Weekly Weird

Do you ever see a paper bag in the road, and swerve to miss it because who knows, it just might be full of kittens?

Do you ever see a garbage bag full of something on the side of the road and think, What if there's a body in there?

I didn't think so.

Night Three

He slept all night! Woo hoo!!

Now if we can only figure out how to get my daughter back to sleeping all night, we'll be in business.

Naked, Loaded and Dangerous

My husband wasn't home, so I was bathing the toddlers by myself. I got them undressed, put the Birdie in the tub, and the Baby Guy ran off. Naked. He gets antsy in the tub, so I figured I'd let him run around a little and I'd try to get the Birdie mostly washed before I put him in. I just hoped he wouldn't pee on anything. Knew he might, but...hoped he wouldn't.

Well, he didn't pee on anything.

As I was sitting in the bathroom washing the Bitty Girl, the Baby Guy ran back and forth like a naked little maniac...into the living room...back to the entry of the bathroom...back off into the living room...back to stand at the bathroom door...and I noticed...something...on his legs.

And I thought, surely not. I must be mistaken. I must. Please. Please please PLEASE let me be mistaken.

But I wasn't.

I ran him down as he darted away from me, laughing his naughty little head off. I grabbed him...and sure enough: poop...all down his legs...on his arms...on his belly...fortunately NOT on his hands, toys, or face. But, ew. So I snatched him up - gingerly, of course, taking care not to spread the nastiness. I put him on the changing pad, reached for a baby wipe...a baby...a...wipe? No wipes. No wipes?! I had a naked baby with poop all over him and there were no freaking baby wipes! And by this time he was starting to get all, "What am I doing up here? I don't want to be up here! Get me down!" And then of course, of course, he rolled over and sat up. On his naked bottom. His naked, poopy bottom. YUCK YUCK YUCK!!! So I frantically searched for wipes, hoping all the time he wouldn't touch anything, and by then it was all up his arm and oh yeah, now there's a spot on the wall, too, and is that some on my shirt? And finally I found a new package of wipes in a drawer, opened the package, open, dangit, OPEN YOU STUPID THING!!! - and got him wiped up.

Next, I carried him, kicking and screaming, and put him in the tub, where his sister was playing cheefully and noisily enough that I was able to keep an "ear" on her the whole time even though I couldn't actually see her because did I mention I don't like leaving them in the tub alone? Yeah. But she was fine. Anyway, the Baby Guy stiffened up as usual as I tried to put him in the tub, and wouldn't sit down. So I picked him up and did a little swipe thing, trying to knock his feet out from under him while holding him, of course, so I could get him into a sitting position in the tub, and he's all stagger-stagger-stand. NO DANGIT SIT! SIT!!! I finally got him sitting and immediately soaped him up and got the poop residue washed off. Popped a toy in his hands and he was happy. For the time being.

But then I knew I had baby crap somewhere on my floor and I couldn't go clean it up because I had two babies in the tub and I couldn't leave them alone. So I tried to ignore the little voice in the back of my head whispering, Baby poop on your floor. Baby poop on your floor. The cats might step in it and track it around. Baby poop everywhere. Baby poop everywhere! I got them all washed up (if only it were as easy as that makes it sound, but I won't go into all of the gory bathtime battle details, at least the Birdie didn't act up, but it did include the Baby Guy standing and falling once in the tub, thank goodness he didn't hit his head) and got the Baby Guy out and turned the drain on on the tub while the Birdie was still sitting in it. Got him dried and in a diaper - IN A DIAPER!!! - and went back and got the Birdie out. By now, the Baby Guy was throwing a fit, I guess it was all just too traumatic for him. Yeah. For him. Got the Birdie dried...gave her a pull up to put on herself (she has to put them on herself, now) and went out and finally cleaned up the poop.

No more naked Baby Guys running around for a while. As cute as he is when he does it.

Public Service Announcement

I've just read a couple of instances where people have had their e-mail accounts or Facebook pages hacked and hijacked, with the pirate asking the victim's friends and family for money. The story they send is that the victim, whose e-mail they have hijacked - the friend/family member/acquaintance of the person from whom people are receiving an e-mail - has been stranded in another country (the two examples I've just heard are Scotland and England) and needs money to get home.

So if you receive an e-mailed requests for help in this way, please be sure to verify it before you send any money to anyone! (It is always wise to confirm pretty much anything you receive on the internet!)

Nights One & Two (or Trudge, Trudge, Trudge, Trudge)

Night One went almost better than I could have imagined, with the Baby Guy waking only once, around two-ish. This was pretty consistent with his usual schedule, but - but - he went back to sleep with two playings of the musical soother on his crib. And here is the important part: without a bottle.

I can probably count on one hand the number of times he has not insisted on a bottle (or two) overnight, or at least I could if I could remember them. This was a huge accomplishment. Huge.

And encouraging, of course. Could it be that this truly would be a new beginning, a new era of baby sleeping that didn't include a bottle overnight?

Maybe. But, as you might guess from the fact that I'm writing this post at 2:45 the next night (or next-next morning, in fact), Night Two is not going quite as well. This is not too alarming, because what would be a step forward without a step back? Plus, there were other factors that went into play tonight: he didn't eat quite as much today as he did yesterday (I'm guessing); my parents watched him all day while my husband and I played (the reason I'm guessing about the food); my parents put him to bed at their house before we picked him up around 10:30 p.m., and then we didn't get home until midnight-ish, when I put him back to bed for real; and, because of the craziness surrounding bedtime tonight, he didn't get any ibuprofen before bed.

So, yeah. It wasn't exactly a normal bedtime. So it's not truly alarming that it's been a little bit of a rougher night. He woke up fussing a bit before 2 a.m. I trudged upstairs, hugged him, settled him back in bed (I know, and I wouldn't pick him up, but he had escaped his covers so he needed to be settled anyway), and turned on Winnie-the-Pooh (the bedtime music crib soother thingie).

Then I returned to bed to listen to that on the monitor as it played over and over for about fifteen minutes.

Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff, He's
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Willy nilly silly ole bear!

Of course, there aren't any words on the crib soother, it's instrumental, but don't worry, my brain filled those in all on its own.

Oh, and the fussing. Don't forget the fussing. Because of course he didn't settle down. So I sighed, and groaned, and was about to trudge (there really isn't any other word for it) back up to re-settle him and turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on, when my husband got out of bed. "Where are you going?" I inquired. "Up to turn Winnie-the-Pooh back on." All right! Ooh - but - "Make sure you give him some ibuprofen!" Because I forgot the first time, and I'm pretty sure my teething little prince needed it.

Husband came back. Baby still fussing. Sigh. So, a third trudge, up I go, pick up the baby and hug him, and he just melts into my shoulder like that's where he really wants to sleep all night. Very sweet, precious, adorable...but, um, no, but thanks anyway. I settled him back in, to the misery of all involved (or maybe it was just him), turned Winnie-the-Pooh back on for yet another run (let's see how long those four D-batteries last, haha!) took some ibuprofen for myself, and settled down on the couch to write this post.

Because, at least that way, if I had to soothe him again, at least the trudge would be shorter this time. No stairs involved, anyway. Not enjoying the stairs at 2 a.m. At all.

As of now, he's been quiet for most of the time I spent writing this post. He's made a peep every now and then, but I am at least a little hopeful that we might avoid the warm milk again tonight. A little.

A New Beginning?

Tonight is our Baby Guy's first night in his own room. Yes, yes, YES. I know. Fifteen-and-a-half months old. Beyond due. I know.

Now that we're past that...

We have been toying with the idea of putting him in his own room for weeks, now. Months. Years. Oh, wait.

We were all set to do it last weekend, and then he went and got sick, and we decided a major upheaval probably wasn't in anyone's best interest.

We had planned on this weekend, then. The Bitty Girl would stay with my parents all weekend and we would be free to get the Baby Guy transitioned into his own room, his own bed...all night long...no matter how noisy it got, without fear of him disturbing his sister in the next room. But then our plans changed again, and our daughter stayed home, so I didn't think we were going to do it this weekend.

Then, five minutes before bedtime, my husband starts puttering around in the Baby Guy's room. He comes out with the video monitor and the apparent intent of using it tonight. "What are you doing with that?" I asked.

"I thought we could go ahead and put him in his room tonight anyway."

Despite my misgivings about doing it while the Bitty Girl is here, I didn't argue because I do want my son in his own room. As much as I love the proximity of having him in our bedroom, it just isn't a good long-term solution for us.

As I was sitting in the living room, I heard my husband laughing. My son likes his crib. It's bouncy. He stood at the side, held onto the rail, and jumped, and grinned. It was adorable.

I got my son's sleeping items - his blankets, his Lion, his Glowy Bear, and of course, the ubiquitous green stacking ring - and brought them upstairs. He got a little excited when he noticed me bringing them up the steps, and I think that's when he realized Something Was Up. I dumped them in the crib, brushed his teeth poked at his mouth with his toothbrush while he clamped his lips shut, whipped his head back and forth, and wailed, then dumped him in the crib.

He picked up his toys, showing them to me one by one as if to say, "Look, here are my friends! But what are they doing in here?"

And then he found out.

So far, so good. He went to sleep without a peep. See?

However, while many parents would find that encouraging, for me, that was no more than I had expected. Falling asleep is not a problem with him, regardless of where he is, for the most part. If he's ready to go to sleep (or often if it just seems to be expected of him) he will typically oblige.

No, falling asleep isn't the problem. It's staying asleep. So in another hour or three, we will know the truth. Will he sleep all night? Or will he wake up screaming, as usual, insisting on a bottle of warm rice milk? Will he wake the Birdie, thus causing her to also insist on a serving of warm milk in the middle of the night?

Probably. But maybe not. A parent can hope.

Stay tuned.

Redemption in the Kitchen

After my spectacular cookie failure last week, I knew I had to try again. I wasn't going to let a bunch of baking ingredients get the best of me. My cousin (I think...I'm pretty sure it was my cousin, although there wasn't a link in her comment) suggested I was the victim of bad baking soda, which made a lot of sense to me, given the deflated appearance of my pathetic attempt at cookies. So I ran out to the store, replenished our stock of eggs, and got some brand-new baking soda.

Armed with fresh ingredients, I tried again. This was a fairly important attempt, because the next day was a potluck picnic at work, and I didn't think anyone would eat burned cookies. Maybe it's just me. Of course, in typical "me" fashion (something that drives my husband nuts), I doubled the recipe this time. You know, that recipe that flopped the last time I tried to make it. Yeah, that one.

I got the ingredients ready and started mixing things together, and everything was going smoothly. I plopped in the butter, got ready to mix and realized - I'd only used enough butter for one batch. And that was the last stick. PANIC!

I started scrounging through the fridge to find another half-cup of something, anything, resembling butter. I found some Smart Balance spread. Perfect! Opened the tub...and realized there wasn't enough to make a full half-cup. I scooped it into the measuring cup anyway, smooshed it down, and went back to the fridge. Surely there was more Smart Balance in there. Surely. I could have sworn there was another tub of it. But...no.

And then I saw it. That tiny tub of honey butter that I'd bought on a whim when we were in Florida on vacation because I thought it would be good on...something. Who knows. I'd never used it. But...it was...butter-like...? Right? Never mind the fact that that trip to Florida was in January 2008. It was all I had.

Fingers crossed, I topped off my measuring half-cup of Smart Balance with some of the gooey honey butter, and hoped no one would end up sick (assuming the cookies came out edible). Mixed it all up, scooped the dough onto cookie sheets, and slid them into the oven. Then I switched on the oven light, sat down, and waited. I was not going to be surprised by smoke pouring out of the oven again! Nose almost pressed to the glass (but not quite, because that glass gets hot!) I watched as the cookies puffed up and baked, and didn't deflate. Success! Hooray!

They tasted pretty good, although they weren't spectacular, but I didn't bring any of the three dozen cookies I took to our picnic home, either.

But I realized something that evening when I baked the successful cookies. Cookies are pretty darn easy to make from scratch. I had no clue. So over the weekend I decided to try some variations. Because that's just the way I work. I can't stand to leave a recipe alone. So when I found a recipe for chocolate-chocolate chip cookies, the possibilities seemed endless.

First, I followed the recipe, but instead of chocolate chips, I added Andes Mints baking chips. Yum. Those turned out tasting like Thin Mints. Second, I did the same thing, except I added peanut butter-chocolate swirl chips. Those were tasty, too, but I thought the chips tasted a little weird. I'll probably try something different next time. Third, instead of adding cocoa powder, I added malted milk powder and made malted chocolate chip cookies. Again, very good, but I'll add more chocolate chips next time.

But those mint cookies. Wow. They were good. I've already made another batch of them. They're way too easy to eat!

I found the recipe in a Hershey's chocolate Christmas cookbook. It makes very moist, cakey cookies that are so good.

Hershey's Chocolate Cookies

• 1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup Hershey's cocoa powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter or margarine
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 eggs
• 1 to 1-1/2 cups baking chips of your choice

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix flour, cocoa powder and baking soda together in a small bowl and set aside. Add brown sugar, granulated sugar, butter and vanilla to the bowl of a stand mixer. Using the paddle attachment, mix until combined. Add egg and beat well. Turn down speed and mix in flour mixture until combined. Stir in chips. Grease a cookie sheet and, using two spoons, drop small mounds of dough about an inch and a half apart (these cookies won't spread much while baking). Bake on 350 for 8-10 minutes. Do not overbake.

I made 55 smallish cookies with this recipe, so there were approximately 73 calories per cookie.

Enjoy!

I'm not worthy!

On the weekends when we're not doing anything, my husband and I take turns letting each other sleep in. Sometimes that will be in the form of, "You get up now, let me sleep another half hour, then come wake me up and you can sleep a little while longer," but usually it means one of us sleeps in on Saturday and the other sleeps in on Sunday.

Yesterday morning, my husband got to sleep in while I fed the kids, then spent most of the morning watching Veggie Tales and sitting on the couch with my kids. When it came time to wake my husband up, I picked up my cell phone. His answer was groggy. Me: "It's 11:30. Do you want to get up?" And he did.

This morning, I got to sleep in while my husband took care of the kids. I think there were some Veggie Tales involved in this morning, too. But when it was time for him to get me up, he came in the bedroom with a homemade waffle that he had to make because I ate the last frozen waffles yesterday and I'm sure my daughter insisted on waffles for breakfast. He woke me up by bringing me breakfast in bed. And it was yummy.

I'm not worthy.

Woolly Weatherman

One of my favorite memories of fall is playing on my cousins' porch when the woolly worms were out. They always fascinated me. For all intents and purposes, they're bugs, but they're bugs with fur. Pettable bugs. And I remember some years when my cousins' porch was literally littered with them. I'd sit on the porch and watch them crawl around, pick them up, and, of course, pet them. What kid doesn't like to pet things?

Now that I'm all grown up, I've learned that there's more to those little critters than just pretty colors and pettable fur. Did you know that they can predict the weather? The pattern of orange and black stripes on them supposedly gives a hint as to how severe the upcoming winter will be.

Living in The City, I don't see them all that often anymore. Every once in a while I'll catch a glimpse of one on a drive, but it's seldom. However, since April, I've been working in a more rural setting. This given me the benefit of seeing little critters I didn't get to see while I was working downtown: from hawks and buzzards to grasshoppers and wolf spiders. (I didn't say they were all pleasant critters!)

As I left work the other day, I saw the first woolly worm I've seen in several years, little legs rolling it across the pavement. After my initial reaction of, "ooh, neat!" I am sorry to say that my very next thought was, "I wonder what it thinks the weather is going to be like this winter!"

As a little bit of background information, I work for a power company and have become a little bit of a weather geek because it can have a pretty hefty impact on our business. Take, for example, the remnants of hurricane Ike that came through almost a year ago and knocked out power to my whole city for roughly ten days. Take, for a second example, the ridiculously severe ice storm that hit in January and knocked power out for almost the entire central and western part of the state for almost two weeks. Yeah. It wasn't pretty.

So I call up my husband, who is a repository for all sorts of random knowledge about the weather and anything you can find in a Farmer's Almanac, and ask him how the woolly worm forecasts the winter. He responds that the black parts predict bad weather and the orange parts predict mild weather.

Ahhhh. Um. Really?

Then I guess it's a bad thing that this little guy looked like a fuzzy black hole crawling its way across the pavement?

It seems our woolly weather watcher is predicting a wicked winter.

If you live in the Bluegrass, consider yourself warned.

Cookie Catastrophe

There's nothing better than homemade chocolate chip cookies. Can I get an Amen? No matter how accustomed to the store-bought kind I get, there's nothing like a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

However, despite how much I like them, I have never before made them, myself. Not once. Not from scratch. I've done the Pillsbury roll, and I've done break 'n' bake, but never before have I started with just some flour, sugar, eggs, and, of course, chocolate chips.

Every now and then, the idea will flit across my mind. I might even go so far as to look up recipes on the internet or pull out some - you won't believe this - real cookbooks and see what I can find. But I've never actually gone through with it.

Until tonight, that is.

With my raging Fishlet success of last night, I was feeling pretty handy in the kitchen. Like I could do just about anything - certainly bake chocolate chip cookies. So I picked up eggs and chocolate chips on the way home and, after a fabulous dinner of pork ribs that my husband fixed on the grill, decided to give it a try.

Seriously, the ribs were awesome. I never need to go to Tony Roma's again - I'll just have my husband make them from now on. But I digress.

I followed the recipe, mixing things in little bowls here and there before adding them to the big bowl on the stand mixer - in the order specified in the recipe. I even tasted a bit of the raw dough - gasp! - a shocker for me, because I usually avoid eating anything with raw eggs in it. It tasted yummy. I couldn't wait for the cookies to be done.

I placed them on the baking sheets, and popped them in the oven, then took off to try to soothe my two (by now) screaming toddlers. (I don't think either one of them napped today. It has not been a pretty evening in our household.) I finally got both of them to settle down in my lap for a few minutes of peace.

"What does it smell like?" my astute 2.5-year-old daughter asked, all of a sudden.

"Cookies!" I replied blithely and happily, anticipating the warm, chewy, chocolatey goodness that awaited us.

I should have taken the hint.

A few minutes later, the timer on the oven went off. "Yay, cookies are done!" I crowed in excitement.

As I entered the kitchen, I sensed something was amiss. Maybe it was the - was that steam? Yes, surely it was just steam - pouring from the steam vent in the back of the stove. Despite my continuing optimism, I couldn't suppress an image that flitted across my brain of me opening the oven to have smoke come billowing out, National Lampoon-style.

I pulled out the oven mitts, opened the oven door...and sure enough, out poured enough smoke to make me cough and set our smoke detector to screaming in agony. I frantically pulled the cookie sheets out, and without taking a moment to be dismayed by the flat, black, pathetic little excuses for cookies that were splattered all over the sheet, I grabbed a third cookie sheet and began fanning the smoke detector.

Once I got it calmed down, I turned back to the stove and saw this:

Sigh.

The cookies on the second sheet weren't quite as bad - just flat, not burned - so at least I was able to give my daughter something. And truthfully, I don't think she even noticed. My son even ate a few bites.

But I noticed. And I am sad.

But not too sad to go pour a cup of milk and have a couple of deflated cookies before I go to bed.

Fishlets

I've spent most of the evening pretending like the minutes between 6:30 and 6:50 p.m. didn't happen.

I got home from work to an empty house. Ahhhhh. A few minutes of solitude before the Evening Insanity. But a quick phone call to my mother-in-law told me that my solitude wasn't going to be as peaceful as I had first thought. The kids hadn't eaten yet. Horror of horrors.

Let me point out that in our house, this truly is an event to make me groan. It's not that I don't like to cook - I love to eat, and I therefore enjoy creating things to eat. But feeding the kids is entirely different. Especially if I want to give them something that doesn't come out of a can, a bag, or a shrink-wrapped package. Something that they'll actually eat, that is.

As I stared first into the refrigerator, then into the freezer, then back into the fridge, then back into the freezer, my despair mounted. Then, suddenly, an idea began to take shape.

Fish sticks. Except, of course, we didn't have any. But we did have frozen fish fillets, some stuff called, "Andy's Seasoned Seafood Breading," and Canola Oil. So I thought, what the hey? Why don't I make some fish sticks?

I got out the fish, and set it to thawing (by running hot water over it continually for about ten minutes, during which time I think I about half-cooked it and I know I wasted a lot of water). I put some of the seasoning in a bowl and waited for the fish to thaw. I observed that one side of the fish was kind of orangish. Hmm, pretty. Getting bored, I put some frozen corn and frozen peas in the microwave to cook. Then I waited some more. Finally I checked the fish, and it was nice and squishy.

I pulled out the first fillet and started to cut it up. And then I realized - that pretty orangish side? Skin. Oh yeah. Nassss-teeeeee. And before I could make something fry-able for my children, I had to get it off.

Thus began the aforementioned twenty minutes I've been trying to forget. Peeling the skin off of raw, cold, slightly rubbery raw fish. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'll eat raw fish any day of the week. I love me some sushi. But Oh.My.Gosh, don't make me touch it. Ewwwww.

And not only was it necessary to touch it, but to get the skin off, I had to peel it. Squeeze it. Squish it. Mush it all around. After a few short minutes, there was nasty raw fish juice running down my arm. Augh. Augh. Aaaauuuuugggghhhh!

And there were three more fillets to go.

Please just kill me.

This brings me to another aside, by the way. When a package of fish says "Boneless" on the front, what do you expect? You expect it to be, well, free of bones. Am I right? So as I was mushing up those icky pieces of raw fish, you can imagine my surprise when I felt little sharp objects. Surely not bones. Not in my boneless fillets. The boneless fillets that I planned on feeding to my fifteen-month-old baby. Surely not.

Surely, yes. Yes, indeed. I find it amazing that the Kroger company has survived without a lawsuit over that one.

With all of the mutilation being caused by the mushing and, now, extra cutting to get the bones out, I realized fish sticks would be fairly difficult. I decided on fish nuggets, instead. Fishlets. This was perfect, really, because allowed me to make little bite-size pieces that would be just the right size for my son.

So I got them all cut up and fried an itty bitty piece to see if I had the oil right. Amazingly, it tasted pretty good, so I cooked up the rest (not that I wouldn't have cooked the rest, at that point, if it hadn't been). I was fairly shocked, because truthfully, frying and I don't tend to get along. I'm really not very good at it. I usually end up with 3/4 of my food burned onto the bottom of the pan, and the 1/4 that's left isn't edible. (So why did I think frying fish would be a good idea?) But somehow, it worked. Maybe it was because it was small pieces.

With my little fishlets done, I was ready for the real test: would the toddlers actually eat them? Particularly my son, who doesn't eat well, anyway. (Who am I kidding? Neither of my kids eats well unless it comes from McDonald's.)

The verdict: Yes. Fishlets apparently are agreeable to the one- and two-and-a-half-year-old palate. (Peas, on the other hand, are not. All my son did was smush them. Squish. Squish. Squish.) We will be making this again.

But I'll make sure that the fillets are boneless and skinless, next time.

Fishlets

12 oz boneless, skinless white fish (a little more than 12 oz if there are bones & skin)

Cornmeal type seafood breading

Enough oil to cover the bottom of a frying pan about 1/2 cm

Cut fish into small pieces. Pour about 1/4 cup breading into a bowl. Coat about 10 pieces at a time, then, when oil is hot, put those 10 pieces in one at a time. Cook a minute or two, turning halfway through, until the fishlets are golden brown. Transfer to a paper-towel-covered plate to cool and drain.

Makes 3-4 servings (if two of the people being served are toddlers).