Tag: my girls

Dinner with Mo and Co

Dinner time at our house is a pretty average affair.  I make the dinner, I serve the dinner, I retreat somewhere out of the kitchen so I don’t have to listen to the children discuss how they’d rather be eating sushi (Mo) or how they are “really, really, really thirsty” (Co).  Yes, I know the importance of family meal time, but truly, at 5:30, I’m not hungry. And yes, I could sit with them while they ate.  . .

Anyway, I got them squared away with the evening meal and I told them that I didn’t want anyone popping up from the table unless they had to use the bathroom.  That might sound really ridiculous, but it peeves me to no end when I say dinner is ready and then they are up and down like Whack-a-Moles trying to show me how much of this they ate or how much that they pushed around to make it look like it’s been eaten.  Just eat until it’s gone or until you’re full, and for goodness sake, leave the plate on the table. Don’t carry it through the house, over your head no less, like a prize winning game animal you took down.  When you’re done, sit back and digest for a bit.  Then we’ll talk seconds (Mo) or dessert (Co).

I heard the scraping of utensils on plates and the occasional stunned, “This is really good!” coming from the table.  Then it got really quiet.  For a really long time.

So, I poked my head around the corner and saw this:

Death by Chicken Picatta? 
Uh. . .what’s going on here? Are they praying for ease of digestion? Trying to figure out how to get dessert?   Did they fall asleep? I know it put some wine in the picatta sauce, but it wasn’t that much.  I was stumped.  Then I decided to look under the table. . .

Look at my little bookworms!  There is nothing wrong with that.  Dessert all around!  

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IN: ON: April 18, 2012 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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photography projects & DIY

Thoughts on a Tuesday

I’m Type A. I know that about myself and I embrace it whole heartedly.  I love making plans. I like lists. I like nothing more than taking a piece of paper and filling it with the fine minutiae of what will suck up the minutes of my day. Even simple things that are part of our everyday routine, like “Drive the girls to school” make it on the list so that I can have the satisfaction of crossing it off when I’m done.  It’s the little things in life, right? Well, that and new pair of shoes. . .ooooh, I’m going to add that to my list.

Anyway, finding some time to write and something to write about has been topping my list as of late.  I haven’t been any busier or any more tired than normal. I just haven’t felt compelled to write. Or more likely, when I do have a minute to write, the great ideas I had slamming around in my head have disintegrated into “What am I going to have for lunch?” and “What happened to that ice cream I hid behind the frozen peas?” and stuff like that.

Sure, I have thoughts on Trayvon Martin, Samantha Brick, Sandra Fluke, placenta pills, red-shirting your kids, and the on-going SAHM vs. working mom vs. OAM debate.  There’s a lot to discuss out there and I’d rather have a meaningful discussion about it with some friends over coffee than just put my two cents into the mix, step back and see what happens.  A lot can get lost in the translation between my head, the keyboard, and whomever chooses to read what I’ve written.

So, I gravitate towards lighter fare.

Photographs and pictures that inspire me.

I do believe in mermaids. I do, I do.

Recipes that I want to try.

Pie in a Jar

Clothes that I’d like to have (and somewhere schmancy to wear them to).

All dressed up with places to go.

Crafts I’m (pretty sure) I can make.

Where we met, married and live map

Places I want to visit.

Ahhh, Venice.

Books I’m reading.

I don’t know if I’m impressed or depressed.

At first, I was going to take this blank space of a post and write about how I’m already planning Co’s 5th birthday party.  Yes, I have OAM tendencies, but I’m taking medication for that.


SN: My mom got on my case when I whipped out my folder of ideas and notes. “Her birthday is still in September, right?”


“Yes, Mom.”


“And you do know that it’s April, right?”


“Yes, Mom.”

After my first paragraph about list making and my internal monologue about “proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance”, my train of thought took a different course. And I just started writing just to write.  I have come across several other bloggers giving tips on how to get started with blogging, or how to improve your blog.  Sometimes, I want this blog to be a little more than it is.  I want it to have substance (the word gravitas keeps flashing in my head). I go through periods where I’m ready to scrap it as my personal sounding board and really try to pinpoint some topics that I think are worth intellectually stimulating.

I want it to be something that people say, “Did you see what was on the One L today?” (of course, that would necessitate more writing, but I’m working on that).  I want to have fully formed, thought-provoking opinions on topics that matter.  BUT, I also just want to look at pretty things, eat good food, read books that have me thinking “Just one more page and then I’ll put it down”, and take pictures of my family and friends that really capture just who I am and what I’m about.

I focus on the tidbits that make up my little plot of earth:  how my girls are the smartest and funniest bundles of the best parts of me and my hubs, how we’re getting ready to become a family of five, and my attempts to be a better person.  I show off a few things that I’ve made — I just finished making little ribbons for Co’s soccer team (pictures forth coming).  I’m still working on those Norfolk Mermaids.  I’m slowly growing a photography business. I’m busy in ways that matter to me and that matter to those people who are most important to me.  I might not be the wittiest, the funniest, the craftiest blogger out there, but I’m doing what I know how to do the best way I know how to do it.  
In college, when I became a member of my sorority, I was given a name that represented who I was and who I had become throughout my sorority experience. At the time, I didn’t really get it’s significance, but as I’ve *ahem* matured, I’ve come to appreciate it even more.  I’ve definitely grown into it.  I understand how it truly represents the person I’ve become.

e·thos

   [ee-thos, ee-thohs, eth-os, -ohs]  Show IPA

noun

1.

Sociology . the fundamental character or spirit of a culture;the underlying sentiment that informs the beliefs, customs,or practices of a group or society; dominant assumptions ofa people or period: In the Greek ethos the individual was highlyvalued.
2.

the character or disposition of a community, group, person,etc.
3.

the moral element in dramatic literature that determines acharacter’s action rather than his or her thought or emotion.

This blog is just an extension of that.  This is what makes my blog my own.  I don’t need to be like every other blogger out there. They’re already filling niches; why cram myself in? I’m going to stick with what I know. Just doing my own thing and crossing things off my list as I go.

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IN: photography projects & DIY ON: April 17, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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The Opposite of Yes

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I say “no” quite a bit.


I mean, a lot.


Like, I say “no” like a Valley girl says “like”.  Oy!


I say it more than I’d like to, really, but sometimes, it just has to be done.  I don’t think I’ll ever be the kind of parent who let’s their kids have a free-for-all for a day when all she says is “yes”.  I tried that once and by the time the breakfast dishes had been cleared and put away, I had developed a nervous tic in my eye and was in serious need of some anti-hypertensives.


It’s not that I’m trying to be the next Mommie Dearest. I just like to have things a certain way. I want my children to behave a certain way, which basically boils down to acting like civilized human beings who have some semblance of home training. 


I toss out the word “no” like Tic Tacs.  I’m not afraid to be embarassed in a public place.  I’ve been that mom, the one whose kids are crying in hysterically in the shopping cart because they’ve just been told they can’t have Frosted Fruity Lucky Pebbly Charms with the toy surprise inside. But of course, to Mr. and Mrs. Public, they just me pushing the cart while my kids are red-faced, snot-nosed misfits in need of a parent with a firm hand and no fear of setting boundaries.  I want to say, “Look lady, two aisles ago, it was all peace, love, and rainbows.  They wanted the cereal, I said ‘Not today,’ and all hell broke loose.”  It wasn’t like I was doing a Rumplestiltskin impression in the paper products aisle shouting, “No, no, no, no!” all the while.  I will admit, though, there are times when I wonder how that would go over instead of my even toned negative response and attempts to redirect the conversation.  I have to believe that if I went all Rumplestiltskin, they’d snap to real quick. 


In an ideal world, I’m the adult, what I say goes. I make the rules and they get followed. I’m the big cheese, you know, all of those parental adages that all equate to the same thing — “Because I said so,” and it’s all firmly ensconced in their wee little brains causing them to tow the party line. 


I say “no” when I’m trying to prevent my children from coming to bodily harm. I say “no” when I’m trying to keep them from turning into zombies after they’ve already watched an hour (cough::two::cough) of tv and are begging for more. I say “no” when they’re trying to wear shorts and tank tops when the temperature is calling for 50 degrees and fog, despite the fact that it is indeed spring.   I say “no” because I’m doing it for their own good. 


Oy, I went there. 


The thing is, though, I don’t like saying “no”.  It’s so negative. I’m afraid all of the girls’ childhood memories will be of me like some kind of suburban Kali, each of my eight arms wielding some kind of time sucking device (iPhone, Mac Book, a copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey”, a kettle bell), and a big, fat cartoon bubble with the word “NO” floating out of my mouth.  I can’t have that on my conscience.


So, I’m trying to  avoid using “no” and contractions like “don’t,” “can’t”, “won’t” and the like.  Believe me, this is not easy, so hard.  A self imposed no-ratorium!  If I have to put the kibosh on something like why we have to eat the dinner I’ve made instead of having sushi (for Mo), Kelly’s Tavern (for Co), and Chipotle (thanks, DH), I’m trying to say things like, “Maybe next time,” or “Let me think about it.”  I call it purposeful vagueness and have added a few other gems to this collection


1. “How about in a few minutes?”
2. “Maybe in a little while.”
3. “As soon as I’m done here, we’ll talk about it.”
4. “I’ll see what I can do.”
5. “That might be a possibility.”


Ka-ching!  The girls get an answer which isn’t negative, and I get to feel as though I’m back in the running for Mother of the Year while maintaining that false sense of hope that I really am running this show.


Of course, there are times when a firm “No.” is necessary.  For instance, if the girls ask me if they can hanglide off the roof using wire-hangers, double sided tape, and a pair of DH’s underpants, “Let me think about it,” may give them some false hope. In that case, I don’t feel as bad dishing out a steaming plate of “No,” in order to shut the door on that foolishness. 


Although, I might like to see that innovation in action. . .

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IN: ON: March 28, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Hurts So Good

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by the way, I am such a sucker for packaging.
I  love, love, love this
and almost clotheslined the whole
 first aid line into my purse when I saw it at Target.

Oh and it is a mother!  Right where my index finger meets my palm, and it’s as big and bulbous as a hot air balloon.  I feel like if I were to make a fist, the whole thing would explode like the blister on the guy’s foot in “Run, Fat Boy, Run.”

Hilarious scene, but not for the faint of stomach.  You go watch, I’ll wait. . .

Yeah, the blister on my hand feels like that, but really, it’s no bigger than the head of a pencil eraser.  It’s not like I’ve been chopping wood or clearing weeds or any other manner of yard work.

I’ve been practicing kettlebells twice, a week every week, since August. It’s awesome and I always feel “strong like ox” whenever I’m done.  My muscles are getting stronger, I’m getting a good cardio boost, but my hands have taken a serious beating.  My palms are so calloused, my callouses have callouses.  I haven’t gone as far as taking a nail file to them, but the temptation is there.

I’ve tried taping them, bandaging them, chalking up and wearing gloves.  Nothing’s worked.   I’ve tried to switch up my routine so that my hands don’t get a constant thrashing every time I go.  I’ve been doing all manner of squats, swings, and lifts, and the callouses kept on coming.  The blisters joined the party after I added another piece to my bank of RKC moves:  the high pull.  There is nothing quite as exhilarating as swinging 25 lbs. of weight up in the air and then pulling it back towards your face as if you were doing a one-handed lat pull.  Yes, I know exactly how crazy that sounds.

I was trying to explain kettlebells to my mother and as soon as I said the words “swinging” and “weights”, I could read the worry on her face as if she’s written it there with a sharpie.

“But what if you drop it on your foot?” she asked, clearly trying to find a dissuade me from throwing around heavy, metal objects.

“Have you seen my feet? That would totally be an improvement.”

She was not amused.

In any event, I’m going to keeping swinging my bells, and proudly wear my callouses and blisters. I just have to remember to be careful when I try to give the girls some lovin’ that involves my hands on their faces.

“Ouch, Mommy!” Mo said after I patted her on the cheek, “Your hands feel like Daddy’s feet!”

Ouch, indeed.

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IN: ON: March 14, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Make-Up Monday

Wow. I really didn’t anticipate the volume of work that I would have to get through last week.  Aside from the little pop-in to let you know that I was going to be busy, I haven’t even thought about my little corner of the blogosphere until now.  Shame on me!

It’s good be writing, though, especially today.  It’s only 9:45 and I’ve been putting out fires right, left, and sideways.  Mo is on spring break this week, and much to her dismay, we are keeping it close to home. As in, we’re staying home.  She’s only six and yet, she was completely crushed that we weren’t going to Disney, Cancun (her words) or some other vacation destination for spring break.  Um, weren’t you just off from school for Christmas? Isn’t summer vacation coming right at us? You’ll survive a week at home with mom. Besides, Co does indeed have school. Kind of tricky trying to do it up vacation style when your sister still has her regular 8:30 to 3pm schedule.

I figured that Mo and I would just take it easy this week. Trips to the Y, Target, the movies to see “The Lorax”, maybe get our hair or our nails done, stuff like that.  Too bad for Mo-dizzle, she came down with a sore throat and runny nose over the week-end. At least she’s on break. She could have a sick day or two of movies at home, while I futzed around doing this and that.  Cut to this morning at 6am.  I’m trying to find the inclement weather policy for Co’s school as big, wet snowflakes fell from the sky and adhered to the bushes.  Mo comes down says, “Um, so I went to wake up Co to tell her that it was snowing? And there’s this brown, smelly stuff in her bed?”

Ugh. Brown, smelly stuff? I’m not ready.

Mo and I head upstairs to survey the scene, and poor Co-biscuit. She was dead asleep in. . .well, let’s just say she got sick in night. . .all.over.the.bed.and.the.wall.  THE WALL! I’ve never seen anything like it.  And I effectively pulled myself out of the running for Mother of the Year by uttering that warm and fuzzy term of endearment all sick kids want to hear, “HOLY CRAP!”  Yes, I’m breaking my arm patting myself on the back here.

Fast forward to several loads of laundry, a garbage bag filled with soiled bed clothes, one 4 year old in the tub, one 6 year old in the middle of the foray complaining of the smell (thanks, Mo), and me, marveling at how when my kids do something, they do it big (it was on the wall!).

I never did find the inclement weather policy for Co’s school, but it really didn’t matter in the end.  I got both of the girls cleaned up, bundled up in sweats and fleece blankets and parked them on the couch.

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I completely turned into my mom and served them tea and dry toast.  When I heard myself say, “I don’t care that it tastes bad. You have to keep that down before you have anything else,” — oof! I knew had officially become my mother.

A movie was fired up on the TV and some soup roiled and boiled on the stove.  I think I made myself a cup of coffee somewhere in there, but I don’t remember where I put it.  When I find it, I’m sure it’ll be far from hot, but no matter; I like iced coffee, too.

I was going to put in my recipe from Friday, but 1) I didn’t make anything of note this week and 2) after all the scraping, Goof Off! spraying, and bleaching that went on, including a recipe in this post – no matter how delicious — just didn’t seem like a good idea.

I’m off to find my coffee, grab my stack of unread magazines and try to steal a few quiet moments for me, myself and I before the next round of “Mom, can I have. . .” starts up again.  I’m sure both of the girls will be on the mend sooner rather than later.  I just walked through the kitchen to see them, their hands and faces pressed against the window looking at the falling snow.

“Ooooh,” said Mo to her sister, “Look at all that snow! After we drink our tea, let’s put on our snowpants and go outside!”

Coughs, sniffles, upset tummies. . .how quickly they’re forgotten in favor of a few flakes.

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IN: recipes ON: March 5, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Snow Day

7:45 am
“Mom! Mom! Can we go play in the snow?”


8:30 am
“Mom! Mom! We want to come in! We want to come in!”

8:31 am
“Mom! Mom! Now what are we gonna do?”

Oy.  Happy Snow Day, y’all!

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IN: ON: February 20, 2012 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Come on out, Baby!

I promise, I’m not going to turn into one of those bloggers who, once they start popping out kids like Pez , they don’t have anything else to talk about except stretch marks, poopy diapers, and cracked nipples.  I will say, however, observing the girls and their reactions to my pregnancy has been pretty hilarious.

So, the other day, we were on our way home from school when Coever announced from the backseat that come June, when it’s time for the baby to be born, I will, “go into the bathroom and poop it out.”

Her sister, also known as Fountain of Infinite Knowledge, said, “Uh no! When the baby is ready to be born, the doctor will cut it out of Mom’s tummy.”

If I hadn’t been doing 35 on a twisty road, I’d have banged my head on the steering wheel. Repeatedly.  *Le sigh* Where to begin.

I opened with asking the girls what they knew about muscles in the body. What are muscles and how do we make them grow? No problem. They answered that like Ken Jennings on final Jeopardy.  I went on to say that men and women have different muscles and that the place where a baby grows is a muscle unique to women called a uterus.  I flicked my eyes up to the rear view mirror to see if they were still with me or if I needed to turn back to Absolutely Mindy on Kids Place Live.  My girls were hanging on my every word, so I plunged ahead.

A uterus, I went on to explain was a muscle that was like a house for the baby.  The muscle grew to accommodate the baby as the baby grew.

“And then they cut you open to take the baby out!” Morgan finished for me.  She was delivered via C-section and has heard the story so well, you’d think she actually brought herself forth from the inside out.

“Well, sometimes a doctor has to make an incision to take the baby out because the baby is facing the wrong way or is in trouble and has to come out fast. Most of the time the baby comes out another way.”

“When you poop!” Coever announced! This girl and her poops, what is up with that?

“Not quite,” I went on, wishing that we were at home instead of hitting every single red light between the school yard and house.  My brain was whirring and ticking as I thought on how to thoughtfully explain the whole uterus/cervix/vagina extravaganza that is natural childbirth.  So, I went back to the uterus and likened it to a house where the baby lives until it’s ready to be born.  “In order to get out of the house, what do we go through?” I asked them, pretty certain they’d get it.

“A door!”

“Right,” I said, gaining momentum. “So the uterus is the house and the vagina is the door the baby goes through to come out into the world.

Dead silence.

And then the plaintive exclamation from Morgan, “But it’s SO small!”

Nothing gets past her. Not a thing.

“Well,” I said, trying to wrap this up as quickly as possible, “that’s true, but after the baby is born, everything goes back to the way it was.” If you’re lucky, I added under my breath.  Thankfully, we were wheeling up the driveway at that point, so I was able to redirect that conversation to more important things like the collection of backpacks, mittens, snack wrappers and other junk.  Later on, when I was retelling this to Craig, I realized, better to have a conversation about how the baby was getting out instead of how the baby got in.  We’re going to need more than an after school pick-up to discuss that one.

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IN: ON: January 23, 2012 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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