...and you can't make me

If I make a resolution not to make a New Year's resolution, have I failed already?

I guess today I'm supposed to make some sort of resolutions. I've never made a New Year's resolution in my life. The usual suspects don't apply. I'm so old and dull that I don't remember the last cigarette I had. If I lose any more weight my husband's going to commit me to an eating disorders program. I can't stay up late enough to drink too much. Don't get me wrong: it's not that I don't think I could use some improvement. Hardly. I just don't necessarily think a resolution made out of sentimentality and obligation is going to help in that department. I'm way too far gone for that sort of intervention.

Anyway. That's going to change this year.

I've thought about it for weeks now. And I'm ready to resolve. Here is my self-improvement promise for 2009:

I hereby solemnly swear that I will not read

a single paragraph of the Twilight series.

Sounds pretty simple, right? Don't be deceived. With this ubiquitous pop-culture cotton candy, it's going to be harder than it seems.

I know this from experience. I did the same thing with Forest Gump. I can't explain. I'm really not a movie snob, or a book snob. But I got so tired of people telling me that I "had" to see that damn movie that I put up a wall. I refused. Call me a petty rebel. No, I did not "have" to see it.

And I still haven't.

But I haven't entirely escaped it. Tom Hanks, a lot of walking, some historical traveling, something about "Mama." I could probably tell the story. Even with some serious effort, I couldn't entirely avoid the narrative.

Now, "Twilight." Vampires, right? Edward, and Bella? Is that it? About 17 books? A movie with some guy who's supposed to be smoldering but really doesn't strike me as being terribly attractive?

This isn't going to be easy. I've already gathered that I am the last mommy blogger on the continent who has not read these books. (Please correct me if I'm wrong; I'd love to not be alone in this.) My sister even threatened to read them.

I will not.

And that is my very first New Year's resolution. Probably this won't make me a better person. But I guess it does prove that three kids and marriage (not entirely in that order) and my failed attempts at Donna Reed-ism haven't completely changed me. The piercings are gone, but I can still rebel. Just a little.

Update: The day I posted this I read about PBN's "2009-- Year of the Mom" campaign at Motherhood Uncensored, which poses the question, "What are you doing to prioritize yourself this year?" And even though my post started out as a bit of a joke, this is exactly what I want accomplish: to learn to stay true to myself as I struggle to find my own way amidst my roles as mom, wife, sister, daughter, "housewife" (which makes me laugh), and whatever else it is that I claim to be. Yeah, I'm a little bit of a rebel. I have been since I was a kid. (I'm a very well-behaved rebel, but still....) And if boycotting "Twilight" helps me hold on to that and aids me on my journey, then I will have grown a little this year.

I think what I'm trying to say is "Happy New Year"

Hmmm. December 31, you say? Time to bid a fond farewell to 2008?

Can't do it.

I almost always get choked up on New Year's Eve, especially since I've become a mother. It's usually bittersweet to file a year of love and "firsts" and my boys' childhoods in the "Past" drawer. Auld lang syne and all that.

But not this year. This year there is no bitter with the sweet. I'm happy to see it go. It hasn't been an overwhelmingly bad year. It's just been too much, relentlessly so. Too much worry (sick kid, house-selling), too much change (new baby, new town, new house), too much insomnia... just too much. I'm ready to move on.

I'm ready to make this house our own, ready to tie up the loose ends, ready to feel like we belong here. I'm tired of not having any dining room furniture and of the echo in that empty room. I'm tired of not having a backyard the kids can play in (stupid new grass that didn't grow the first time). I'm tired of not having our pictures on the walls and tired of our china still being in boxes and tired of not knowing which of the bazillions of eye doctors in the phone book to call because I'm squinting all the time.

Things are better. My stomach doesn't hurt with worry about making two mortgage payments or about the kids' adjustment or my husband's new job. I don't even worry about his 30-mile commute; for a while I was preoccupied with the idea of him driving too fast and ending up in the ditch, or worse.

And we do have some pictures on the walls. The two boxes of china are the only boxes that remain packed-up. We only have one mortgage payment again. And the kids are happy and have friends and I have a new dentist and my husband swears he drives safely. Everybody's seemingly healthy.

I sleep like a rock now, unconscious. Six months ago I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night. I've never had stress insomnia before. It sucked. And, you know. Baby. He kind of caused some sleep problems too, starting about two days after I got pregnant. Now he sleeps. I sleep. We are much more able to cope.

So, yeah, things have taken a turn for the better in the past couple of months. But still. I wouldn't choose to relive this year. If I got stuck in some sort of endless 2008 loop, I'd eventually run out of steam. It would not be pretty.

I sat down intending to write a smart-ass post about kicking 2008 to the curb. I have no idea how this got so serious. Perhaps I still harbor some pent-up resentment about this almost-but-not-quite-harrowing year?...

Perhaps.

Anyway. Tonight it's over. Tonight I can shed all that has cumulatively weighed me down this year, take a deep breath, and maybe let my innate optimism start to flow again.

So, um, 2008? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

Auld lang syne and all that.

And Happy New Year, everyone.

I can't wait to get old

Here was my Thanksgiving: I had to travel 220 miles by myself. And when I say "by myself" I mean with three children. And no husband. (Having an awesome schedule is not a benefit of working in the healthcare industry.)

We stopped at McDonald's for lunch in Nowheresville, Iowa. At the same exact time as a van full of folks from the local retirement home. Fortunately I made it into line in front of them. (I was not in the mood to listen to six elderly ladies try to decide whether they wanted a chicken sandwich or a hamburger to go with their decaf.)

But as I got my tray, I noticed an Old Guy (really. old.) looking pointedly at Evan, who was holding onto my pant leg. He looked for a minute and said to me, "His shoe's untied."

I had one armful of squiggly baby and my other hand was precariously balancing a tray loaded with Happy Meals and life-sustaining Diet Coke (for me, not the kids, because pumping them full of caffeine and sticking them back in the van for the remainder of the trip would be suicide). Oh, and I'm a nurse. I've worked in a lot (lot!) of nursing homes in my time. Just so you know.

I smiled and said, "Yes! It is!" Evan's shoes are untied approximately 107% of the time. I really don't care. But Old Guy was not okay with this situation.

"Well, aren't you gonna tie it?" he said accusingly.

This struck me as ridiculous.

We exchanged blank stares for a minute, Old Guy waiting for me to tie the shoe and me considering the possibility that he was experiencing some degree of synaptic failure.

"Right, then!" I chirped and turned away.

Turns out Old Guy was seated at the table next to us. He was the only gentleman present, surrounded by a bevy of glowing, bewigged female admirers. Over his coffee and fish sandwich, he was holding forth about all sorts of stuff. I was kind of caught up in making sure the baby wasn't trying to steal my fries and listening to the big kids argue about important plot devices in "Madagascar 2," so I certainly wasn't paying attention to Old Guy's diatribe.

But then. Then I overheard him say, "And that will definitely get you laid."

I swear that's what he said. His adoring audience smiled benignly. They didn't really react as I would have. But I swear to God he was telling them how to get laid in The Home.

I think Evan spilled his milk right about then so I had to tear my attention away from his geriatric wisdom. But this half-unglued-alpha-male-octagenarian totally made my day.

Warning: may contain graphic cuteness. And thankfulness.

Technical difficulties solved (thanks to my brother-in-law), here is my blog video debut. It's not a minivan giveaway, but it's still worth watching.

I'm pretty sure that sometimes I come off as being a sarcastic ingrate. I am sarcastic, but I am very, very grateful for all that I have. Chief among my blessings are my superhero husband and three beautiful boys and the best family in the entire world. This, everyone, is why I am thankful. Happy Thanksgiving!

The complete and total idiot's guide to Christmas card photos

Here's a fun! and easy! way to start the holiday season: a do-it-yourself Christmas card photo shoot! After all, nothing says "festive" like crying children and swearing parents. Want awesome holiday pics like ours? Here's a foolproof step-by-step guide:

1) Do not plan ahead. This is crucial. Pictures better reflect your kids' personalities when they're spontaneous. So spring it on them (and your photographer/husband) with no advanced warning. (Added bonus: your husband will love you for this!)

2) Get the kids completely wound up. This always makes for successful pictures.

3) Coordinated outfits are not necessary. Maybe try for something without food stains or holes, but really... who cares? Although, in retrospect, I kind of wish we'd gone with Evan's "A Very Camo Christmas" theme. Combat-themed Christmas cards rock.

4) Make sure your husband has to spend at least 37 minutes making unnecessary (he says "nuanced," whatever) camera adjustments. This gives the kids adequate time to start pinching each other and assures that someone will start crying.

5) Bribe kids with leftover Halloween candy that no one wants. Example: "I'll give you Milk Duds if you stop crying." It kind of works.

6) Time to put the baby in the frame! Be sure to get him overexcited so he wants to kiss everyone.

7) "Smile!"

8) "No, kids, your real smiles."

9) "Um, guys, could you maybe not show us your tonsils?"

10) {sigh} Put away the camera. Tell your husband to stop dropping f-bombs in front of the kids. Open a beer. Consider studying up on Photoshop; after all, with the 54 pictures he just took, there's gotta be something salvageable. Right?

11) Make a note to call the Sears Portrait Studio first thing in the morning.

Do NOT put this inside a dead bird

I heard a rumor that Thanksgiving is approaching. Which seems pretty ridiculous, you know, because I could have sworn that it's still September. Early October at the latest. But, I looked at the calendar and it's true: Thanksgiving is next week. Insanity, I tell you.

Guess I'd better get thinking about food.

Interestingly, for someone who loves to cook and for a holiday completely centered around an enormous meal, I really don't like Thanksgiving dinner. It's all so geriatric cafeteria. Turkey? Bleh. Don't even get me started on gravy: it's slop. Cranberry sauce? Sweet potatoes with marshmallows? Are you joking?! But: I really like green bean casserole, the kind with cream of mushroom soup and those divine french-fried onions. And stuffing. I. love. stuffing.

In truth, I'm a food snob, kinda. I'm fully committed to things like fresh herbs and unsalted butter and homemade marinara and mincing my own garlic. Stuff like that. But my favorite stuffing is a far cry from any of that. It is comfort food. And it is heavenly.

The stuffing we make is a recipe from my Grandma Klages, a Depression-era German farmwife extraordinaire. Actually, the recipe came from one of her friends, I think. We make, like, quadruple recipes because it's so scrumptious. (Frequently I only eat this and the Green Bean Delight.) And you will notice that it does not call for real butter. Nope. It calls for "oleo," which is how my grandmother referred to margarine. Actually, the full name was "oleomargarine." Old School, man. Anyway, despite my uppity food ways, I have never used butter in this recipe.

Please also note that this stuffing does not get stuffed into a bird. That is a repulsive practice, as far as I'm concerned. (Seriously: shoving mushy bread up a dead bird's butt?! Who thought of this?) I actually physically gagged the first time I had stuffing that had actually been cooked inside a carcass: so goopy, so funky, so... ugh. Technically, I guess, this is "dressing" rather than "stuffing." Stuff, if you must. But you do so at your own risk. I will not stuff, and will stubbornly continue to call this "stuffing."

And a final note: it's a pretty loose recipe. I think most of the measurements are just estimates that have been written down over the years. It has not been refined in a test kitchen or written according to formula. You just kind of make it however seems right.

So here it is:
The Best Stuffing That Was Never Stuffed
1 package breadcrumbs (8 oz)
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 stick oleo
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
4 cups chicken broth (in my experience, it needs more so it doesn't get dry)
1 cup milk
2 eggs
Poultry seasoning, or sage (it doesn't say how much. Maybe a teaspoon? More?)

Cook oleo, celery, and onion. Add salt, pepper, and poultry seasoning. Mix with breadcrumbs. Mix broth, milk, and eggs together. Stir into bread mixture. Bake in a 9x13 pan at 350 degrees for about an hour.

Now I must go find a turkey, I suppose. I still can't believe Thanksgiving is next week. Seriously, I'm so lucky I don't live in Canada, because if I'd had to be ready for Thanksgiving a month ago, I'd have been completely hosed.

[Oh, and I'm contributing this to Mr. Lady's call for Thanksgiving recipes at Whiskey in My Sippy Cup, which was one of the very first blogs I ever started reading and it is awesome. Seriously, I'm a complete blogging amateur and am totally unworthy of putting anything up there, but I'm just gonna suck it up and do it. (And she does live in Canada, by the way.)]

Trick or (cough, sniffle) treat (barf)

We are in the midst of a Week of Pestilence at our house. However, the infectious disease gods smiled on us on Friday, and granted us a 24-hour reprieve from all things febrile, snotty, and vomitous. (I don't care if it's not a word. You know what I mean.) We were able to trick-or-treat with a minimum of tuberculosis-like hacking, so the other parents out with their little non-crusty-nosed-cuties didn't look at us like we were criminals. This is good, since the kids were up at 6:15 Friday morning, jumping on my bed, yelling, "It's Halloween! It's Halloween!!!" We'd have had outright mutiny if they hadn't been able to go.

This is as good a group photo as we could get, and even this involved Grandpa Bill wrestling with Caleb. Calm, smiley, all-together-now-kids photo? Not gonna happen.



And: here it is! The Wall-E costume. It was pretty awesome, and a couple of people told me it was the best costume they saw all night. Which made the roughly 239 hours I spent on it almost worthwhile. In honor of all those hours (and Evan's insistence that he was going to be Wall-E), I'm totally entering this photo in Blurb's Halloween photo contest in the Best Handmade Costume Category:



And here's Jensen, looking creepier than I imagined he could. ("Cute" is soooo passe.... Even though he's still adorable.) (And, I know, the eye make-up's not so great, but he was done holding still. We had to make it quick.) As long as I'm at it, I'm entering this one in the same contest for the Best Photo:

Don't worry, things have returned to their sickly baseline here. After the Halloween break from all things infectious, the kids are back at it. Evan's been throwing up since last night. (And no, it's not from too much candy. I don't think.) Jensen suggested that we just dress them all in fluorescent green and they could go as germs. Which isn't a half-bad idea....

Thanks to Blurb/Parent Bloggers Network for sponsoring the photo contest.

This will have to do

Because I know myself too well, I realize I might have this year's Halloween pics posted by, oh, Easter. So, to hold you over, this is last year. Note: only two children.

It's the Really Ugly Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

We took the "tough love" approach to pumpkin-carving last night.

Jensen has, in his seven and a half years, never placed his hand inside a pumpkin. He's always convinced us to do his dirty work. But not this year. "No scooping, no carving," we said. It worked. After several minutes of pouting, cajoling, and fake barfing, he sucked it up and scooped. And did a fair job. Fair.

Then it was time to carve. You know those carving kits they sell now? With all the (very useful, by the way) little saws and hundreds of completely impractical patterns so you can have your own "original" pumpkin? He wanted to one of those designs. If you're a parent, you know exactly where this is going. {groan}

(This, by the way, prompted all kinds of "when I was a kid" comments from his parents: "...we never needed any pattern to carve our pumpkins," and "...I don't see what's wrong with just doing a face with triangle eyes," and that sort of thing. We were only partly joking.)

He chose a spider. And worked hard on it for about seven minutes. During which time I helped Evan. Evan, you will recall, is four. And very prone to self-injury. He's not allowed within six feet of a carving utensil. So he dictated to me what he wanted on his tiny pumpkin: a t-rex (?!), frontal view, with nose holes. And boogers.

As soon as I finished that work of art, and it truly is something to behold, I got manipulated into finishing Jensen's spider. Yeah, so much for tough love.

When I finished, about 45 minutes later, Jensen was in bed, Evan and Caleb were crying, and Jeff was begging for beer. I was in a lovely mood.

We have the lamest pumpkins in the world this year. Maybe tonight I'll manage to find some candles so we can bask in the glow of their mediocrity.

Stop me now. Please.

I'm going to confide in you now, and what I say will probably shock you: I am a craft whore. I know, I know, I'm totally playing against type. A stay-at-home-mom who drives a mini-van and is also into crafts? Stunning.

Sadly true. I knit. I scrapbook. I cross-stitch, and I don't even like the finished product here. I quilt. I decorate cakes on occasion. If macrame were still popular, I'd be making plant hangers as if there were no tomorrow. (I made the coolest beaded macrame belt when I was, like, seven. I wish I still had it.) Hell, you could probably convince me to crochet those terrifying ladies in dresses with the garish plastic doll heads that my grandma used to put over the spare roll of toilet paper.... Yeah, I'd do it.

It's genetic. I got it from my mom, who puts me to shame. She never buys anything. She sees something in a store, says dismissively, "Oh, I could make that," and then goes home and does it, about a thousand times better than anything you could buy. It's true. Ask my sister.

This crafty-gene is relevant right now because it's Halloween. I've spent uncounted hours this week making costumes. A mummy? No problem. Wall-E? Has spiraled out of all control. My arsenal this week has consisted of: spray paint (lots of spray paint), a hot glue gun, acrylic paints, an exacto knife, a sponge, a Sharpie pen, felt, styrofoam, wooden dowels, construction paper, masking tape, safety goggles, craft foam, a staple gun, trash bags, a big ol' cardboard box, black tea, a sewing machine, and-- this one kills me-- decoupage medium. I kid you not. And I'm not done yet. In fact, I suspect I need to make another trip to the local craft superstore.

So I must sign off now and continue my costume construction. If the kids aren't good, maybe I'll just hot-glue them to the walls. (Kidding.) (Kind of.)