Belly evolution

Crisp, fitted button down shirts used to slip right over it, tucked into sensible wool pants, fresh from the dry cleaner, awaiting the matching suit jacket.  When slim pockets started to bulge and a co-worker joked, "I didn't think you were missing any meals," wool suits were left hanging.  No hurry to get them to the dry cleaner.

To accommodate it, I worked from a dresser drawer wardrobe, pulling on the same "professional' stretchy knit pants every morning and rushing some nights to get the things washed and dried before the work day ahead.

Then the belly finally gave way to a new belly.  A tiny, fold over the top part of the "swaddling" size diapers, belly.  Which grew and grew and grew in wiggle pants and pj's to become the big round wonderful watermelon of a thing that tells all the world, I'm not yet a preschooler.  Still a toddler - a baby yet - so kiss and rub me for good luck.  I'm fleeting.

 

When my preschooler, Dee, was about Nar's age and I was seven months pregnant with T, we used to spend time each day, "contemplating our navels."  Thank goodness there's still room in the day for tummy time.

Celebrity Crush

I'm at it again, living holiday to holiday.  This time, I'm hunting for discounted Valentine's Day decorations.   

I'm coming to believe that I live life in a series of theme parties.  It helps me to fill in the gaps between my kids' activities.  It also helps me to (temporarily) stifle that little voice in my head asking, What is the meaning of your existence?  Will you have a legacy?  And so forth.  I can't answer those questions because I'm too busy trying to find the perfect red, trimmed in bric a brac, table runner. 

While some may say this mid winter day of sweet nothings and sugar coated sentiments brought to you by you, benefits only corporate card makers and the people who make teeth crushing conversation hearts, I beg to differ. 

I legitimately like Valentine's Day and have fond memories of tapas, sushi and gnocchi dates with my kid less husband in big cities.  I also remember the thrill of receiving a carnation-gram in high school math class and the rush of excitement when each Valentine's Day of my childhood, my Dad would pick up a Russel Stover heart box of candy for my brother and me on his way home from work. 

The older I get the more tightly I hold on to one universal truth:  it feels good to be happy.  And if I can work happy into some short term theme for living, then bring it on.  First, I'm a shopper, so I derive supreme satisfaction from hunting for the dang decorations themselves.  Second, I'm raising a shopper and a crafter.  Dee will happily discuss the attributes of heart and ribbon garlands for several minutes, even with the deafening sound of her brother yelling, "I want out of here NOWWW!," upon entering any store that does not feature food or toys. 

Undeterred, Dee and I will make our selections and move on to choosing the corporate character Valentine's of her liking.  This will interest T for a nanosecond while he decides between Spiderman or Transformer cards.  Back home -and a month before the big day - Dee will start tearing the cards along their perforated lines and then go hog wild with the fill-in and sticker possibilities.  I swear, one $2 box of cards will entertain my kid for a month of Sundays.  If ONLY the Valentine season were that long!

I too, tend to my own short term obsession.  Beyond the decorations, I dream of the treats I can bake and the fancy packaging I can wrap around them.  Trust me, I've missed many plot lines in the cop shows Chris and I watch scouring cookbooks and Googling Valentine stuff.

He still loves me.  I hope he does, because I bought him a little something something Friday at Target that rhymes with "ready."  Unfortunately, Dee, in all her Valentine zeal, stumbled upon the "neddy" while digging in the shopping sack for her cards.  While my first reaction was to quickly stuff it back in the sack and pretend that the flash of pink lace she saw was merely a figment of her imagination, I was derailed when D said, "Ooooooo, pretty!  Is it for me?" 

When I said no, it's mine, she was unusually persistent in questioning me.  After I had assured her - several times - that the nightgown was most definitely mine, and directed her to put it away already, she made one last point, "BUT it's too small for you!"

Riiiiiiiight, I thought.  Something tells me Hub will overlook that fact....

This month's cruise on the Love Boat may be why I have a current fascination with the show, The Millionaire Matchmaker.  Patti Stanger, the star and matchmaker, helps rich and lonely people find love, or least helps them figure out why nobody's interested  (my favorite clients are the train wrecks - the lazy, self involved heirs to a fortune - they're impossible!)  Anyhoo, when the matchmaker first meets with a client, she asks them about their celebrity crush, presumably to see if the person has realistic expectations for love in real life. 

Before watching a mini marathon of the show last week, I'd never really thought about whether I had a "celebrity crush."  It only took about 8 seconds to confirm that I did.  For me, it's all about a look.  My pie-in the-sky-guy has eyebrows that can teach a Zumba class all on their own.  He's Samoan and he's smokin'.  Can you guess?

My real life, man, Chris, is not Samoan, but has been known to check "Pacific Islander" on forms inquiring of his ethnicity.  But most importantly, he's got the "look," and the requisite muscle-y eyebrows to melt my heart. 

I don't believe he's yet picked up a cowhide vest for me for Valentine's Day.  I hope he doesn't, because even if it fits, I'm not sure if I could overlook it.  (: 

How about you, gotta celebrity crush this Vday?

Wontonalooza

While my kids may believe that Santa only comes in white, when dried shiitake mushrooms are re-hydrating in a bowl on the counter and we're slicing logs of pink-rimmed fish cake, the offspring are most definitely aware that we're getting our Asian ON.  Dad's traditions rule on New Year's Day and we do our best to honor the ancestors.

On Saturday, after my rousing date with Dick Clark, Chris started the process for making his grandmother's sushi (C's dad is Japanese-American) and his mother's wonton soup (C's mom is Chinese-American).  My tasks were to occupy the children and to run to the store to pick up a key ingredient for the wontons.  This ancient Chinese ingredient took me eleven years of marriage to pluck from my mother-in-law's repertoire, and it may surprise you.  The foundation for her wontons is...dunt dunt dunt da: Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage!

Heard of it?  Be thoughtful here as you plan your next Asian extravaganza.  This delicacy may require a trip to your local Asian market or extra shipping for perishables purchased over the Internet.  Also, if Chris' mom catches wind that I divulged this "marshmallow creme" of the Asian-American wonton world to you, I'll deny it.  I will.  Because I still need a few essential bits of information to make my Chinese BBQ short ribs even remotely resemble what Chris remembers from home.

On Wontonalooza (the first annual), we invited my dear friend, Amy, and her family.  Amy is mostly Irish-American and also Caucasian, like me.  Still, we like to believe that "we're Asian on the inside," and take every cooking opportunity to prove that point.

We're generally good with follow through, except that one time we got tired just reading the recipe for Vietnamese Pho and were too pissed off at Rachel Ray to try her "quick" version, principally because she called it a "Thai-inspired" soup.  Get a research team already!

Anyhoo, I let my inner Asian out at the beginning of our food fest when I sat the group down to show them how to wrap the wonton skin around the pork filling.  I placed a dollop of seasoned raw meat goodness in the middle of the wonton square, dipped my finger in water and lined the edges to create a "glue." Then I brought all the corners to the middle and sealed them together.  When all I had left was the "twist," the pièce de résistance....  Chris came over, bamboo spider strainer in hand, and casually said:

"That's not right.  Those are for fried wontons.  We're going to boil these for soup."

Well...I never. 

Some sarcastic, omnipresent higher power somewhere was calling, "GET A RESEARCH TEAM ALREADY!"

I could feel my inner Asian shrinking into a tiny grain of rice drenched in butter and milk.  Seasoned with cinnamon, of all things.  My true colors were revealed.  Like some honored religious code, in my father-in-law's world, rice and milk DO NOT MIX.  I, however, grew up in a world where milk was in everything and those wontons that came from the food court at the mall were most definitely twisty and fried.

While I swallowed my pride, I moved over a bit at the table to give Chris center stage.  He then proceeded to demonstrate the "package" technique where you glue and fold the wonton over itself in a tight little package all ready for the post office.   There was a simple elegance to it.  After all, these things were going under and they needed to be airtight.

Also, as he worked, a memory from a past visit with Chris' mother made its way to the forefront of my thick skull.  This was how Chris' mom made the things.  Now I remember.  I made a note to pay closer attention during future cooking sessions.

After all, we're trying to save an inner Asian here....

Dick...it's over. Really. I want it to be.

The pristine snow remains from days ago, held in place by a static thermometer and undeterred by a bright, but cool sun.  The boulevard dazzles with multiples of ice diamonds, affixed to the tips of tree branches and smooth expanses of yet to melt snow.  We tumble into it, out of the minivan and onto the icy sidewalk.  A stream of kids and partially zipped boots, stray mittens, grocery bags and leftover coffee cups pour from the van and find their way into the house.  Mostly with some double backing by Mom and Dad.

There's anticipation in the air, at least for Chris and me.  The kids don't really get that it's a holiday.  The last opportunity for indulgence at the end of a string of holiday enablers.  But Dee and T know that kid wine is involved, a drink known to most as sparkling apple cider.  If you need another preschool motivator, offer kid wine.  They get so excited, I'd swear it was spiked.

The prize for us are the King Crab legs.  They poke out of the newspaper lined Costco bag, waiting for consumption in our new giant icebox known in other seasons as our back deck.  Soon we'll boil and crack them, swirl them in melted butter and lemon.  Then we'll eat them and maybe die.  Happy in 2011.

Before the celebrations begin, there are potatoes to bake and later load with real butter and ranch dressing.  They'll undergo a quick cook in the microwave because we returned home from our errands later than expected.  We have health insurance deadlines to meet and end of year checks to write and post before the end of the business day.  And also nap and quiet time before dinner.  Dee and T oblige, with promises of a special dinner and a kid movie, and of course, some kid wine.  I must be raising a bunch of future drunks.

The kids didn't know about the fireworks saved from this year's gloomy, 40-degree Fourth of July, when I was grumpy and not in the mood for fireworks, despite the fact that it was unnecessary then to clear off a square of snow to create a launch pad.

Six months later I'm downright giddy planning a "I voted for this guy 'cause I hate the other guy" kind of New Year's Eve party.  The thought of ringing in 2011 "with" Dick Clark depresses me.  I wanted to do more to protest than simply falling asleep on the couch.

So I created my own party.  First, I found a life partner, then I rounded out the guest list by birthing some kids with limited expectations and early bedtimes.  I worked in a fancy dinner for myself, some real wine, and voila!... seven hours later I'm asleep on the couch, with the sound of Dick and Ryan droning on in the two minute intervals between commercials.

I admit it.  I watched the ball drop, but it wasn't a highlight.  That came from the channel where I watched a crowd of people in Vegas watch the ball drop on their respective big screen.   I call it a trickle down New Year.

So...now I'm trying to get a direct line to you before the holiday weekend ends.  While my posts and comments to you came in fits and spurts, please know that I had a great time blogging with you this year!  Thanks so much for your thoughts and attention and all the best in 2011!

K

Observations

So my oldest, a 4 1/2 year old real live princess who tends a jewelry tree in her room and leaves the house everyday with some concern whether "everyone" will think she's pretty, recently had a one on one with our longtime babysitter. 

Delsie, our babysitter, is a few months past 21 with long brown and sometimes blond, hair.  She's cuter than any twenty something I ever was, but maybe that was because of all the baggy grunge clothing I was wearing.... 

The other day while I was off computering or Christmas shopping, Dee and her gal were coloring at the kitchen table while the little kids napped.  Dee asked Delsie how she really knows she is a girl.  Delsie said, well you know, because we have our "lady parts." 

"But when do you get these???," Dee queried, making the universal sign for ta-ta's with her hands cupped in front of her chest.

Delsie considered the question and first said, "you should ask your mom," but then followed with a more definitive answer; "probably when you're sixteen."   When relaying the story to Chris and I later, Delsie told us that she landed on sixteen because her best friend who's Japanese didn't start developing until "way later," like "senior year."  

When Dee asked why Delsie's are "much bigger than Mama's," Delsie left that for me to explain.  I imagine I can't just tell Dee, "wait until you're sixteen," because that would be false advertising. 

Promises smomishes

As a child, there was a little Christmas song that would often bring me to the brink of a nervous breakdown.  It's catchy tune would induce gnawed nails, sorry's and didn't mean that's.  You know the one, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." 

The song was a hip pocket favorite for my folks come December.  We'd be mid Christmas memory when the record player would reach this track.  My mom would stop her cookie dough rolling to direct us to listen.

"Do you hear that?" she would say, "Turns out, he SEES you when you're sleeping.  He KNOWS when you're awake.  He KNOWS if you've been bad or good, so be GOOD for goodness sake!"

I got the message.  So my pants were a little wetter, to my mom, what was a little laundry when the payoff was bed by 5:30?  In my head, I would confess all sins and negotiate for mercy from Santa.  Some moments of truth:

4 YR. OLD ME:  So I drew a giant T.V. in brown crayon on my Holly Hobbie bedspread.  Mom already spanked me, so we're good, right?

8 YR. OLD ME:  So I pulled Mary Ann Barnes' ear while waiting in line at our ninetieth field trip to the planetarium today, and then ran.  But she called my friend, Gail, a boy on the bus, so that doesn't count, right?

11 YR. OLD ME:  So I baked a piece of dog food in the croissant I offered to my brother.  He was mean and never, ever, ever, EVER even attempts to get the phone when it rings.  I know I'm too old to actually believe in Santa and I'm too young to be baking croissants and that I eventually missed my calling, but you can't punish me for that already, right?

The sweat rolls made an impression and sent a message to my future self:  NEVER, ever, EVER specifically remind your children of these lyrics.  It's too stressful.  Let them enjoy the season without anxiety over whether Santa uses a pen or a pencil to make his lists.  

I broke that little kid promise today and probably contributed to the snowball of nerves my son will build over the course of a lifetime.  Today, I dragged all three kids to a big box electronics store in the early afternoon to pick up an item for me, and me alone.

First, the timing was off.  I admit that.  Lunch in the car after the park was unsatisfying and naps were just around the bend.  Crabbyhood had already set in for T.  He finished his bag of sliced apples while I made my headphone selection.  Then he asked if he and Dee could ride the back end of the cart through the vast expanse of store that lay between us and the cash registers.  I thought I was home free.

I thought I could zip around like a choo-choo train, make involved-mom conversation with the kids, then pay and leave.  Unfortunately, brightly colored child items, mostly brought to us by Disney, cluttered the route.  T wanted to stop every two seconds until we landed at the Leapster display that contained the "Buzz Lightyear Leapfrog just like Leo's" that T is wishing for. 

Apparently, T forgot that Santa is omnipresent, or didn't care.  When I informed him that his turn was over he ran away and screamed at the top of his lungs, "I waaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnt a tuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnn!"

While a gaggle of clerks in bright blue polos circled us, I reached for T's arm, leaned in to his ear and with gritted teeth, sputtered, "Santa is WATCHING.  Stop it.  Santa can SEE YOU.  Hold on to the cart and let's go."

Ultimately, T did not hold the cart.  I had to pull him to the register while paying and urging his sister to follow us.  T continued to scream through all of it, out to the car and for another five minutes after we were on the road.

Later, much later, when we were at home reading stories on the couch, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" cued on the radio.   While the song played, T looked up and asked me, 

"Mama, is I nice?" 

In the quiet of my home and distanced from the panicked state of a public meltdown, my allegiances officially shifted.  I didn't need just a quick fix.  I really wanted T to think Santa was disappointed and to adjust his behavior accordingly.  Forever.  So I told T that of course he's nice (in the larger sense of the word), but we also talked about the screamfest at the store.

Maybe he gets it.  Maybe he'll be better tomorrow.  That's more than we can eke from "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," no?  That's just confusing.

Staking a claim

Dude, can you believe I've only been trying to do this blog thing (again) for two months???!!!

This stuff is work.  At a minimum, it requires a daily pounding from the boulder of discipline.  As if I didn't already have serious respect for you work-a-day bloggers out there, my two months of trying that seems half-assed to the rest of the world, has sealed the deal.

You're better than me.  I will forever endeavor to seek shade in your shadow.  You know, for that brief moment, when you stop along the trail to down a granola bar and unzip your awesome fitting Athleta hoodie before bagging that next Fourteener (otherwise known as a month of consistent posting).

I'll be the one gasping for oxygen, crawling up crags and pesky ravines with only a single disposable water bottle for sustenance.  I promise, I won't dump it in the woods.  But I will need to go back for more provisions.

Like Mint Milanos.  Scratch that, my Weight Watchers leader would likely advice that ten measly almonds would be a better energy-for-points choice, especially when one expects an elevated heart rate.

My Hub tells me I should try to post at least three times a week if I really want to make connections with people.  Yikers!  That man is always full of reasonable ideas that I have to acknowledge to keep our marriage alive (except when he leans on elderly snow blowers).

The Pioneer Woman advises that we write - at least a paragraph - EVERY DAY!  I don't think she expected her audience to actually post the paragraphs of drivel, but here I am, DOING IT, like a blithering idiot. 

I'm sorry, my heart rate must be elevated.  Let me stop a minute and I'll catch ya after you successfully complete a NaBloPoMo.  But before I end this post, please know that I think your hoodie will look fab waving like a flag at the top of the mountain peak, or even half way up, hell, even back at the lodge enjoying a spiked hot cocoa with me.  That hill is yours, baby!  Congrats!

I'll take the next one, just as soon as I switch from Mint Milanos to almonds.