November 2011 – The UnderToad

Leftovers…soup!

When I left the house this morning at 9:02 it was probably sixty degrees outside. I didn’t even send Eliott to school with a coat. It is now 3:00 and forty-four degrees, according to The Weather Channel on my phone. I might not have noticed the drastic drop in temperature except that my heater just kicked on for the second time today, which always alarms me the first few days of winter every year.

Our Thanksgiving trip to Michigan was like our first teaser of cold weather this year and even then, for Michigan, in November, it was pretty nice. The girls rebounded from a week of constant play time (complete with paint and play-doh, Mommy’s two least favorite pre-school “toys”), a house full of friends and kitties to play with, and the best dress up clothes ever (according to Eliott) and we’re getting back into our three week normalcy routine before school lets out again for Christmas.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love my normalcy routine?

I was upstairs, sort of half dozing off into my afternoon nap tradition when I realized we have nothing to eat for dinner. It’s Tuesday. I know for a fact that there is positively nothing good on sale at any grocery store right now. Of course, taking a nap without having a plan for dinner is exactly as productive as trying to get some writing done when Carter is home on Tuesday mornings. I simply can’t do it. My first thought was spaghetti, my go-to we-have-nothing-to-eat food. But the only spaghetti sauce I have in the pantry right now is Ragu, which needs to go to the Food Bank, because everyone here hates it. (I just love those blind-taste-test commercials which prove everyone chooses Prego over Ragu–surprise! I think the sole of my shoe has more flavor than Ragu. And it probably wouldn’t give my 2 year old diarrhea.)

So I went downstairs and opened my fridge to see what I could throw into a crock pot and call soup.

I have:

exactly half of a leftover rotisserie chicken
onions, carrots, garlic, and about a quarter of a green pepper
some previously fresh, now frozen, sage and oregano
Lipton onion soup mix and chicken bouillon cubes
a can of garbanzo beans
a can of diced tomatoes

I mean come on. It worked for the soldiers in Stone Soup. Now I can go to the gym at 4:00 and know that dinner will be ready when I come home. Will probably run by the day old bread rack and grab something that can be toasted with a little mozzarella cheese on top. I’ll check in later and let you know how it turned out.

Confessions

Something in the Air?

Is it a peak allergy season in North Carolina right now? I ask because I honestly don’t know. Two nights ago, while sitting at the bar of 6th and Vine splitting date night between my husband and my girlfriend Molly, I started to feel a tickle in my throat.

As I outlined in my last post, I don’t knock on wood for good health, and I’m telling you right now, pregnancy cured a disease in me. No. I’m totally serious. From the time I was very young (it started in Mississippi, which was second and third grades) I have suffered from what I would consider severe asthma, and not the kind doctor’s call “sports induced.” In Mississippi, I was allergic to everything, and could count on getting sick for at least two full weeks of every year, once in the Fall and once in the Spring. In fact, I spent my second grade Spring Break, the entire week, in the ICU, hooked up to IV’s and breathing machines. I remember very little of it, outside of my dad sneaking in popcorn and Pepsi for the night shift, and watching Johnny Carson with me on a television that resembled a green microwave with a screen that was slightly bigger than an iPhone.

When we moved to Washington State, my parents starting taking me to an actual allergist, where I began a long relationship with allergy shots. I have to admit, getting tested for allergy shots was actually one of my favorite parts of childhood. Twice they did it on my back, and it was a little like a Chinese torture/pleasure experience. Twice they did it on my arms, and again, the needle pricks relaxed me into a state of malaise, which was immediately interrupted by instantaneous itching, and the fight not to scratch. Sadistic? A little.

In high school, I missed our Fall retreat every year because I was sick. My senior year, I prepared in advance, got on a steroid the week before and even brought my breathing machine (also about the size of a small microwave) with me. My dad now admits to driving 120 miles an hour in my mother’s Volvo to pick me up in the middle of the night and take me to the emergency room. He didn’t get pulled over, but he was pretty sure he could have convinced any cop of the emergency and talked himself out of the ticket. (My attorney husband is rolling his eyes right now.)

I have been on four different oral medications throughout my life, and whenever I so much as had a sniffle or a scratch in my throat, my parents rushed me to the Minute Clinic to get antibiotics and a steroid. In college, I bought Z-Packs on the black market, in order to be ready for the inevitable final’s week sickness. I have always relied on a rescue inhaler, which is probably why, for most of my life, I was a weak athlete and hated running, even though my body would have suggested otherwise.

And people wonder why I never had a boyfriend.

Asthma is a wimpy kid disease, and not the kind you want to admit you suffer from.

When I got pregnant with Eliott, everything changed. I had to go off Allegra-D, because it is on the “we don’t know if this messes with a fetus so avoid using it” list. But aside from my weekly and progressive allergy to– said fetus, I was otherwise in the best health of my life. I mean, yes, I lost 7lbs in the first trimester due to all-day morning sickness that had me constantly feeling like the room was spinning. Yes, I was mildly addicted to Tums Smoothies from month four until delievery. And yes, I did break out in all-over hives for the last six weeks of pregnancy, causing 3 a.m. scalding hot baths in oatmeal or Aveeno, just so I could go back to bed. (They call it PUPS?) But I never had to use my inhaler.

And I haven’t really ever had to use it since.

And I no longer take allergy meds. At all.

And I ran my 2nd marathon when Eliott was 8 months old.

So, today, I awoke with gunk in the back of my throat and that foggy headache that is clearly not just a caffeine withdrawal. And I’m wondering, is it allergy season in North Carolina? We’re flying to Michigan in two days to stay on John’s farm. I have an inclination to bring along my breathing machine (which is now roughly the size of my iPhone), but I’m not even sure if I have any medication to put in it.

Confessions

Google Karma

Call it kismet, call it karma, call it the balance of the universe or simply the truth of Galations 6:7, but I have always believed that things happen for a reason. I don’t knock on wood nor do I avoid out loud gratitude for streaks of good luck, good health, or good fortune for fear of jinxing anything. Though I do suffer from bouts of anxiety and worry, this irrational and hormone-induced stress is most often aimed at my immediate circumstances and rarely does it cloud over my rosy outlook on the big picture and my own sparkling future.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not walking around in the naive belief that good things happen to me because I’m a good person. (God knows, kindness and unconditional love for strangers–especially those who immediately strike me as of the ignorant variety–doesn’t come easily for me.) But it isn’t like I bow my head at night muttering, “Thanks Lord, you know I deserved that today. As long as you keep it up, I’ll keep it up.”

I do, however, like to think that a lifetime of returning stray carts in parking lots is one reason why all the cashiers at Harris Teeter treat me so well right now. I like to believe that my luck with prime parking spots on rainy days with my children comes from a time in my life when I chose to park far away for no reason. And financially speaking, when I consider that John and I are miraculously avoiding serious debt and managing, against many economic odds, to raise our family, grow a new business, and allow me to stay home with my children, I give credit to the fact that both of our grandfathers and fathers were God-fearing and honest businessmen.

So in the last three weeks or so, John has picked up a couple of new clients who found him on the Internet and chose him based purely on his Google reviews. I have to admit, as a consumer, I very often rely on the Google review to be the first and most convenient place for a product or service opinion, however, as opinionated (and succinct, and tactful, and gifted with words) as I am, I’ve never actually written a Google review.

Until now.

Today, I began in investment in Google karma.

After a productive, but not particularly restful weekend, and the prospect of a busy and stress-filled week ahead, here’s a quick plug of wife/mother/consumer -support, sent out to the Internet cosmos in the hopes of a fruitful return. God speed.

Confessions

How to Survive Christmas with Children

Yesterday, out of nowhere, John asked me, “Would you have married me if I was like, really into video games?” Understanding the degree to which really implied, I thought about it for a solid five seconds. “No. I’m not sure I would have been attracted enough to even date you.”

This answer, though true, surprised me a little, considering I do know several people (adults, mostly men) who are as John put it, like, really into video games, and the truth is, I don’t dislike these people. In fact, there was a time in my life when the group of boys I was not dating were these people. I personally went through a stint in high school where I was somewhat addicted to Sim City and WarCraft (courtesy of my brother) and an even more brief period of dorm-life in college where I played The Sims. But really into video games? Uh. No.

So the other night I was hanging out with some of my non-reading and not-from-church book-club mom friends when the conversation came around to Christmas. One woman in the room has several children of various ages. I came in second with my two children, oldest four. Others are about to experience their first Christmas with a toddler. Naturally, they wanted to know, how long do I have before my child turns into a Santa-worshiping, material-driven millennial who believes that he is the reason for the season, and no one else? And, is there any way to prevent this from happening?

To these two questions I answer: “Not long,” and “No.”

In this situation, rather than over-thinking and worrying, I find myself defaulting to the reality of my childhood and the fact that my own parents never attempted to pro-actively prepare us for Christmas nor detract us from hoarding the JCPenny catalog and dreaming about everything we thought we deserved on Christmas morning (and again two days later, if you were my sister Erica). Yet, as far as I can tell, we all pretty much turned out okay.

Though I can look back now and realize exactly how “rich” my parents were when I was a child, especially compared to my current financial situation, John would back me up when I say I was never spoiled. To the argument, “But you have a big house,” I responded, “We have a big family!” To, “You never wear hand-me-down clothes,” my answer was, “I have an older brother!” And to the unspoken arguments, I might have preemptively answered, “My mom drives a Caravan, my dad drives a Jeep, and I’ve never even been to Disney World.” But ultimately, these are not the reasons I didn’t consider myself rich. I knew we weren’t rich, for one reason, and one reason only:

We were the only people I knew who didn’t own a Nintendo.

Today, as I braved the holiday traffic on Hanes Mall Blvd., I made a command decision about this Christmas and the many that will follow. First, whether we can afford it or not, my children will not be given video games, ever, for any gift-giving occasion, from Mom and Dad. Furthermore, whatever is the electronic rage of the month, my children will be deprived of it. (Cell phones for 6th graders? Are you kidding me? Sorry, Eliott.) Finally, if any large electronic device is purchased, it will always come addressed to the FAMILY and not an individual. Basically, my children will never be allowed to believe anything expensive in the house is exclusively their own.

I realize the video game culture isn’t the sole driver behind our consumer minded Santa-worship in this country. But because it is the most prominent thing I can say my parents actively deprived us of, I’m going with it. We teach what we know. Perhaps taking children down to the mission on Christmas Eve and serving soup works for some families. Perhaps cleaning out toys once a year for less fortunate children (and really driving home the idea that we aren’t just “making room for new toys”) is what some parents find is the key to indoctrinating acts of selflessness into their offspring.

Me? I’m denying my children admittance into selfishness (and popularity, I’m sure) by making sure there is absolutely nothing at our house that might cause them to consider themselves better than others. In fact, I cannot wait until the day I get to say to my oldest, “Well, if everyone in your class has it, use theirs!”

While I like to think that going to church, praying before dinner as a family, and instilling my children with a sense of self that is a reflection of their Creator are all important things, I am convinced that they are not the things that made me the person I am today.

Nope. It was definitely the Nintendo we never owned.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

September October Blur

As September gave way to October, I found myself writing a check for preschool yesterday dated 11-1-11.

What?!

Where is the Fall going? (Actually, my mother is probably wondering the same thing, as I believe I’ve spoken to her on the phone a total of one hour plus six minutes since my sister’s wedding four weeks ago.) And the truth is, I have no idea, except to say that my 2011 Things To Do list is finally dwindling, and not a moment too soon, by my calculations.

Eliott’s and my teeth have been cleaned, professionally, I got a flu shot, found a potential future baby doctor, made and then rescheduled an appointment for this year, and continue to nurse two children through colds which seem to be lasting forever. I have shopped for, ordered, sent, and continue to seek perfect baby shower gifts for the endless number of close friends having babies in 2012. I have fought baby fever, lost, and priced maternity insurance for the upcoming year as well as the potential total cost for that plus pregnancy and delivery as a result. (I have discussed figures with my husband who assures me the only way we can have a baby in 2012 is if I get a job or win a minivan on The Price Is Right.)

I am caught up on the first two seasons of Dawson’s Creek and have come to the conclusion that my fashion choices in high school and the first couple years of college, though exactly as bad as I remember them, were actually completely appropriate and I dare suggest, hip. I have started reading three books, and have three angry Public Library emails in my inbox demanding the return of at least two of them. Also, I read an entire textbook on the Old Testament. Then I edited, updated, and otherwise creatively contributed to lesson plans for a new edition of the teacher’s manual…for teaching the entire Old Testament. A book I am far less familiar with than, say, To Kill a Mockingbird.

So forgive my absence from book club, my spotty attendance at Tuesday morning church social/study hour, my no’s to the last three pre-school birthday party invitations, and the fact that we have enough pork roast in the freezer to last us the next seventeen days, but we’re totally out of butter and eggs. I’m functioning on lists. But the checking-off of items is happening in no particular order.

To recap the past month, I offer a few pictures, taken in rare moments of mental clarity (or not) by my trusty iPhone. (And to think I ever debated the move to a smartphone. Hah.)