A plea, all in the name of serving my fellow man

There are many things that I love in this world. Cookie dough ranks at the top of the list, clearly, as does a crisp diet coke (preferably in a glass cup, with ice, and a straw).

And I love the Husband and our children, of course.

But there is one thing that I absolutely love, and have neglected to pontificate on. Until now.

I love babies. LOVE them.

I love my own babies. I love friends' babies. I love (from afar) strangers' babies. I love to hold them, smell their yummy necks, prop them up on my shoulder, and sit for hours. Content. At one with my chi. In my happy place.

I have even designated myself the church baby holder and make every attempt to steal hold someone's baby during church meetings.

About five months ago, I heard there was a friend in need. A friend who was overwhelmed, tired, and stressed out.

What did she need help with?

These lovely girls:


Not one, but TWO, delicious, yummy, sweet, twin babes. I asked their mama what I could do to help, and she replied with words that were like music to my ears: "Come hold the babies so I can get something done around the house."

And ever since that fateful day, I have spent Tuesday mornings in the company of two angelic girls. One named Aubrey, and one named Chloe.

And I have to say, Tuesday has quickly become my favorite day of the week.

Unfortunately for me, my friend will be moving this summer. Which will leave a great void in my [soon-to-be-empty] service calendar.

It's only because I'm so giving, you see.

And so I must put this matter of unfulfilled service into your hands: My dear friends, please have a baby (or two) so I can come hold it.

Please? It's really not asking that much. You'll get over the morning sickness, the stretch marks, and the cravings. Plus, I'd be there all through the delivery, ready to snatch that baby and do some holding, I mean, service.

Come on. It'd really make me so very happy.

What's that, you say? Why don't I have a few more of my own? Well, because I really don't like being pregnant, that's why. And I honestly don't think I could go back to midnight feedings, diapers, and nap schedules. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm getting too old.

The matter must be left to you, my friends.

Have me a baby, dammit.

Smile for sale

As I have mentioned before, the little people in this house are greedy, capitalist mongrels. They have figured out the system and know just how to make a buck.

Take for instance, this afternoon, when my new reflectors arrived in the mail (thanks for the recommendation, Nicole!) and I wanted to try them out.

Are these little people willing to help me, simply out of the goodness of their hearts, given that I carried them for nine long months and birthed them into this world?

Oh, hell no. Their cheeky mugs do not come for free.

And even when they're on a paying gig, I sometimes get faces like this:

Determined NOT to have a good time, this stubborn, yet adorable, clone of his father refuses to flash me his winning smile.

Instead, he makes faces like this, hoping I will give up and go away:

I do not go away. I am determined to get my money's worth, so I hold out and wait. Lucky for me, I know his weak spots, and start working on them right away.

I tell a few jokes. I make fun of myself. I laugh out loud at him. And still he tries his darndest to hold out.

He is getting weaker. You can see that his strategy is failing him.

He wants so desperately to win this battle of wills.

But, eventually, he gives up, and I get what I came for.

There. Was that so painful, you little stinker?

It's a good thing he's so darn cute. Otherwise, we might have given him away long, long ago.

I may need to get a job to pay for all the therapy these kids are going to need someday

Ever have one of those weeks where you feel like you have totally 'effed up most of it? Like maybe you (and your family) would have been better off if you'd just crawled into a hole and stayed there all week?

Here is a small sample of some of the things I 'effed up on this week:

• Threw out important work papers left on the table by the Husband. They had notes all over them that he needed for an important client meeting. Notes with language and words that were CRITICAL to his work for the client. Oops.
• Totally blanked on helping in a classroom at school, thereby stressing out one of my children.
• Threw something in the oven and completely forgot about it until the smoke alarms went off.
• Forgot to prep my child on a cub scout assignment which left him stammering and embarrassed in front of a room full of people.
• Yelled at my child for being out of bed, then discovered his reason for being out of bed was the throwing up he was doing in the bathroom.
• Spaced on being the tooth fairy and got caught in the act of leaving the money.
• Foolishly assumed that buying bite-sized sugar cookies would enable me to have just a nibble and feel satisfied. Not true, for you see, COOKIES ARE LIKE HEROIN. And I cannot stay away from them, no matter how hard I try. Is there rehab for cookie addicts?
• Ignored one child's seemingly vague request that he needed drumsticks for music at school, then got mad at him for not being more specific. Although, it's hard to be much more specific than, "I need drumsticks for music at school."

Mother of the year, no? Luckily, I can redeem myself today, at least in her eyes.

She's home sick with the strep, and I have just consented to watch all the Barbie movies while cuddling her hot, feverish body on the couch.

I'm pretty sure I deserve it.

I made it through another winter without killing anyone

What do you do when you look out your window mid-March and THIS is the sight you see?


You celebrate, that's what. For it is not snow covering the branches, but lovely, puffy, popcorn-like blossoms.

These lovely blossoms can only mean one thing: Time to put away the winter coat and pull out the flip-flops.


To say that the winter and I don't really get along would be a major understatement. We are mortal enemies, the winter and I. She hates me as much as I hate her.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that she exists merely to spite me. She takes such devilish pleasure in her ice storms and her wind chill. And she flaunts that ugly brown slush for months, like a bad outfit worn over and over until you're so sick of it you could scream.

I have never liked her. My dislike grew to loathing after experiencing the bitter wind and negative temperatures that make up a Minnesota winter.

My loathing turned to manic rage when, every year, Nor'easter after Nor'easter pummeled the city of Boston, and I was left to shovel 1,945,493 tons of snow, on my own, as the husband was always conveniently out of town.

And frequently out of town in better climates.


But finally, FINALLY, I am living in a place where winter doesn't linger until May. Here, the first day of spring actually means something.

Like, you know, that it's actually the first day of spring.

What a concept, eh?


I might need you to remind me of my great love for this state, say, mid-July, when my hair and I are cursing our other mortal enemy: HUMIDITY.

Until then, I will relish my love affair with the spring. I will sit on a blanket in my backyard, the sunshine gently warming my shoulders. I will look up and smile at my children's laughter, as they run and bike in the fresh air. I will take a luxurious sip of the diet coke by my side, and then return eagerly to the book in my lap.

Ah, spring. I wish our torrid love affair could last all year long. Don't you?

Trying hard to keep the 11th commandment

I believe there was an 11th commandment that somehow got misplaced while those pesky Israelites were off wandering in the wilderness. It reads: Thou shalt always mix peanut butter with chocolate.

Am I right?

You know I'm right.

Today, dear friends, I am feeling generous, and am going to give you one of my all-time favorite recipes.

May it make your bottom as large as it has made mine.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Cookies
Cream together:
1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup peanut butter (though I rarely measure the p.b. Just grab a big scoopful, then you don't have to dirty up a measuring cup with something sticky)
2 eggs
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp. vanilla

Mix well, and add:
3 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda

Then you must take a smidge of the dough and do this:


Because you never know. It could be poisoned. And if it was, you would then probably look like this (only slightly less out of focus):

More than likely, your dough will not be poisoned (unless you have a lot of enemies and a handy supply of arsenic). And this is what you will look like after a delicious lump of cookie dough has been sent right down to your thighs stomach:

Next, spray your mini-muffin tins with Pam.

Hopefully, you will be looking at your pan and not through the lens of your camera while doing this. The general idea is to actually spray the Pam inside the muffin cups, and not all over the sides of the pan.

Once that is done, roll the dough into one-inch balls and set into the pans like this:

Pop those babies into a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes. While they are baking, you can start de-wrappering the Reese's peanut butter cups. I always solicit the help of a little munchkin and her tiny fingers for this job:

But beware, for the munchkin will sometimes sneak a cup or two when she thinks that no one is looking:

Then she will smile innocently, her chipmunk-like cheeks stuffed to the gills with chocolate and peanut butter, and pretend that nobody is the wiser:

Oh, you little munchkin. We're on to you.

Then when your timer dings, pull the pans out of the oven, and press a peanut butter cup into the center of each cookie. Press firmly, until the cup is level with the top of the cookie, like this:


Let the cookies cool in the pan for 8-10 minutes to firm up. Then gently take a knife and plop them out, one-by-glorious-one.


Repeat until all the dough is gone or until you run out of peanut butter cups, whichever comes first. [One batch will usually make a large bag of p.b. cups.]

Then be sure to check the pictures on your camera. For while you were working, the little munchkin will have accidentally taken about 1,893 pictures of your bosoms. Which would be fine, say, if this were a porno cooking blog, now wouldn't it?


But since it's not, you will have to content yourself with the sight of these lovelies instead:

Hello, lover.

[And don't be thinking that these will last in your house for more than an hour. They won't. I absolutely guarantee it.]

Happy baking.

Tolerance, even for our vegetable friends

A few days ago, I had all the kids with me on a trip to Walmart. At the checkout line, I realized that I needed, and had forgotten to get, a tomato. Knowing the snail-like pace that is always the checkout line at Walmart, I sent the boys off to grab me one from the produce department.

They came tearing back, giant tomato in hand. Chase set it on the conveyor belt and announced, in his unmistakably loud voice, "Bad news, Mom. It's a Mexican."

I look up in horror, smile at the African American check-out girl, and try to say loudly, "That's okay, Chase. I'm sure MEXICAN TOMATOES are delicious."

To which he practically shouts, "But, Mom, we don't really like the Mexicans." [I know he was only thinking the tomatoes would taste different. The kid has love for all god's people. Honest.]

My ensuing lecture about how we really do like everyone was lost in the murmurs and shame that was our hurried walk out to the car.

For the record, we DO like the Mexicans.

And their giant tomatoes.