Savoring the moment

Today was the big boys' first day back to school.  Noah heads off to second grade.


And Caleb to third.

The morning went shockingly well.  They actually got up to the sound of their alarm.  They had a mini-dance party with Eli in their room.  They put on clothes that we didn't object to. 

They assembled breakfasts that were somewhat nutritionally sound.

They were ready on time.

They seemed old.  And mature.  And together.   


No one fought.  No one cried.  It was, dare I say, smooth.


We headed out on the rainy back porch to do the requisite first day of school photos.

And they started acting goofy.   And I found myself getting stressed out by it.  Stand up.  Hand on railing.  You are covering your brother's face.  Don't sit in the steps, you'll get a wet butt.  Why are you doing that with your neck?

And then I cut it out.  I just let them do their thing.  I let them be kids.  The kids they are in this very moment.  I took a deep breath and just let it be.

And it was good.

A Day in the Land of Cheerios

Last Friday I found myself with three boys, on the last weekday of summer, with no daycare options to be seen.  So I took the morning off.

I was hoping we'd land on finding something new and different to do.  Something out of the ordinary.  Something like spending the entire morning back at the Betty Crocker Test Kitchens playing with Cheerios.

Perfect.

Here's how it went.

How to Survive the Minnesota State Fair (when you loathe fairs)

Confession time.  I don't belong in Minnesota.


Why?


I can't stand the State Fair.  I hate the Great Minnesota Get Together.  (Gasp!)  Okay, I am waiting for lightening to strike me down.

Waiting...

Okay, guess I cleared it this time.  On we go.


It's nothing against our great state.  Or the food.  Or the organizers.  Or anything like that.


I just hate it.


I hate the crowds.  The smells.  The people yelling at their kids.  The insane over-population of [insert food item]-on-a-stick references.  The animal-poop-filled-shoes we wear home.  The freebie hounds carring cheap totes they had to have from companies they will never engage with yet will never use again.  The prices.  The getting hit in the back of legs with strollers.  The never-ending feeling of being a salmon swimming upstream.  The swearing teenagers.  I can't stand it.


However, I do realize that I am in a minority.


Clearly people love it.  My own family included.

We have some family friends who tell a great story (completely unrelated to the State Fair).  The wife and her in-laws didn't have a great relationship.  And she fought it for years.  She tried to change them.  She tried to change herself.  And then she just accepted it.  She referred to this as "Learning to shut up and just do the Hokey Pokey."  Sure, while doing the Hokey Pokey at weddings may not have been her thing, she realized that this was a part of the life she was in.  And she could fight it every step of the way or, as I said, shut up, jump in and just do the Hokey Pokey.


So each year I buck up, take my Claritin, pack up the hand sanitizer and far too much cash and go along.  I shut up and do the Hokey Pokey.


This year, I thought I'd put together my guide for others who find themselves in my situation.


My Tips for Managing the State Fair (when you'd rather be doing just about anything else)

Wear socks,  close-toed and close-heeled shoes.  Seriously.  No flip flops.  The ground here is a just a land mine of nastiness waiting to get stepped in.


Take one of the free Park and Ride shuttles. They run frequently and you don't have to deal with the fact that you might have to pay $20 and hand over your car keys to someone you never met who isn't wearing a legitimate valet outfit.


Be prepared to wear silly hats.  No worries, plenty of other people will be doing it, too.  And most of them aren't as cute as this.


Okay, I don't know this guy.  But case in point.


Eat Cheese Curds.

Remind yourself that is why you only eat cheese curds once a year.

It's okay to be overwhelmed and kind of grossed out by all of the food choices.  I keep it simple.  Cheese curds.  Pronto Pop.  Ice Cream.  'Nuff said.


Visit the swine barn.

It's like you are inside "Charlotte's Web."  I am sure there was at least one "radiant pig" in there.  And plenty of spiders.  But we need not go there.

This might have been him.

Plus, the smell is so bad that the crowds are not.  It might be your one chance to have a little bit of personal space.

Do you have allergies?  Did you bring Kleenex?  Because even if you took an allergy medication earlier it won't be helping you now.  Your nose will be running down your face, but you will be so horrified by what might be on your hands that you don't want to wipe it.  So bring more Kleenex than you think you need.  Hand sanitizer, too.

Avoid the parade at all costs.  Unless you like parades.  I do not.  I don't get them, frankly.  Parade time, however, is a good time to go to the Dairy building for ice cream.  Because everyone else loves a parade.


Stop by the Minnesota Public Radio booth, just around the corner from the Dairy Building.  Grab stickers and buttons.

Feel like you look smart and hip walking around with your kids sporting MPR buttons.  That is until you have to get in the middle of separating the older kids who are tired and fighting and stop watching your two-year-old for a minute.  You might just find out that he has taken his pin and put it in his mouth.  You know, because he can.  Never mind looking like a hip, educated parent.

Take a ride on the Space Needle.  At $3 it's one of the better values at the Fair.  And the views are lovely.

I don't, however, recommend doing this if you are prone to getting dizzy.  Or about to come down with the stomach flu.


Side note, the women's restrooms at the front entrance (you know, by the Space Needle) have long lines.  They should be avoided if you think you are coming down with the stomach flu.

Remember how I suggested that you should use the park and ride?  It's a particularly good idea to use one with two stops.  That way, if you are coming down with the stomach flu, you can get off at the first stop and get sick there.  But you may have two walk two miles home.

Prepare to feel like this at the end of the night.  Fat.  Exhausted.  Like you lost the shirt off your back.  And so ready to be back in your bed and away from it all.

Because you did it.  You earned your own Blue Ribbon for Shutting Up and Doing the Hokey Pokey.

Until next year.  I need to go take some more Claritin.

The life of a working mom

Means that all meetings better have Cheerios.

DVD players are a good idea, too.

Means that sometimes your 1:00 looks like this.

And there may or may not be the sounds of Jack Black singing "Yo Gabba Gabba" pouring out of your office.



And your 1:00 might just tell your 2:00 to wait because he's watching Elmo.



But you can't beat looking across the desk and seeing this.


Yeah, this whole working mom balance thing doesn't always work out so well.

"When are you due?" is never good small talk.

That is a cardinal rule.  Could be the end of this post.

But it isn’t.  Of course.

Some of you saw on Facebook and Twitter last night that I ended my banner day in, well, banner fashion.

As I was standing up, purse on shoulder, to run to get the boys at the end of the day, my phone rang.  We had been working on a media story all day and the photographer wanted to come by for the photo shoot.  Now.

I ran over to the hospital and we all got to work.  While the photographer was shooting, one of the nurses came up to me and whispered under her breath,

“What are they going to do?”

I whispered back. 

“They are from the newspaper and will be running a story on this patient tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.  But what I said was, ‘When are you due?’”

Eyes gleaming.  Rubbing her belly.  Excited for me.  Giddy almost.

“Oh.  Oh, God.  No.  No.  Not due.  Not at all due.  So, so, so not pregnant.”

And she fumbled.  And squirmed.  And tried to recover.

"Oh must have been the way you were standing!"

"Yeah, like I had a soccer ball shoved in my shirt?" 

Squirm skinny, flat-bellied, haven't-yet-had-a-baby-ruin-your-stomach girl.  Squirm.

Frankly, I let her.

If you have ever done that to someone and wondered if you should feel awful.  Yes, yes, you should.  Because let me tell you, it's now several hours after it happened to me and I still do.

Just earlier this week, I watched Kim’s video on just the same subject.  And I sympathized and empathized.  Because oh my, I have been there.

So here it is.  The cardinal rule.

Unless you are there to witness the baby coming out, don't ask a woman if she is pregnant.  Ever.  Heck I don't even care if she is rubbing her belly and smiling.  Cause yesterday, if I was doing that, I was just reminiscing about how much I loved my Chipotle burrito.

I have had it happen four times over the past year.  And I am at my breaking point.  Pity the next person that asks me.  Really.  I can't be held accountable for whatever may happen.

I am not pregnant. I don't hope to be pregnant.  And I didn't recently have a baby (unless you call two and a half years ago recent).

But clearly I must look like I am.

I have had three children.  I hate exercise.  And I like bread and wine.  So there.

The last time someone asked me, I responded by decluttering my house. 

Now I guess it's time to declutter me. 

When is a bribe not a bribe?

A month ago, I got a ticket for taking a right turn in a construction zone where the temporary no-turn sign was obstructed.  (Read the full back story if you like here). 

They gave me the option to contest it and being the girl I am, I said, of course, sign me up.

Today was that day.

I woke up and worried about what to wear.  Cause again, when there are things I cannot control, I focus on what I can.  Like clothing.  I settled on a classic black summer vest suit with a dress t-shirt underneath and heels.  Professional.  Approachable.  Honorable.  All good.

Headed out over lunch hour to the Ramsey County Court House.

 As you walk in and through security you encounter this guy.

And yes he is about five stories tall.  Only just slightly intimidating.

Stay positive, Molly.  Stay positive.  Be that person that people want to work with and help because they are so pleasant and decent.

Walked in to a room of people including a man in a barely there tank top and a female teenager not wearing shoes.  Guess that whole worrying about what to wear thing wasn't so important.

I brought the photos of the intersection, the Minnesota law stating that you have to signal 100 feet before an intersection (my point was, how could you signal if you can't see the sign from that distance?  And if you can't see the sign to be in compliance with the law, then there is a problem.)  And, thanks to Paula I also had the Minnesota Department of Transportation statues for signage clearly outlining how and where signage had to be utilized (and it had not been).

I was smiling.  I was pleasant.  I was ready.

And then it all went to hell.

I placed my things on the desk and leaned forward in my most open, engaging way, ready to talk through my case. I smiled.  I nodded appreciatively at her photos of her grandkids.

Looking at the computer she started in...

Clerk: Okay, ah yes, Robert and 12th, I have seen tons of people from this intersection.  They had quite the ticketing operation going there for awhile didn't they?

[I'm feeling good.  Thinking I have an understanding soul across the desk from me.]

Me: Yes, and that is part of why I am here, they were out there for six days with 3-4 officers at a time ticketing all day long before they fixed the signage problem.


Clerk: I know, I know. 

[I pull out my photos]

Clerk: Oh, I don't need to see those, I know, I know.  Plenty of others have brought them in.  They don't matter.  So here are your options, you have three and you're not going to like any of them. 


Option 1, your ticket is originally $131.  You can pay $50 more, bringing the total to $181 and you won't admit guilt and it won't go on your record. 


Option 2, I can reduce your original ticket from $131 to $81 but you will be admitting guilt and it will go on your record for five years.  Your insurance will go up at least $10 a month for five years.


Option 3, you can go to court.  But if you lose, it will be at least $300 and I can tell you that you won't win.

Me: But the signage didn't follow Minnesota signage laws.


Clerk: Oh, those don't apply in construction zones.


Me: Wait, so while my fines will double if I screw up in a construction zone, the laws to help prevent me from breaking those laws don't apply?


Clerk: Right.


Me: Okay, what about the fact that a construction truck was blocking the sign?


Clerk: That was just circumstantial.  Fifteen minutes later that wouldn't necessarily have been the case.  You know, it's your obligation to know the rules of the road.  For instance, in Minnesota, if you are driving somewhere and there is no sign posted, you have to default to driving 30 miles per hour.


Me: But what if you do that and get pulled over because it's actually a minimum speed there of 40?

Clerk: Well, it's your responsibility to know.


Me: But this was a construction site and the temporary sign went up that day.  How was I supposed to know?


Clerk: I told you that you wouldn't like them, I am just telling you the options.

And then I could tell I was getting hot.  This wasn't her fault.  She didn't have any authority.  She presents these options all day every day to people like me and the guy in the tank top and the shoeless girl.

So I took the deal.  I paid the $181 and walked out.  Near-saintly driving record intact.  Sense of justice marred.

This is a racket. 

Think about it this way.  Imagine if one of my kids got called to the principal's office and they presented them with these options.

1. Give me your lunch money for the week and I won't tell your parents.

2. Only give me half of your money and I will tell your parents.  But you will only get 4 lunches a week for the rest of the year.

3. Or go meet with the superintendent of schools and they aren't going to believe you anyway and they will take your lunch money for the month.

Can you imagine the outcry?


Or let's say you get in trouble at work.

1. I won't fire you, I won't tell anyone you did this, but you do have to pay me $50.

2. I will tell your boss, it will go on your record and it will mean that your monthly insurance will go up $10 a month for the next five years.  But you don't have to pay me.

3. Or we can go down and talk to the President right now.  But she isn't going to believe you and you'll have to pay her $300.

Um, can we say lawsuit?


I'm sorry.  Anyone else seeing it?  Anywhere else wouldn't this be called a bribe?

And be illegal?


So just to recap.  The state puts up poor, misleading signage that doesn't follow their own signage laws.  If I do something wrong in that area, they aren't held up to the laws, but I am, to the tune of double the existing fines.  I can contest it, but I really can't.  I have one option that feels a lot like a bribe, one option that is set up to be a lose-lose, and one option that I am told I cannot win.

How is this okay?

Evidently we have a teeny tiny cat

Mom!

Come here!


Look!


We have...

a teeny, tiny...

Cat!  Can we keep him?

Sorry buddy.  That is a chipmunk that has moved in.  And I am allergic to cats.  And probably teeny tiny ones, too.  And chipmunks, I can only assume, would follow suit.  So no.

I think this whole "not having pets" deal is catching up with me.

Of La Perla Underwear and Underoos

My friend Barbara recently hosted our monthly book club.  Barbara is one of those incredible, energetic, fun, caring, hilarious, real women.  The kind of a woman we all need in our lives (and yes, men, that includes you).  She met each and every one of us at the door, gave us a welcoming hug and clapping her hands quickly together, announced,

I have a French family staying with us, I have already asked the wife if this is okay, but later I am taking you all down to see her underwear.

And before any of you go asking to join my book club, no, this isn't usually how it goes.

We had dinner.  We talked.  Laughed.  Tried not to discuss the book. ("The Road" which Barbara picked and then emailed us in an email entitled "HOLY CRAP!" to say "Don't read it, it's horrific!"  I heeded her advice.)  And then it was time.

Off to see the French-woman's underwear.

Yes, it's sounding like some amazing foreign film, I know.  A bunch of girls off to check out another girl's underwear.  Or maybe a bad Cinemax movie.  But remember, she was French!  Nah, still bad Cinemax.

We Minnesotans, we know how to get a crazy.

She took us down to the guest room and there, placed all across the bed were sets of the most beautiful, intricate, delicate, matched (I know, matched!) underwear I had ever seen.  Thirteen matched sets.  All appearing to have been handmade with fine stitching and materials (not a poly-blend in sight).

Some still had tags.

No pilling on the straps.  No holes in the sidebands of the bottoms.  No little elastic stringy things poking out, taunting you, "I might just give out next time and fall right off you!"

Confession time.  When no one was looking, I casually flipped over the tags on a few of the sets.  They were in Euros.  After doing the quick math, I picked my jaw up off the ground and walked back upstairs.  Hope my own alluded-to set didn't have one of those aforementioned elastic malfunctions out of the pure shock.

Each set was anywhere from $280 to $400.  Yes, US dollars. 

Now I get that there is a whole business of expensive underwear.  I spent years walking by La Perla on my way to work.

To me, underwear is one of those things that I forget about.  You know, I think nothing of buying lunch or even a new pair of shoes.  But underwear and socks, I just don't think about them.  Sure they start out cute.  But then you wear them and wash them (in my house, the usually go in with the also "delicate cycle" football jerseys) and they suddenly don't look even remotely cute. 

And so I just deal with the fact that my once white underwear may have gone in with the purple Vikings jerseys.  I just pretend they are pink now. 

I sat there that night watching this mysterious French woman out of the corner of my eye.  (And no, she wasn't really mysterious, she seemed just lovely.  But lovely wearing really expensive underwear.  So mysterious to me.)  I wondered about her.  Was this her "thing?"  Did she pay attention to all details in her life like this?  Was I totally missing the boat?  Had the underwear ship sailed and I was still checking the Victoria's Secret clearance racks?  Was I an underwear failure?

Heck, I have been known to take my worst underwear on trips with me to throw them away.  I tell myself that this will leave more room in the suitcase to bring things back.  Who I am kidding?  But I digress.

Here she was bringing not only insanely fancy, but brand new, underwear here.  To Minnesota of all places.  To stay in my friend's basement.

Then, this morning, Noah ran by my room on his way to brush his teeth before camp.  As he ran, I caught a glimpse of him in his character underwear.  Batman, Star Wars, Transformers, not sure what it was.  In its little boy underwear way, it reminded me of mine.

I had kind of forgotten about it.  I mean I wash it.  Come on, I wash daily.  But it's faded and small and, dude, it's character underwear and he's headed into second grade.

So this weekend, we're headed out to get Noah some new underwear.  Without characters.  Or with, if he still wants.  But the boy deserves some new underwear.  Even if, by design, no one is really supposed to see it.


And maybe, just maybe, I'll skip the clearance racks for myself, too.




Note: And yes, I know you are all happy I spared you photos on this one.

I Baked with Betty (and she didn't kick me out)

By now, we all know that I typically look like this in the kitchen.

Confused.  Crinkled.  Like I just screwed up a step, because, well, I probably did.

So when I realized that I was going to have to make this Jack-o'-Lantern cake, you can imagine how crinkled my forehead got.


For more on my day at "Baking with Betty," and if you want to learn how to make one of these yourself, swing on over here.

An Ode to Peanut Butter and Jelly

Oh PBJ.  Beloved peanut butter and jelly.

We have spent every weekday morning together for the last three months.

Each morning I would blearily stumble down the stairs and begin to start the summer ritual.

Setting the pieces of bread on the counter.

Cursing the ones that molded overnight.

Wondering how exactly it was possible that squeezable jelly was so utterly un-squeezable.

Listening to the coffee brew while, each morning, I said a little "thank you" that there were no kids with peanut allergies at camp.

Because, while I had guilt over serving you every single day, I'd have even more guilt if it has just been jelly sandwiches.

But our time together has come to an end.

Today was our last morning.

The boys are headed back to the lunch line.  Back to Italian Dunkers.  And Hmong Beef and Rice.  And Rotini Hotdish (only in Minnesota).

Back to my willingness to pay $1.50 for them to have some variety in their diet.

Thanks for whatever semblance of nutrition you have provided this summer.

I can only hope that there will never be a study that comes out showing that eating PBJ for three months straight makes children go crazy.

Because making it for three months straight sure has made me a little crazy.

See you next June.

You Wore What?

Once up on time I had hideous, horrifying, ugly maternity clothes.  Especially during pregnancies #1 and #2.

But one of the worst outfits was this one.

It was shocking pink and red and purple and it appeared to be made out of giant patchwork squares.


[shudders]


Cause who doesn't want to look like a giant, neon quilt when pregnant?  Not only did I once own it, I actually wore it.  Often.  And I didn't just wear it, I wore it to my baby shower when pregnant with Caleb.

[shudders again]

What can I say?  Pregnancy robbed me of anything resembling good taste.

But if you are pregnant (or know someone who is), you might want to head over here to check out my new maternity giveaway (designed by none other than Project Runway's Christian Siriano...)

It Drives Me Nuts That You Can't Recycle...Garden Hoses

For those of you have been reading for awhile, you know that this is about.  But if you're newer to this blog, every once in awhile I pause to look into items that people have asked if once can recycle.

This is one of those days.

So the bad news on garden hoses?  Having done some research and talked to reps from a few hose companies, best I can tell, you can't recycle them in the classic sense.


But let me tell you, there are plenty of things you can do with them.


First and foremost, if you have an old hose, don't toss it, first consider giving it away on Freecycle or Craigslist as there are lots of people out there who use them to make into soaker hoses, syphons for rain barrels or other irrigation projects.

Create your own soaker hose
If you want to make your own soaker hose, simply drill or nail small holes about an inch apart running the length of the hose.  Then replace the end with a plastic cap of fold it over and bind it tightly with duct tape. 

Protect your hands
Hate it when you try to carry a heavy bucket and the metal handle digs into your hand?  Cut a length of hose and slice it down the middle.  Wrap the hose around the handle and you have a durable handle cover that won't cut into your hands.

Support a baby (tree)
Simply cut a several inch-long piece of an old hose and slice it down the middle.  Then tightly wrap the piece around the base of a young tree to help support it.

Protect sharp blades (or, again, your hands)
Cut lengths of hose to cover saws or other sharp blades.  Or, if you are more like me, to protect yourself from getting accidentally cut with them.

Use them in your children's jungle gym
Do you have chains on swings that catch or pinch little fingers?  Cut open the hose, wrap it around the chains and you have a smooth surface for your kids to hold on to.  In addition, if there are sharp edges or corners, you can cut the hose open and using a nail gun, wrap it around the edges as a protective bumper.

Protect your extention cord
Whether you are running cords around under the snow during the winter or having them out while kids are playing during the summer, you can (again after slicing it open) run your extension cords through an old hose to give them extra protection (or to protect others from them).  This is a great tip if you have, like I have had, squirrels or rabbits that seem to love to nibble on cords.

Attract Earwigs 
If you are having trouble with earwigs in your gardens or your basement, you can cut sections of a hose that are 2 inches long and simply place them on the floor or ground where you are seeing earwigs.  The concept is they get in but for some reason cannot get out.  When you capture them you simply toss the hose piece.

So there you go.  Are there things you are wondering if you can recycle?  Let me know and I'll see what I can find out.

Fashion comes full circle - Silly Bandz

I find the whole Silly Bandz trend amusing. 

Because, as a girl who was once known for wearing Madonna-style rubber bracelets up and down both arms...it's good to see that once again fashion has come full circle.

Let's just hope the boys don't adopt the lace headband look.

Wear whatever you are comfortable in...

Today I am headed into the kitchen.  Not just my kitchen, this lady's kitchen.

As in the iconic Betty Crocker's kitchen.

As any of you who have been reading for any amount of time know, I am not exactly a great cook.

And I am here with 29 other blogging women who not only love to cook, but are great cooks.

They know baking.  And I know chicken nuggets.

I had to giggle when reading their bios as all of them mentioned loving cooking, baking and photography.

Mine said I like watching Mad Men and Glee. (And no, I didn't write it...but they are right.)  Yup, I am awesome.

I am pretty sure I am here for comic relief.  You know, the one who has flour all over their face.  That's me.  Better than egg on my face, I suppose.

Remember when I tried to cook biscuits?

Or how about that birthday cake?

And I could continue. 

So therefore I did what any less-than-stellar baker would do when invited into the kitchen of an icon, I worried about what to wear.

I asked for a bit of insight as to what to don, and was graciously told,

Wear whatever you are comfortable in.

Thanks Betty.  You are a delightful bostess. 

But, hmmm.  Guessing she really didn't mean my ratty 18-year-old sorority sweatshirt and mismatched, self-proclaimed "ugly girl" pants (that I wear when I watch the aforementioned "Mad Men" and "Glee.")

Back to the drawing board.


Alright, Betty, go easy on me.  I'd be much more comfortable in my ugly girl pants.

I am a rock star

Okay, not really. 

I still am one of the worst gardeners there is.

After all, I live in the house with the dead flowers in the pots right now, actually.

Nothing screams domestic goddess like a front porch like this.

Is it Mum season, yet?

But I digress.  I have been attempting to grow pumpkins. 

I have never grown pumpkins.  I know nothing about pumpkins.  Well other than that each year they make a good replacement for my dead flowers in the flower pots.

But all the same, the kids asked if we could grow pumpkins.  And so we tried.

We started with seeds planted in egg shells.

Transplanted to the garden (and I use that term loosely) they actually sprouted leaves.  Followed by flowers. 

Lots and lots of flowers.

Then the men in party hats began to show up.

Aren't they cute?

Oh yeah, and pumpkin stalks (are they stalks?) are really prickly.  Like, really, really prickly.  Yet another, "who knew?!"

And now we actually have some of this going on.

That bad boy is bigger than my head.

Too bad I am pretty sure these things grow a foot a day (yup, "who knew?!) and we will soon lose our yard.

The upside is soon I will have something to put in those flower pots.