28 November 2009

Post Turkey Post

Well, I cooked the Thanksgiving turkey too long and the meat was a bit dried out but palatable nonetheless. We had invited the missionaries over for dinner the day after Thanksgiving and were planning on having leftovers and a fresh pie. Not wanting to serve the turkey as it was, Nikki saved the day by making her best batch of turkey tetrazzini ever. Yum. Thanks hon!

25 November 2009

Happy Thanksgiving

Nikki just made some amazing stuffing. Now I just have to figure out how to cook a decent turkey and we're most of the way there. My turkeys tend to be hit and miss -- no, I'm not referring to roadkill; I'm talking about juicy vs. too dry. I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow. Happy Thanksgiving all!

23 November 2009

A medium-long and fairly uninteresting mostly true story

Cleaning baby bottles is not always a simple task. It begins with the dishwasher. No, I do not wash the bottles in the dishwasher as this would result in compromised bottles tumbling wildly throughout the wash and rinse cycles to perhaps meet their untimely ends hugging the heating element at the bottom of the unit as they quickly deform into a smoldering glob plastic stink.

The dishwasher is the first step because it must be emptied of clean dishes in order to load it with the dirty dishes that occupy the rinse-half of the sink. The rinse-half of the sink can then be scrubbed and receive the dishes from the wash-side of the sink (dishes such as bottles that are not or should not be dishwasher safe). The wash-side of the sink can then be scrubbed and filled with hot soapy water and receive the dirty dishes from the rinse-half of the sink which can again be scrubbed in preparation for the clean but soapy dishes which will soon be placed there.

Okay, maybe I am just a little bit OCD. But when it comes to something I am about to put in my baby’s mouth I can’t stand the idea of it having any trace of rotting sink goo still attached.

Well last night it was already quite late. The kids were finally all in bed (the two-year-old had attempted an all-nighter resulting in a parent-toddler standoff that ended in a rather lose-lose fashion when he went to bed earlier that he wanted and much later than I had wished). The dishes were dirty. The table hadn’t even been cleaned off after dinner. Left unattended, the bottles would add up in the night and I would likely end up doing dishes to the tune of hungry screaming babies when the clean bottles ran out around 3 am (this I have learned from sad experience).

I was tired. Nikki was sleeping. (Quasi-related side note: If you want to live a long and happy life, you must never wake the sleeping mother of small children without a very good reason. And no, “Help me! I cut myself and am bleeding to death,” doesn’t make the grade. It has to be a VERY good reason.) Alone and unsupervised I cleared off the table and began to load the dishwasher… WARNING: This is where my tale turns dark and sinister – those of faint heart should consider stopping now. Proceed at your own risk. Did I mention it was late and I was tired?

I scraped but did not rinse all the dishes before loading them. Everything dishwasher safe went in – even those items we never load because they take up so much room and it would just be easier to wash them by hand. Remember I said I was alone and unsupervised. The guilt weighed heavily on me, but I could already feel the desensitizing process working its evil magic on my soul. Since there was no hope for salvation now, I figured I might as well finish the job. I put dishwashing detergent in the appropriate receptacle, closed the retaining door, closed the dishwasher’s main door, selected normal wash and heated dry and pressed the START button, all while being fully aware that the dishwasher contained less than full load. Yes, you heard me right. The dishwasher was not full… and I ran it anyway.

A little part of me died inside last night (a bit of the OCDness I reckon), and as the dishwasher hummed and swished quietly in the distance I lay my head on my pillow and slept guiltless of the transgressions committed just minutes before.

20 November 2009

Dignity Lost

I have puke in my ear. I’m not proud of it. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware of it until a few minutes ago. Granted, I have two newborns and messes are to be expected. And yes, I knew my shirt was covered in multiple puke spots of varying wetness from crusty dry whitish ones to dark sopping squishy ones. Yes I had felt the unnerving warmth creep down onto my lap several times immediately following the sloshy verping sounds; and yes, I knew I downright stank of puke. But, I was hoping to maintain some small shred of dignity – an unsoiled bit of me that I could use to moor myself to the glorious illusion that I am yet the master of my own universe. However those hopes and dreams were forever crushed (again) when I found puke in my ear. Oh the indignity. Oh the horror. I’m melting. I’m melting. What a world. What a world. Puddle. Anyone need some ruby slippers?

By the way, did I mention that I am tired and delusional, or did you figure that out on your own?

15 November 2009

What to say when someone else has said too much

This post was inspired by Nikki's post "My kids are making me fat."


Anyone with more than two children has likely been assaulted in public at one time (or many times) by someone who has felt the burning need to make them feel like an irresponsible member of society for being so heinous as to burden their sight with multiple children at once. You have likely walked away from such an encounter frustrated with yourself for not having just the right thing to say to make them realize the stupidity of their comment and/or action. Well, no more. Below you will find helpful suggestions for those of you who, like me, are happily burdened with more little bundles of love then the world-at-large can handle.

Got enough kids?
  • Not yet. I’m still trying to acquire a few more healthy ones for the sweat-shop. Why, are you selling?

  • We’re trying to stock-up before all the good ones are taken.

  • Well, we’ve got enough for the basketball team, but we’ve really set our hearts on a football team.

  • We keep trying for one that poops gold. We’ll let you know when we get there.


You do know what causes that, right?

Does everyone who says this really believe they were the first to proffer up the socially insightful and clearly hilarious comment? Their all-knowing smirk of self-indulgent humor says:

Yes. I am in fact so na├»ve as to believe I just could have been the first person in history to ask anyone with more than two children, “You do know what causes that, right?” I most thoroughly enjoy saying it like they were a toddler trying to carry an overburdening armful of toys down the stairs soon to be met with an imminent and complete loss of control followed by a headfirst plummet down to the bottom where they will lay hopelessly sprawled among play-things gone wayward – evidence of their obvious-to-everyone-else-but-not-to-them stupidity.

I usually reply to such an intellectually advanced comment in kind and say, “No. But we think it’s the popcorn.”


My! You have your hands full!

  • I know! Isn’t it wonderful.

  • My shrink says I shouldn’t do it anymore, but the voices in my head are saying to kill you and hide the body in the garden with the others. The petunias will be happy.


Are those ALL yours?

  • What are you, a Fed?! How did you find me? You’ll never take me alive!

  • Nah, they’re just on loan from God for a few years.


Counting children out loud in front of parent (wide-eyed and disapprovingly)

This usually occurs in the mall or a grocery store where the offender likely also has something handy to count. Try counting the bags they are holding or cans in their cart aloud very slowly and with growing alarm with each numeral. End with a firm nod and a satisfied smile on your face indicating you are very pleased with yourself for having been able to count that high without your head popping.


And my personal favorite, The Disgusted Glare

Carry around some Imodium AD with you wherever you go. When you catch this individual in the act, discretely walk to them, hand over a few pills and conspiratorially whisper, “I know that look. Don’t worry, two of these and you won’t have to keep them squeezed so tight when you walk.” Then give them a warm motherly/fatherly smile and walk away happy to have been able to help someone in such an unfortunate circumstance.


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