Yesterday the kids and I had a fabulous meet up with Suzanne (Mimilou) and Liesl (Come, Mommy). It was everything a bloggy meetup should be. Good company, well behaved kids, and good conversation.

Liesl was as wonderful as ever, and Suzanne bears such a resemblance to Rebecca that threw me for quite a loop. So Suzanne, please forgive me if I kept staring at you, because it was a bit odd knowing that you weren’t really her with shorter hair.

I have to say that I was not at my finest conversation-wise, and kept getting sidetracked by random thoughts such as “Damn, did I call the floor guy back?” and “Boxes, I need more boxes. Must get boxes.” But as Rebecca consoled me this afternoon via my favorite thing ever, Skype, I can be rather flaky and do tend to ramble on incoherently, so hey, you got to see the real me. I still felt bad that I couldn’t quite wake up enough from my moving induced fog to follow a conversation through to the end and to ask the pressing questions weighing on my mind such as “How DO you manage to finish a book let alone write about it” and “What did you think of Little Earthquakes because I just found it unread in my bedside table?” Or for Liesl, “How was Gran-Gran’s visit” and “How are the new ferrets settling in?”

Anyway, thanks again, sorry for the flake-factor, and I hope we can do it again! Maybe y’all can shlep up to the new house, if I ever make it in there without being institutionalized someplace.


I guess things don’t actually stay the same

You’ve Changed 76% in 10 Years

Compared to who you were ten years ago, you’ve changed a great deal.
In fact, you’re probably in a completely different phase of your life – and very happy about it!

It’s actually kind of scary how different my life was ten years ago…especially since I tend to be someone who doesn’t like change.

As seen at Mimilou .

Apparently spelling is hereditary too

I have a spelling issue. Which anyone who has read my comments/emails/posts without a spell check readily available knows. I believe (and Nana will correct me if I am wrong) it was determined very late in the game that I had mild dyslexia, but had compensated enough that it wasn’t worth doing anything about except insist that I type all of my papers and have spell check available at all times.

Over the past several weeks, C has proudly shown me his writing. Which is perfect, except that it is backwards. In that if you held a mirror up to it, it would read perfectly correctly. I can’t replicate here, but imagine that “baby” was spelled “ybab” with the letters facing the opposite direction. The first time I shrugged it off. The second time, I was ready to race him off to whoever you race off to if you suspect a learning disability. At age 4 (and a half as C would say.) Really, I’m not that type of parent, but I suffered through this, and want to nip it in the bud if I can to save him the suffering I experienced until I got my own computer.

So do I freak out at this point? Am I over-reacting?

Just for kicks, once I spell check this, I will tell you how many errors I had in this short little post. And the answer is…twenty-three. I had twenty-three spelling errors. And that isn’t even counting the ones I caught with a quick once over.

Damn those genes anyway

As many of you (OK, all of you) know, A has some sleep issues. She can’t stay up much past 7pm, and awakes ready for the day at about 5 or 6am, despite our best efforts to shift her schedule. Some helpful scientists have now determined that “morning larks” (gee that sounds perky) are that way because of a mutant gene.

As no one who knows M would call him a morning lark, I am clearly the guilty party in the genetic roll of the dice on this one. I guess this means I have to stop moaning about it, huh?

Riddle me this

C and A have discovered the childhood mecca of stupid jokes. Over the last few days, I have Googled joke after joke, and tried to teach them the basics. The standard knock knock jokes, the chicken jokes, the how do you jokes. A few of them they have finally mastered. Many of them have been mangled beyond belief.

C: “Knock Knock”

Mommy “Who’s there?”

C: “Pizza”

Mommy “Pizza who?”

C: “I want pizza for dinner!” Both C and A burst out laughing and fall off of their chairs.

Or there is my current favorite:

C: “How do you get a mouse to smile?”

Mommy: “I don’t know!”

C: “Say pizza!”

Mommy: “Uh, I think it is supposed to be ‘Say cheese!”

C: “Silly mommy. If people smile at ‘Say cheese’ then mice must smile at ‘Say pizza!'”

Mommy: “And how do you figure that?”

C: “Well, mice love cheese and we love pizza. Get it?”

Mommy: “Not really, no.”

C: “A, do you get it?”

A: “Oh yeah. Silly silly C!”

Apparently, my sense of humor is sorely lacking.

Menu Week Two

A little late, I know. But M is late tonight, so I didn’t have to really plan anything for tonight (Hey! Chicken nuggets are a totally respectable meal I tell you…). So without further ado…

Tuesday – Turkey Tenderloins with Cornbread Stuffing (side of some veggie out of the freezer)

Wednesday – Potato Crusted Red Snapper, Caesar Salad

Thursday – Turkey Burgers with Sweet Potato Fries

Friday – Chicken Fajitas

Saturday – Chicken Pot Pie (a special request from C)

I know, I know, heavy on the poultry this week. But I am trying to use up my freezer stash of random crap before we move so I don’t have to beg space from other people’s freezers while the deep freeze is out of commission, and I seem to have accumulated a fair amount of chicken.


Every so often over the last six months M has asked me “Are you going to miss this house?” I look around, and honestly answer “Not really, no.” To which he sniffs a bit and huffs and puffs about the charm and the historical yadda yadda and then we move on to rehashing the decision to buy the new house all over again.

But his question is a good one. Will I miss the gorgeous, 1771 original, hardwood floors with little grooves that make it impossible to get the bits of dried peas off the kitchen floor without a pair of tweezers? Not so much. Will I miss the wood beamed family room that oozes charm, but never gets a drop of direct sunlight? Nope. See ya. Will I miss C’s gabled bedroom that screams “George Washington slept here!” but everytime I walk into it, I hit my head? Can’t say that I will. Will I miss the creaking floorboards outside the kids’ rooms that wakes them up every night, the pipes that freeze every. single. winter., or the bathroom sink that only runs cold water? Again, I don’t think so.

But, right now, even though 90% of my stuff is now in residence at the other house, this house is home. It is where we have slept and played and cried and yelled for the last four years, longer than I have ever lived anyplace except my mother’s house. This is where C learned to talk, A learned to walk, and both kids learned how to climb up and down stairs with ease. It is where we looked forward to returning to after every trip, and where I curl up when I need to get away from things.

Soon the furniture and books and toys will all be installed at the new house,but it isn’t going to feel like home right away. When the light streams into the playroom, and I sip my coffee and watch the kids play with a smile, it will seem odd. When I walk across a thick, tacked down runner to check on the kids at night instead of creaky floorboards, it will be not quite right. When I drive home from the grocery store, the playground, a playdate, I am fairly confident that I am going to miss the turn and have to circle around the block for months to come.

I’m not quite sure how long it takes to make a house a home. Or if there is some magical ingredient that will speed the process along. Probably not. So to answer M’s question more specifically, I’m not going to miss the house itself, but for the first few days and weeks and months, I am going to miss the comfort of having a home.

Overheard at Bedtime

C: (staring up at the kitchen ceiling instead of lying in bed) “Look! There is a hole in the ceiling.”

Mommy: “M! There is a hole in the ceiling!”

M: “Look at that. There is a hole in the ceiling. Not good. How did that happen?”

Mommy: “C was jumping in his room today.”

M: “We need to get out of this house.”

Blogging lite

I’ll probably be following the blogging lite plan for the next few weeks (not that I have been doing such a stupendous job of keeping up recently anyway). We have finally set a move date (and no, we haven’t sold the old house, thanks for asking though) and the logistical details of moving a household around the corner seem to be eating up my life. Especially since we decided to do as much of the move as possible ourselves after seeing the quote from the movers. So the kids and I have become our own little moving outfit. Yesterday was the crystal, today is the china. This weekend I think I will tackle the deep dark recesses of the crawl space attic. Shiver.

Anyway, I’ll give updates as I can, and once we are in I will regale you with the details and pictures. If I can find the camera that is.

M is such a good sport

So today’s culinary misadventures are a result of chef error rather than equipment malfunction. Apparently, Cod Poached in a Spicy Tomato Broth is spicy enough without doubling the amount of spice in the recipe. Just in case anyone other than the Kleenex box was wondering. In my defense (because one must be defensive about such things) M and I generally think that recipes require much more seasoning than called for. And I was using a crushed red pepper that I had found in the depths of my cabinet and I swear must have been there for four years. So my assumption was that it was not nearly as potent as a newly acquired spice would have been.

M: “Wow, it has a bit of a kick to it.” Then “This is spicy, my pallet is clearly out of practice.” Finally “I get a home-cooked meal AND clear sinuses without taking my allergy meds. Two for the price of one.” He every bite, bless his heart.

So, for the record, Cod Poached in a Spicy Tomato Broth=Good, but don’t tamper with the seasonings. Just don’t.