Category Archives: Three Children

Resolutions … Fuhgeddaboudit!

Happy New Year!

Know this, all evidence of our holiday was eviscerated from our living quarters and banished to the arctic chill of the attic as of December 27 th.  This is not shocking when one is wed to a supremely organized human and his order taking minnion, The Firstborn.  The rest of us try to avoid them at all cost during “Christmas clean-up”and can be found hiding in the laundry room snacking on stale mini saltines whilst perusing

Due to this unexpected gift of extra time, what did I accomplish during the last few days of break?  I have been ferociously brainstorming a 2015 New Year’s Resolution List.  The irony of the fact that it is January 4 th is not lost.  In my mind, as New Year’s Day fell on a Thursday, the annexed weekend simply does not count as the new year. A fresh 2015 begins for me Monday morning, January 8 th.  That was 4 BONUS days to imbibe on my bad habits.

If you can’t be bothered to generate one or are simply too busy, I am here for you.  As a courtesy to my readers, I have banged out a few resolutions for you that are guarenteed to ensure a happy 2015.


8.  Do less housework! Why fold laundry and do dishes when you could be reading a trashy celeb mag or getting your nails done? Rally the children. Why else did you create them?  Pretend it’s 1940’s in rural Idaho where a child’s purpose was do do farm work.  Culturally, we are way too soft on this generation of offspring.  Gather up your toilet brushes and get your kids a’ scrubbin’. 

7.  Be disorganized. Studies show that sloppy people have creative, sparkly minds that shouldn’t be supressed.

6.  Eat very fatty meat.  There are so many toxins in pesticides these days, you are probably doing more harm to yourself eating blackberries and kale.  Organic pig product on the other hand, while full of artery clogging fats, is tasty and full of protein.

5.  Mental Well being!  No complaining about snow, ice and other treacherous weather.  Better living through chemistry- go get a happy pill script and a monthly tanning bed package.   

4.  Stop doing hard excercise classes.  It’s silly, really. Alternatively, because you must take advantage of your gym’s free babysitting, jump on the treadmill for a nice leasurely walk. Don’t go too fast, you need to be able to safely access your social media so you can see pictures of all the parties you weren’t invited to last holiday season.

3. Sleep more! If you just train your oldest child how to use the microwave to make organic pig products for breakfast and leave the milk in the easiest accessable shelf on your fridge, you could sleep in at least an extra 45 minutes every morning.

2.  Be present!  Stop nagging/yelling at kids.  Instead, perfect the pulverizing above rear elbow pinch when they behave badly.  They will be paralyzed and if you are swift, no one else will notice your ninja pinch move.

1.  Stop drinking wine!  It’s much, much too caloric.  But, by all means, don’t stop drinking.  Rum on the rocks or with diet coke is a healthy alternative. Don’t forget gluten free vodka, because we all know if it doesn’t have gluten, it is automatically healthy. 

Godspeed, friends!

Let’s Celebrate Like It’s 1621

Last week, My Husband’s oldest sister sent an email announcing that she and her husband were flying in from Texas for Thanksgiving and would be hosting at my in-laws house. Very kind of her, as my Mother-in-Law will be undergoing surgery 9, yes NINE days prior to Thanksgiving.  For the record, I adore my sister-in-law and her husband.  As an educator and experienced mother, she is a vat of advice when it comes to my own children.  However, I felt it only fair that in turn, I prepare her for what will be expected of her on Thanksgiving day. I have spent the last 12 years hosting and dining with my in-laws, so I feel a little like the family guru here.  Yes, yes, very presumptuous of me to give a woman advice when it comes to her own parents, but it is necessary in this case.  A little back story on my sister-in-law…If there was a trophy for health nut, she’d win it. A vegan who wakes up at 4 am EVERY SINGLE DAY to excercise before heading to school.  She is also perhaps the most perpetually cheerful person I have ever met.  So really, she is unlike any of the rest of us who share in her former last name.

The Title of my Email:  “You may decide to have a cocktail after you read this… I know it’s been 30 years, but THANKSGIVING IS UPON US!”


Dearest Sister-in-Law,

I think it’s best I make a list of your parents’ peccadilloes concerning Thanksgiving. After the first Thanksgiving I hosted (and subsequently cried myself to sleep on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor), I have learned MANY, MANY lessons that will behoove you later this month.

I really look forward to spending Thanksgiving with you all, but know in advance that the thought of being under your Mother’s watch, in her kitchen, 9 days post-op, already has me in hives. I don’t resort to drinking at breakfast often, but know that the Bailey’s will be free flowing into my Dunkin Turbo on the morning of the 27th. This is my official disclaimer.


Seeing that I only have Fiestaware and your Grandmother Lily’s unacceptable Franciscan dinnerware, Your Mother will insist on breaking out her VERY fancy china and silver. (Pls note, my children are not allowed to eat off of such finery. She keeps Mickey Mouse plasticware plates in her pantry. They also are only allowed to drink out of sippy cups at her house.  Yes, I know The Oldest is 9.) All napkins and placemats must be linen and pressed.  Starched, really, if you must know.  She prefers the Niagra Spray Starch, which is only sold at the larger Grocery stores. I have placemats and napkins, but they are only from Pier One. I suspect Your Mother will want to use her own. A kid table will have to be set up- far, far away from the grownups. Maybe outside. Yes, I will be at the kid table.


Your Mother likes Bogle Petite Syrah, Your Father prefers Reisling or Alsace with his turkey dinner. All must be chilled. She will want to drink out of her Wedgewood etched crystal goblets. I have extras she gave me as a birthday present one year.


The most sensitive part of the meal. As Your Brother and I still consider ourselves Sort-Of-Southern, we love fried turkey. Shockingly, Your Mother does not. We fry a turkey every year, and yet, an additional “normal” turkey must be baked in the oven. Recall that 1st Thanksgiving with your family that I mentioned that almost had me in therapy? I had purchased some fancy turkey spices from Williams-Sonoma. Your Mother almost assaulted me snatching it out of my hands and forbidding me to put it on her turkey. She only seasons turkey  with salt and pepper and Hungarian paprika.  Pure Hungarian paprika, that is.  No paprika extract acceptable. No Giant/Acme/Wegman’s store brand will work.  The turkey MUST be fresh, too. She will know if it is purchased frozen and thawed. Trust me, we tried this in 2004.


Mashed Potatoes- They must be NORMAL. Specifically, the potatoes must be Russet! (Remind me to tell you a Thanksgiving story circa 2007 in Tallahassee, Florida where we had YUKON GOLD mashed potatoes. With cream. Cream! Can you imagine?  No, you can’t and you can’t imagine Your Mother’s reaction.  I believe it was her first potato-less Thanksgiving dinner, ever.)  The milk must be whole!  And room temperature! The butter must be plentiful and salted!

Stuffing- It, too, must be NORMAL. Luckily, My Mother’s recipe is nearly identical to Your Mother’s, so she will always eat my stuffing. Addtionally, I use Sunbeam white bread- in all it’s refined flour, gluten glory. I know, I know. Can you believe supermarkets still sell this crap?

Sweet Potatoes- Turns out, only Your Father and I eat sweet potatoes. As I mentioned, I used to spend hours cooking, peeling, mashing these delights to create my own casserole. I found one loophole- your Dad doesn’t know the difference between my homeade sweet potatoes and the ones I order from Fresh Market. I just add my custom crumble topping. Caveat- too much is a no-no, and marshmallows are VERBOTTEN.

Green Things- Your Father requires cole slaw or green beans.  Last year, I made a fun slaw salad with tangy dressing and cranberries and almost got kicked out of my own house.

Corn- I have a lovely corn souffle recipe I aquired during my time as a Georgian.  I don’t recall if anyone eats it but me. I am usually so dejected by this point of the meal, I can’t remember.


The family to which I was born has made crescent rolls from the aluminum tube since their inception in the 80’s. This and gelatinized Cranberry sauce from a can are the only requirements my people (the children) will have. Whew.

Your Father really, really likes cornbread. I have a great recipe that I mix in whipped cottage cheese making the muffins moist. He loves this, but CANNOT KNOW ABOUT THE COTTAGE CHEESE. The container must be wrapped in plastic bags and taken to the trash before any unnormal contamination is detected.


Your Father likes Pumpkin Pie. He is the only person who will eat it, but it must be served. He likes it with homeade whipped cream, as well, pls note Reddi Whip is not acceptable.  Don’t even think about Cool Whip.

In 2006, I made a scrumptious apple pie using shredded apples and toasted, finely chopped walnuts. I still dream about it. It was divine. Your Mother hated it.

Can’t wait to see you!

FWP (First World Problem) #436

Like most of my ideas, my intentions are always pure.  I thought that when I picked up a bag of “Autumn Mix” candies at the grocery store last week, the-people-in-this-house-who-enjoy-such-treats would be delighted that I found a new medley that included both candy corns AND candy pumpkins.  I paid no regard to the oddly colored candy corns- figuring it was the authentic Indian corn added to make it that extra special geniune “Autumn Mix”.  (Indian corn being synonomous with Autumn and all that.) Clearly I forgot my glasses that day.  It wasn’t until I heard The Middle shrieking in a dramatic display akin to Janet Leigh in Psycho, and watch him gag and spit masticated candy corn remnants in my kitchen sink did I realize my mistake.  Quickly, said child summoned The King of All Things Candy Corn (My husband) to the candy dish.  “What is THIS????” My husband glared at me as if he found a love text from Mike Greenberg on my phone. “Flavored candy corn??? What is wrong with you???”

Hear me now, Mr. CEO of Brach’s Candy Company!  What is wrong with YOU???

For the love of all that is pure and holy in the world of processed food…leave the pumpkin spice out of my candy corn.  And really, s’mores flavored candy corns?  Really?  You thought selling 4 billion trillion candy corns every fall – wait, I mean late summer bleeding into fall season wasn’t enough? You thought throwing out an assortment of nauseating flavors would quadruple sales?

I request, NAY –  I DEMAND you to stop this infiltration of impure factory bred flavors of gag.  What’s wrong with missionary style candy corn? Candy we just keep it NORMAL for *(#$%& sakes?

While we are at it…caramel macchiato candy corns?  Did Brach’s hire the ex-director of marketing for Starbucks?  Are we to expect salted caramel candy canes this holiday season?



P.S.  Whach out, Oreos, you are next ! Caramel Apple flavored filling???? I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Yesterday and Tomorrow

Yesterday, I went to a particularly heartbreaking funeral.  Yes, most funerals, by definition, usually are.  This one, however, was soul crushing.  And, like most funerals, it was a startling reminder that very little matters in the world besides love, happiness, people.  Simple concepts that the Hobbitses mastered, but most of use mere mortal humans cannot.  It is so simple- be happy, love your family and friends.  Savor your freshly squeezed kale juice, don’t bitch when the Chik-fil-A line is 12 cars deep at 4:49 PM, and remember to tell your kid/spouse/dog/bearded dragon you think he/she/it is Ah-Mazing…EVERY SINGLE DAY.   Radiate gratitude for all the blessings you’ve been bestowed. The answer to life is so simple, yet we make the journey so hard.


We humans have been given a special gift.  At our core, we are animals (Insert inane Facebook quiz here…what animal are you?  If I could shape shift  I’d aspire to be a jaguar, but I am probably a Bassett Hound…)  put on this planet to perpetuate the species. If you are a student of evolutionary science, you will know that through the vast chasm of time, species die out. We must constantly adapt to change to survive, we must continue to evolve.  We will, WE WILL be the animal species that doesn’t surrender, right?  Dear, sweet humans.  Mankind. We were granted intelligence and free will by INSERT YOUR HIGHER BEING HERE and most of us are unable to figure out the simple magic of humanity.

Including me.  I may be the worst offender.

All of my problems are FWP’s (First World Problems).   On any given day, my brain fritters over the most mundane.  I worry, or worst, complain about things that JUST DON’T MATTER.  I wonder if the pregnancy broken veins on my legs will ever disappear (I haven’t been pregnant in over 4 years…it doesn’t look good), or if …wait for it…I will never reach my full potential.  I mostly worry about my children- my amazing, vibrant, funny children- who laugh too loud and too often- will ever be able to rake a baseball, learn to read music or go to a “tier 1 college”. Guess what, self ?  IT JUST DOESN’T  MATTER.  And, as I  sheepishly type, I must admit, I complain a lot.  I get annoyed about non-life threatening issues  – like cold french fries.  And people who stick 30 activity magnets and stick figure families on the back of their cars.


I spent today absorbing every happy aspect of my life, as I will tomorrow.  And the next day.

I think of the people in my life who have recently lost the most important person in theirs.  You are so brave…

Real Reason

by Brian Andreas 

There are things you do because they feel right & they make no sense

& they may make no money

& it may be the Real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other’s cooking and say it was good

And the Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round…

It has begun…you hear it, I know you do.

You feel it, as do I.

That strange buzzing sound that dances around your ears and causes you to cock your head to the left.  Or maybe the right. (Go left. Always go left when given a directional choice.  The line will be shorter, the path will be less travelled.)  There is a noise and a sensation in your belly …perhaps akin to what the Sioux Indians felt when the tatonka crested the buttes?  You are giddy.

Something is coming. Something BIG is coming.

No. It’s not The Rapture. Not just yet.

The School Bus! Oh, can I get a hell yes?  School is about to be back in session?  I am foaming at the mouth as I look at their packed-to-the-brim backpacks.  I am reaching, I am reaching, I can almost touch it.  SCHOOL!  Order! Structure!  Nutrionionally sound lunches (and honey wheat pretzels) blessed by the federal government!


(We started decorating for September 3 weeks ago…)

Even if you have just perused this blog, it is safe to say you have determined that my parenting is shoddy at best.  Yes, yes. I am an atrocious mother.  (P.S. I already know this, but feel free to further bring it to my attention.  I can’t wait to read my hate comments).  What kind of mother looks forward to shuffling their babies off to school?  Why am I not devastated that they will be out of my clutches for and entire 5 hours an 45 minutes each day?  Why am I not savoring the last languid days of summer?  Why am I not posting my laments of the melancholy coursing through my veins at the idea of sending my children back to the trenches on social media?

I LOVE the school year.  My children LOVE the school year.  EVERYONE behaves better when school is in session.  School calms all people in THIS house.  We are structure people, we slather ourselves in construct and activity.   We shower ourselves in task.  If we wake up with nothing on the calendar, we break out into hives. Relax is not in our DNA.

So, it will come to no surprise to you that at 8:56 am tomorrow when the bus picks my boys up for school, I will be the woman driving around my quaint-northern-predicted-to-repeat-the-frozen-tundra-winter-of-last-year-town BEEP BEEP BEEPING the horn.

Go forth, my sons, and learn!  Embrace academia and potty jokes on the playground.  I love you to pieces, to the moon and back, I’d give my life for you in a heartbeat, I love spending time with you, but …..

To all my teacher friends, you know I’d endorse tax payer funds to purchase margarita machines for the teachers lounges if  I could!  Godspeed!


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