Best Christmas Present

Best Christmas present this year= a bookmark from Naomi

Not even one she'd bought.  No, no.  One she'd gotten for free at the checkout desk at the library. 

I read.  A lot.  One hundred and three books in 2013, according to my Goodreads account.  She knows this.

She told me she thought I probably could use a bookmark.

Not expensive, not terribly exciting, but something thoughtful and useful, not a present to give just for the sake of having something to give.

Definitely the best present this year.

A Happy Heart is a Thankful Heart

I know- the Veggies think it's the other way around.  I'm pretty sure it goes both ways.

After the yearly facebook lets-be-thankful-for-a-whole-month bandwagon that I initially boycotted, I decided I'd join in for a few days, but with *real* things to be thankful for, not 'I'm thankful for socks' posts.

And even though I'm done with those posts, I still find myself being thankful for things I wouldn't have thought twice about before.

The other day I got an anniversary card in the mail from grandma, and I thought- I'm so thankful for a grandmother who sends cards for every holiday known to man, because these cards will not come for very many more years.

Thursday when I pulled into the driveway after taking Hope to choir and our 80-year-old neighbor was just finishing plowing our driveway with his tractor.  For the second time that week.  Thankful for sweet little old men who are willing to bundle up in subzero weather and plow the whole neighborhood, mainly for something to do.

Today when David got called in to work, since he took call for someone today.  And next Monday.  And next weekend.  Simply because I said we could use the money.  Don't need it- can survive without it, but he knows I feel more comfortable not taking money out of savings every month to make ends meet.  So although he doesn't like to take call and likes going to work on Saturdays even less, he takes it whenever any of the hospital techs offer.  Thankful.

Thankful, thankful, thankful.

Life Lessons

A few weeks ago at BSF, someone mentioned taking bags of food whenever she went into the city to give to homeless people.  She said a friend of hers had asked how she found homeless people to give them to.  Um, walk down the sidewalk?  She was shocked that someone could be so blind to what is all around us.

So yesterday we went into Chicago to the Christkindlmarket.  By the time we got in there, it was lunchtime, so we found the closest McD's and had lunch.  We were on the second story by the window, and Hope was looking at all the people on the sidewalk.  She asked David why "that man is just sitting there". That was the only homeless person that I know she noticed; she may have noticed others- I saw several just in the three or four hours we were there.

Rather than driving all the way in and paying all the tolls and parking fees, we drove to the closest L line and took the train.  More adventurous for the kids, cheaper, and easier than trying to find parking downtown.  It was about a half-hour trip on the train, and it was pretty busy both ways.

On the way back, Hope and David ended up standing behind my seat at the back of our car.  During the trip, a man walked into the car from the one behind us, and walked up to the middle of the car.  He started talking and said he was licensed and bonded in something- I wasn't really paying attention since he started talking about 30 seconds after the recorded message that soliciting isn't allowed on the train.  He said he was having a tough time finding work, and asked for help finding work, for any fare cards, extra food, spare change.  I had packed several granola bars for the kids to snack on and we still had a few, so I dug 'em out and gave them to David to take up to the guy.  Hope was in the aisle, so David had her take them over to him.  He said thank you and that was it.  He sat down for a few minutes, and when an older lady got on the train, I noticed that he immediately stood up and asked her if she wanted his seat.

When we got off the train, he was walking past us.  As Hope passed him, he looked straight at her and said "bless you" and smiled at her.  As we were leaving the terminal, she asked me if I'd heard all that the guy had said.  She'd just heard him say if you have any extra food, but wanted to know what else he was talking about in the beginning of his plea. 

As I thought about it later, it struck me how, when we care about a person or a cause, we want to help.  Grandma would never dream of helping the mexicans, until she knew a family who needed help who happened to be hispanic.  Then she bought a bunch of groceries for them and got the kids signed up for toys from the church. When we know the need of someone or something we care about, then the desire to help is usually there.

But sometimes, if we help first, then we start to care.  Hope didn't care what this guy was talking about at first.  But once she helped him, however minimally, then she was interested.  Then she cared how he got to that point.  Then she wanted to know what he had to say.  Maybe that's the key.  Maybe we don't need to educate society on the perils of poverty.  Maybe we just need to start helping.  After that, society might educate itself.

See that lovely little spot above my eyebrow?

No big deal, right?  Just a scratch, or maybe something gouged my forehead right there.

Except that it's been there since we lived in Marysville.

Last spring, when it had scabbed over and then reopened enough for me to notice it and be aware that something was off, I already had an appointment with a doctor for a checkup, so I mentioned it to her.

I already knew I needed to see a dermatologist for a mole check so I added the spot to my list of complaints. I called for a consult and discovered that getting an appointment with a dermatologist takes roughly as long as human gestation.

Besides, I was pretty sure I already knew what it was.  A bit of medical knowledge and access to Google makes me an expert, you see.

Skin cancer.  Basal cell carcinoma.

Not melanoma, not life-threatening unless I choose to leave it alone for the next decade and see what happens, and yet...

When I used to tan, mom would get so mad at me and I'd tell her with our family history I was going to get some sort of cancer; I was just picking the type. 

Perhaps not my best-thought-out plan.

The ironic part is that I always kept my face covered when I tanned.  This spot is your general, run-of-the-mill, too-much-cumulative-sun-exposure skin cancer.

Makes me wonder about the other parts of my body that have had non-routine exposure.


Now that I know it's there, I just want it gone.  Who wants to willingly leave cancer cells in their body?  Who would knowingly ignore something so harmful?

Revelation time: SO many things can have deeper meanings!

Can the word 'cancer' mean more than just abnormal, destructive cells? 

Could it mean destructive behaviors?

Could there be many more things in my body that are a type of cancer?

Things I don't notice at first, or don't realize their destructive potential?

Like yelling.  Mom did it.  Dad did it.  I do it.

But, just like cancer, it spreads.

It starts as yelling to alert a child to danger.

Slowly, it progresses to yelling any time you need to get a person's attention.

And before you know it, your response to any situation is rage.

Not only is it your response, it becomes your child's automatic response too.

If you know it's cancer, you can cut it out before it has a change to damage and destroy.  But can you always tell what cancer looks like?

Obviously not.  It doesn't wave a red flag and say "here I am, come weed me out of your life!"

It- the cancerous, sinful behaviours that so easily invade- starts out so innocuous, so benign, and by the time you recognize the behaviors for what they are, they've grown into the very fiber of you, and become nearly impossible to remove.

Oh, that I would have the wisdom and insight to recognize the cancers in me as easily as the cancer on me.

Daniel Wayne you are a pain...

But it's only because you're 3.  You'll get better.

He is such a sassypants lately!

Whenever David tells him no, he says "No to you, daddy!"

If he gets in trouble and I start counting, as soon as I say One, he'll say "No, two!"  Occasionally he'll count himself right into the corner.

And lately whenever anyone says no or can't or won't, he says "Oh yes I can" with a sassy little voice.

Sas. See. Pants.

A few months ago I started getting him to attempt to use the toilet; it didn't last long and he didn't really care, so I stopped.

He still doesn't care.

But I'm sick of buying diapers.

And I'm sick of changing the poopy diapers.

And he's three and a half.

It's time.

So, this last week has been potty-training week.

He's almost there.  By the weekend, he'll be done with diapers except maybe at night.

Ten years and six months.  That's how long I've spent with someone continuously in diapers, except for two weeks between Hope being trained and Naomi being born.

It's almost over.

And I know some day I'll wish it wasn't over.

*Sigh*

Joel. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

Why did God give him to me?

Of all the children in the world, all the options, all the genetic possibilities, why is this child mine?

There must be a purpose, something I'm supposed to learn, from him.  The only lesson I can imagine is humility.  And perhaps self-loathing.  And despair.  And hopelessness.

I can't see God wanting me to learn most of those lessons.

He truly does go in spurts of being wonderful and being monstrous.  For weeks things will be great.  He'll love me, obey me, snuggle me, try desperately to please me.

And then the moon changes phases, and he's back to the monster-child.

The other day at the store he was mad at me about something, and he said, "I wish you weren't my mom".

I replied, "I wish I weren't your mom either, but God gave you to me, so we both have to deal with it."

That sounds horrible to say to a little boy, and I suppose it is, but it's the truth.  If I got to choose, I would not choose a little person with whatever is different about Joel.

I am not equipped to be an adequate parent to him.  I'm not.  I feel like I have the ability to be a good parent to the other three.  I can handle their issues, understand their moods, figure out how to discipline and direct them.

Joel- not a clue.  Just when I think maybe I understand, or maybe we've found help, or maybe something is working, everything goes wrong.

I have honestly wondered if I could voluntarily put him in the foster care system or something but still be able to see him whenever I wanted and take him back whenever I wanted, just so he'd have access to people, professionals, caregivers who have more experience with kids like him and might be able to do a decent job with him.

Because I am not doing a decent job. 

He can be SUCH a sweet little boy.  He loves to sit by me.  He begs me to snuggle him at bedtime, although that's more of a delay tactic than true desire to spend time with me.  He kisses me for no reason.  He tells me several times a day that he loves me.  Yesterday he wouldn't play a draw-two card on me when we were playing Uno, but had no problem slapping it down once someone reversed the direction.  He thanks me for making meals for him.  He sits and watches me cross-stitch and asks if I can get sewing things for him too so we can sew together.  He loves to read books to his little brother, and stands next to the toilet and encourages Daniel by telling him what a great job he's doing potty training and how proud he is of him.

And at the same time, he disobeys me as if he doesn't even hear my voice.  He argues with almost everything I tell him.  He refuses to help with chores that he's happily done in the past.  He torments his sisters horribly.  He looks for ways to hurt Naomi.  He yells -no, screams- at Daniel when Daniel gets upset or angry.  He gets irate when I can't understand him, can't answer his questions to his satisfaction, when his schedule is interrupted or things don't go in the exact sequence he expects. He's physically destructive as a way to retaliate.

I am not equipped to raise this little soul.  And I wish I were, because he's so precious and he deserves more.

One Year

One year ago, I drove out of my driveway in Marysville one last time. 

I cannot believe it's been a year!  It seems like four or five months, maybe.

And I still love being here.

I did not love being in Marysville.  As I drove away from that house, I thought about how different that moment was from the moments when I left my other houses.

My house in Spokane- I spent several moments gazing around the living room, thinking about how much my life had changed in that house. 

I went from being recently-brokenhearted but realizing I would be just fine and should move on with my life, to being vivacious, quasi-orphan, fiancée, wife, mother, mostly-single parent....

When I bought that house, Terry had just instituted one of his month-long breaks from each other that he was so fond of.  After a week, I realized I did not need him in my life. When the month was over, I took almost perverse pleasure when I saw the shock in his eyes as he realized what my buying my own house meant. 

I remember the first time I saw the house in a real-estate magazine; I thought there were too many angles to the roofline.  But I loved that house; I imagine if we'd been able to stay in Spokane we might've still been there, although it would mean some room-sharing.

David was in a hurry to leave, so I didn't get as many moments as I wanted, alone for the last time in my house, but I spun slowly in a circle,  thinking about how life can change so much and so quickly, thinking about the first moments Bryn and I walked into that room, just remembering.

 Our last moments at our house in Rockford, we were in a hurry again, but this time David made me turn around and look at the house one more time.  I was sobbing - -SOB.BING. If I'd gone with my heart instead of with what I thought my husband wanted, I would've called the moving truck and told them to just come back.  Even though I hadn't loved Rockford in the beginning, I was not the one who decided to leave in the end.

The first time I saw that house online, I loved it, although the location wasn't ideal.  We actually made an offer on another house near Amy, and I agonized and cried over that one too.  Thankfully, we didn't get that house, because this was definitely the right one for us.

And leaving it was no fun at all.  In fact, I'm not sure my heart ever did leave.  Part of it still resides in that house.

And then the Marysville house.  Given what we had to choose from, it was one of the better choices.  But I never loved it, and once they built the houses behind it, my feelings about it went downhill fast. 

And when it was time to leave, I didn't even look back.  Didn't take one last look around the house, didn't glance in the rearview mirror, nothing.

Really, I'm not at all sorry about that.  No love lost there.


I wonder what the circumstances will be when I leave this house for the last time.  I like it.  I don't love it like I loved our Rockford house (except the 500 square feet of white tile floor.  That was the bane of my existence, and the reason I hired a maid), although it fits our needs well and we could easily live here until all the kids are gone.  I don't foresee moving anywhere else in the near- or semi-distant future.  I love our town, I like Rockford, I see no reason to leave.  Unless some dream job became available in Spokane, but that isn't going to happen.  And even then.....would I want to move back?  I really don't know. 

But.....time flies.  I still cannot fathom that we've been here for a year.

Ways to Help Others When Their Life Stinks

I've been thinking today about poor Kristen and her family.  Although I'm nowhere near close enough, nor have I spoken to her since Julia was a baby, my mind has been going through things that people could do for her to help.  Whenever something bad happens, the first reaction seems to be to bring food.  Helpful-only maybe; gut reaction- definitely.  So I decided to start a list of things that I would've appreciated after mom died, and maybe someday I'll have a chance to do unto others what I would've liked done unto me.

1. Meals- use disposable dishes.  Nobody wants to feel guilty for not bringing back your dishes soon enough or forgetting what belongs to whom. Also, bring something frozen, with directions and the recipe taped to it.  We had more food than any family could reasonably have eaten.  But something to put in the freezer and pull out in a few weeks when the shock wore off and even transferring a dish from the fridge to the oven felt like an accomplishment would've been Heaven-sent. 

2. Housecleaning- I suppose if someone close to Lucy dies, this one won't apply, but  most people don't love housework.  I know there are many people who thrive on doing routine, mundane chores just so they feel like there is some semblance of normality, but if someone told me they were going to come over on this day to dust and vacuum for me, I wouldn't have said no.  Bring them a latte and tell the person to go somewhere that you won't bother them, unless they want your company, and clean a bathroom, make the beds, or mop the kitchen floor.  Take a nice basket and put anything out of place in it, so they can go through later and put things where they go. 
This would probably be even better if a pair of people went, so the bereaved didn't feel obligated to keep anyone company.

3. Laundry- I'm one of the oddballs who enjoys laundry.  I accept that most people don't.  Same principle as #2- tell them you'll be over to do a few loads of laundry.  Change the sheets, wash some towels, allow them to not have to worry about having clean underwear when their life is crashing down around them.

4.  Do not say "let me know if I can do anything" or "I'm here if you need me".
No one is going to take you up on that.  Say "tell me how I can help" or "what can I do to help you?"

5.  Talk is cheap.  Anyone who's been through a death can list 17 different platitudes that they'd rather punch someone in the face than hear again.  A simple "I'm so sorry" is sufficient.  Some people really want to talk after a tragedy, others are more private and won't talk.  If it's someone you're close to, just say "when you're ready, I'm here".  If it's an acquaintance, don't bother.  "I'm sorry for what you're going through" is all they need to hear.  Add an I'mprayingforyou if you'd like- definitely pray, but they don't need to hear it and, again, talk is cheap.  They won't care yet.

6. Go to Starbucks, buy 'em a coffee and a scone, and take it to them.  Do not go in the house.  Say "I'm thinking of you" and leave.  Unless you're really good friends and the person wants you to stay.  But usually, that's not the case.

7. Send a card.  You don't have to say anything profound.  "I'm sorry, I'm thinking of you in this difficult time".  I still appreciate many people who sent cards- not because it was any great help, but because it's the thought that counts and they thought of me.

8.  Send another card.  Life goes on for the rest of us, but not for the person who's experienced the loss.  Remember that they're still grieving.  The whole world shows up to help initially, but very few remain after a few weeks.  Let them know you still care, you recognize they're still hurting, and again ask how you can help.

9.  Run errands.  Ask if it would be helpful if you went grocery shopping for them.  Pick up their prescriptions. Tell them you're going to Target and ask if there's anything they need while you're there. Little things can cause a cascade of tears, and being in public where the tears might start is a risky thing at first. 

10. Seems like there should be 10 things, so I'll come up with one more.  Flowers- they're nice, they really are.  But after a death when everyone sends flowers to the funeral home, someone has to deal with those flowers.  Take 'em home, watch 'em die, throw them out.  Lately the trend seems to be buying plants instead.  Usually, those eventually die too, and then you feel bad because you couldn't keep a stupid plant alive and it reminds you that you got the plant because someone died and now the plant died too and why does everything in this life die? Except spiders.  They seem to live forever no matter how much bug spray I use.  Send a nice, non-funeral-y bouquet of flowers, but do it later.  Like with the Just-thinking-of-you card you're going to send a month or two after things quiet down. 

I'm sure there's more.  People much more imaginative and helpful and caring than I am could probably come up with a whole 'nother list that would put mine to shame.  I think there's only two things you can do that aren't helpful: do nothing, and open your big mouth.  Keep your mouth shut (except for a few short, limited phrases that don't involve death being God's will or deceased person being in a better place) and your hands busy.

It Could Always Be Worse

Mom and Dad had a crappy marriage. 

Big shock, I know.

I don't remember, even when I was little, ever thinking that they liked each other. I don't remember any loud fighting until I was older, but I'm sure there was some.  I remember a few things being thrown, by both of them.  I remember sullen attitudes and silent treatments.

But compared to what David and Amy grew up with, mom and dad were peaceful.

Amy, Andre, David, and I went out to dinner a few nights ago, and during the drive home we somehow started talking about their mom's marriage to the stepdad they grew up with.

David and Amy had lots of "remember when"'s, none of them being anything you'd much want to remember.  Remember when you had to ask each morning who the person in mom's bed was, remember when you walked in on ____...., remember when mom threw something at dad and split his head open and left and we had to go get the neighbor to take him to the hospital.

Andre piped up with "I remember one time my mom and dad got in a big fight and they......yelled at each other really loud!"

Life isn't fair for kids.  They have to put up with living in the middle of a very fragile relationship.  We got to witness some of the many wrong ways to handle a marriage.  But it certainly could've been a whole lot worse.

BSF

Last spring, I contacted the class administrator for the BSF class here.  I'd missed the welcome class by one week. 

Not that I probably would've been able to find someone to babysit three kids during the day.

So, if I wanted to do BSF again this year, I had to go to the fall welcome class.

Taylor agreed to babysit the boys, since there's no childcare the first week.

I made sure, after she didn't show up to babysit the last time she said she would, that I texted her two days before to remind her.

So I drove off to BSF, Bible and address in hand. 

And as I drove, I decided I'd just turn around and not go.

"You don't need one more day during the week that you have to go somewhere"
"You'll feel like a dork coming into a group after they've all had a week to meet each other, do introductions, get to know each other a bit"
"There won't be room in the kid's program"
"If you do get into a group, it'll be all young moms that you won't learn anything from"
"Joel will just cause problems"
"It'll just be old women there anyway"
"The kid's program is nothing more than playtime; the boys can play at home"
"You won't make any friends; why bother?"
"Did you really learn that much from Genesis?  You don't need to study Matthew"

How well Satan knows me. 

He knows just what words to say, just where to poke, exactly what sour-little-nothings will make me chicken out, change my mind, decide not to.

But, being me, I thought those were all valid reasons.  I hadn't yet discerned that I was not the speaker of those words.

The only reason I didn't turn around was because I figured Taylor would be mad that I made her drag her rump out of bed so early to babysit, and then have me show up thirty minutes later saying I'd changed my mind.

All the greeters were Linda-P.-friendly.  Ok, maybe not quite that friendly.

There was a huge group of newbies in the welcome class.

There were a lot of old women, but plenty of younger people too.

During the welcome class, I sat next to a lady with a three-month-old, and I got to hold him while she filled out her paperwork.

(I don't want another baby.  I don't want another baby.  I don't....yes I do.  But I don't want another kid.  Just some babies)

My new leader called me the next day.

Even though they said the kid's program was pretty full, there was room for both boys.

My group had three other people who couldn't be there the first day, so I won't be the only one feeling like an outsider because I wasn't there the first week.

The group has both younger moms and women who have high-school-aged and older kids, so I won't be the "old" one in a group of 20-somethings who just happen to have the same-aged kids as me.

So even if some of the other thoughts and doubts are valid, who cares?  If I don't make friends, so what?  If all I get out of the year is a better understanding of Matthew, a chance to sing a few hymns, and a few leads on a new church, that's an improvement, and, I guess, a good reason to have one more thing to do each week.

Cookies for Breakfast

Daniel is not the world's best eater.  He enjoys a very short list of foods, and just because he liked it yesterday does not mean he will eat it today.

Breakfast, for example: he likes cereal.  Rice Krispies mixed with Kix is the current meal of choice. 

With school starting, I've started making breakfast instead of just letting the kids have cereal.

On that topic, I'll add in some other thoughts: for several months- like, 9- I've done a dinner menu plan.  Otherwise, how the heck are you supposed to know what's for dinner??  And now that school has started and I have lunches to pack, snacks to pack, dinners and preschool and soccer practice and psychologist appointments and book club to juggle, I've switched to planning every meal.  I have a week-at-a-time menu that includes all three meals and snacks.  The other day I said something about checking the menu to see what was for dinner, and I was told I was altogether too organized.  Seriously?  Because I plan what to eat instead of paying $2.00 a meal for the girls to have hot lunch every day and looking in the fridge at 5:00 to see if anything inspiring appears for dinner?  Or, as was this person's plan, ask all my facebook friends what they're having and just copy one of their meals, assuming I have all of the ingredients on hand.  How else would I have a clue what to buy at the grocery store if I didn't have some idea of what was for dinner; buying a cartload of groceries and winging it would ensure that 1) I keep Subway and McDonalds in business, and 2) my menu would be full of frozen, chemical-laden foods.  But whatevs.

So, making breakfast.  We've had lots of oatmeal, eggs and toast, and smoothies.  Cereal is reserved for weekends.  But Daniel has not been enjoying my newfound Martha-ness.

I've tried making him a serving of whatever the rest of the clan is having, setting it at his place, and, when he yells for his krispy kix, telling him I'll get it in a minute and then leaving the kitchen.  For a couple of days, he'd eat whatever I'd made while he was waiting for me to make his cereal. 

But he quickly caught on.

So the other day when I made smoothies that had chocolate protein powder in them,  I told him it was a chocolate milkshake.  The smoothie disappeared quickly.

EUREKA!!  Simply call things something dessert-sounding!

Yesterday I made Honey Baked Oatmeal.  It smelled amazing; didn't taste as great to me, but the kids all loved it. 

When Daniel got up, I asked him if he wanted an oatmeal cookie for breakfast.  He gobbled it up and asked for more cookies.

This morning, he wanted more oatmeal; luckily, there were leftovers.  He again ate his bowl and got more.

The problem: he will at some point tell people I feed him cookies for breakfast.  Or milkshakes. 

Parenting dilemma #571- lie to your children about what you're feeding them so they eat it, or call it by the actual name knowing they'll turn up their nose.

The Smell of Memories

I had another sleep study last night.  After I was hooked up to all 687 wires, the tech left the room to make sure they were all reading correctly, and as I sat there, I caught a whiff of something familiar.

I don't know what the smell was, but it took me instantly back to mom's hospital room- the first neuro room she was in, not the second or, worse yet, the third room upstairs. 

I've spent my fair share of time in hospitals: one angiogram, four children, multitudes of weekly nonstress tests, one opened incision, one hysterectomy.  Plenty of hours to smell plenty of hospital scents, but not once have I had anything evoke such a sense of being right back there with her.

Could've been a disinfectant in the bathroom.  Might've been the adhesive from the EKG leads.  Or perhaps it was just the plethora of hospital tubing and wires.

And, of course, the more I sniffed to try to smell it again, the more I got used to it and couldn't smell it any more.

I only caught the scent two or three times, but that was enough.

Supposedly, smell is the sense most closely linked to memory.  It certainly didn't take more than a slight hint of that scent for me to be right back in that chair, sitting by her bed.

And the strangest part of all, to me, was that when I realized what the smell reminded me of, I smiled.

Six weeks.  It seemed like a lifetime then.  So many nights of sleeping on couches, chairs, floors.  Wakeful hours in the middle of the night when Bryn would wander into the waiting room to switch places when she was falling asleep.  Hours sitting in an uncomfortable chair by the side of mom's bed, thinking, reading, praying, pondering, hoping, crying.

I'd like to go back and actually smile at her when she opened her eyes and asked what day it was.  I'd like to not sigh when she asked how long she'd been there and what happened.  I wish I could simply smile at her and hold her hand and answer her questions, not wondering if she was ever going to get better or if, when she woke up the next hour, she'd ask anything other than the same set of questions she asked every hour upon waking.

The waiting room couch wouldn't seem so hard, the boredom of sitting in the same room hour after hour wouldn't seem as tedious, knowing that I should be enjoying the last few moments we would have together as "all of us". 

It has taken a decade to get to the point of smiling, but I can think about that time and wish I could go back and just smile.

Chicken & Fruit Salad

Oooooh, chicken salad.  I've eaten this more times than I can count, and every time I think, "I should make this more often!"  This recipe was courtesy of Ginger, a patient of mine.  She started selling Pampered Chef for a bit, and I had a party for her.  This was one of the recipes she suggested; apparently it's an old Pampered Chef recipe that is sort of passed from consultant to consultant because it's so tasty! (It also highlights several of their products; a chopper and an apple corer/slicer make this recipe a whole lot easier).

Even though the ingredients sound really odd together, I've had requests for the recipe every time I've taken this dish anywhere, which has been often because it's a great potluck recipe. Arby's even had a similar sandwich recently- theirs was on bread, although this would also be great in a tortilla, in a bread bowl, served with crackers, or- as I eat it- just with a fork!  Thankfully there are leftovers in my fridge because now I'm really craving this, and I may just go have a bite or two.

I've always added more pecans when I make this; can you add too many nuts to recipes?  When I made this yesterday, I used the KitchenAid trick to shred the chicken- not the best choice for this recipe; it really should be chopped, not shredded.  Although it still tasted delish, it just didn't seem to me to have the right texture.  Personal preference, I suppose. 


Chicken & Fruit Salad

1&1/2 lbs cooked, cubed chicken breast
4 ribs celery, chopped
1/2 red onion, chopped
1&1/2C mayonnaise
2 cloves garlic, pressed
1&1/2C red seedless grapes, cut in half
1/2C pecans, chopped
2 Granny Smith apples, cored and chopped
2t dill weed
1 small wedge Parmesan, grated

Combine all ingredients, and refrigerate several hours before serving

Joel starts preschool today.  Oh good Lord....    ..............does his teacher have ANY idea what she's in for?  The medicine is helping, but not enough, in my opinion.  He still doesn't want to do anything anyone else's way, and he's even more emotional on the meds.  He'll cry and get upset when they tell him it's time to stop playing with the toys.  I think there's a chance, though, that he'll sit still and work if he's told to.  He's SO excited; I hope he's good and doesn't out himself as the problem kid on the first day.

Last night he got up around midnight to go to the bathroom.  He came in and told me that he didn't have anything to get to preschool on and asked if I could take him in my car.  As always, I would really love to know what goes on in that little brain of his.

Pistachio-crusted Chicken

I love this recipe.  It's amazingly good and super easy! I'm quite sure I found it in a magazine as an ad.  You know how Campbells has those full-page ads of recipes using their soups- I'm pretty sure it was something like that.  Although what would they be advertising?  Pistachios, I guess.  Hmm.  I found it shortly after David and I got married, and it's always been a favorite.

4 boneless skinless chicken breasts
1/3C shelled pistachio nuts, finely ground
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 Tbs olive oil

Preheat oven to 400.  In shallow dish, combine nuts, salt, and pepper.  Press smooth side of chicken into nut mixture.  Heat oil in nonstick skillet. Add chicken, nut-side down, and cook over med-high heat until golden, 2 minutes per side.  Transfer chicken to baking dish.  Bake 12-15 minutes.

And now for the tweaks, because- rest assured- if I'm making it, there's probably a change or two.  I use way more nuts than called for.  I put pistachios on both sides of the chicken.  And I put any leftover pistachios in the skillet so they get a little crunchy and toasted, and then I add them to the top of the chicken when I bake it.  In my opinion, the more pistachios, the better!  And the obvious shreds of parmesan in the picture- they're just from the parmesan roasted potatoes we had with the chicken.  No cheese is involved to mess up the scrumptious pistachios.

Little Miss Grownup

Last week David discovered a little nest of baby rabbits in the yard.

Monday, Hank had one of the rabbits in his mouth.  It was already dead; I saw him pick it up and it never moved.

There was one bunny left in the nest, and Hope and Naomi took spinach out to feed it.  We warned them that if the mom smelled human on the bunny, she might not go back to it.  So they were careful to not get too close and just throw spinach leaves in the grass.  Hope checked on it every day to make sure it was still there.

Today, thanks to the ComEd meter reader who never closes our gate and now has a complaint being forwarded to his supervisor, Hank got out of the back yard, and Hope happened to see him just as he was tearing the leg off the bunny.  On the sidewalk.  In view of the front door.

She came running into the house, sobbing and shrieking.  Of course, the other kids ran to the door to see what the issue was, so they got to see the dismembered baby rabbit on the sidewalk.

Good times, good times.

But as Joel and Naomi were telling Hank he was the worst dog ever, Hope came to Hank's rescue and said he wasn't a bad dog, it was just his instinct to go after animals.  He was only doing what he was bred to do.

I've heard that speech a hundred times with the cats and the birds they'd bring home, but it was her sobbing and petting her dog as she tried to explain to her siblings it wasn't his fault that did me in.

I asked her if she thought she could pick it up or if that would be too much, and she said she'd do it.  She put on a pair of my latex gloves and got a bag, picked up the pieces, and held the rabbit and petted it for a few minutes and cried some more.  Then she came in and wiped off Hank's face to get rid of any blood.

Pretty mature for a 2-year-old.  Oh wait, she's 10.  Still pretty mature.  But how the heck did she get to be 10...

Oven Barbecued Chicken and Cheesy Biscuits

Another "only so I can pin it" recipe!  This is one of the only recipes I still use from my Once-A-Month Cookbook.  Even though I love the idea of freezer cooking, I just didn't like enough of the recipes to stick to one of their plans; maybe someday I'll make a freezer cooking plan out of my own faves- except I always forget to thaw things early enough:(

2 1/2 lb chicken pieces
1/2C grated cheese
1C BBQ sauce
1 12-oz pkg buttermilk biscuits

Preheat oven to 400.  Coat 12x9 baking dish with nonstick spray.  Dip chicken pieces in bbq sauce.  Place them in pan; bake for 40-45 minutes.  Pile chicken pieces at one end of pan, separate dough into 10 biscuits.  Place them in the pan to drippings next to chicken.  Sprinkle cheese over biscuits.  Bake for 15-20 minutes until biscuits are golden brown.


Freezer version: the only thing that makes this "freezer" is that they freeze the chicken and cheese already portioned out in Ziploc bags.  Pretty darn easy!

Mimi at 7

I'd been asking Naomi for a few weeks what she thought she might want for her birthday.  She didn't have any ideas.

Until two days before her birthday.  Then she told me she wanted her ears pierced.

Hope and Chloe got their ears pierced together; I wanted Naomi and Lucy to get theirs done together too.  But since Mandy isn't visiting anytime soon, and David has vetoed my plans to go to Spokane at Thanksgiving, having the girls get their ears pierced together didn't seem very plausible.

So her birthday started out at Claire's.

She was pretty scared that it was going to hurt.  She's a bit of a baby, and when I pinched her earlobe to show her what it felt like, she cried.  A lot. 

After the first ear was done, she was going to start crying.

But she got herself under control and didn't even tear up.  With the second ear, she didn't even seem to care.  She was too excited looking at her ears!

After we left the mall, we went back to Byron for the ByronFest carnival!  It was hot and sunny, so I stuck to the shaded spots while the kids rode their rides.

 

 

There was a parade we were going to go to, but the kids were having so much fun on the rides that they didn't want to leave.

After the carnival, we went home to rest for a bit.  Naomi decided she wanted to open her presents and have cake.  She had requested Filled Cupcakes instead of a cake.  They were yummy, and they're already gone.  Apparently I'm not the only one who loves them!

Most little people took naps for a bit, and then we went to the river to go for a swim and a boat ride.  Joel even got to drive the boat.  I'm not sure we ever went straight, and a couple of times he turned the boat completely around; he thought it was fun to drive back over the wake.

Naomi said it was her best birthday yet!

Ideas to Help a Distractable Child with Schoolwork

I tear things out of magazines.  Articles, recipes, pictures, whatever catches my eye.

I'm trying to pare down my pile of ripped-out pieces of paper.

Hence, this post. 

Do we think Joel defines the word distractible?  He couldn't even stand still long enough for me to take this picture. 

From the time I said "say cheese" until the shutter engaged, he'd already decided he didn't want to bother remaining stationary.

Distractible

So that I can keep track of these fabulous ideas, I'm putting them here and Pinning them, rather than trying to keep track of one sheet of paper.

These are copied verbatim from an insightful author, Carol Barnier, in an article in Homeschool Magazine; because I can't find the article online anywhere, this is how I'm going to save it.

• Hand out math one problem at a time.  While you're working in the kitchen, take a small  piece of scrap paper and write a single math problem on it.  When he has done it correctly, he wads it up and shoots it into the basketball hoop (made from a hanger that you've hung in the kitchen)
• Go to the park.  Have him climb to the top of the slide, but before he can slide down, he has to spell five words correctly.
• Put the answers to math problems on 3x5 cards and spread them out on the floor. Read a problem to him and let him jump on the answers.  If you're doing multiplication, call out the answer and let him jump on the two cards that multiplied together create the answer.
• Do it on the whiteboard.  For reasons not fully explainable, problems of any sort done on a whiteboard are far less taxing than sitting at a table and working on paper.
• Instead of writing on paper, write spelling words in a tray of wet sand or across a nearly flattened bag filled with a bit of shaving cream.
• If you need for him to sit still and listen, you must give his hands something repetitive and mindless to do.  Taking corn off of a cob, one at a time with tweezers, separating puff balls by size and color using chop sticks, putting a large bowl of pennies into the small slot of a bank one at a time.  Mindless and repetitive. 
• Cake Walk your learning.  Put cards down on the floor in a way that creates a trail that circles back onto itself.  Start playing a fun song on your CD player while your student walks along the trail.  When you hit the pause button, to reveal his task he stops and flips over the card he's stepping on.  Maybe it's a math problem, a vocabulary word, a science question.  If he gets it right, the card is kept facing up.  But if it's incorrect, it goes back into play for review.  Keep playing till all the cards are up.  Remember, this is called "Cake Walk".  There's supposed to be a prize at the end.  Cake works, but so does a stick of gum.
• Toss a beanbag back and forth.  Any information that is linear in nature can be learned this way.  How about books of the Bible.  You say "Genesis" and toss the bag to your child.  She says "Exodus" and tosses it back.  This works for ABCs, skip counting, spelling of individual words, poems, pretty much any information with a beginning and an end.

Oh, I can see Joel enjoying each and every one of these activities.  Time to find some tweezers and chop sticks!

Alarm

Whenever my phone rings, whichever small person is closest grabs it and runs to me, yelling, "Mom, your phone!"

So this morning when my alarm on my phone went off, I heard Daniel, whose bedroom shares a wall with our room, yell, "Tisha, your phone is ringing!  Tisha! Your phone!!"  I would've pushed snooze a time or two, but laughing at Daniel was enough to wake me up.