decaying poo, it's what's for dinner

I never claimed to be a good, or even mediocre, chief.

It was not part of the job requirements set forth in either my marriage vows or the Mommy Code.

This said, this whole blog be 'bout how exceptionally awesome I am in domestic disputes, but this ... ah this was for sure a cross-stitch-it-on-a-pillow moment.  Anyone know how to do that?  I'm not allowed sharp objects.

Scene:  My kitchen.  There are no less than four pans on the stove, three glass bowls (too hot to touch), a spatula covered with some strange green substance, a garbage can filled to the point of dangerous overflow because I am the only person in the house who knows how to empty it, and me.  In the center of the chaos.

Characters: Me and the Meatball.

And the line I want someone to cross stitch into a pillow for me (cuz I also don't know how to do that):

Oh em gee, mom! 

It smells like decaying poo, what on earth is for dinner?!

For the record, my mental playlist at the moment that just barely presided this line of greatness, this pearl of wisdom, from my oldest child probably sounded something like this:

Oh mother of gawd what on earth was I thinking!  

This smells worse than a six day old shit diaper found in the truck of your car.  Mid summer.

Ew, it is sticking to my fingers! Its like cooties, but smells like death.    

  There is no way on earth I will ever get even the dogs to consume this crap!  

What a waste of my time, and the smell will linger, like bad company, for days!

The "crap" in question was steamed and pureed kale.  Kale is a food that us non-meat eaters love, generally.  Me?  Not so much.  I think it has the consistency of leather, and the taste is difficult to describe   It juices fabulously, so I use it all the time in my liquid meals.  But, I was trying to make some for the Beans.  Food issues (a post in and of itself) have long plagued us, and ultimately I have an 18 month old who really has the diet of about a 6 to 8 month old with strict limitations thrown in on top of that.  Breast milk and food purees.  He cannot tolerate store ones for a variety of reasons (also a post in and of itself) so I am relegated to that task of pretending I know what I am doing in the kitchen for him.  Lord help the child.  Generally, it is pretty easy.  Today, not so much.

So after an hour of trying to steam, then boil it to the right degree of softness my house smelled like ass, my kitchen is a disaster, and my oldest is terrified that this is what is for his dinner.

While this is humorous, it also suggests that his faith in me is so low that he worries I will serve this ...

... for dinner someday.

I think fear is a healthy thing in children.

Fate, the sneaky ninja

You know how sometimes you walk into a moment, fully expecting one thing, thinking you are one prepared-and-ready-to-handle-it-all-bad-ass-muthah when suddenly *WHAM* life throws you a curve ball to the temple and knocks your ass flat?

Yeah, happened last week.

The Beans has had his fair share of medical excitement, from the purple-and-grey-birth followed by his Homer Simpson homage, to choking and turning blue with so much regularity I am sure I can perform emergency choking procedures on a baby in my sleep.  So when I finally talked our primary care physician into an allergist referral following at least a year of miserable sinus congestion, coughing, sneezing, ear pulling and snot-vomiting, I walked in braced for the your-kid-is-allergic-to-everything-that-grows-outside talk.  Instead?  Well instead they poked the poo out of that little bitty back and told me:

Your kid cannot come anywhere near milk, eggs, or any nut.  Ever.  Oh and wheat isn't a good idea overall either.

Then we discussed Epinephrine and the doctor dropped phrases like "potentially life threatening."

Say huh?!

The milk, I knew.  We have been mostly dairy free due to his milk reactions via my breast milk for a loooong time now.  I occasionally will make something with milk in it and taste it, but for the most part I am avoiding it still because I am one of those hippie moms who hasn't cut the kid off the boob yet at eighteen months old.  While this is mainly due to his digestive insanity and nutrient needs, it is highly inconvenient yet we knew necessary.  So this one diagnoses was no surprise, though I will admit that the optimistic unicorn that resides in my head was hopeful they'd be all "oh wow he totally outgrew that!"

Eggs?  Well that one I didn't see coming.  But nuts?  All nuts, both the tree and ground growing varieties?  Talk about left field and scary.

I had students back in my teaching days with nut allergies.  Kids seriously stressed me out.  Not because there was anything wrong with the kids -- on the contrary I am hard pressed to remember one of them who had any pain in the rear tendencies.  No, their mere presence stressed me out because I know, with acute clarity, what it is like to live with a life threatening allergy.  Living with one has made me hyper vigilant to all the random items in this world that contain my allergen, that no one else would ever be aware of.  But nut allergies ... well I wasn't aware of them.  I learned what I needed to, a minor crash course if you will, and diligently emailed their parents whenever I had a question.  They were the experts.  I felt so much more sure of myself when one of those moms or dads gave me a green light.  Surely they knew what they were talking about, the safety of their little precious cupcake depended on their obsessive research, label-reading and company-calling.

But now I am one of those parents.

And that scares me.

It also breaks my heart.  I don't think there are words adequate enough to impart how frustrating living with a life threatening allergy can be.  None that I know, for sure.  In a society that is all about empowerment  and strength, to be felled by something as innocuous and stupid as a nut or a balloon (my allergy is to latex) ... well it throws you for a loop.  To always wonder when or where you may be accidentally exposed.  To always have to listen to and deal with the naysayers and theorists -- who generally have no allergies themselves but have hypothesized the millions of reasons why others do.  It is tiring.  Frightening.

And now my baby may have to live with it too.

Milk and egg allergies come with a roughly 80% chance of out-growth.  Fingers crossed.  Nut allergies come with about a 20% chance.  Well gee, the odds be not in our favor completely there.

So this past week has been a blur of cabinet clean out and library trips trying to discover what I can still feed my family.  All told, our list of things we are either sensitive to, reactive to, allergic to or intolerant of is staggering.  Ultimately, for a gal like me who isn't exactly all knowing and knowledgeable in the kitchen to begin with to try to whip up safe yet yummy food has become and overwhelming task that I know I will get used to.  I have done it before with the removal of meat and then dairy from our diets, so I can do it again.  It just ... sigh.

Imma outta words.

Anyhoo, things should be up to normal chaos round here soon enough.  Sorry, and thanks for hanging with me!

then came the Black Death

I have been away for a few days, and in the spirit of full honesty and disclosure, I am not fully "back" yet because I sense something horrible on my horizon   But I wanted to leave you with a couple thoughts, and this will be a taste of what is to come eminently here on the blog ...

Illness.

I am outnumbered three to one by males in this house.

No matter their age, men are babies when sick.

I hate people who share germs with anyone this house.  They have no idea how greatly I suffer.  

Thank gawd for my immune system, it appears to be the only active one in this !@#$ing house!!!

How a minor ailment can sweep through my home, with such brutal life ebbing force, I will never know.  One moment they are all fine, the next they are dying.  Yet, most mysteriously of all, I am only barely inconvenienced by my own equally-poorly-timed illness.  I find that I am too busy keeping them from their own looming death to have time to sit in a dark room and moan that no one has ever suffered this much before.

And just when I get all sick of dealing with the dying swan routine and decide to get all hard assed on them and tell them to just suck it up, they will survive, the puking begins.

Not even my drama queens would fake that for sympathy and wimpiness.  Damn, they are actually sick ... and my days should be numbered.  I -- the number one vomit-slinger, brow-wiper, and cracker-bringer -- should never be able to evade this death bug.

That's all, for now.  I will be back soon.  I hope.

20 Things I Want My Sons To Know

I have recently seen lots of pins on Pintercrack that sound like "10 things mothers of boys should know" or "15 things you should raise your son to understand" or something along those lines.  I have read some of them with a smile and nod, and some of them offended the spit right out of me.  Many of them focused so much on how to treat or get women that it implies that this is the sole life-goal men should have.  Others were so watery and transparent that I really felt they were almost demeaning.  The daughter ones are just as bad, but I can't speak with much authority on them since I don't/haven't raised girls.

But I decided to to my own boy list, one with some dignity and humor.  It got longer than I meant for it to, so we are now up to twenty.  Some of them, I admit, are taken from some of these lists I found pinned (like #4, totally true but makes me laugh to read it every time).  But the vast majority of them are mine.  

20 Things I Want My Sons To Know

1. Some chicks dig scars, some tattoos, all women appreciate a man in a well fitting suit and tie.

2. Spitting in publicly gross. Even in sports, don't do it unless you must.

3. Aim.

4. Dutch ovens are never funny. EVER.

Not this kind

5. Education is the one thing no one can ever take from you, no one can force on you, and can make all the difference in your world.

6. No woman is worth your dignity, except The One, and she'll never want you to compromise your dignity. 

7. Just because you're male and society tolerates certain things by virtue of being male doesn't mean you should be impulsive. Your first, and any number of times after, should only happen when you're ready and when it matters.

8. Wear protection, always. From riding your bike on forward, if protective devices are made for the activity in question use them.  Helmets can save your life, and "helmets" can prevent life from being created. Wear them.

9. Respect the work others do.

10. I will always think you're awesome but you'll have to prove it to the rest of the world.

Trust me, it looks stupid

11. Demeaning others is never funny.

12. Don't just dream, do. The only things beyond your reach are things you're not brave enough, devoted enough or strong enough to chase.

13. There is no such thing as "woman's work."  Men who think there is are either lonely or in relationships with weak women.

14. Never wear pants that require you to walk like a pregnant woman to keep them from falling down. You shouldn't wear women's pants either unless you plan to go full throttle and live as one.

15. Be courteous to everyone, not just pretty women or people you hope can help you.

Rock on, baby!

16. If you ever call a woman a word that starts with B and rhymes with "witch" just know that she should lose all respect for you.

17. Being a "mama's boy" as an adult is not a good thing.  I love you, I will always want to be part of your life and will be there for uou, but once you're married your wife becomes your immediate family along with any children you have. Dad and I become your extended family.  Be the independent man I have raised.

18. Reading is always awesome, keep doing it.

19. Say how you feel, I know sometimes it is hard or awkward, but always worth it.

20. Your imagination just might save the world someday, I believe it.

Parenting Advice 101

It isn't often that I give out parenting advice.  This isn't one of those blogs.  But it is often that I alert you to potential hazards and pitfalls you may encounter should you chose to do certain things.  Well, here is a doozy.

Do not teach your child to play "knuckles" on National Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Why?  Well, a combination of karma, bad luck and the universe's sadistic sense of humor will combine and you will find yourself texting this to your husband:

So I spent National Talk Like A Pirate Day (September 19th) with my left eye tender and debating the value of an eye patch.  Sure enough I had a shiner the next day.  Trust me, you feel like a total badass telling people that your black eye came from an adorable little nearly-18-month old.

The bright side of this story of course is that if you walk up to the Beans and say "knuckles" he will bump your knuckles  with his fist and make an exploding sound.

Its very cute, but it still makes me wince a bit.

won tons and paper owls

Have you ever heard of six degrees of separation?  Its this theory that any one person on earth could be six people away from any other person on earth in terms of an introduction.  Google it, cuz I am botching the explanation and it is merely a witty intro for a rant about won tons and paper owls.

What?  What could won tons and paper owls have in common you ask?

Well a couple of things, and we don't need six degrees of anything to see their similarities.

1. Folding.  They both involve folding.

2. I suck at doing them. Both.

This plan was flawed from the get go.  I mean when you consider me saying "I am going to make something new" you know already the odds for success are a tad low.  But I had no idea that won ton making was such a bleeding art form.  I know now.  I will always respect a well formed one, from this day forward.

To complicate things, my husband, Paul Bunyan himself, has decided we need to use cast iron.  I should hang my head in defeat now, but I won't.  We need new pans, and being the outdoorsy, woodsy, survivalist he is my husband thinks cast iron should be in our kitchen and not just our camping gear.  I can't say I disagree, exactly, but I can say that there are rules with cast iron and I do not know them all.

With these thoughts in mind, lets look at my inspiration.

Don't I always find beautiful inspiration?  I should get credit for that, at least.

Technically she calls them Spinach Pouches, and they looked delish when I saw them on Pintercrack.  I gather my ingredients and immediately notice that I want more seasoning because I am like that.  So I italic what I added.

• 1 box (10 oz) Frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
• 4 oz cream cheese, softened
• 1/2 cup ricotta cheese
• Large size wonton wrappers
• oil for frying 
• sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
• garlic powder, to taste
• onion power, to taste

I thawed and drained my spinach, debated doubling the recipe because I had the supplies but opted not to.  Thank Gawd.  Mixed the spinach, cream cheese, and ricotta (obviously this was not a dairy free recipe and I had to be careful) together with the seasoning.  I added all four (salt, pepper, garlic powder and onion powder) because I really felt it needed it.  I tasted it and loved it, so I moved on.

I love spinach, but drained, thawed spinach looks really unappetizing. 

All of the ingredients mixed for the filling, and it is looking a little less icky. 

I am guessing the "large size" won ton wrappers she speaks of on that blog are not whatever I had.  I had itty bitty little wrappers that were tiny and numerous.  I wound up folding them like the package says, which made them look more like won tons than the "spinach pouches" I was emulating.  I had to experiment a bit with how much filling to use, she said a teaspoon but that was way too much in my wrappers.

She said to use a teaspoon ...

Is that the right amount?

Nope.

There it is!  Less than a teaspoon worked.  

Once I figured out the right amount without exploding won tons I was able to really get going.

And make fifty thousand of them.  Well, it felt that way.

Some of the finished product.

Once they were all made I had to figure out what I was allowed to do with the cast iron pan.  Paul Bunyan took pity on me and helped because I have an adorable tendency to burn the piss out of my hands when frying things, even with pans I am familiar with.

Burns were kept to a minimum, and only some of the won tons were a bit dark in places as opposed to golden.  Our oil also hit the smoking point at one point so my eyes were burning like a mutha by the time we were done.  Because the filling had an Italiany taste to me I made some marinara to dip it in.

All in all they were pretty good.  Not as pretty, only some were burned and a couple had raw spots, but they weren't bad at all.  I figure since my husband wanted to take some for lunch today we could count them in the didn't-screw-that-one-up category!

the top five worst places ...

I love lists. I live by them. I have an app on my phone called Clear that I'd probably die without. I put stuff on my to do list like "shower " or "eat lunch" and I swear there are days I'd forget to do both were it not in my list of things to get done.

I also love top tens, fives, or whatever number lists too. It appeals to my listiness and my short attention span to give me the best (or worst) at a glance.

Well here is another for you, not conventional, but if you are a parent you will understand and may be able to add to it.

The Top Five Worst Places For Your Kid To Make the "Poop Face" 

1. In a family heirloom, at a quiet moment, surrounded by microphones.  Oh yes, every single person in my very large Catholic family on my mother's side has worn the same Christening gown, painstakingly and lovingly created by my great grandmother from her children on down.  It is so delicate, so beautiful, so terrifying.  So when Meatball's baptism was wrapping up and we were in the home stretch to getting that sucker off and back in the box with my aunt where I'd no longer have to worry about it being destroyed by myself or my progeny I was taking a sigh of relief thinking we were in the clear.  Oh, no, not so lucky.  Have you ever noticed that those adorable itty bitty newborns, with their itty bitty cute bodies that are ever so tiny can make flatulent noises that out-do Fat Bastard in Austin Powers?  Well now have your little munchkin firing off a five minute symphony while on an alter surrounded by microphones.  Lovely. The whole church was laughing, and I was dying, praying that those Huggies held up to the onslaught.  For the record they did.

Am I the only one a bit
horrified with these commercials?

2. The bathtub. Is it better because you can clean them up easily -- hey they are already in the tub! -- or worse because they are sans catching system and diaper free? How do you clean the tub if your kiddo has had a little more fiber than they aught?  Given that the floor of my tub is textured for reduced slipping risk, I find the prospect of the kid dropping a deuce in the tub quite horrific.

3. In their PJs, seconds from falling asleep.  Are my children the only ones who do this?  Oh man, I am so tired, I'd better take a poo first, cuz I can sleep so much better in a warm diaper.  So standing over them in their ten-seconds-til-they're-out-state while they wrap up that package you have to give yourself the talk.  No, it would be bad to leave them in that all night.  Yes, it will probably wake them up and you will have to start the night time routine, complete with fifty-six readings of Good Night Moon and Fox in Socks, all over again.  But it would be like a super-bad-mom-moment to leave them in that foul thing, even for a little while.  They will have a nasty rash, sigh, lets do this.  So I change them, and we start all over again.  I swear, they do it on purpose.

4. In line to have your picture taken with the Santa at the mall. My oldest was only three months old for his first mall Santa picture. As a first time mom I was so exited and had this adorable little outfit picked out for him with overalls and little boots and socks and everything. Quite the adorable, if not thoroughly complicated ensemble. So after two hours of waiting in line and only five people away from the fat man in red himself, when the Meatball's face turned purple with effort, I was not going anywhere. Sorry Saint Nick, I would loose my place and have to start all over if I went to the nearest changing table and disrobed the intricate series of buttons, flaps and straps, untied the little fake hiking boots that this cute little outfit contained and reassembled the kid after a thorough decontamination. So when it was our turn, eyes watering, I marched up to a retiree who generously had donated his time, apologized and set my little stink bomb down on his knee. Kudos to that Santa, he took a deep breath through his mouth, said the suit was machine washable and smiled for the camera. I display that picture every year, and laugh whenever I see it.

Ew, really now?!

5. When you are getting professional, non seasonal, pictures taken. Competition among brothers can be intense. The Beans hosed his father quite thoroughly in his newborn pictures -- because you just have to get a picture of that little bum -- but I think he instinctively knew number one wasn't enough. So when we went for his one year old shots he just had to up the ante. While posing like the adorable lil ham he is and working it like a professional model, he suddenly stopped mid-shoot and started grunting like a tennis player at Wimbledon. The photographer, who apparently does not have children, panicked and asked what was wrong with him. She must have realized that he was okay because we as parents wee laughing hysterically off to the side and asked of we could take a ten minute break.

I call it a tie between the two boys, simply because I don't want anyone to try to out do the other any more.