Motherhood

Adieu Nutella Cookies

So the other day, while I am making myself some Nutella cookies, Caroline walks into the kitchen. She is stark naked and holds a diaper in her hand. She is repeating, “poopy, mommy, poopy” and “I get in shower with Bella.”

I put down the cookie-scooper and run over to discover that the girl is a genius. Yes, there is poopy in her diaper and yes she had somehow taken it off and carried it to me. I hurry and discard the diaper while simultaneously grabbing a hold of Caroline so she doesn’t sit anywhere or touch anything.

I run to find the place that she removed the dirty diaper from her body but can’t find poop anywhere in the rest of the house, including the hallway in front of the bathroom where the deed was most likely done. The poop is the hard kind, so less worrisome. All I could think about is e-mailing Amy Kafala and telling her that there are perks to not going vegan. Thank goodness we ate too little fiber yesterday.

I stand Caroline up on the changing table and carefully use the baby wipes to remove the remaining poop from her bum.

I tell her she can have a bath after Bella is done and I lay her down to replace the diaper.

I turn on some cartoons to distract her.

I then go back to the kitchen to scrub my arms and hands. From just under the elbows to all the way under my fingernails, I was thorough. The process took a good five minutes and a cup of handsoap.

I then go back to my cookies, which I remind you, are made mostly from Nutella.

Not surprisingly, I just can’t muster the strength to finish plan A. Nutella mixed with flour, sugar, and eggs looks strikingly like that something else to which I had just dedicated 10 minutes of my life.

That is the life of a mother.
Everything can change on a whim.
The sooner mothers lower their expectations for their own needs
and put themselves at the mercy of their children,
the better off it is for everyone.

Two-year-olds are no respecters of persons.
They don’t care if people want to shower alone.
They don’t care if you have been craving those cookies for two weeks.

I then sit down to write this story
and I find the post I titled last week.
I hadn’t written any of the post yet,
but it was going to be about how as a mother I have been exhausted.

My toddler is wearing me out.

What was the title of that post you wonder?

Scrapin’ the bottom of the Nutella jar.

See how things change in an instant?

No matter how desperate I am for a chocolate fix,
I won’t be scrapin the bottom of the Nutella jar again.

Ever.

And I bet neither will some of you.

Thank you for being a loyal reader and helping me
support my habit of telling awful things that happen to mothers alike everywhere.

What is it with this gross kid?

If you can relate to this story or found it mildly entertaining at my expense,
please feel free to share the story with a friend via e-mail, twitter, or facebook.

The links right below make it so easy.

Just , whatever you do, please don’t show your sympathy
or support by bringing me any chocolate cookies for a while,
and especially not hazlenut.

So long summer.

Good-bye summer.
I am going to tell you good-bye
before it gets too cold
and I am cursing you for leaving me.
I know this amazing weather can’t last.
I feel like I still live in San Diego.

One of my least favorite memories of this summer
was Bella’s kool-aid stand.
Maybe we will have better luck with an apple cider stand.
Yeah right, we are never selling beverage again.
When you get to Bella’s sad face, you’ll understand why.

Here she is.
This was at the beginning of the stand.
She is counting all of her hopeful profits.
She has something coming to her.
We set up down our street on the super busy State street.

We even made three flavors of kool-aid.

Tropical, blue, and orange.

Funny that we sold more Crystal Lite than anything.

It could have been because we only sold

three glasses.

Two glasses were bought by my health-conscience visiting teacher

that just happened to walk by.

God must have been watching out for Bella a little bit

to send her by in the very moment when she was needed most.

If I ever get suckered into this again,

we will call it a Crystal Lite stand.

Maybe that will actually make anyone stop

beyond the visiting teacher.
And Amy Kafala will cringe
because she thinks we should have an ice-water stand.

Memorize this face.

It’s the face of defeat.

It’s an important life lesson.

Even if it’s heartbreaking for the mama.

I am proud of my Bella,

she didn’t give up.

In the three hour commitment,
she ended up with $4 profit.
$1 from the visiting teacher.
$1 from the only lady who actually pulled her car over
and told us to keep the change
(and that was in our second location)
and $2 from mama when she bought the missionaries two glasses each.

She also suckered mom into
paying for the kool-aid, sugar, cups, and ice.

She may still have a future in business,
but has decided to stick with babysitting and doing extra chores.
They earn a better profit.

Did I mention it was like 90 degree outside?
You would think more people would be thirsty.

Book Review – Lunch Wars

This was a paid review for BlogHer BookClub but the opinions expressed are my own.

Read to the bottom for a chance to win this book.

Lunch Wars: How to Start a School Food Revolution and Win the Battle for Our Children’s Health by Amy Kalafa

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I went into the book LunchWars with a bad attitude. I was flogging myself for my stupidity in willingly volunteering to review a book on nutrition. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that nutrition is not at the high end of my priority list. I grudgingly slogged through the first two thirds of the book and then something inside me changed. It’s not that I am on the same page as the self-proclaimed granola-head author Amy Kafala, but somewhere in the pages of the book I realized that I had been taught some important morsels of nutrition principles that I should be using with my own family. I don’t want to go on all day and I also don’t want to worry my hubby with the idea of going all-organic (would never do that to my grocery budget) but let’s just say there are three things that I am going to try and do better: avoid corn syrup and lessen sugar intake, introduce even more whole grains, and try to incorporate more locally grown fruit and veggies.

That being said, I don’t agree with this LunchWar revolution in the least. I have taken major slack on the BlogHer discussion boards, but I don’t care. It’s not that I want kids to starve or to continue to eat bad foods, it’s just that my political views are conservative. I don’t think that we have an obligation to feed our school children the highest quality of foods at the tax payer’s expense. A lot was said in this book about how it is financially easier to make changes in the schools where the majority of kids are on free school lunches and it made me cringe. No matter what changes are made, someone is going to have to eat the cost difference in these menu changes: the government will do so for the needy and those who aren’t free or reduced lunch qualified will eat the difference for themselves and the government.

I normally have my kids take lunches the majority of the time, but when it doesn’t happen because we are too rushed or the household is in real need of groceries, I appreciate having a relatively inexpensive option for my kids. I don’t care if their pizza is processed or their fruit is canned. I don’t need the highest quality for my own kids ALL of the time, and I most definitely don’t need it for other people’s children. It comes down to the bottom dollar for me. The reason my kids take lunch in the first place is because it’s cheaper.

I need a book club forum to get out all of my opinions about LunchWars, but I will spare you all the details. I could talk all day about school gardens, food culture, how health-fanatical people think they are superior (including the author who boasts of her kids not needing medications like her unhealthy counterparts), schools serving three meals a day, depletion of US soil and farming, nature deficit disorder, and the fact that we should only eat beef or milk from cows who only graze on grass or chicken and eggs from cage-free standards. Instead, let’s just leave it at this: I find the main premise of this book hypocritical. The author complains that our schools have turned our students into customers in the lunch room and then turns around and justifies making customers out of them in the name of financing the organic changes she sees as absolutely vital for all.

Amy Kafala is a Democrat. I am a Republican. She didn’t say so, but I guarantee you that she is as blue as they come. [What is so bad about Ronald Reagan’s idea of using ketchup and relish as a veggie counterpart to save the tax payers 6 billion a year? It’s ingenious!] Amy Kafala thinks that our kids should not have birthday cupcakes. I resent that the government has regulated the crap out of our schools. It’s their regulations that got the cafeterias all screwed up with their single servings in the first place. I long for the more simple days when kids got to help the lunch ladies cook and scoop out the servings for their peers. Amy Kafala is making a profit with this revolution. I am just a mom trying to find the right balance between cost effective and nutritious for my family of six.

Oh, and I hated my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Maclvein (I can’t even remember how to spell her name, I disliked her that bad.) All she would allow us to eat for our school parties were Triscuits, veggies, and juice. I am not saying that it’s a bad thing to eat nutritiously. I am just saying lighten up granola-heads. I don’t know how people live like that 100% of the time, and where they get off telling everyone else that we need to be like them too?

Last word: go ahead and drink the chocolate milk kids. It’s milk. It’s chocolate. It’s perfection. And you aren’t going to get it at home.

View all my reviews

I will be giving this book away to a lucky commenter. Leave me a comment on this post with your best nutritional tip and I will enter you to win. One winner will be chosen on Halloween…just in time for you to eat all the candy guilt-free before the book arrives.

I hated that neighbor who gave away apples at Halloween every year.

I don’t know about you Honda.

First you trap my little 4-year-old in the steel.

Then, you trap my 12-year-old in nylon.
Super resistant nylon.

It’s a good thing we always carry a Leatherman in the car.
I wish that could have worked for Sophia.
She’s our special child.
The only one to ever go under the diamond blade saw.

The craziest thing of all.
This same scenario has played out
with a niece and a nephew.

We need emergency exits!
Or less wiggly kids.

Thank you Leilani

I couldn’t say it better myself.
Even the most faithful to God have challenges.

And he does strengthen each of us on our individual journey.
Doing the hard thing is the greatest for our growth
because he strengthens us.

Don’t Smell the Roses

Yesterday, while at Abigail’s soccer practice
something occurred that I know you are all dying to hear about.

If you gag easily, you may not want to read on.
The story’s main characters are Caroline and I.
The main subject matter is dog poop.

It kind of reminded me of what happened
while I was smelling my beautiful summer rose arrangement back in June.
I was just going along,
admiring the beauty and enjoying some relaxation,
and…

Wham.

What do you know?

There are all kind of bugs on the yellow rose’s underside.

Never mind that I had just brought them into the house

and set them on the kitchen counter.

Eek.

Now that I ruined your bliss
as the bugs did mine,
try to move past the bugs for a moment,
and place the amazing smell of this rose in your brain for the duration of this post,
it will serve you well.
I promise

And back to the soccer horrification.
(I love it when I make up words)

This is a true story that will go into my motherhood portfolio
of proudest mommy moments that I survived.
It shall be filed at the top of the grosser than gross section.
Brought to you once again by one of my adorable toddlers.

Imagine this with me for a moment:
I am enjoying my book under a great big shady tree.
Abigail and her soccer team are close by drilling their soccer skills.
I didn’t take my usual walk around the track
as I had just finished gussying myself up for a night on the town.

Two year old Caroline is wandering here and there
and I occasionally have to pause my reading
to eradicate her from her sister’s playing field.

No big deal.
I am totally used to it.
I can even keep a sense of humor
most of the time while
she runs away from me.

When she screams “I want to play with Abba” at the top of her lungs
whenever I get anywhere near her,
I almost think it is kind of cute.
Almost.

Most of all I am secretly thanking God
that we are done with swim lessons
and I won’t have to jump in the pool
and ruin my $200 phone to save her.

I am sure the other parents there were thrilled
with her lung capacity.
Who am I kidding?
There were no other parents there.
Who watches their 12 year old kids practice anymore?
Only mothers who are gluttons for punishment
and I seem to be the only one for miles.

At one point, I notice a pile of dog poop
by the base of the tree.
Not that I am an expert in scat or anything,
but it looked like the 2 week old dry meal
of a German shepherd.
I move a few feet farther away
to the edge of the tree provided shade.

I then lay on my stomach and read on.
Caroline is playing peekaboo around this aforementioned very large tree trunk
and I keep her engaged with an occasional boo
between the words on the page
that was feeling neglected.
I am sure the book itself was thinking,
“What kind of woman takes one hour to read one page?”

Well, I guess Caroline knew that I was stuck between
the literary world and reality
and wasn’t really into her game.
The next thing I know,
I feel something heavy yet soft hit my back.
I look up to see Caroline in “I just threw something” form
and she is smiling from ear from ear.
Her giggle taunts me.

I jump up
only to notice simultaneously that
one – she is holding a piece of dog poop in her left hand
and two – a piece of poop hit the grass right below my feet.
It had obviously rolled down my backside.

Eek.
I kept my cool.
Told her to “drop it.”
Told her again to “drop it.”
After I said yucky ka-ka about thirty times,
and explained to her that it was absolutely undeniably nasty
to play with dog poop,
She finally listened on the third “drop it” try

I then had to locate a stick to putt the
straggling piece of poop back
to its family cluster.
As the responsible mom that I am,
I just had to get it off the sidewalk where she had ran with it.
We wouldn’t want some other kid to come along and step on that, would we?

I gathered Caroline and my book in one swift motion,
making sure not to touch her hands
and went to the car to find some hand sanitizer.

I then buckled her in her car seat
while making a mental note to
attend my next Relief Society meeting
where they are making emergency car kits.
Surely there is hand-sanitizer
in every van of any decent mother.
Or at least in her purse.
How can you be out of both
in such a moment of need?
I obviously have some improvements to make.

This is my desperate plea to the world of mothers,
“Help me, please.”
Remind me to replenish the hand sanitizer
before my next moment of desperation.
Why can’t any of you be at soccer practice when I need you?

I didn’t even realize that I never washed her hands
until just now.
Sometimes blogging is a cruel cruel joke
on a mother’s mind.

When we got home,
I had to run out the door
and daddy was in charge of dinner
I sure hope he remembered
to make sure the kids washed up.

Oh, and back to me.
Yeah, I totally wore the same shirt out last night.
And guess what,
when I attended the Taste of Home cooking exhibition,
I won the best prize they gave away,
and no one was the wiser.
Go here to see the photographic evidence.
(Thanks to Launi for capturing the thrill of the win)

Apparently, I need to wear dog poo out more often.
It must have been my lucky charm.

The moral of the story: don’t stop to smell the roses.
It may give you only great big disappointment.
Ignorance is bliss on certain occasions.

Also, most definitely
move farther than just a few feet away
the next time you
notice dog poop at soccer practice,
even if you are enjoying a good book.

This advice is especially sound
if anywhere in your vicinity
there is a wild
two year old
that just refuses to be wrangled, tamed, or still.

The night Max wore his wolf suit
and made mischief of one kind
and another, and another.

Pretty much one of my favorite books of all time.

Now I could write my own version.
The day Caroline refused to wear her shoes
for the fifteenth millionth time,
and threw dog poop at her mother.

If you can relate to this post in the least,
please share it with your friends,
and help me make some money
so I can buy some hand sanitizer.

The share buttons are right under this sentence.

My Husband Loves Boobs

I remember having a conversation years ago with a lady about breastfeeding etiquette. She had whipped it out in sacrament meeting and I was a little astonished.

“Isn’t that why we have mother’s lounges in every church?” I prodded.
She replied, “What’s the difference in me breastfeeding my kid and you feeding your baby a bottle in church?
Um, I thought that the answer was obvious, but she was awaiting a reply.
“The difference is simple really: Your boob.”

(Hello to you, if you are reading this – I am sure you will make your opinion on the matter known.)

“My husband does not want to be looking at that.”
And he didn’t. He was the one that brought my attention to the boob in the first place.

Guess what? Over the years, I have discovered something. My husband does want to be looking at that! He’s a man. He has a thing for boobs. That’s what men do. They start life on their mom’s and work their way up to having free access to their wife’s. It’s the perk of marriage. At least that’s how it is at our house. I don’t know how it is for you flat chested ladies.

Oh man, my husband is going to kill me.
So,this post is really just my plea: cover it up ladies.
Please.

I know it’s all trendy right now to advocate for mom’s rights to whip it out, but really, can we not be considerate for other people? Especially other ladies who don’t want their husbands to have any temptation? I hope you don’t think I am 100% serious. My husband isn’t some creep who goes around stalking lactating liberals. But, there is always an awkward moment for him when a woman whips it out with no shame.

I am assuming the moment goes something like this in his mind:
“Should I look? Should I not look? Boy, I think I could look and still get into heaven.”

My hubby sent me a link about a lady with a Breastfeeding truck. who has been featured recently in the news.
It showcases a woman’s desire to create a place where mom’s can breastfeed comfortably and privately.

Bless you, Jill Miller.

Now, all my hubby has to do when he is feeling kind of desperate is look at the huge nipple on top of your private place. Nice. At least your way he can still get into heaven.

Oh, if you didn’t read the article, I’ve got to let you in on the best part. The author says fictionally to her children,”No children, that’s not an ice-cream truck, stay away, it’s a milk truck.”

I bet some moms in South America who are still breastfeeding their 8-year-olds are wishing they could get a milk-truck in their country.

Oh, here is a place you can buy a classy udder cover. Or if you are the typical Mormon mommy who likes to be crafty, go here to learn how to make your very own baby blanket. Because even though we live in a fancy schmancy 21st century where we have to have every product on the market, a baby blanket really works for everything.
At least that’s what I think every time I see someone walking around with one of these. Of course it’s so cute; Cally made it.
But really, I had four kids and used a blanket to cover my car seat with every one and it worked out just fine.

Coming soon: a post about the versatility of baby blankets.
Oh and for you la leche nazis, I did breastfeed. I have nothing against it. Nothing at all.
Unless it’s you, and you are all hanging out in front of my man.

My love affair with THE Wal-Mart

How anyone living in the 21st century can avoid shopping at Wal-Mart is beyond me?

If you have found the secret, do tell.

Recently I have reconnected with the site

The People of Wal-Mart.

Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness.

There are some crazies out there.

It’s really sad to think I am one of them.

I just entered my self-check out story in their contest.

I can’t remember the offered prize,

but what do you want to bet

that it’s going to require more of my life

given to my local Wal-Mart?

Shoot, now I hope I lose.

Unless of course,

I won’t have to actually spend

my own money at the place.

Tristi had a hilarious tweet the other night.

It said, “I got an e-mail from Wal-Mart, they miss me,

uh, I was just there an hour ago.”

Truth is always the best humor.

I was shocked at myself today when

I not only respected but admired some people

over at Wal-Mart:

Please tell me all my shopping hasn’t tainted

the little bit of sanity I have left.

Whose with me?

Is this not the smartest way a man could wait for his wife

while she is shopping?

You know how I always get distracted

in those clearance sections.

I mean he could probably

sneak in a whole basketball game

when it’s back to school season.

The only thing that I would suggest

as improvement

are a few extra camping chairs

kiddie size.

If you get my drift.

Then mommy could really get her shopping on.

A set up like this would have really come in handy

back in the day.

Wow.

I really am confessing

all my love for Wal-Mart today

aren’t I?

I think next month my game

is going to be

who can tell the best Wal-Mart story?

I think my mother in law has one

about someone passing gas.

Go ahead, feel free to give us a teaser.

Oh yeah, and don’t forget this month’s contest.
I’ve only got six funny jokes to choose from so far.
You don’t want to disappoint my kids, do you?
Your chances of winning a $20 giftcard of your choice
are looking real good.
Who wants one to Wal-Mart?