No one ever called me Betty Crocker

Well it's just the truth, ya know?  

(make sure to click the pictures to see them bigger!)

My Grandmother, yes, absolutely - the woman could cook anything!  My Mom was the same way, I even have some of her handwritten recipes (not that I can really read them, but that's not the point) 

 (Mom and I making biscuits)                                               (Mom's recipes)

 

My Aunt can cook very well, my friends can heat up the kitchen (A la Princessa!) but me? I could heat it up, but you'd probably need a fire extinguisher by the time I was done.

 No, no (I can hear you Wendy and Chris) I'm not giving myself enough credit. That is what this blog post is for...

So after what seems like years weeks of ....

Mon: hamburger patties 

Tue: chicken breasts 

Wed: frozen pasta bowls 

Thu: repeat

Mr. Man and I have decided to start "trying new things" as far as meals go. So, I broke out the cook book and we started looking through it.

 

So far we've tried TWO new recipes this week and both were home-runs! 

 And, all though I didn't get any pictures of the Pepper-Lime Chicken, I did manage a few of the ribs! I made the sauce (changed it, there was just no way I was going to put 2 frickin teaspoons of chili powder in there!), Mr. Man did the grillin', and even Da Boy joined in and "painted" the ribs with our sauce! 

 (I still think ours look better than the book's picture of the ribs!) Anyways ... we've picked out a ton of other recipes from the book, and  if I remember I'll post about how those turn out too! I may not be Betty Crocker, but at least the boys and I won't starve ;)

~M

Missing Mom

Dear Mom,

It's been so long since I've heard your voice. Almost 3 years since I've gotten a letter from you in the mail. Forever since I felt your touch. I remember times when you called and I didn't want to answer the phone. Times where I didn't open your letters right away, even knowing that the coupons inside were expiring. What I wouldn't give to see your number show up on my caller ID, or to see your familiar script on an envelope in the mailbox.

I was looking through my letter box today, it's the mate to the one I bought you all those years ago. It's packed full of letters, pictures, postcards, and drawings that you've sent me over the years. There are even a few "Rosie" comics (they still make me laugh and cry at the same time) and I found my stories. The Princess Adventures that you wrote for me. I still have all 8 chapters, all folded neatly and stored in one of the original envelopes with the return address that of the villain, Droger.

You had such an incredible imagination!! I didn't really understand then - but I do now. I know the stories weren't just stories. They were love letters to your daughter, your only child. I'm sorry I didn't get it while you were still here so we could talk about it.

So many letters. In different color inks, most on different types of paper. Some with little scribbles and drawings, others so full of words the ink seeped through the page, making the other side hard to read. All in your slanted, fancy script that for so many years of my growing up, I couldn't read. I look at it now and it's so beautiful, so classy, so you.

I found one of the letters you wrote right after Nine Eleven. It's dated 9/23/2K1 at the end of the letter I saw something that caught my eye. You never were one for too much optimism, very realistic was my Mom. But this .. oh how I cried when I saw it. Now, as I type this, I am having trouble seeing the wavering words through the tears that I don't dare let fall until I am finished.

You were right, Mom. You were always right, but no one ever saw it. I never saw it. Not until it was too late. Now, I sit here looking at a page out of the scrapbook I made after you died, and I think to myself - I wish I could just call, to say, I love you.

Loving you with all my heart,
S.P.H.B.
(Sugar-Pie, Honey-Bunch)

I can't believe I said that!

Since Da Boy was about a year and a half old, I've been making a list... a list of things I never thought I'd say. Today I thought I'd share a few of them with you.

We don't put color pencils in our nose
Mommy's going poopie. Yes, you can see.
Ummm, this is Mommy's diaper. No, I don't want one of yours, but thanks.
No, I'm not going to kiss your penis, even if it does have a boo-boo
Will you please take my bra off, it's not a backpack.
If you let me brush your teeth, I'll give you a candy.
No, I don't have boogers, get your finger outta my nose!
We don't touch the kitty's bottom with our faces, please.
Daddy's going potty... go see if he needs help. (heehee)
Where did you put the cat, son?! Cat's do not go in the closet!
Come here let me smell your butt.
Can I suck your thumb too?
Here, lemme get your booger.
No baby, we don't eat christmas tree.
I'll give you a candy if you promise to go away.
Those are my boobies, thank you.
Sorry baby, outside is closed today.
Don't put your tongue in my mouth.
It's finger paints - it'll be fun!
Of course you can use my pots for drums!
Yes you look very pretty in Mommy's headband.
Did it fall on the floor? Give it to me, I'll eat it.
No, we don't hide in the fireplace, please!
Do you want to go see Daddy Dusty? No? Then stop please.

and my favorite, and probably most traumatizing for Da Boy....

If you poop in them, I'm going to make you wash them out in the toilet.
(and he did too!)

Being a 50/50 Mom

Being a fifty/fifty Mom ain't easy. Millions of women do it, and  I can bet maybe 10 of them like it. Personally, I don't. It's terrible. Sure there are times when Da Boy is with his birth dad and Mr. Man and I can go out, or stay in (wink wink, nudge nudge) and not have to worry about Da Boy seeing or hearing something he shouldn't. But every moment he isn't here - I'm thinking of him. Hubby and I tell stories about him to each other, almost like he won't be coming back "Remember how Da Boy says "teesburbur?" Awww.

After he's been here for two weeks (and any mom on Earth will agree) he's made his mark on the place. There is a hot wheel car on the floor by the TV, a lone sock under the coffee table, a couple crayons on the dining room table. The stool is still next to the toilet, and his toys are in the bathtub. and there are at least 2 cups, half filled with strawberry lemonade sitting in various places. When he leaves... I have a hard time cleaning up. I feel like I'm removing all traces of him from our house, our lives - and I hate that! So, I don't. Yeah ok, I'll find and wash the cups, maybe (and I mean maybe!) pick up the sock. The rest... not so much. I like seeing a hot wheels car around, and I'll put his bath toys all together but I leave them in the bathroom, by the tub. I refuse to clean his room until the day before he comes back, because I can go in there when no one else is home and just sit on his bed and it feels like he's still here.

There are a few good things (I feel like a bad mom saying this) about him not being here for two weeks at a time. Chris and I can schedule things and stay out late, get up when we want, and not get dressed just to go get some water. We save money on food, and can eat tator tots and cookies for dinner if we choose. I have more time during the day for things like cleaning, blogging, and reading, and I don't have to take him to work with me.

But it's too quiet. And boring. And lame. I spend half the time depressed, the other half cranky and anxious.I miss him, Chris missed him and the cats ... well the cats actually enjoy it when he's gone for the most part since they don't have to hide up high or run for their lives when Da Boy decides he needs to carry them by their heads. However, I've caught them both sneaking into his room and they will lay on his bed to sleep (which they never ever do when he's here)

Ahhh, when he's here. Just typing it makes me smile. When he's here, life is good. Don't get me wrong, he's still four, and a boy, and my psycho kid, but he makes my heart happy when he comes home. He drives me crazy, and gives me headaches and makes me grind my teeth with cuss words I don't dare utter. But I get kisses, and he plays with my hair, and tells me I'm buuful. I get to be a "dinesorus" and a pirate, and we color and dance and sing. He helps me clean and cook and make lemonade. He tries my patience and pushes the limits, and cries when I don't read him enough bedtime stories. And just about the time we get into the groove and things start getting settled and into a routine... it's time to go back. *sigh*

Being a 50/50 mom sucks... but (like Chris says) "At least I'm blessed enough to have such an awesome kid for fifty percent of my life"

Still trying, still failing

Chris and I have been trying to get pregnant for over a year now. Well, ok precisely a year now. Obviously, this anniversary means that we haven't been able to accomplish our goal yet. Just found out a friend from our church is pregnant. I'm so excited for her, yet just for a second there, when we heard the news, my heart broke a little. I couldn't help it. I'm so very happy for them!! I just wish I didn't have that minuscule pang of jealously. I know that God is in charge and it's His will and not mine that controls my life. It's so hard sometimes for me though - hard to "let it go" and hard to have faith. One day, I hope I can post here that I am expecting - until then... *sigh*

Here is a letter I found, written by one of the TTCer's on CafeMom.com Made me feel a little better.



To the women that have been trying to conceive for months and years...you are the strongest women in the world!!

DH and I have only been trying a few months and it is so hard. Drink my glass of wine to get my body to relax, force my husband to have sex because it is time (normally you cant get your husband off you, now you are "forcing"), then you have sex and put your butt up in the air (which would normally make you feel like a damn fool, drink a cup of green tea (cause that is what you heard helps the process somehow). Rub a lucky rabbits foot and wait........and wait......every time you get nausea you think "maybe, just maybe it worked this time", everytime you feel more tired then normal, everytime your boobs are more sensitive then normal....everytime......and wait.

All you do is hope and pray, lets not forget the total opposite reaction, the one where you start calling yourself a fool because you don't want to go through it again. Get your hopes up, ("But I feel different, can I be pregnant?") You tell yourself that it wasn't the right time, you didn't keep your ass up long enough, maybe your temp dropped....and wait.

Your husband doesn't understand, he only hopes you are pregnant so he can enjoy sex again. He doesn't realize the agony that you live for weeks, the tears that stream down your face as you look at the 100th test telling you (not-pregnant). You are terrified to have to go through it all over again.

And yet you do. Do you have any idea, I mean really, the strength to go through that? Over and over again?? You are amazing women!

So I send out a prayer to all you Mama's to be!!!! May God bless you with the babies that you have worked so hard to conceive.

Just remember that when your kid is 14 and screams at you "you probably wish I was never born" you have a thick book of notes and ovulation dates and your temperature and hand it to them saying......"You are all I ever wanted!!"

I'm still here

For a few hours there, I had some doubts, but alas, here I am.

Wednesday, lunchtime:
Chris and I are hanging out after eating. I drop a napkin, bend to pick it up, and fall to my knees bent over screaming. I'm in so much pain... I can't think! Lower abdomen, hell - my WHOLE abdomen - cramped up so horribly I couldn't un-bend. It was so over-whelming that Chris had to keep telling me to breathe. I couldn't focus enough to breathe. After about 10 minutes (100 hours at least, I swear) he manages to get me back up on the couch. I'm crying, screaming, can't move, can't stop moving. I'm thinking "I'm dying... this is it - it's got to be. You can't hurt this much and not be dying." Finally after maybe 1/2 an hour, it's getting better, I can almost stand up halfway. He helps me to bed, but I can't lay down. Finally, I'm down, on my side, crying still. Josh is there, he's freaking out because he doesn't understand what's wrong with mommy. Chris calls work and stays home with Josh so I can rest.

Wednesday, dinnertime:
It's been a few hours, I'm feeling better. A little. I don't want Chris to know how much it actually hurts, so I keep saying "No, hunny, it's just a pulled muscle, I'm sure. No, I'm not going to the hospital for a pulled muscle. He finally puts his foot down when I about fall over again, trying to stand up. We grab Josh and head to the ER. We sign in, get me in a wheel-chair and are planted in the waiting room.

Wednesday, almost midnight:
Josh has never made me more proud of him. 4 hours in the waiting room and he's not made anyone insane. Such a good boy. We are finally in an ER room, doctors are testing me. I get an IV - electrolytes and pain-killer (can't remember the name of the stuff, but OMG it was some crazy sh**) Pap-smear, two different ultrasounds, and a CT scan later - they tell us that I have a ruptured ovarian cyst and am bleeding internally. Going to have to do surgery. Chris takes Josh to the day-care lady's house. He's still awake and being very good, but he's tired and worried and bored.

Thursday, 5:00 am:
The on-call OB/GYN is here, prepping me for laprascopic surgery. My first surgery ever, period. I'm terrified, but I don't want Chris to know. He looks so solid, so strong, and I want to be too. The last thing I remember is a voice saying "breathe deep" and the doctor saying "I'm right here, don't worry, you're going to be alright now"

Thursday 9:00 am:
We are leaving the hospital. When I woke up from the surgery, Chris was there. I was there. I honestly didn't expect to be there. The nurses explained everything and ran a few more tests. Told me that the Doctor fixed me up, didn't have to take my ovary, and the bleeding cyst was gone and the rupture cauterized. We get into the car (God it still hurts like crazy!!) and we get half-way home. I make Chris pull over at the gas station so I can throw-up (luckily I didn't) and then we go to see Josh since it's his day to go back to his dad's. He comes out to the car, but he won't hug me, just looks at me all worried. "I'm ok, baby, Mommy's alright now, just hurting a little is all" I tell him... he doesn't listen, just walks back to the house with his head down.

Thursday, dinnertime:
I weigh more than 10 pounds more than I did when I went to the hospital 24 hours earlier. I have band-aids on my belly button and the most brilliant bruise on my arm from the IV. It's a miracle I'm alive, yet all I can think of is my bruises, bloating, and scars.