We love a good muffin

banana chips

I just so happened to have some bananas that were able to make it past that just ripe stage. Only 2 of them though… and so when I decided to make muffins, I quickly found most recipes calling for 3 of them. Yes…I could have halved it I suppose, but did I really want the trouble of halving my egg, and measuring out sugar into cups and extra tablespoons?

No, I like to keep things really simple around here.

I knew I wanted chocolate chips in my muffins. And I knew I only had 2 bananas. That was my requirement.

This is what I found: Banana-Chocolate Chip muffins. The recipe looks like it originally came from Bon Appetit, March 1999.

I did alter the recipe, so I can’t tell you exactly what they would have tasted like had I followed it perfectly…. but mine were so kick-ass, I am not going to try them any other way. Here is what I did different:

Instead of 2/3 cup sugar, I used 1/3 white and 1/3 cup brown sugar.

I added a healthy dash of vanilla extract. Somewhere between 1-2tsp.

I used SALTED butter. We don’t buy unsalted butter in this house.

Oh. I liked them. ALL the kids liked them, immensely. So much so, that the dozen muffins I made last night were all gone today when I got home from work, except for one. And that muffin has already been spoken for by the 5 year old who is expecting it in his lunch tomorrow.

Hello. I'm delicious.

Hello. I’m delicious.

You might think this muffin looks a little wonky with his one little chocolate chip sticking out of the side of his head. This might have been how he lasted longer than the other muffins…but never fear, he is choc full of chocolaty goodness inside, and he won’t last much longer. Good try wonky muffin.

Squeezing in together time

It’s here people….. ice cream time is here!! To be very honest, the ice cream place by our house is open all year (yay!), but we generally don’t walk up there until all the snow is melted. Takes a while in Ohio….

Yesterday, was the first trip. ALL 4 kids came with me, none able to withstand the lure of blue cosmo, cookies n cream, or that peanut butter banana smoothie. I love…. LOVE when I can get the 4 of them to go somewhere with me. Especially because now, the clock is ticking. The oldest is counting down the days until she flies the coop for college, having them all together after that is going to be a lot less frequent.

So in honor of our togetherness, I forced encouraged them to smile at the camera as I tried to snap some candid moments around the ice cream table.

They are THRILLED

They are THRILLED

Most of the time, these are not amazing pictures. It is impossible to get them all to look at me, or smile, at the same time…or at all sometimes. But I keep them, because I am that emotional mom who likes to think back and start crying sometimes when I reflect on how much each child has grown/changed over the years….. I think they like it when I cry….

I am also that embarrassing mom who likes to save these pictures, and them bring them out and show everyone how much they’ve grown or changed since last year, or years ago.

For example, I just so happened to remember that just last year…. we were sitting around a table at this very same ice cream place, and I also made them asked them to smile nicely for the camera…

last year

last year

Isn’t that so cute!!!  Can you believe Jenna FINALLY has hair? Can you believe how long her tongue was/is??

People, I live for this stuff. It’s what I do.

Christmas then.....
Christmas then…..
Christmas now!

Christmas now!

See what I did there??

I know one day, I’m going to miss having all these kids under my roof. (I keep telling myself this….) So I do my best to keep a record of the times they actually LOOK like they are getting along, as they grow up, and before they grow away.

sniffle.

Birthday Parties stop crime

Image result for birthday party

My version of hell

So Sammy turns 5 tomorrow.

Of course we are planning ANOTHER unforgettable, amazing party to celebrate. And every year I say I’m not going to do this again, and EVERY year I cave…. because I am weak. And I want my kids to love me. And not having a birthday party might cause some damage that could contribute to poor choices later in life.

“I (insert crime) because my parents didn’t value me enough to have birthday parties for me as a child. So I continue to act out…..”

So in my efforts to keep the kids wholesome, and positive contributors to society… I have ridiculous parties that become so stressful that I swear never to do it again. Until the next time.

Because Charles Manson probably didn’t have any birthday parties as a kid…….just sayin’

Pee Nazi’s

from the book: Potty, by Leslie Patricelli

from the book: Potty, by Leslie Patricelli

Usually when I ask Sammy about school, he isn’t very forthcoming with his answers. Probably because my questions are boring and predictable.

What did you do today? Nothing. Did you have fun today? Yes. Did you learn anything new today? No.

When I’m not badgering him, he will sometimes just open up on his own and tell me all sorts of interesting things.

Like how his teachers might be Pee Nazi’s.

It started with him talking about nap time at school. He takes his naps seriously, and was complaining about some of the other kids who wanted to talk and play instead of napping, ruining the quiet time for everyone else. As he went on, he also brought up how rude one little girl is, for always wanting to use the potty at nap time. The teachers want her to wait until they all get up, so the girl cries.

This got my attention. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s not letting kids pee. I’ve blogged about this before.

I immediately speak up for the little girl. “Sammy, if she needs to pee, they should let her pee.”

He looks at me. Obviously he knows better.

“Mom, they want us to pee after nap. I pee after nap. If I have to pee before nap, I just hold it. We need to practice holding it.”

We go back and forth. Me explaining that sometimes you NEED to pee, and it doesn’t matter if you’re napping, or eating lunch, or playing. I’m trying to reassure him, that if he is in that situation, it’s OK to pee!

He thinks I’m stupid.

The way he responds to me… he’s being patient because he has come to the conclusion that poor mom just doesn’t get it.

We don’t pee the same way you did back in the day…… now we HOLD it. duh.

How do I complain about something that he seems to have no problem with?

“Um, yes…. my son apparently has no trouble waiting until after naptime to pee, even if he actually has to pee while he is laying there on his little cot….in fact, he seems to think I’m a little slow for not understanding that nap time is not PEE time…but can you please let that poor little girl pee??”

I still try to explain to him that no matter how impressive his bladder control might be….. sometimes you just need to go. Like now. And if he ever, EVER needs to pee, and he is told no….. he is still allowed to go, and mommy will talk to the teachers.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe me, because he is well and truly brainwashed by the pee Nazi’s.

Don’t text my kids!

drhurd.com

drhurd.com

When people get married, have kids, get divorced, and then move on to date or marry other people…sometimes things can get messy.

The ex is a bit of a player. He’s been dating the same two women on and off for years, sometimes one at a time, sometimes both together. Sometimes they know, and sometimes they don’t.

My kids don’t know EVERYTHING about his private life, because it’s private. When they aren’t with him, his actions are his own business. I thought.

Until he broke up with the “nice” lady, and blocked her number….in turn driving her crazy and causing her to reach out. TO MY KIDS.

And my 13 year old came down in tears, from her “goodbye” text message that started out so sweet, and ended with “by the way, your dad is dating *name of “bad” lady* again and I know you don’t like her….have a good life”

Can I say that I felt the crazy wake up inside of me???

hellokids.com

hellokids.com

On one hand I feel for this lady, she always did seem to be on the short end of the stick. But, that was a low blow. You don’t use someone’s child to keep the drama alive. I know she must be so hurt, and angry, and not thinking clearly.

But….

Not my kids problem.

So I got her number, and I texted her. Believe it or not, I was not horrible.

But I did tell her to please not contact my kids, and they would be blocking her number.

I’m really proud of myself for being a grown up, because inside I still want to smack her for making my son cry, for manipulating him in order to get back at his father.

Guess what? I got a text back….. a profuse apology and acknowledgment of how awesome my kids are….

Yes. They are awesome. I hope awesome enough to learn from the mistakes of their parents, they sure seem to have more sense than us sometimes.

Laundry heiroglyphics

I got some great new pants, from Stitch fix. I call them miracle pants, and I do believe they could change the world. For better.

I was doing laundry, my dress pants and tops for work mostly. Washed all the dark stuff together on gentle, as usual. Grabbed my pants out of the wash, and checked the tag to see if I could dry them. There were no written instructions…. just a weird jumble of stick drawings that I assume was supposed to mean something to me.

???

???

Nothing. This means nothing to me. I called my best friend who doubles as my recent sub-par girl scout cookie supplier… asking if she had any idea what the little pictures mean on the tag of my pants? Nope. Happened to her, and she had to Google it.

Are we really supposed to know this? Is the book of laundry hieroglyphics sitting somewhere for us to learn from? All I can glean from this tag is something about temperature-in Celsius of course, something about ironing them…I assume it’s ok?? And something about avoiding circles. Or holes. Maybe don’t throw your pants down a hole? Don’t cut circles in your pants?

These are made in Canada, not ancient Egypt!

I did not take the laundry tag class in home economics, I am not sure it was offered. It seems pretty ballsy for someone to just assume the world at large is going to know what to do when faced with this tag. I feel like the triangle with stripes might mean something important. How do I know??

So I Googled it too. Holy hell, it’s like cracking a code. Check it out here. It’s amazing how much information can get jammed onto that little tag. And a little sad that I dried the pants on super low, after crossing my fingers. Now that I know better.

LINE DRY!!  It means line dry! How would I possibly know this? It looks like an envelope, or a box to me.

This has nothing to do with Pink Floyd, and everything to do with using non-chlorine bleach. If you must.

No one is trying to save you from falling down a rabbit hole, or illustrating chop sticks on an empty plate. It means NO dry cleaning. Geez.

Looking at all the possible laundry symbols, I would have to say the DMV booklets for beginner drivers is much easier to figure out and guess what all those signs mean. Thank god I don’t need a license to do laundry. My ignorance has most likely contributed to a shorter life span for my miracle pants. 😦

It should not be this hard to wash your clothes.

Tagalong scandal

They look innocent and delicious. Don't be deceived.

They look innocent and delicious. Don’t be deceived.

I sit here, just seething.

There is a box of tagalongs right behind me on the counter. An OPEN box. The fact that I am even able to write this without chomping on one, and then another, and then another….. means there is something seriously wrong.

Like, the world might be ending kind of wrong.

If there is one thing I can always count on to illustrate my complete lack of self control with regard to junk food… it’s girl scout cookies, right?? Well, apparently the girl scouts must think they are doing me some kind of favor, but I don’t see it that way. It feels more like mutiny to me. And I don’t even know if I’m using that word properly, not being a sailor and all…but it feels like the best word to capture my feelings of betrayal.

Let me tell you a little story. A story of dreams being shattered.

I am, like many of you, a very, very strong supporter of the girl scouts. I donate to them without fail every year, buying boxes and boxes of cookies. Because it’s a good cause. Now, I’ve gotten into the habit of eating these cookies, sometimes even eating most of the cookies before anyone else in the house can find them. This is how I keep obesity from claiming more victims. It’s selfless, really.

My favorites are always the same. Tagalongs. Samoas. Thin mints. And a few other boxes just for variety. But those three, those are the staples. Thoughts of those cookies are what keeps me going during the rest of the year, and able to turn up my nose at the Keebler elves shoddy imitations sitting on the grocery store shelves. I’ve never cheated.

My internal cookie clock started going off around January. I called my cookie contact. Not time to order yet. After much impatient waiting, I got my order in. Extra boxes of everything. Then more impatient waiting. Why do they make you order so early and then wait, and wait before those cookies come in??

I would call up my cookie friend, listen half-heartedly to some blah-blah-blah about her life…then cut her off. “Where are the cookies??” GEEEZ, not in yet??!!

By the time they came, I was practically twitching in anticipation.

There they were, boxes and boxes of those coveted cookies. Sitting on my counter. Waiting for me. I grabbed the tagalongs, my absolute FAVORITE. Took one. Decided to take 4 instead. Headed up to fold laundry, giving myself about 10 minutes before I had to come down for more.

so far, so good.

so far, so good.

I ate the first cookie. Hmmmm, didn’t feel anything close to orgasmic. Tried another. WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!

They don’t taste the same! They are missing something critical. Something that would guarantee my self loathing after inhaling a good half box in one sitting. I nibbled on the third cookie, trying to figure out the difference. It just…. didn’t have it. That special something was gone. I eyed the last cookie. For the first time in my life, not wanting it. I ate it, just in case. But still disappointed.

Where are you hiding?? I need you-secret amazing ingredient!!!

Where are you hiding?? I need you-secret amazing ingredient!!!

I called my friend and cookie supplier. Trying to be calm. “What in gods name happened to the tagalongs!!??? I can’t even eat anymore! What did they do!!??”  She wasn’t sure. But did mention that some cookies are made at different bakeries and so will taste different from bakery to bakery. She’s right. But I’m still thinking corners are being cut. Someone found cheaper ingredients. Someone decided to sneak a smidge less peanut butter in each cookie. Whatever the case, I am suffering.

One might think I would be grateful for the removal of such an obvious object of weakness for me. No thanks. I would rather be the one to overcome my cookie addiction on my own terms. I don’t WANT help!!

I don’t know what this means for the future, my future with the girl scouts. Thank god, the samoas are still as addictive as they can possibly be. I just try to ignore the label as it keeps trying to remind me each cookie is 70 calories. I imagine it’s better to get all those calories in during one sitting and just be done with it, rather than spread them over any reasonable amount of time.

Consider this your public service announcement. Lest you too find yourself with far too much self control around cookies that have always been able bend you to their will in the past. It’s scary.

the hallway

panoramio.com

panoramio.com

There is a particular hallway in a hospital I work at… it is just a little bit too long and straight for my comfort.

Weird, right?

I walk this hallway about 20 or so times a day, with many of the same people who work in the same hospital day after day. And plenty of other people I’ve never seen.

This hallway is just long enough to be TOO long when you see someone you know at the other end. It’s too far to try talking to them, so of course in my over-thinking mind… I start to wonder at what point do I make direct eye contact? If I look at someone too soon, and they look at me…are we required to hold eye contact ALL THE WAY down the hallway, until we are close enough to actually say hi? Can I look away? Do I have to smile, and then just….keep smiling????  What if I smile and they don’t? When is it officially close enough to say hi?…. and do I have to stop or can I just keep walking?

If you smile too long, your face will freeze like this..... it's a scary thought.  ilpvideo.com

If you smile too long, your face will freeze like this….. it’s a scary thought.
ilpvideo.com

It’s such a long, straight, boring hallway….there really isn’t much to look at.

So imagine starting down, and it’s not very crowded yet…. and there is a stranger coming your way. 9 out of 10 times, both of us will do our very best to pretend we don’t see each other. I check my phone (GREAT for ignoring others), I’ll look at my pager, stare intently at the list of patients in my hands…. or remember how much I really adore that painting on the wall-and focus on every brush stroke, or the exit sign up there in the corner…..

WHY do I do that????

Sometimes I look at the people passing me, just to see what they will do. Most don’t look at me. I envy the ones who can just walk and stare straight ahead, looking at NOTHING but doing it so intently, they make nothing seem so important. Sometimes I say Hi, and people sometimes say Hi back to me. I feel victorious when that happens.

Here is a secret.

There are times I see someone I know, way down at the other end. They don’t see me. We don’t make that early eye contact. So I make sure I look really busy, and avoid looking at them at all costs. I imagine we both breathe a sigh of relief as we pretend our way past each other. It’s like these small social opportunities are just too stressful.

sigh

I’m MUCH friendlier outside of that hallway, honest.

I’m not alone, I asked a few friends and they all laughed and admitted to doing the same kind of ignore tactic. I asked my husband and he thinks I’m even crazier than he did before. Is it because he’s not American? Is this isolative behavior more of our cultural norm?

If we put that hallway in the middle of, say, Italy…. would people still rush past each other, trying to pretend they are alone? Or would everyone be greeted with a smile, and a kiss on one-or both-cheeks?

I wonder….

The grief caused by a mouse

dreamstime.com

dreamstime.com

I am going to say this, as much as I hate to.

I saw a mouse in my house.

If you think about it, most people probably do have some sort of little critters lurking around in the heating ducts, the basement corners, attic, whatever. They are so small. Our houses in comparison are so big, not to mention so warm and dry when it’s crappy and cold outside… doesn’t take much to find a way in.

But it’s not ok for me to see it, or KNOW about it.

So after seeing this tiny little furry body scurrying across my floor, I was shocked. Mortified. Embarrassed. Disgusted.

As I have dealt with this little….issue…. I had no choice but to propel myself through various stages of emotion. Almost identical in fact, to the stages one often goes through after a divorce, or after the death of a loved one. It has been that tragic for me.

Stage 1. Denial.

Absolutely. Because there is NO WAY I have a mouse in my house. Obviously someone once had a pet hamster and it has managed to live in the heating vents for the past 6 years or so since we bought the house, completely undetected. Maybe I was witness to him finally finding his way free after all these years. Probably just looking for a big wheel to run on. Or, even better…. I probably didn’t just see that. Nope, it happened so fast… it may have been my imagination and god knows that thing gets out of hand all the time….

Stage 2. Anger.

After spending a fortune on a load of NO kill traps, and spreading them all over to humanely catch any potential mouse, or gerbil, or hamster that could possibly be living in my heating vent….. that bastard managed to avoid all of them and show up again the next day, scurrying around like he owned the place. TWICE in the same night. My jumping around with a flashlight and broom had no effect whatsoever. Now I’m angry. You might be cute. But I’m going to kill you.

it's on.

it’s on.

Stage 3. Bargaining.

What a wasted stage. This never works, as I can tell you-being a mother of 4. Doesn’t work with the kids, doesn’t work with a mouse. But we try it… and I guess the promise NOT to kill him just wasn’t enough to inspire that mouse to sashay into one of my traps. If only I had been better prepared for a rodent invasion….If only I had encased my home in steel mesh…If only I had made a better deal with God…. I could have saved us from the mouse.

Stage 4. Depression.

Well, it IS really depressing to know I am being invaded by at least one small, furry creature. And I am going to believe, for the sake of my sanity, that he JUST got here the very first moment I saw him, and when I am not seeing him, he is in some sort of suspended animation, and NOT spreading his little mouse germs all over my house. What? That sounds like denial to you? Listen, I NEED to be in denial right now. Or I would burn this place down…

Stage 5. Acceptance.

It helped when I talked to a friend at work. She just had the same issue. We talked about traps. She told me what I already knew, those no-kill traps are a joke. I accepted my problem. Bought a million cheap wooden traps after work… armed myself with peanut butter, and turned my furnace room into a torture chamber.

I have since become an official murderer of innocent mice. As much as I would have preferred to avoid that, I also accept that I am willing to kill a mouse, or 2…to keep my kids disease free and my home clean. And to keep myself sane.

Do I feel bad? Well….maybe a little??? Do you hate me for being a mouse killer?

You do???

Tough.

Sorry Mickey.... We have no mouse tolerance....

Sorry Mickey…. but not really……