Tag: parenting

Halloween Snapshot

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Okay, I wanted to blog all this stuff about Halloween, but I neglected to attend to one of the more important tenants of publishing – deadlines. Of course for a blog, I don’t have to plan as far ahead as traditional publishing, but perhaps some of this would have been more interesting/useful BEFORE Halloween. It’s highly unlikely that my three readers would take a look at this today. In any event and without further ado, here are my Halloween snapshots.

First, we picked pumpkins. This was a time for funny faces and produce bigger than my baby. In AZ, we sell our pumpkins alongside dried chilies.

On to the massacre. The Weisers continue to invite us to Pumpkinpalooza in spite of the fact that we ALWAYS come. Robyn is a great pal who shows us a good time and feeds us well. Chili – YUM! I took a photo of my dinner. This year, I let the ankle biters carve their own designs with actual knives. No trips to the ER. Phew!


The 8 YO boy carved a bat in flight and the 6 YO girl carved a kitten cat. I scored a surplus pumpkin for free because someone dropped it. I carved snakes coming out of the resultant crack, which I had enlarged. We coated our pumpkins with Vaseline so that they would keep. We didn’t do such a great job this year and that, partnered with the heat, saw two of our pumpkins turn gross-out mushy.

I painted the girl’s fingernails orange, but it didn’t last. Then we roasted our pumpkin seeds. We washed the 3 or so cups of seeds, boiled them for 10 minutes in 14 cups of water and 14 tablespoons of salt, then coated them in olive oil and roasted them at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. YUM! Better than I thought, though I’m not the sort who cares for the outer shell.

Finally, we are looking forward to Dia de los Muertos. The kids made sugar skulls at one of the school’s fundraisers. Cute huh? These were made sans glue, so they are entirely edible.

Anna and I have been talking about how fun and inspiring Dia de los Muertos is in comparison to the more somber Memorial Day. They each have their place. Grace St. Paul’s Episcopal Church is celebrating the Feast of All Saints on November 1st and the Commemoration of the Faithful Departed (All Souls’ Day) on November 2nd. I’m looking forward to bringing photos of my loved ones who’ve passed on to the services.

Check out posts from last year. Here, Here, Here, and Here.

Ballengers Biking

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Now and again, between soccer practices and music lessons, we’ll take to the streets to revel in the freedom of two wheels and no particular place to go.

(Production Note: 1) Grrr! I tried saving this in a zillion formats. Quicktime was the only one that actually displayed the movie. 2) I had an aged film effect going, but what were static-y, scratched images at first became simple, elegant black screens. No cute hubster and children biking. My intent in attempting aged film was to pretend that this ride was filmed long ago – before little girls on their bikes were made to wear helmets. Clearly, I need more experience with the iMovies. And I need to remember helmets for BOTH the kids.)

Democraps and Repooplicans

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“Mom, have you ever heard of a Repooplican?”

“No. But that’s pretty funny. Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, I was thinking about how ‘Democrat’ sounded like ‘Democrap’ and then it just came to me.”

You gotta give it to my 8 YO boy, “Democrap” and “Repooplican” are clever AND descriptive.

I wish I had a nickname like “Barracuda” – you know, not the “swallow whole” metaphor way, but more like the “holy shit, watch out for her” sort of way. Barracuda is the first song on the third CD of that mixed tape* Max made me. When I’m rollin’ in the MV that base hits and I’m all “hell yeah, Molms!” I’ve been pissed at the Democraps for 7+ years now. WTF have they been thinking? doing? They must have Repooplican for brains.

I’ve not been successful at channeling my inner Repooplican. The woman doesn’t get me. Her rocking awesome nickname doesn’t get me. Heart protests the very use of their song for Repooplican Governor Barracuda! Sorry, Maverick. You lost me at Palin. Besides, I’m ready for the retro stylings of cheques and balances.

Lest you think all my word joy comes from the boy, the hubster explained the economic situation we are having now as compared to the great depression to the 6 YO girl. She thought on it a while, re-entered the room and clarified, “But we’re happy now, right?”

FIN

* Haven’t I mentioned enough the mixed tapes I have received from Max and Anna enough? Do you get the picture. First, the hubster stole my iPod and second, I like mixed tapes and I cannot lie!

The Club that Would Have Me

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Pssst. I joined the PTA this year after three years of bitter derision of said group and their conviction that a marque will solve the problems faced by the public schools. Actually I joined the PTO, which is code for “we don’t want to pay national dues.” My story is that I was at registration when I spilled coffee all over my t-shirt, which was my favorite summertime activity. I have at least four coffee splattered shirts. Make that three since I freezer paper stencil painted one for Mz. Molly, on whom I and and others have a girl crush. She is so way cute, but I think it’s her juiced up bike that makes me feel all tingly inside.

Back to PTO/registration day – I was a hot mess (not the Paris Hilton kind but the kind involving a splashy mess of hot liquid) when I noticed the t-shirt table staffed by the PTO president. She told me I could get a discount on school t-shirts if I joined the PTO, so, well, there you have it. Had I known Alex was planning on being the secretary, I would have joined just so I could make faces at her as she attempted all things secretarial. OH, but that’s the best part. The PTO prez said I would only be as involved as I wanted to be. Therefore, if I couldn’t attend the meetings, she wouldn’t make me! YAY! No commitment beyond the cash donation.

Membership has its privileges. For example, doing nothing and discounts on shirts. I also got into movie night for free. It was there that I went in cahoots with my favorite partner in crime, whose name I will not mention, but Anna knows who she is, to break into my son’s 3rd grade classroom to install screen maps of the US and the world. Anna is going to get me into serious trouble one day. She already got me into a clay building class when I didn’t take the prerequisite – a fact that didn’t pass unnoticed by a biddy or two.

Oh, but anyway. I just thought that I would say it loud and proud; I am Sarah Palin. Except that I don’t shoot wolves from helicopters and I don’t wear lipstick and I’m not all that fond of pitt bulls and it’s a well known fact I came in last place in the only beauty contest I ever entered. Come to think on it, except for my PTO membership, Tina Fey glasses, and vagina, I’m really not much like Palin at all. And that will make it very easy for me to join Wampus Against Sarah Palin. Sadly, WASP membership indicates obvious social climbing on my part.

One last note: Do not counterfeit this membership card for if you so choose to do so choose, then you will find yourself embroiled in major discussions about the relative benefits of nothing and every freaking thing and are also committing to spam out the ying yang.

Child Assessment

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I was looking for a particular photo of my van since today gave me a reason to purge a brain blog on that subject. I couldn’t find it. Ah, well. That blog will have to stick in my brain for a while longer. Instead, I found this old journal entry marked “draft”. I think I’ll post it as is (minus the rant on DIBELS). But first, here is a recent photo of my mustard-only sandwich-eating son with a certificate for reading from the librarian at his school.

“Parrish does not eat paint.” The horror! All the other kids in the class eat paint, except for my son. Maybe I could put it on the dinner menu one night to prepare him for his next paint eating assessment.

Parrish’s teacher told me that he was her “shining star” and insisted that he had the intelligence to be an engineer. She described for me how he studied each toy in the classroom before he would play with it. He inspected for usefulness, function, and purpose the classroom toys. All the other kids slung the toys around without a care as to whether it was being used properly. Another blow. Why doesn’t my son eat paint? Why doesn’t my son play grab-and-go with the toys? What’s wrong with him?

At that conference, regardless of what the teacher actually said, I heard that my son isn’t creative and carefree. I heard that my son is too linear, methodical, and analytic. That night I asked him why he didn’t eat paint like the other kids. He slowly fixed his big blue eyes, rimmed with long brown lashes my way and blinked. What did I expect? He was only 18 months old.

Why is it that I considered the two days a week my son spent at daycare “school”? Why is it that as a parent I neglected to honor my son’s strengths and focused instead on imaginary areas for improvement? Since birth I did that with both my kids. Due dates, milestones, and so forth were met with my smug pleasure at being ahead of the curve. I’d like to say that I didn’t care what other kids were doing, but I’d be lying. I want my children to be normal. Well, slightly better than normal.

Here is my son then. Clearly, you can force your kid to wear funny glasses and he will still be serious if he’s a serious kid. The glasses and guitar lessons and routine screenings of The Muppet Show will round him out either by pumping up his cool factor or providing a depth of issues.

‘Cause We’re United

My kids and I watched the opening to the Olympics up until the U.S. was featured on the parade of nations. I think 10 p.m. is late enough to be special even without witnessing the denouement. During the performance (the incredible, amazing, wonderful opening performance) Parrish said something wonderfully patriotic. It was the innocent nationalism of a kid who is taught the pureness of patriotism, before the subjective and hypocritical nature of politics enters your awareness.

I want to say this without too much of my own editorial though, because I love the way children think of possibility and reality as the same. During the display of children from all over the world, Parrish commented that they could all be from America. “Yes, I suppose they could. We look like all those people.” “Yeah,” he said. “‘Cause we’re united.”

Muffins and Memories

I’ve been talking to a great aunt of mine every day, every fifteen minutes because she forgets that she’s called. Recently we discussed a tomato sandwich that she ate. She said it reminded her of my mother. Lots of foods make me think of my great aunt. The big three are fried baby catfish, tomatoes, and blueberry muffins.

My great aunt grew blueberry vines like crazy over her patio. She would harvest them, coat them in sugar, freeze them, then make blueberry muffins. They were the moistest, yummiest thing I ever ate with the possible exceptions of fried baby catfish and home-grown tomatoes.

With all this memory, aunt, food energy going around every 15 minutes, I figured I’d better make some blueberry muffins. Parrish was off LEGOing with a buddy, Jesse was working, and George and I were on our own. I recruited her for baking duty. George had her own ideas about muffins. What if we traded out the blueberries with chocolate chips? What if we traded out the lemon juice for vanilla and almond extracts? Here is what we got:

I don’t have my aunt’s recipe, but maybe I’ll get it in the next 15 minutes. Here’s the one we made up for ourselves.

Directions:

Sift in medium bowl
1.5 cu flour (I wanted to use wheat, but we had none, which made the muffins way more yummier than planned)
1/2 tsp Coke (baking soda, but not what George called it)
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt.

Beat in another bowl
1/3 cu sugar
4 tbs melted organic butter
3/4 cu organic milk
2 organic bantam eggs
2 tbs organic vanilla (too strong, but wanted moisture)
1 tb almond extract (too strong, but wanted moisture).

Blend the wet mixture with the dry then add 1 cu organic, fairly traded chocolate chips. (Don’t these ingredients seem bourgeois? All the social climbers are going socially and environmentally conscious with their food.)

Fill greased muffin pan with mixture and put in preheated 350 degree oven for 20ish minutes. Cool muffins on a rack a while, then eat straight away. Don’t forget to turn off your oven. I forgot and the kitchen got quite hot. Luckily I don’t cook often enough to worry about the gas bill.

George and I are majorly self-congratulatory. We did a yum-yum-yummy job. Parrish took a bite and declared they were awful. Later he confessed that he liked the bite but wanted to protect his reputation. The next morning he requested a muffin for breakfast, so apparently he got over his “rep”. It’s cute that Parrish is self-aware, but I’d rather him be a big geek who is all himself, than super cool and hidden. I’ll work on that.

For now we will choke back what ails us with chocolate chip muffins Georgie style. The next thing on my list is to figure out what to do with the unused blueberries. Maybe I’ll ask my aunt. Is that my phone ringing?

Pride Before the Fall

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The day after my last post, Jesse caught the chickens hen pecking a baby quail. We couldn’t find the nest, so my favorite babysitter (who sits no more) and I ran our baby to an emergency pet hospital. The quail stood up in my hands and took one last breath before expiring about a block away from salvation. The vet rep told me I had to keep the babies warm, as in hot, as in over 100 degrees. Oops.

Late late that night, or early early the next morning as I was trying to get things straight for work, I heard a chirp chirp outside my back door. It was my cat “playing” with another baby quail. For four years, I’ve wished that we could have quail in this yard like we had at our last house. Finally I get a nest, and my peaceable kingdom turns into murderous manor.

I held this baby against my bare belly the same way I did my own children when they were born. I drove to the hospital straight away in spite of Jesse’s begging me to stay off the streets. As it turns out, it was 2 a.m. and peak drunk-driving time. To illustrate Jesse’s point, red, white, and blue swirly lights guided my way through the bleak night. This baby made it to the hospital before death.

The hospital would keep the baby until a representative from Forever Wild arrived. If you love desert wildlife, please take the time to check out their organization. I’m so thankful there was a resource for me with Baby Q1 (may she/he rest in peace), and Baby Q2 (may she/he be rehabilitated). Forever Wild has adoptive quail mothers for babies like mine. How cool is that?

I’m not sure what time I got home, but it was time enough to close my eyes before the hens called to let them out of the coop for their morning bug buffet. I came inside to discover both kids sleeping in my bed with their dad. I carefully picked my way through my daughter’s room and crawled into her crowded bed. I found this photo when I downloaded the photos of the quail.

Where to start with this? First, the obvious. What kind of crazy musical beds is this? We slept where we were told when I was growing up. Second, please notice the sheet on the window. The blinds had broken for the third time and the landlord won’t let me throw them out. While the blinds waited for repair, I put up that sheet to prove you can take the girl out of Oklahoma, but she’ll still use sheets as curtains. Third, housecleaning isn’t my forte and I’ve more than passed that on to my daughter. I like how the closet mirror reflects the coordinating insanity on the bookshelf too. This looks like an I Spy riddle. Finally, do I look the least bit comfortable? There is a fist behind my head; my face is in a stuffed animal; I can’t even straighten my legs.

I think Jesse took this photo to prove a point that he’s been trying to drive home for a long time. Ours is not a peaceable kingdom. It is barely managed chaos. So if you want to know what my plans are for the rest of the summer, I suppose I should aim for no more deaths and much more cleaning.

My Peaceable Kingdom

This week, the A&E television network is regaling me with stories to make me so damn glad to be a mom. First was the documentary about mothers killing children, then one about teachers seducing students, and today’s documentary was on a kid accused of killing his mother.

I’m fairly certain that I’m not going to kill my children. If you’ve ever heard them at each other’s throats, you’d understand the qualifier. Even so, it’s still not in me since mostly they are charming, wonderful kids who are a pleasure to parent. I don’t have to worry about the teacher thing just yet since teachers tend to go for the 14 and over crowd. Also, I’m pretty much a hover mom with a solid evil eye. I don’t think my kids would kill me – at least not until they can drive themselves around town or discover the mystery of how beverages get poured into a cup. Like that will ever happen.

I could wind up an A&E investigative report, but I don’t think so. Not if my pets are any indication. They have turned out exceptionally. Boris tops the list of dogs anywhere. I’m not sure we can take credit for how wonderful he is. He may be nothing short of a gift from God. Even so, Jesse has trained Boris well. Boris minds, he is a fierce protector, and nary was there a more loving pet. He even tolerates the cat.

Sister Princess, or “Cessy”, is a solid cat. She allows the children to love her excessively. She is a fierce hunter who nabs the sewer roaches and chases the mice and lizards out of the house. Unfortunately, her predatory behavior extends to the little birdies outside. I don’t like this habit of hers, and I worried about how she would torture the hens. As this photo is my witness, I needn’t have given it a second thought.

Cessy likes to lay outside, even on the hottest of Tucson summer days. This patch of cool dirt used to be a wildflower garden. The hens have some sort of agreement with the cat, apparently, that they share. Five of our six hens are in this photo with Cessy. Big Momma, our white hen, was hanging around at my foot wondering what sort of goody I had for her. The hens are well reared too, though the Krause-Brashears have more to do with that than I do. Proof at the least that I’m an adequate foster mom. On the other hand, we only got two eggs today. Poor hot birdies. I didn’t lecture them as yesterday we got five.

And when did Arts and Entertainment turn into “Real Life. Drama.” with this cruel programming at a time when they know we are trapped inside our homes with our summer crazed kiddos? That’s corporate sustainability! They are attempting to inspire us to provide them with more salacious stories. They’ll get none here. Ours is a peaceable kingdom.