baby up and down the stairs.
Rookie Mistkake #2: The bun. Known on pinterest as the top knot. I think it's cute. It's easy. Can be paired with a skirt as easily as it can be paired with sweat pants. Apparently it's not attractive. Says Handsome Husband. And well, if I caught him once, I should be able to catch him twice. But he says no way. It's the scary monster in his nightmares.
Rookie Mistake #3: My brain reflexes have been slowed down, immensely. It used to be if there were a schedule conflict I could sort things out super quick and find un-used time or a second solution in seconds. Now, if my plans are thwarted, I cannot for the life of me think of another solution. I had a friend with me that I had begged to come with the pool with me. We got to the front desk and the water aerobics was canceled because they were putting the bubble on to make the out-door pool indoor. We turned around and drove home, I dropped her off, and as she got out of the car she said something about if it were closed next week we should go for a walk. Duh! Why didn't I think of that first? And suggest it for this week since I still had a hour that I could leave Alaska at the babysitters? Thinking on your feet is essential in the dating game. If you want to stay a-top the jungle you have got to have solutions all over the place for dates gone wrong. Had that of been a date it would have ended early due to my inability to think of a second idea.
And then there's Handsome Husband's rookie mistake. He buzzed his hair. It got too long, he hates getting it cut because no one can ever 'do it right' and he was in a 'I can do it myself' kind of mood. The shears were opened, plugged in and his hair was gone. And it looked bad. BunX3 bad. He's promised never to do it again. And I've tried hard to find other quick-fix options for wet hair than the bun.
Rookie Mistake #1: Hairy legs. We're talking HAIRY legs. Not just a little stubble, but the kind that you can see from 5 ft away. When I am in the shower I am washing my hair as fast as I can, grabbing a towel, and jumping out before Alaska even knew that I was gone while she was doing her exploratory rounds of the house in the morning. You know, to make sure no one came in and stole her toys right from under her and that they are still laying by the kitchen sink, smooshed up against the fridge, scattered through the hall and sprinkled in the living room. And then there I am, not even a second thought to those prickly legs, as I tear through my dresser drawers looking for something that isn't in the wash. Because, let's face it, wash is hard to get around to when you have to haul not only the laundry, but a 17 lb baby up and down the stairs.
Rookie Mistkake #2: The bun. Known on pinterest as the top knot. I think it's cute. It's easy. Can be paired with a skirt as easily as it can be paired with sweat pants. Apparently it's not attractive. Says Handsome Husband. And well, if I caught him once, I should be able to catch him twice. But he says no way. It's the scary monster in his nightmares.
Rookie Mistake #3: My brain reflexes have been slowed down, immensely. It used to be if there were a schedule conflict I could sort things out super quick and find un-used time or a second solution in seconds. Now, if my plans are thwarted, I cannot for the life of me think of another solution. I had a friend with me that I had begged to come with the pool with me. We got to the front desk and the water aerobics was canceled because they were putting the bubble on to make the out-door pool indoor. We turned around and drove home, I dropped her off, and as she got out of the car she said something about if it were closed next week we should go for a walk. Duh! Why didn't I think of that first? And suggest it for this week since I still had a hour that I could leave Alaska at the babysitters? Thinking on your feet is essential in the dating game. If you want to stay a-top the jungle you have got to have solutions all over the place for dates gone wrong. Had that of been a date it would have ended early due to my inability to think of a second idea.
And then there's Handsome Husband's rookie mistake. He buzzed his hair. It got too long, he hates getting it cut because no one can ever 'do it right' and he was in a 'I can do it myself' kind of mood. The shears were opened, plugged in and his hair was gone. And it looked bad. BunX3 bad. He's promised never to do it again. And I've tried hard to find other quick-fix options for wet hair than the bun.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Am I Ready For This?
For the most part I think of myself as a very relaxed momma. A person could easily go crazy thinking of 'what ifs' and 'what thens' when it comes to children. Especially raising children right to be outstanding citizens. Children that know they came from a loving family in heaven, have a purpose on this earth, and a place to go when they leave their mortal body.
It's too scary. So I don't think about it and know that everything will fall in to place as it should. And if nothing else, I pray that none of my children need to go to jail to get their lives sorted out for themselves.
But I do get scared. I get so scared that I start to hyperventilate about the future. About Alaska going to school her first day. About her going over to a friend's house. Her first birthday party even. And by first I mean the one that is going to be here in 5 months. I know, it shouldn't be scary, but anything in the future is scary. Anything that I don't know about right now is scary. Anything where Alaska has to make a decision and I hope that I have taught her well enough to make the right decision hounds on me and takes my breath away.
I remember when I used to be so scared for her to sit up. When I was holding that little baby that just wanted to sleep all day and snuggle I got nervous about her walking.
Silly, right?
Yes, totally ridiculous. After having watched her roll over and sit up and now crawl I have realized that everything comes naturally and at it's own pace. I think perhaps babies learn things in steps not for them, but for their parents. Us. Wouldn't it be a heart stopper to have your 3 month-old tell you, "Momma, stop kissing my cheeks. You're making me claustrophobic" Yes. It would.
When Alaska's first day of school comes around, even though I am not ready for it now, I am sure by the time it is here we're going to be waiting for the bus half a hour early because we're both so excited. Or, let's be realistic, we're going to be yelling and crying as I try to get her pigtails just so on her head as she squirms in excitement and I am going to pull too hard and she's going to cry and I am going to say something about how if she would just sit still... And then the bus will come and the bus will go and she'll be driving in the car to her first day of kindergarten.
It's too scary. So I don't think about it and know that everything will fall in to place as it should. And if nothing else, I pray that none of my children need to go to jail to get their lives sorted out for themselves.
But I do get scared. I get so scared that I start to hyperventilate about the future. About Alaska going to school her first day. About her going over to a friend's house. Her first birthday party even. And by first I mean the one that is going to be here in 5 months. I know, it shouldn't be scary, but anything in the future is scary. Anything that I don't know about right now is scary. Anything where Alaska has to make a decision and I hope that I have taught her well enough to make the right decision hounds on me and takes my breath away.
I remember when I used to be so scared for her to sit up. When I was holding that little baby that just wanted to sleep all day and snuggle I got nervous about her walking.
Silly, right?
Yes, totally ridiculous. After having watched her roll over and sit up and now crawl I have realized that everything comes naturally and at it's own pace. I think perhaps babies learn things in steps not for them, but for their parents. Us. Wouldn't it be a heart stopper to have your 3 month-old tell you, "Momma, stop kissing my cheeks. You're making me claustrophobic" Yes. It would.
When Alaska's first day of school comes around, even though I am not ready for it now, I am sure by the time it is here we're going to be waiting for the bus half a hour early because we're both so excited. Or, let's be realistic, we're going to be yelling and crying as I try to get her pigtails just so on her head as she squirms in excitement and I am going to pull too hard and she's going to cry and I am going to say something about how if she would just sit still... And then the bus will come and the bus will go and she'll be driving in the car to her first day of kindergarten.
I Don't Want to be THAT Momma
I am having a little bit of a hard time right now. We've been to Oregon, family from Oregon has been here, and we've been back to Oregon all this summer. School is going to start and the trips back and forth are going to slow down until the holidays. Which means I am going to be low on adventures to tell people. Which then causes me to talk about the thing I know the most about, Alaska. The baby girl, not the state.
And believe me when I say, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, more boring than hearing someone talk about their kids. Unless their kids do really embarrassing stuff. Then I don't mind at all because a good story is a good story, despite the main characters. But I don't want to be that momma. I want to have my own things to talk about. After all, I wasn't always a momma and just because I can wipe spit-up on my own jeans off Alaska's mouth with my bare hand does not mean that my world needs to totally revolve around her.
I am on a quest. A quest to continue to be my own person. Let's relay the pitfalls first, though. 'Cause after that, anything is possible. One) Handsome Husband doesn't have the same day off every week. Two) Handsome Husband never has Saturdays off. Three) Handsome Husband cannot be relied on to come home at the same time every day, let alone before 7 pm. Four) I have a baby. Five) I don't want to leave her with someone to watch because One) She's almost getting into everything. Two) I have no money to pay someone to watch her. Three) How much and what do you pay a babysitter anyways?
So... now that you know the problems and I have them typed out for myself... let the brain storming begin. Ummm... zumba would be really fun. Or water aerobics. Or taking a painting class or a cake decorating class. Dance. Reading to kids in the elementary school. Volunteering at a pet shelter. Going to city council meetings.
We have a solution. Number one: Tell Steven to beg for the same day off a week. Number two. Find one of those things to do that is on a week evening.
And because I am just that awesome and I would love to have two things to talk about with people... Number one: Offer to trade babysitting hours with someone in the ward. Number two: Find one of those things to do that is on a week day.
First Mission: Crawl. Second Mission: Run
Well Alaska Paska... this one is for you. Our little punky. This is the story of how you learned to crawl. Now before you knock it as "Momma's being too sentimental" you must understand that I am going to need to re-read this a few times when you are terrorizing the house at full speed. And then I will remember that I knew it was coming. There was a time I was prepared for your little fingers into everything.
You started at a baby's normal rate of army crawling it across the floor but all the while you would always ALWAYS be up on your hands and knees first. You knees would move according to theory and would run into your hands bending you in half. And then when you couldn't figure out how to move your hands forward you would flop into a belly crawl and scoot yourself to where you wanted to go.
This would happen over and over again. A few days later you were moving your hands according to theory as well as your knees but it was common for you to trip over yourself. You still wanted to move faster than you were currently able. So you would start off crawling, trip, army crawl, decide crawling was faster and back up to your hands and knees you would go.
This all happened remarkably fast. I have made it a rule to never compare you to any baby ('cause, let's be honest, they don't have a fighting chance) but sometimes I can't help but notice obvious differences. Like how alert you were from the very beginning, how you never banged your head around - you were always in perfect control - your very precise leg exercises and now your crawling learning curve. You are pretty awesome and I have a feeling you are going to achieve some pretty awesome things.
So go get 'em baby girl. In no time you're going to be running all over the place and peaking into drawers and slamming your fingers in cupboards. It's bound to happen and right now, I am ready for it.
You started at a baby's normal rate of army crawling it across the floor but all the while you would always ALWAYS be up on your hands and knees first. You knees would move according to theory and would run into your hands bending you in half. And then when you couldn't figure out how to move your hands forward you would flop into a belly crawl and scoot yourself to where you wanted to go.
This would happen over and over again. A few days later you were moving your hands according to theory as well as your knees but it was common for you to trip over yourself. You still wanted to move faster than you were currently able. So you would start off crawling, trip, army crawl, decide crawling was faster and back up to your hands and knees you would go.
This all happened remarkably fast. I have made it a rule to never compare you to any baby ('cause, let's be honest, they don't have a fighting chance) but sometimes I can't help but notice obvious differences. Like how alert you were from the very beginning, how you never banged your head around - you were always in perfect control - your very precise leg exercises and now your crawling learning curve. You are pretty awesome and I have a feeling you are going to achieve some pretty awesome things.
So go get 'em baby girl. In no time you're going to be running all over the place and peaking into drawers and slamming your fingers in cupboards. It's bound to happen and right now, I am ready for it.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Seven Months with Alaska
Favorite Things: Pink painted toes. You love them. I'll be cooking dinner and stay still just a little too long and your little fingers have pounced on my toes before I know you're even there.
Special Talents: You certainly didn't mess around with any kind of army crawling. You are up and moving and getting faster every single day.
Favorite Pastime: Following your momma around the house. I can keep you quite busy just by moving room to room as I pick up and do laundry.
Nickname: Your sweet personality is starting to show through more than ever but you've got a strong will. Right now you are most often called 'punky' as I scoop you into my arms after you have told me all there is to know about how much you hate going to bed at 7:30.
Sleep: Thank goodness teething hasn't caused any problems to your night sleep. I can still count on you sleeping 7:30 to 7. Your naps are slowly coming back and you are ready at 9 and at 1 for a good mood booster.
Crying: I am pretty sure you bonk that noggin of yours every day and you cry a little each time. You need more and more attention and let us know with little hyperventilated gasps.
Dislikes: Food. The first time I gave you anything in a spoon you swallowed like the good child that you are but clamped your lips shut tight and would back away if I came at you with a spoon again.
Likes: You still get baths in the sink and I let you play in the water until you get bored enough to start searching for things outside of the sink to play with. You have been known to stretch yourself across the counter to grab a measuring cup. You also like practicing with your sippy cup. You can hold it correctly and get the right parts in your mouth but you still struggle lifting enough to get the water in the right place.
My favorite part: You have so much energy and are so curious about everything. When we go on car rides you are so anxious to get out that you push with your arms away from the carseat after I unbuckle you.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Toothpaste Etiquette
Handsome Husband and I rarely get ready for bed together. I know, you say, "How unromantic!" But seriously, we're avoiding cracked ribs and bruises in all seriousness.
You see, whoever is the last one in bed has to turn off the light. I hate turning off the light. It's always a big race as to who can get done brushing the fastest and out the door. Believe me, I can brush my teeth the fastest. Steven has to take his contacts out before he starts brushing. Something about 'rule of the routine'. But getting out of the bathroom? That's another story. I always always always get pinned against the mirror on the opposite wall and if I can get my hips out from around him my feet can't keep up and I get pinned against the door. Then I am lost. You can guarantee I will have bruises come the next day. So then I take a last attempt chance at sneaking the other way and maybe landing a 'soft, playful punch' in the tummy for the blockade in my way and then one punch deserves another so I end up even more bruised and still not able to escape. And I lose. I have to hit the light.
Yesterday was a night where I was being sneaky and wasn't rushing my teeth brushing to get ahead and Steven didn't even know we were racing. I won. But only after getting pinned into a discussion about toothpaste etiquette. I know, right? Classic married problem. Yuck.
But really. I squeeze the paste from the bottom, put the cap on the toothpaste, clean my brush so it doesn't get nasties everywhere and I always rinse the sink after spitting. Who could complain?
It wasn't good enough. I wasn't putting the cap on tight enough. Apparently there's air in the tube and if I don't create a seal then the toothpaste falls to the bottom. I had no idea! And I guess I do have a problem of twisting things on enough. Which is why soy sauce was sprinkled over our whole fridge at one point. I had merely twisted once instead of screwing it on. I digress.
So, I learned some bathroom etiquette and beat Steven to bed. All in a evening's work.
You see, whoever is the last one in bed has to turn off the light. I hate turning off the light. It's always a big race as to who can get done brushing the fastest and out the door. Believe me, I can brush my teeth the fastest. Steven has to take his contacts out before he starts brushing. Something about 'rule of the routine'. But getting out of the bathroom? That's another story. I always always always get pinned against the mirror on the opposite wall and if I can get my hips out from around him my feet can't keep up and I get pinned against the door. Then I am lost. You can guarantee I will have bruises come the next day. So then I take a last attempt chance at sneaking the other way and maybe landing a 'soft, playful punch' in the tummy for the blockade in my way and then one punch deserves another so I end up even more bruised and still not able to escape. And I lose. I have to hit the light.
Yesterday was a night where I was being sneaky and wasn't rushing my teeth brushing to get ahead and Steven didn't even know we were racing. I won. But only after getting pinned into a discussion about toothpaste etiquette. I know, right? Classic married problem. Yuck.
But really. I squeeze the paste from the bottom, put the cap on the toothpaste, clean my brush so it doesn't get nasties everywhere and I always rinse the sink after spitting. Who could complain?
It wasn't good enough. I wasn't putting the cap on tight enough. Apparently there's air in the tube and if I don't create a seal then the toothpaste falls to the bottom. I had no idea! And I guess I do have a problem of twisting things on enough. Which is why soy sauce was sprinkled over our whole fridge at one point. I had merely twisted once instead of screwing it on. I digress.
So, I learned some bathroom etiquette and beat Steven to bed. All in a evening's work.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
My Thoughts on Global Warming and Oregon and Staying in Utah
In college I had to do a research project on global warming. I was taking geology because I couldn't stomach physics or chemistry, but let me tell you, it was no walk in the park. The teacher must have known that words like chemistry and physics turn otherwise happy, partying, havin' a good time students into pillars of fear. She wasn't giving any of us a break and looking back now, perhaps I could have gotten a better grade out of physics.
Our final project was to do a research poster on global warming. I had to fight my way through a lot of questions to get my topic approved... global warming in the oceans. And by oceans, I secretly meant whales, though I could never say that outloud. This wasn't biology for goodness sakes, as the teacher kept reminding me. But in the end I won.
I did my report on the ocean aka beluga whales. It starts in the ocean, as you can suspect, as the belugas are wintering in the arctic they are eating krill. Krill feast on a certain algea that cannot survive in water that varies even one degree. It is a very small margin and everything must be perfect for this certain algae to grow and if there is no algae, there is no krill and with no krill there is no beluga. And you know what? That temperature change is happening and the algae isn't growing like it used to.
But, to bring this more back to home... Oregon is changing. No 'global warming' is happening, that's for certain, but something is most definitely changing for the colder. Whether anyone has scientifically looked into this or not, I have no idea, but I think they had better if they don't want to miss it. 'Cause right now we know that just one degree difference can send a chain of events into place that perhaps we would rather avoid. And someone is going to be sad some day in 20 years when strawberries won't even grow in Oregon and everyone is asking 'when did this happen?' and the scientists look at their charts and say, oh... 2012.
Right. You think I am fibbing? I was married in 2010 and the reason I remember the change in the weather so well was that the seeds that we planted to have flowers ready for the middle of summer rotted in the ground. It was that rainy.
The next year, 2011, The strawberries weren't ready until a week or two after school let out. When I was picking strawberries we were out there after school in the evenings picking flats of berries. Just a few of us. But they were there.
This year, 2012, the berries rotted on the ground. There just wasn't enough sun to turn them red (seriously, strawberries are more like humans than most believe) and there was too much rain.
I don't know what's going to happen next year, but it sure isn't going to be pretty.
Steven hollers every time I say this, but I really don't want to go back to Oregon. It is soooo cold and wet! And I don't think it's going to be changing anytime soon. Sure, the Oregon I left in highschool was pretty awesome. It was green, in more ways than one, people were weird and friendly, the weather was mild... it was all you could ever want. But now, when I go back and it's too cold for shorts the end of July, I don't want to go back. When Alaska is in need of a whole new wardrobe to visit her grandmas because here in Utah she runs around in a onesie all day we've got a problem.
There, I've said it. I am not hating on Oregon. After all, it made me the awesome person I am today, but it definitely isn't the same state I left it 6 years ago. So, Oregon, clean up your act if you want me back. Or... perhaps I will live in Oregon but where the rain isn't so frequent. Like say Pendelton. To do that I'll have to purchase a couple of horses as well. You can't live in the biggest rodeo city and not have a horse. Or maybe I'll stay in Utah forever. Shhh, don't tell Steven. But seriously, this has got to be the craft capital of the world. Not to mention all of the modest clothing and the dry weather that allows your straightened hair to stay straight all day, even in the dead of winter. It's bliss.
Our final project was to do a research poster on global warming. I had to fight my way through a lot of questions to get my topic approved... global warming in the oceans. And by oceans, I secretly meant whales, though I could never say that outloud. This wasn't biology for goodness sakes, as the teacher kept reminding me. But in the end I won.
I did my report on the ocean aka beluga whales. It starts in the ocean, as you can suspect, as the belugas are wintering in the arctic they are eating krill. Krill feast on a certain algea that cannot survive in water that varies even one degree. It is a very small margin and everything must be perfect for this certain algae to grow and if there is no algae, there is no krill and with no krill there is no beluga. And you know what? That temperature change is happening and the algae isn't growing like it used to.
But, to bring this more back to home... Oregon is changing. No 'global warming' is happening, that's for certain, but something is most definitely changing for the colder. Whether anyone has scientifically looked into this or not, I have no idea, but I think they had better if they don't want to miss it. 'Cause right now we know that just one degree difference can send a chain of events into place that perhaps we would rather avoid. And someone is going to be sad some day in 20 years when strawberries won't even grow in Oregon and everyone is asking 'when did this happen?' and the scientists look at their charts and say, oh... 2012.
Right. You think I am fibbing? I was married in 2010 and the reason I remember the change in the weather so well was that the seeds that we planted to have flowers ready for the middle of summer rotted in the ground. It was that rainy.
The next year, 2011, The strawberries weren't ready until a week or two after school let out. When I was picking strawberries we were out there after school in the evenings picking flats of berries. Just a few of us. But they were there.
This year, 2012, the berries rotted on the ground. There just wasn't enough sun to turn them red (seriously, strawberries are more like humans than most believe) and there was too much rain.
I don't know what's going to happen next year, but it sure isn't going to be pretty.
Steven hollers every time I say this, but I really don't want to go back to Oregon. It is soooo cold and wet! And I don't think it's going to be changing anytime soon. Sure, the Oregon I left in highschool was pretty awesome. It was green, in more ways than one, people were weird and friendly, the weather was mild... it was all you could ever want. But now, when I go back and it's too cold for shorts the end of July, I don't want to go back. When Alaska is in need of a whole new wardrobe to visit her grandmas because here in Utah she runs around in a onesie all day we've got a problem.
There, I've said it. I am not hating on Oregon. After all, it made me the awesome person I am today, but it definitely isn't the same state I left it 6 years ago. So, Oregon, clean up your act if you want me back. Or... perhaps I will live in Oregon but where the rain isn't so frequent. Like say Pendelton. To do that I'll have to purchase a couple of horses as well. You can't live in the biggest rodeo city and not have a horse. Or maybe I'll stay in Utah forever. Shhh, don't tell Steven. But seriously, this has got to be the craft capital of the world. Not to mention all of the modest clothing and the dry weather that allows your straightened hair to stay straight all day, even in the dead of winter. It's bliss.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
You Grew a Little Too Fast
Let's be honest. EVERYONE says, "They grow so fast. Enjoy it while you can." Yes. While you are giving words of wisdom I will be smiling as Alaska screams bloody murder for want to stay up another hour. I will be taking kodak pictures in my mind as she insists upon attention when all I really want is two hours alone. I will be loving every minute. Every. Minute.
Well, at first I did. I was the mom who snuggled her baby all through her nap. The one who admired her baby's long eyelashes and counted her tiny fingers and toes a dozen times a day. The mom who practically memorized every inch of her baby's face and would spend a minute during diaper changing time just holding her baby's legs. It's kind of incredible to think that those legs are what will carry this child through life and at the moment they were small enough to completely fit in my hand. Such power. In my hand. Such adventures. In my hand. Such potential, and it all fit in my hand.
And then Alaska grew a little. And I thought she was done being tiny. I thought I was done paying extra attention to every single detail of her little face. she could sleep through the night on her own. I could put her down for a nap and she would stay asleep. She was such a big girl! So independent.
And I let her go. I stopped enjoying the moments we had together and started counting the minutes down to the second to when I could put her down and she was asleep enough to stay asleep. I started doing things during her nap. I had dinner ready for Handsome Husband when he got home and the house was always spotless. I was rested and full of energy.
I looked down, and my baby that I had left at 3 months old was now 5. It was incredible. And she was still small. She was still a baby. And I knew right then that I needed to keep making the most of our time together. No matter how old she was, whether 3 months, a year or 12, I needed to memorize her little face. Her fingernails and her lips. She won't be mine forever.
She will become a child and want to explore the world. She will have brothers and another sister and my time will be divided. She will become a teenager and her friends will become her world. She will go to college and studying and working and playing will be her world. She will get married and she'll be someone else's to care for. She'll have her own baby girl and she will be her's. I've only got a few years where Alaska is all mine.
So we've started snuggling again. I watch her as she sleeps. I count her fingers and toes and hold her hand. I look at her eyelashes closed soft on her cheek and I watch her little mouth smile when she is really truly asleep. I am no fanatic, she's still gotta be on the floor to have her own learning time, but I am not going to forget this important lesson. It doesn't matter how small they are, enjoy it. The enjoying part never ends. The needing to spend time never ends.
Well, at first I did. I was the mom who snuggled her baby all through her nap. The one who admired her baby's long eyelashes and counted her tiny fingers and toes a dozen times a day. The mom who practically memorized every inch of her baby's face and would spend a minute during diaper changing time just holding her baby's legs. It's kind of incredible to think that those legs are what will carry this child through life and at the moment they were small enough to completely fit in my hand. Such power. In my hand. Such adventures. In my hand. Such potential, and it all fit in my hand.
And then Alaska grew a little. And I thought she was done being tiny. I thought I was done paying extra attention to every single detail of her little face. she could sleep through the night on her own. I could put her down for a nap and she would stay asleep. She was such a big girl! So independent.
And I let her go. I stopped enjoying the moments we had together and started counting the minutes down to the second to when I could put her down and she was asleep enough to stay asleep. I started doing things during her nap. I had dinner ready for Handsome Husband when he got home and the house was always spotless. I was rested and full of energy.
I looked down, and my baby that I had left at 3 months old was now 5. It was incredible. And she was still small. She was still a baby. And I knew right then that I needed to keep making the most of our time together. No matter how old she was, whether 3 months, a year or 12, I needed to memorize her little face. Her fingernails and her lips. She won't be mine forever.
She will become a child and want to explore the world. She will have brothers and another sister and my time will be divided. She will become a teenager and her friends will become her world. She will go to college and studying and working and playing will be her world. She will get married and she'll be someone else's to care for. She'll have her own baby girl and she will be her's. I've only got a few years where Alaska is all mine.
So we've started snuggling again. I watch her as she sleeps. I count her fingers and toes and hold her hand. I look at her eyelashes closed soft on her cheek and I watch her little mouth smile when she is really truly asleep. I am no fanatic, she's still gotta be on the floor to have her own learning time, but I am not going to forget this important lesson. It doesn't matter how small they are, enjoy it. The enjoying part never ends. The needing to spend time never ends.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
The Food Network
Yes, we've started it. The network of eating. And I am already ready to throw in the spoon. It's been .75 hours.
You see, I am not a big food-lover myself. My picky eating habits have caused problems in the past. You know, the kind where your mom says, "If you don't like what's for dinner, have a sandwich." I won't eat peanut butter sandwiches anymore. "If you're not hungry enough to eat an apple, then you're not hungry." And so I don't eat. Simple. And when I say, don't eat, I mean, don't eat. I don't keep any junk food camoflouged as snacks in the house and so more often then not, an apple is all there really truly is to eat. So I don't eat until dinner, when I have the patience to make something fabulous because I know Steve will be eating it, as well, and dinners together around the table are important.
Now, that being said, I think I have made quite the problem for Alaska. My friend's baby (not that I am comparing babies, but you know, it's good for mommas to know what other babies are doing and when) was drinking out of a cup, or at least wanting to, at 6 months 'cause her momma drank lots of water during the day. Alaska? Nope, no interest. No interest in drinks or food. Sure, she'll reach out and grab something off your plate, just to see how it feels, but it's nothing that she cries about if you take it away.
Poor Alaska never sees her momma drink water, I hate the stuff... unless it comes from a drinking fountain. But we obviously don't have one of those. And she doesn't see me eat, because, well, I just don't. The only time she is around food is when Steven and I are eating at the table and she is playing in her saucer so that we can act like grown-ups.
Yesterday we tried the sippy cup deal. It actually worked pretty well. Alaska got her little hands around the two handles and could hold it on her own, even if I had to tip it up for her to get any reward out of it.
Today we tried the bowl and spoon with cereal. No go. She let me put one spoonful in, tasted it, spit a little out and clamped her mouth down shut for the rest of the 15 minutes I had her pinned. I popped some popcorn for my dinner and chewed off any choking parts and gave her a few pieces. She was fascinated at trying to pick them up and get them to her mouth, but in the end, anything that did get into her mouth was promptly spit out with a waterfall of slobber. This game lasted about half a hour. I don't even know if she understands food can come from somewhere else than a bottle.
And that's as far as we got. I'll keep trying, but for the record, I would be willing to wait until she can make her own peanut butter sandwhich.
You see, I am not a big food-lover myself. My picky eating habits have caused problems in the past. You know, the kind where your mom says, "If you don't like what's for dinner, have a sandwich." I won't eat peanut butter sandwiches anymore. "If you're not hungry enough to eat an apple, then you're not hungry." And so I don't eat. Simple. And when I say, don't eat, I mean, don't eat. I don't keep any junk food camoflouged as snacks in the house and so more often then not, an apple is all there really truly is to eat. So I don't eat until dinner, when I have the patience to make something fabulous because I know Steve will be eating it, as well, and dinners together around the table are important.
Now, that being said, I think I have made quite the problem for Alaska. My friend's baby (not that I am comparing babies, but you know, it's good for mommas to know what other babies are doing and when) was drinking out of a cup, or at least wanting to, at 6 months 'cause her momma drank lots of water during the day. Alaska? Nope, no interest. No interest in drinks or food. Sure, she'll reach out and grab something off your plate, just to see how it feels, but it's nothing that she cries about if you take it away.
Poor Alaska never sees her momma drink water, I hate the stuff... unless it comes from a drinking fountain. But we obviously don't have one of those. And she doesn't see me eat, because, well, I just don't. The only time she is around food is when Steven and I are eating at the table and she is playing in her saucer so that we can act like grown-ups.
Yesterday we tried the sippy cup deal. It actually worked pretty well. Alaska got her little hands around the two handles and could hold it on her own, even if I had to tip it up for her to get any reward out of it.
Today we tried the bowl and spoon with cereal. No go. She let me put one spoonful in, tasted it, spit a little out and clamped her mouth down shut for the rest of the 15 minutes I had her pinned. I popped some popcorn for my dinner and chewed off any choking parts and gave her a few pieces. She was fascinated at trying to pick them up and get them to her mouth, but in the end, anything that did get into her mouth was promptly spit out with a waterfall of slobber. This game lasted about half a hour. I don't even know if she understands food can come from somewhere else than a bottle.
And that's as far as we got. I'll keep trying, but for the record, I would be willing to wait until she can make her own peanut butter sandwhich.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Six months with Alaska
Favorite Things: You love to chew and play with ribbon. You also love some rubber water toys that grandma (we're still having an identity crises here) gave you. They make great chewers.
Special Talents: Inching slowly towards things. Gracefully letting yourself down from the sitting position. Using your pincher grasp to get pieces of grass off the living room carpet or getting strands of hair from the hall carpet when I set you there while I get ready in the mornings.
Favorite Pastime: Being outside. When you get kind of cranky before bed time we go outside and just sit on the lawn. You like to run your fingers through the grass and taste weeds that I give you after shaking the dirt off. Don't judge me. You're gonna have to get your germs from somewhere, may as well be natural. I am for sure not going to spoon feed them to you, but you gotta get them from somewhere. And seriously, all of the dirt it shaken off.
Nickname: Alaska Paska. It is stuck now, be grateful it isn't anything embarrassing.
Sleep: You sleep in the crib just fine now. All through the night starting at 7:30pm to 7am. Your naps have been given a severe kick in the pants due to all our vacations and all of everyone else's vacations. You slept when you could in the car and now that we've been home for a week by ourselves you tend to take a short 15-30 minute nap in the morning and then a longer 1-2 hr nap in the early afternoon.
Crying: Not so much now that you can move yourself around. You do tend to need more attention lately and let everyone know it, but we really don't mind. We love playing with you.
Dislikes: Being in a room by yourself when you don't know when we're coming back. It's like you can hear a certain pattern in our footsteps or something.
Special Talents: Inching slowly towards things. Gracefully letting yourself down from the sitting position. Using your pincher grasp to get pieces of grass off the living room carpet or getting strands of hair from the hall carpet when I set you there while I get ready in the mornings.
Favorite Pastime: Being outside. When you get kind of cranky before bed time we go outside and just sit on the lawn. You like to run your fingers through the grass and taste weeds that I give you after shaking the dirt off. Don't judge me. You're gonna have to get your germs from somewhere, may as well be natural. I am for sure not going to spoon feed them to you, but you gotta get them from somewhere. And seriously, all of the dirt it shaken off.
Nickname: Alaska Paska. It is stuck now, be grateful it isn't anything embarrassing.
Sleep: You sleep in the crib just fine now. All through the night starting at 7:30pm to 7am. Your naps have been given a severe kick in the pants due to all our vacations and all of everyone else's vacations. You slept when you could in the car and now that we've been home for a week by ourselves you tend to take a short 15-30 minute nap in the morning and then a longer 1-2 hr nap in the early afternoon.
Crying: Not so much now that you can move yourself around. You do tend to need more attention lately and let everyone know it, but we really don't mind. We love playing with you.
Dislikes: Being in a room by yourself when you don't know when we're coming back. It's like you can hear a certain pattern in our footsteps or something.
Likes: Being held and played with.
My favorite part: You are the perfect size for hugging and kissing. Your cheeks are big enough now so that when I kiss you my nose doesn't poke you in the eye and your are just big enough to squeeze hard and not have to worry about breaking your little body.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
You Know You're Ready for a Baby When...
You know you live in Utah when... The U is not just a letter - Neither is the Y. You can pronounce Tooele. You know what fry sauce is made of. You go to the duck pond to feed the seagulls. You negotiate prices at a garage sale. Your car breaks down on the highway and someone stops to help you. The speed limit is 65, you go 75 and a mini-van passes you.
You know you're ready for a kid when Easter egg hunts lose their appeal and 4th of July fireworks lose their sparkle. At least that's how I knew. Easter came and went the month before we found out we were pregnant. We had the candy filled eggs and the one empty egg to represent the tomb after Christ was risen. We had the chocolate bunny and reeses peanut butter egg (you reeses fans know what I'm talkin' about). But we didn't have the easter egg hunt. It was kind of lame. And that's when I knew we needed a baby. Someone to dress up in special easter clothes for church that Easter Sunday. Someone to take pictures of surrounded by baby bunnies and neon plastic eggs. Someone to hide eggs for. And most importantly, someone to teach about the special celebration of Christ's atonement using advent eggs. Yes, I am going to be one of 'those moms'.
You also know you're ready for a kid when fireworks on the 4th of July lose their enticing joy. Last year I got off work and we walked over to the park across the street to watch some awesome fireworks, but it was really more out of duty to tradition then to pure enjoyment. And that's when you know. When you're watching the families around you and giggling about the three year-old's fascination with the lights in the sky, the one year-old screaming at each boom and the five year-old standing up to watch each explosion and then fall to the ground screaming, "I've been hit!" each time the sound echoes through the air. Yup. Sure signs right there. All of the enjoyment is built into those little eyes reflecting the bursts of color in the sky. Except the smokey smell of gunpowder. I must admit that is reason alone to go to a firework show.
And then... after you have had those two signs of 'now you know' you know that you're still on the right track when 4th of July comes around again after the morning sickness is gone and you have a baby in your arms and you are glad for the excuse to 'put the baby to bed' rather then go sit on the ground starting at 6 so that you can get the perfect view, get a crick in your neck, and then wait in traffic for a hour and a half to get back home. Because you wouldn't want to look lame and unexciting. I'm talking about the unexciting you become after you get married. It happens again after you have kids. It's all downhill from there. Someday you're bound to be the most boring person on your block. And you don't want to admit that last year's duty to tradition was kind of a bust and you don't want to do it again. So you have your little bundle all in bed by 9:00 on the 4th and you stay inside blogging about how relieved you are not to be sitting out on the grass as your body cramps up from the uncomfortable sitting position.
But next year I tell ya, we're gonna have the quilted blanket, the perfect spot on the hill, the seven eleven slushie, the popcorn or carmel corn or whatever treat I come up with and we're going to have the little girl dressed in a blue or red dress with pigtails wrapped in ribbon. You can count on it. And she's going to cry each time a firework goes off and we're going to love every single second of it.
You know you're ready for a kid when Easter egg hunts lose their appeal and 4th of July fireworks lose their sparkle. At least that's how I knew. Easter came and went the month before we found out we were pregnant. We had the candy filled eggs and the one empty egg to represent the tomb after Christ was risen. We had the chocolate bunny and reeses peanut butter egg (you reeses fans know what I'm talkin' about). But we didn't have the easter egg hunt. It was kind of lame. And that's when I knew we needed a baby. Someone to dress up in special easter clothes for church that Easter Sunday. Someone to take pictures of surrounded by baby bunnies and neon plastic eggs. Someone to hide eggs for. And most importantly, someone to teach about the special celebration of Christ's atonement using advent eggs. Yes, I am going to be one of 'those moms'.
You also know you're ready for a kid when fireworks on the 4th of July lose their enticing joy. Last year I got off work and we walked over to the park across the street to watch some awesome fireworks, but it was really more out of duty to tradition then to pure enjoyment. And that's when you know. When you're watching the families around you and giggling about the three year-old's fascination with the lights in the sky, the one year-old screaming at each boom and the five year-old standing up to watch each explosion and then fall to the ground screaming, "I've been hit!" each time the sound echoes through the air. Yup. Sure signs right there. All of the enjoyment is built into those little eyes reflecting the bursts of color in the sky. Except the smokey smell of gunpowder. I must admit that is reason alone to go to a firework show.
And then... after you have had those two signs of 'now you know' you know that you're still on the right track when 4th of July comes around again after the morning sickness is gone and you have a baby in your arms and you are glad for the excuse to 'put the baby to bed' rather then go sit on the ground starting at 6 so that you can get the perfect view, get a crick in your neck, and then wait in traffic for a hour and a half to get back home. Because you wouldn't want to look lame and unexciting. I'm talking about the unexciting you become after you get married. It happens again after you have kids. It's all downhill from there. Someday you're bound to be the most boring person on your block. And you don't want to admit that last year's duty to tradition was kind of a bust and you don't want to do it again. So you have your little bundle all in bed by 9:00 on the 4th and you stay inside blogging about how relieved you are not to be sitting out on the grass as your body cramps up from the uncomfortable sitting position.
But next year I tell ya, we're gonna have the quilted blanket, the perfect spot on the hill, the seven eleven slushie, the popcorn or carmel corn or whatever treat I come up with and we're going to have the little girl dressed in a blue or red dress with pigtails wrapped in ribbon. You can count on it. And she's going to cry each time a firework goes off and we're going to love every single second of it.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Five Months with Alaska
Favorite Things: You have discovered a particular fabric to love after all of your sucking on various blankets, burp cloths, toys, washcloths, and clothes. You have a favorite shirt that you tend to soak in your mouth. It's a pity that it's my most favorite because whenever you wear it you are not a warm and cuddly baby. You are a wet monster with drool streaming from your mouth and strings of spit attached to your fingers. It's disgusting enough that even your grandma mary would rather you in some dry clothes.
Special Talent: You roll up and over your left shoulder from your back to your tummy. You haven't gotten down the steering of the roll, you roll just for the fun of it as soon as we set you on the floor and fuss until we flip you back over.
Favorite Pastime: Visiting with people. You are a social butterfly already and can charm a compliment out of anyone with your everlasting smile. Your daddy had to take you out of priesthood because you were being a little fussy but once church was over and people were looking at you again you cheered right up.
Sleep: You slept in your car seat all this month. Next step... the crib! You sleep through the night starting at 7:30 and take a nap that can range between 1-3 hours.
Crying: There's a lot more of this now that you tend to get frustrated with your inability to get where you want to be.
Dislikes: When it takes me too long to make a bottle.
Likes: You pretty much love everything. You have been so awesome to have around. The best addition to our family. I couldn't have dreamed of a better baby then you have been.
My Favorite Part: Your little chubby legs are at just the right chubbiness and I love holding you and squeezing them a little as you suck on a bottle.
Special Talent: You roll up and over your left shoulder from your back to your tummy. You haven't gotten down the steering of the roll, you roll just for the fun of it as soon as we set you on the floor and fuss until we flip you back over.Favorite Pastime: Visiting with people. You are a social butterfly already and can charm a compliment out of anyone with your everlasting smile. Your daddy had to take you out of priesthood because you were being a little fussy but once church was over and people were looking at you again you cheered right up.
Sleep: You slept in your car seat all this month. Next step... the crib! You sleep through the night starting at 7:30 and take a nap that can range between 1-3 hours.
Crying: There's a lot more of this now that you tend to get frustrated with your inability to get where you want to be.
Dislikes: When it takes me too long to make a bottle.
Likes: You pretty much love everything. You have been so awesome to have around. The best addition to our family. I couldn't have dreamed of a better baby then you have been.
My Favorite Part: Your little chubby legs are at just the right chubbiness and I love holding you and squeezing them a little as you suck on a bottle.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Once A Year
It happens once a year. I get the hankering to pack my things and head up to Alaska for the summer. Those two summers were the best of my life and their memories are etched into my mind forever. My own little Alaska sleeps with her eyelashes gentle on her baby-doll face and I can't sleep because I am thinking of salmon, never-ending evenings and working my bum off to pay for college the next year.
People always ask if I hate the smell of fish after they learn that I worked in a cannery for a couple of summers. No. Fresh fish don't stink. They smell of iron and cold bay water. They smell ok, as far as dead animals go. And as long as you don't think of them as dead animals and more like food they tend not to be so gross.
The cannery is not totally enclosed so it allows for the weather to get in and sift through the smells, whisking away the smell of iron and replacing it with ocean air. It's the smelliest in the morning after it's been closed for the night and the smells have been contained within the walls. The cleaning crew does a good job of getting all the chunks and bits and pieces, but the smell remains. It's smells like iron. Thick in your nostrils as if you have a bloody nose.
My early morning job that I assigned myself to was getting the ice water to cal berate the thermometers. I would walk from the office through the cannery, past the gutting operation and chink machine and through the temporary storage where you could always find a few fish wheelbarrows or plastic pallets to stand on. I would sneak through the fillet station and on into the freezer where there was a mountain of ice stored. I would scoop into the mound with my water pitcher and fill it with ice, hustling back to the office before the rest of the QAs showed up where I would be sweeping when they came in. My routine was well known and some of the other early risers would shout out greetings to me. There was one hispanic guy who I had become acquaintances with (but since we're in Alaska, we're going to call us friends, even though we never hung out.) He would shout out Hola, and ask me how I was doing in Spanish. I would answer the only Spanish sentence I knew from my two years of High School study of the language and he would get the biggest kick out of it. It was a great start to the day. He would often make sure that I didn't have to get my ice from the freezer, which was a bigger pain then you could imagine, but would have a wheel barrow full of it for me to scoop into.
The Dillingham cannery is one of the oldest canneries in the business and because of that, everything is made from wood where more modern facilities sport metal. The wood has to be painted over and over again so that none of it splinters or chips in the cans of fish racing through. That is what pre-season is for. Painting. I have painted a lot of ridiculous things, including the floor of the QA office that was once painted on a whim and now must be re-painted each season because it gets so scuffed up it's a hazard. We painted wooden stools for the patchers to sit on for the last part of the season. We painted the ceiling. We painted the machines. We even started to paint the outside of a building one season when the fish were exceptionally late.
Another pre-season chore is to clean the bussies. Bussies are huge iron crates with wheels that the canned salmon are 'swept' into by way of manual Turkish labor. The carts become full and are pushed to the ovens where they are cooked 10 at a time. They get mighty nasty over the course of a season with such hot temperatures and the occasional exploding can of fish because it wasn't properly sealed. They get a kind of grit on them that only comes off with sanding paper and on bussie cleaning week it's not uncommon to find 15 of us sitting inside these huge crib-like contraptions with a chunk of sandpaper, sanding away and then hoping to the next when we think we're done. These days are always the dirtiest and you can't wear those clothes again until wash day. Logistically, we all wear the same clothes for about three days so that we still have something to wear at the end of the week.
One pre-season things were especially slow and there were new orders that the overcoats that so many of us wore to keep fish flesh off our clothes could no longer have pockets. Two other girls and I spent four days ripping pockets off of coats with only two seam rippers between us. It was a long process. But at least we were warm and clean while others were chosen to scrub the holding tanks and sand more bussies.
We always got off at 5, right before dinner, on those pre-season days. And then, because we had nothing else to do, we would explore or play cards or watch movies.
My first season up there I went alone. I didn't know anyone and my friend who I did know wouldn't be coming for two weeks. Luckily there was one other American girl up there who introduced me to all of the American boys. We always went to their room after dinner and Jenna would bring a book to read while I would bring my journal and we would sit on one of their beds while the boys gathered around a table in the middle of the room and played cards. Other times all 8 of us would go exploring down the beaches, which aren't like beaches in the states. These beaches are all rock and mud. No sand in sight. And tons of sea glass. Which is most likely from all the drunks you see hanging around town, tossing their bottles into the ocean after a long lost love.
There are two stores up there. One the main grocery store and another that sells a few more things like clothes and rain boots and more groceries. It's always a toss up to which one you should go to. They're only a rock's throw away from one another and the prices are comparable. One boring day we were looking for a bouncy ball to play kick ball with and we trudged through both of them, the whole pack of us. It's obvious that the natives don't like the cannery kids. Not necessarily because we're obnoxious, but just because we're better off. We're in Alaska by choice.
The natives are really beautiful people. They've got their long, dark hair and their little noses that honestly look like God took his fingers and made a place for eyes and a mouth and the little mound that was made by dispersing the clay of man made their nose. It's just a little moosh on their face and is absolutely to die for. So soft looking. But the girls especially are unfriendly. I heard it said once that it was because they were afraid us 'American Girls' were going to take their native boys and marry them. There aren't many boys to begin with and if we were to take one of them back to the states with us, well, you can imagine.
The Bulgarians are the most friendly of the Europeans that are flown to Alaska. They're hard workers and still live in a country where women do not do manual labor. They treat all the girls like angels, making sure that they have the best. There is one QA job in particular that requires some big muscles. In order to be sure the machines are doing as they ought someone catches 5 cans from each line and then takes them back to the warm office to open them and measure the sealing and the pressure and all that. It's one of the more comfortable job but takes an efficient person to get the measuring done before the next set of measuring needs to be done. Anyways, they open up the cans, dump the fish into a bucket and proceed to measure. By the end of the day that bucket is full and heavy. One year we had a girl doing the measuring and the Bulgarian clean-up crew would never let her take the bucket to the grinder. They would insist that they take it and would often be waiting at the door at the end of the day to take this huge bucket of fish for her.
The Bulgarians are used regularly for the clean-up crew (they get the worst hours, but the best pay). They are like gods in their orange rain gear while everyone else wears yellow. They are the ones that make sure you don't slip on fish guts and who keep the water from pooling around your feet. The Bulgarians also work on the patch line with any other unfortunate American girl. For some reason only girls work here, perhaps because it's a precise job that takes some detail thinking. As much detail thinking as you can expect in a assembly line. There are 10 girls on either side of a table and the cans of fish whiz by. A scale is attached to a breath of air. If a can is too light or too heavy the air pushes the can off of the assembly line into the table and a patcher must fill it with more meat or take meat out of it. There are large trays filled with cute up meat just for this purpose of patching. When things were slow (or they were totally overwhelmed) I would go and help the girls down there. I was the only QA who would touch the fish and they all thanked me for it and because of it I often got the best patchers because it was first come first serve as to which patch line you were on and they all loved my line the best because instead of getting frustrated when things weren't going right, I would go to the source of the problem and help them out.
The Turks are alright. Sometimes you can find one or two that you can connect with, but for the most part they are a little lazy. They are used mostly in the fillet station and for sweeping cans onto the bussies in the cannery. There was one little guy that I met my second year that had some kind of eye infection and I was the one he chose to pour the eye drops in. We're still friends and talk often about how we were both so grossed out about the whole ordeal.
I have just been laying in bed thinking of all this and had to get it out. It only happens once a year that I wish so badly I were going up there. And I guess this is it. Perhaps it may persist the rest of this month and I will add bits and pieces of my adventures as we go along. For such rough country I really did love it with all of my heart.
People always ask if I hate the smell of fish after they learn that I worked in a cannery for a couple of summers. No. Fresh fish don't stink. They smell of iron and cold bay water. They smell ok, as far as dead animals go. And as long as you don't think of them as dead animals and more like food they tend not to be so gross.
The cannery is not totally enclosed so it allows for the weather to get in and sift through the smells, whisking away the smell of iron and replacing it with ocean air. It's the smelliest in the morning after it's been closed for the night and the smells have been contained within the walls. The cleaning crew does a good job of getting all the chunks and bits and pieces, but the smell remains. It's smells like iron. Thick in your nostrils as if you have a bloody nose.
My early morning job that I assigned myself to was getting the ice water to cal berate the thermometers. I would walk from the office through the cannery, past the gutting operation and chink machine and through the temporary storage where you could always find a few fish wheelbarrows or plastic pallets to stand on. I would sneak through the fillet station and on into the freezer where there was a mountain of ice stored. I would scoop into the mound with my water pitcher and fill it with ice, hustling back to the office before the rest of the QAs showed up where I would be sweeping when they came in. My routine was well known and some of the other early risers would shout out greetings to me. There was one hispanic guy who I had become acquaintances with (but since we're in Alaska, we're going to call us friends, even though we never hung out.) He would shout out Hola, and ask me how I was doing in Spanish. I would answer the only Spanish sentence I knew from my two years of High School study of the language and he would get the biggest kick out of it. It was a great start to the day. He would often make sure that I didn't have to get my ice from the freezer, which was a bigger pain then you could imagine, but would have a wheel barrow full of it for me to scoop into.
The Dillingham cannery is one of the oldest canneries in the business and because of that, everything is made from wood where more modern facilities sport metal. The wood has to be painted over and over again so that none of it splinters or chips in the cans of fish racing through. That is what pre-season is for. Painting. I have painted a lot of ridiculous things, including the floor of the QA office that was once painted on a whim and now must be re-painted each season because it gets so scuffed up it's a hazard. We painted wooden stools for the patchers to sit on for the last part of the season. We painted the ceiling. We painted the machines. We even started to paint the outside of a building one season when the fish were exceptionally late.
Another pre-season chore is to clean the bussies. Bussies are huge iron crates with wheels that the canned salmon are 'swept' into by way of manual Turkish labor. The carts become full and are pushed to the ovens where they are cooked 10 at a time. They get mighty nasty over the course of a season with such hot temperatures and the occasional exploding can of fish because it wasn't properly sealed. They get a kind of grit on them that only comes off with sanding paper and on bussie cleaning week it's not uncommon to find 15 of us sitting inside these huge crib-like contraptions with a chunk of sandpaper, sanding away and then hoping to the next when we think we're done. These days are always the dirtiest and you can't wear those clothes again until wash day. Logistically, we all wear the same clothes for about three days so that we still have something to wear at the end of the week.
One pre-season things were especially slow and there were new orders that the overcoats that so many of us wore to keep fish flesh off our clothes could no longer have pockets. Two other girls and I spent four days ripping pockets off of coats with only two seam rippers between us. It was a long process. But at least we were warm and clean while others were chosen to scrub the holding tanks and sand more bussies.
We always got off at 5, right before dinner, on those pre-season days. And then, because we had nothing else to do, we would explore or play cards or watch movies.
My first season up there I went alone. I didn't know anyone and my friend who I did know wouldn't be coming for two weeks. Luckily there was one other American girl up there who introduced me to all of the American boys. We always went to their room after dinner and Jenna would bring a book to read while I would bring my journal and we would sit on one of their beds while the boys gathered around a table in the middle of the room and played cards. Other times all 8 of us would go exploring down the beaches, which aren't like beaches in the states. These beaches are all rock and mud. No sand in sight. And tons of sea glass. Which is most likely from all the drunks you see hanging around town, tossing their bottles into the ocean after a long lost love.
There are two stores up there. One the main grocery store and another that sells a few more things like clothes and rain boots and more groceries. It's always a toss up to which one you should go to. They're only a rock's throw away from one another and the prices are comparable. One boring day we were looking for a bouncy ball to play kick ball with and we trudged through both of them, the whole pack of us. It's obvious that the natives don't like the cannery kids. Not necessarily because we're obnoxious, but just because we're better off. We're in Alaska by choice.
The natives are really beautiful people. They've got their long, dark hair and their little noses that honestly look like God took his fingers and made a place for eyes and a mouth and the little mound that was made by dispersing the clay of man made their nose. It's just a little moosh on their face and is absolutely to die for. So soft looking. But the girls especially are unfriendly. I heard it said once that it was because they were afraid us 'American Girls' were going to take their native boys and marry them. There aren't many boys to begin with and if we were to take one of them back to the states with us, well, you can imagine.
The Bulgarians are the most friendly of the Europeans that are flown to Alaska. They're hard workers and still live in a country where women do not do manual labor. They treat all the girls like angels, making sure that they have the best. There is one QA job in particular that requires some big muscles. In order to be sure the machines are doing as they ought someone catches 5 cans from each line and then takes them back to the warm office to open them and measure the sealing and the pressure and all that. It's one of the more comfortable job but takes an efficient person to get the measuring done before the next set of measuring needs to be done. Anyways, they open up the cans, dump the fish into a bucket and proceed to measure. By the end of the day that bucket is full and heavy. One year we had a girl doing the measuring and the Bulgarian clean-up crew would never let her take the bucket to the grinder. They would insist that they take it and would often be waiting at the door at the end of the day to take this huge bucket of fish for her.
The Bulgarians are used regularly for the clean-up crew (they get the worst hours, but the best pay). They are like gods in their orange rain gear while everyone else wears yellow. They are the ones that make sure you don't slip on fish guts and who keep the water from pooling around your feet. The Bulgarians also work on the patch line with any other unfortunate American girl. For some reason only girls work here, perhaps because it's a precise job that takes some detail thinking. As much detail thinking as you can expect in a assembly line. There are 10 girls on either side of a table and the cans of fish whiz by. A scale is attached to a breath of air. If a can is too light or too heavy the air pushes the can off of the assembly line into the table and a patcher must fill it with more meat or take meat out of it. There are large trays filled with cute up meat just for this purpose of patching. When things were slow (or they were totally overwhelmed) I would go and help the girls down there. I was the only QA who would touch the fish and they all thanked me for it and because of it I often got the best patchers because it was first come first serve as to which patch line you were on and they all loved my line the best because instead of getting frustrated when things weren't going right, I would go to the source of the problem and help them out.
The Turks are alright. Sometimes you can find one or two that you can connect with, but for the most part they are a little lazy. They are used mostly in the fillet station and for sweeping cans onto the bussies in the cannery. There was one little guy that I met my second year that had some kind of eye infection and I was the one he chose to pour the eye drops in. We're still friends and talk often about how we were both so grossed out about the whole ordeal.
I have just been laying in bed thinking of all this and had to get it out. It only happens once a year that I wish so badly I were going up there. And I guess this is it. Perhaps it may persist the rest of this month and I will add bits and pieces of my adventures as we go along. For such rough country I really did love it with all of my heart.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Forgot How Much I Missed It
I took on a 5th grade subbing job this past week and LOVED it. Don't get me wrong, I had the jitters and butterflies getting ready for the day, but all for naught. I straightened my hair, pulled on a cute top and did my best to look put together with some jewelry. This stay-at-home momma can still rock a little class. 5th graders can go two ways. They can be absolutely awesome because they don't need the constant approval of the younger grades and are still sweet to one another and can respect a teacher, or they can be totally obnoxious. And by obnoxious I mean tell you every little thing you've gotta do and don't you dare leave anything out 'cause that's not the way things go around here. And they can give you a hard time and talk a lot and not mind that they drive you crazy.
I am so used to wielding a bottle, cleaning a messy diaper with one wipe, catching slobber before it hits any more than Alaska's chin and going for walks while she screams bloody murder that I actually wondered how I would do with a class full of 5th graders. They're so grown-up, you know?
After checking in and getting my key to the room I found myself not only looking over the lesson plans, but checking out the room, as well. I wandered around, picking up clues on discipline, classroom rules, and which kids do the most careful work as their art was presented on the board by the door. The most ingenious thing I found was a shoe rack (never used for shoes) that held a plastic cup for each student to get a drink from the water cooler. Perfect for those hot days after lunch recess.
The kids were all great, every single one of them, and responded when I asked them to be quiet and thought the science movie was totally corny, which it was, and they let me know.
It's kind of weird, being out in public without my little side-kick of a bow-wearing smiley baby girl. I kind of wonder if even when I don't have her attached to me in a front-pack if people can tell that I am a momma. You get engaged and you get a sparkly ring. Everyone knows you've got a special someone in your life. You get married and you get another ring, doubly taken. When you get a baby you get... spit up on your favorite shirt? And what if you're lucky enough to get out of the house without the spit up? How do people know you've got a kiddo at home?
I had forgotten how much I enjoy being with students and I am sad that the school year is almost over. I will practice my baby-rearing skills over the summer and maybe by next fall I will have a characteristic that proves I am a momma even when my baby isn't at my side. Something quirky like always saying 'sweetie' and 'honey' when referring to people.
I am so used to wielding a bottle, cleaning a messy diaper with one wipe, catching slobber before it hits any more than Alaska's chin and going for walks while she screams bloody murder that I actually wondered how I would do with a class full of 5th graders. They're so grown-up, you know?
After checking in and getting my key to the room I found myself not only looking over the lesson plans, but checking out the room, as well. I wandered around, picking up clues on discipline, classroom rules, and which kids do the most careful work as their art was presented on the board by the door. The most ingenious thing I found was a shoe rack (never used for shoes) that held a plastic cup for each student to get a drink from the water cooler. Perfect for those hot days after lunch recess.
The kids were all great, every single one of them, and responded when I asked them to be quiet and thought the science movie was totally corny, which it was, and they let me know.
It's kind of weird, being out in public without my little side-kick of a bow-wearing smiley baby girl. I kind of wonder if even when I don't have her attached to me in a front-pack if people can tell that I am a momma. You get engaged and you get a sparkly ring. Everyone knows you've got a special someone in your life. You get married and you get another ring, doubly taken. When you get a baby you get... spit up on your favorite shirt? And what if you're lucky enough to get out of the house without the spit up? How do people know you've got a kiddo at home?
I had forgotten how much I enjoy being with students and I am sad that the school year is almost over. I will practice my baby-rearing skills over the summer and maybe by next fall I will have a characteristic that proves I am a momma even when my baby isn't at my side. Something quirky like always saying 'sweetie' and 'honey' when referring to people.
Lawn: 2; Steve and Jessica: -3
If there is one job both Steven and I hate the same it would be watering the lawn. The moving of the hoses, the re-moving of the hoses after you watch where the water sprays for 10 seconds, assessing that it has been moved too far or not far enough from the last place watered. The turning of the key in the hard to find spigots. And finally, the dodging of the water. It's usually a very wet process and requires a change of clothes.
Neither Steven nor I have ever had to water our lawns. Oregon has an amazing, natural sprinkler system that doesn't involve hoses or nozzles. Just an umbrella. And when it finally does stop raining for the month in the summer and the grass dries up no one blinks an eye. One last mow around the lawn and we're ready for winter in the middle of August.
Upon arrival in Utah two summers ago three people came and knocked on our door telling us that our sprinklers had been on constantly for the past week. They were supposed to be on an automatic timer but something had gone awry. We had only just arrived to the wasted desert land and realized the immediacy of finding a way to shut them off lest we be the sole reason the water reservoir be used up and Farmington city not have water until the first snow fall. We were told that we needed a 'key' to turn them off. Neither one of us had ever heard of such a thing and we went naively about, asking neighbors if we could use their key to their sprinklers. Most didn't have one, due to automated systems, and others couldn't find it, due to automated systems. We finally located one and were surprised that it looked nothing like a key. More like a cattle prod. But we got the water turned off.
We no longer live in that house and we have our own key to use on our lawn that is still surviving off of manual labor rather than an automatic system. And its a losing battle. You would think using the cattle prod to twist a little spigot handle buried in the lawn would be the easy part. Not so much. First, you gotta find the little suckers that seem to disappear every time the lawn gets mowed. Then you gotta remember which way to turn to get them to spit out the water. And if the lawn has been mowed recently you've gotta go uncover the sprinkler heads of any blocking debris. Mind you, the only reason you can see these sprinkler heads is because they're currently spewing water. But if they're blocked they're not spraying, just bubbling. So you've gotta walk out there while they're on, or else you would never find them, and uncover them. Talk about waking up a lion. You're putting yourself in the war path of a million beads of water, on purpose.
The worst part is that one of our sprinklers shoots you right in the face, and all over for that matter, when you turn it on. And also when you turn it off. For some reason it's aimed directly at the spigot in the ground and you cannot get away without drenching yourself. The other problem with this particular spigot is that it is conveniently next to the walkway of our neighbors who don't care about the lawn. Which means that the war against the water for a lawn that needs water is left to us.
Steven prefers the 'stealthy cat' dance. Scooting as close to the house as possible so as to avoid contact with the water he waltzes off our porch, sprints across under the gutter, breezes past the giant thistle growing next to the neighbor's porch and gives a mighty jump up their steps. From there he squashes himself against their door, trying to avoid the water that is going to undoubtedly get him in the end. Assessing the situation he leaps off the porch and digs the cow poke right into the ground to shut the whole monster off.
I take more of the 'bull by the horns' kind of approach. If you run between the two sprinklers in the middle of the lawn you can get by with hardly a drop hitting your skin. The problem though is turning the corner of the invisible, but highly tangible, water droplets to get to the spigot to turn it off. And then I always get stuck. My stabbing skills aren't the same as Steven's and it takes a couple of tries to get the key to catch. Turning righty tighty, second guess myself because results don't come quick enough, turn lefty loosey and finally get my head on straight and turn righty tighty. I am being pelted by sprinkler water for a good 15 seconds each time and each time I come in looking like I got caught in a typhoon.
Neither Steven nor I have ever had to water our lawns. Oregon has an amazing, natural sprinkler system that doesn't involve hoses or nozzles. Just an umbrella. And when it finally does stop raining for the month in the summer and the grass dries up no one blinks an eye. One last mow around the lawn and we're ready for winter in the middle of August.
Upon arrival in Utah two summers ago three people came and knocked on our door telling us that our sprinklers had been on constantly for the past week. They were supposed to be on an automatic timer but something had gone awry. We had only just arrived to the wasted desert land and realized the immediacy of finding a way to shut them off lest we be the sole reason the water reservoir be used up and Farmington city not have water until the first snow fall. We were told that we needed a 'key' to turn them off. Neither one of us had ever heard of such a thing and we went naively about, asking neighbors if we could use their key to their sprinklers. Most didn't have one, due to automated systems, and others couldn't find it, due to automated systems. We finally located one and were surprised that it looked nothing like a key. More like a cattle prod. But we got the water turned off.
We no longer live in that house and we have our own key to use on our lawn that is still surviving off of manual labor rather than an automatic system. And its a losing battle. You would think using the cattle prod to twist a little spigot handle buried in the lawn would be the easy part. Not so much. First, you gotta find the little suckers that seem to disappear every time the lawn gets mowed. Then you gotta remember which way to turn to get them to spit out the water. And if the lawn has been mowed recently you've gotta go uncover the sprinkler heads of any blocking debris. Mind you, the only reason you can see these sprinkler heads is because they're currently spewing water. But if they're blocked they're not spraying, just bubbling. So you've gotta walk out there while they're on, or else you would never find them, and uncover them. Talk about waking up a lion. You're putting yourself in the war path of a million beads of water, on purpose.
The worst part is that one of our sprinklers shoots you right in the face, and all over for that matter, when you turn it on. And also when you turn it off. For some reason it's aimed directly at the spigot in the ground and you cannot get away without drenching yourself. The other problem with this particular spigot is that it is conveniently next to the walkway of our neighbors who don't care about the lawn. Which means that the war against the water for a lawn that needs water is left to us.
Steven prefers the 'stealthy cat' dance. Scooting as close to the house as possible so as to avoid contact with the water he waltzes off our porch, sprints across under the gutter, breezes past the giant thistle growing next to the neighbor's porch and gives a mighty jump up their steps. From there he squashes himself against their door, trying to avoid the water that is going to undoubtedly get him in the end. Assessing the situation he leaps off the porch and digs the cow poke right into the ground to shut the whole monster off.
I take more of the 'bull by the horns' kind of approach. If you run between the two sprinklers in the middle of the lawn you can get by with hardly a drop hitting your skin. The problem though is turning the corner of the invisible, but highly tangible, water droplets to get to the spigot to turn it off. And then I always get stuck. My stabbing skills aren't the same as Steven's and it takes a couple of tries to get the key to catch. Turning righty tighty, second guess myself because results don't come quick enough, turn lefty loosey and finally get my head on straight and turn righty tighty. I am being pelted by sprinkler water for a good 15 seconds each time and each time I come in looking like I got caught in a typhoon.
Snore Whispers
Handsome Husband has this bad habit of falling asleep in church sometimes. I try not to give him any excuse, but let's just say that there are times for the faint of heart that sleep is just too good to give up during a warm and droning sacrament meeting. Spencer W. Kimball was once asked what he did to glean something from a less then exciting sacrament meeting. His reply, "I've never been to a boring sacrament meeting." What a cop out answer. We've all been to at least one, even if it was when we were 15.
Last week I handed him Alaska after she was asleep to hold. It's hard to shut your eyes when you know any loss of control could send your precious bundle to the ground. Plus, how could you shut your eyes when you could be gazing upon her little fingers and delicate eyelashes? Listening carefully to the speakers as they painted angelic pictures of their mothers for us all to imagine I heard a soft snore. I nudged Steven and absently hoped that perhaps one day Alaska will have a sacrament talk on Mother's Day and be able to say awesome things about me. Usually when I nudge him the sound stops immediately and he leans over and whispers thank you and then proceeds to rub my back a little to show he's sorry. No such thing.
The stake president's wife was telling about her mother and how she was such a great friend to her children when I heard that soft snore again. This time I nudged a little harder and actually turned toward the culprit. Steven's big eyes met mine and in all honesty he whispered, "It's not me!" Please. As if Alaska were snoring! I leaned my head close by her head and sure enough, little hushed snores were escaping her baby doll face. I just hope the curse stops there and her snores never grow more audible then a whisper.
Last week I handed him Alaska after she was asleep to hold. It's hard to shut your eyes when you know any loss of control could send your precious bundle to the ground. Plus, how could you shut your eyes when you could be gazing upon her little fingers and delicate eyelashes? Listening carefully to the speakers as they painted angelic pictures of their mothers for us all to imagine I heard a soft snore. I nudged Steven and absently hoped that perhaps one day Alaska will have a sacrament talk on Mother's Day and be able to say awesome things about me. Usually when I nudge him the sound stops immediately and he leans over and whispers thank you and then proceeds to rub my back a little to show he's sorry. No such thing.
The stake president's wife was telling about her mother and how she was such a great friend to her children when I heard that soft snore again. This time I nudged a little harder and actually turned toward the culprit. Steven's big eyes met mine and in all honesty he whispered, "It's not me!" Please. As if Alaska were snoring! I leaned my head close by her head and sure enough, little hushed snores were escaping her baby doll face. I just hope the curse stops there and her snores never grow more audible then a whisper.
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