Cooking Up Something

I cooked! This is cause for celebration. The Crockpot has been on hiatus since February, and my skillet has nearly lost its seasoning. I used to cook about once a month. Well, I cooked nearly every day; family dinner is important to us. RJ is the rare four year old who eats with his napkin in his lap and asks us, "So, how was your day been?" "How was work?" and "How was [your boss]? Did he change his attitude?" ( I may or may not make comments that my boss needs an attitude adjustment on occasion). RJ is perceptive.

Cooking up something for supper is no small feat, working mom or not, kids or not. It's hard to hit the door at 5 or 6 or 7 and manage to get something on the table in any reasonable time.  For the past few months, I have relied entirely too much on the Schwan man and his happy little yellow truck. We've eaten more than our fair share of overpriced (but entirely delicious) casseroles. I need to get back in my freezer routine.

So, Saturday morning, RJ, GiGi and I embarked on a grocery mission. We shopped. RJ drove a "truck truck" cart (he loves the carts with a car on the front--his mother might be immature enough to race them in the parking lot while laughing hysterically. maybe.). GiGi charmed the senior set who were also shopping at 8 a.m. And then I cooked! And because I know that I always appreciate hearing what other working mommies manage to throw together, here is what I cooked (all easy, nearly all freezer friendly):

--Lasagna RJB style, otherwise known as jumbo cheese stuffed pasta shells topped with sauce and mozzerella. It's easy to divide into individual servings and freeze and cooks up nearly as well as the real deal.

--Sloppy joe's.  Freezer friendly, super quick, can be served on bread, tortillas, or chips, and sometimes, I just cook up the meat and throw it in the Crockpot while we run errands or head to church.

--Lots o' grilled chicken.  Pre-grilled chicken breasts to be used in chicken chili this week. New recipe, so I'll let you know how it goes. It will surely go well, as the recipe was handed down from several legal secretaries at my firm, and those ladies know how to cook.

--Bisquick sausage balls, Paula Deen style. I love Paula Deen, diabetes scandal and all. She cooks like I wish I could (and still maintain my figure). RJ is not a breakfast person, but breakfast is a new favorite with these. Super fast, super easy, and I made them with turkey sausage, so they're healthy. er. Healthi-er.

Banana Pudding--I hate banana pudding. But Hubbsie loves it, and so does GiGi apparently. The instant kind, because who has time to cook it?

Also on the agenda this week, The Pioneer Woman's tortilla roll-ups. Homemade herbed cream cheese is the key. Even RJ will eat veggies rolled up in one of these.

And, of course, the staple of my household--the bean burrito. Seriously. One can of beans. Shredded cheese. Tortillas. Fill, wrap, and freeze. They take a minute to heat up and are kind of sort of healthy. Better than a bucket of cheese balls anyway. (Note to self: Never, ever buy the big bucket of cheese balls again. RJB loses interest way before I do, and I have zero willpower when it comes to powdered cheeses).

I'm trying out a new recipe a week for a while. New adventures in cooking. Someday I'll learn to make my mom's fried chicken. But first up, pickles! I think it will be interesting.

On Turning 35

RJ's aunt gave him five dollars to go garage sale-ing this weekend. He was pretty proud. Friday night, he sobbed at bedtime. "Cats?" I asked. "You want your cats?" "No!" he wailed, "I want my cash to sleep with it!" Important stuff when you're four. So, he slept with it under his pillow (and spent it on Hot Wheels the next day.). But, he didn't spend it before he asked about the man pictured on the front. I told him, "He was the president. He was a good man." RJ responded, "Mom, someday, I gonna be president." He paused. "But, I gonna live with you."

I always knew I'd make it to the White House.

I turned 35 last week. I guess that means I can be president. I know being 35 means I can stay up as late as I want, and I can go see rated R movies too.  I had an awesome birthday. There were donuts and cake and my favorite burger from Flat Tire. (Being 35 also means that suddenly the dryer has started shrinking my shorts, particularly after donuts, cake, and my favorite burger. Darn dryer.).

I used to believe I could be president. Now I'm not so sure. Because if I were president, who would fold the first man's shorts or feed the first babies their supper? And if I were president, who would tuck the blankets under RJ's feet every night? And how would I do all of those video conferences with GiGi still nursing?

I'm starting to believe that maybe being president isn't the job for me. I'm still not comfortable at my job, but it's fitting better these days. I'm juggling foreclosures and exhibit lists, and sometimes I even find time for lunch with my ladies. I know there has been a big online discussion about women wanting to "have it all." Some commentators want the professional world to adjust and make it easier for women to have it all. Others want women to choose: family or career. The most well reasoned discussions I've seen have focused on the idea that we can't have it all--at once.

RJ's gymnastics cheer last year ended, "It's our time to shine!"  This isn't my time to bill 2000 hours a year. It's not my time take a case to jury trial. It's very obviously not my time to become a law partner--though this particular truth has been hard to swallow this year.

It is my time to have donuts and cake and burgers. It's my time to celebrate my family. It's my time to shine!

And so, I celebrated. I celebrated little things that make me smile:

RJ wanted me to have this Barbie fishing stick. His words, not mine. 

And we celebrated my 35th by fishing in our backyard. There is no pond, but we have our imaginations. I imagined we caught 100 fish--and someone else took them off the hook every time.

Later, we celebrated my 35th with my folks. It was Poppy's birthday too, after all. RJ celebrated as a four year old boy should--by dancing in the Oklahoma summer version of rain, the sprinkler!

And, we fished. (No hook. No bait. Loads of fun.).

He's figuring it out.

And he's figuring out that fishing is kind of yucky. 

Actually, it's a lot of yucky. 

But he loved every minute. 

By the end of the day, he had casting down. 

And GiGi, well, GiGi is GiGi. She celebrates being her. 

And someday, she'll be 35 too. I hope she can be president. 

And that I can live with her and do her laundry while she tucks her babies in bed. 

Mind Clutter and a Few Confessions

Until I can put together my thoughts (and put together my house and laundry and the kids' playroom and a whole lot of other little things), I have things I don't want to forget. Things that are cluttering my mind and keeping me up at night.  And a few things I should probably confess, because those things keep me up at night too:

• RJ tries my patience. It is his job. He's four. So, he hears "no" a lot. And he spends a lot of time in time out. But the other morning, he told me, "Mom, you're the boss of me. But you're still my favorite girl." I love being his favorite girl. (Sometimes he tells me I'm his bestie, but I like being his favorite girl the best.).  

• A confession: If you ride in my car, you'll probably find a Ziploc bag with a pair of little man panties in it. I will tell you they're clean. I will tell you they're "just in case." I will also tell you they're clean. I am a liar. They're not clean. (I discovered this when we had a "just in case" moment and I was desperately searching for little man panties in my car. Note to self: Don't open the Ziploc and sniff. Just don't.). 

• RJ still thinks he's Lutheran Skywalker, and he's hunting Dark Vader. But lately he's into other adventure games too. Like bounty hunting. Except that RJ isn't a bounty hunter, he's a "brownie hunter." Which probably explains why he's my bestie. I do love some brownies. 

• GiGi is starting to crawl and cruise. Last night, the cutest thing I've seen in a long time was a chubby thighed baby in a skirted swim suit staring at me upside down between her legs with a big baby booty in the air. My camera was in the case, and I missed the picture. Here's hoping she does it again soon. 

• I read a lot about how to find happiness. Most everyone gives me a lot of good, ethereal advice like "focus on the positive" or "see the glass half full." I've found the more practical road to happiness involves gummy Coke bottles, good quality shampoo, putting apple scented lotion on RJ at night so he smells a lot better when he sleeps beside me, and always, always making sure GiGi wears ruffle butt pants. Ruffle butts make me smile inside and out. 

• We're teaching RJ about being grateful and in doing so, we're having to teach him about little boys who don't have enough to eat or cozy places to sleep. It's a lesson for me too. 

• A confession: I didn't know Luke Skywalker had a sister. And I really didn't now his sister was Princess Leia. I'm still wrapping my brain around the whole twins thing. (I still haven't seen "The Shawshank Redemption" either.  Judge away. I deserve it.). 

• We celebrated the Fourth of July this week. I'm still grateful that hubbsie came home from Iraq ten years ago. A confession: I'd post his homecoming photo again, but I can't find it in my electronic files right now. I also can't find the kids' puppet theater or my adorable red knit top. Which would have been perfect for the Fourth of July. I have faith in the two boxes that are still packed in the garage. 

• And once again, just completely gratuitous: 

GiGi turned 9 months old. I had a rainbow dress when I was six, and it made me feel really pretty. I hope rainbows make her feel pretty too, because she's going to be wearing a lot of this look. 

My babies love to ride. 

She pinches. Hard. 

And she thinks her brother is outrageously funny. He barks like a dog, and she'll belly laugh for days. I hope they're always like this. Because someday they'll need each other more than they need me. 

She really pinches hard. And pulls hair. 

Always, always keep GiGi in ruffles. I dare you not to smile and feel just a little happier. 

My bestie loves parades. He comes by it honest. I still love parades too. I think the marching bands are my fave. 

My goal is to keep her this comfortable with her body. 

I hope she always feels this good about herself. And I hope she always finds a little happiness in graham crackers. 

And because it was the Fourth of July, we remembered that we're really, really happy he came home ten years ago. (Even when he leaves the cupboard doors open and makes fun of my "Star Wars" family tree. I swear I really did think Luke Skywalker was Princess Leia's boyfriend. Ew.). 

Lovefest 2012

RJ is in the middle of Lovefest 2012. Periodically, he stops whatever he's doing and tells me, "Mom, I love you." And then he's off again. Sometimes he snuggles up to me just to tell me I'm pretty or that he likes my hair. He might be Eddie Haskell. Or he might be really digging mommy being around a lot these days. I used to be in the office at least 50 hours a week. In heels. And a power suit. 

I used to see women in restaurants with greasy pony tails, chipped nails, spotted t-shirts, and (gasp!) elastic waist pants, and I judged. I judged a lot.  How hard is it to take off the polish and put on a clean shirt?

Awfully  hard some days. 

Now, I find myself being a part time lady lawyer. I'm not comfortable with it. My job feels like an old coat that doesn't quite fit right anymore. Too tight in the sleeves and maybe if I just tug on the collar a little bit and adjust the hem "just so," I can make it fit again.   I thought I would have time organize my recipes and learn to sew. My recipes are still stuck together in a drawer (or on my iPhone because the iPad has a dead battery. Sigh.).  The sewing machine is in the garage. (Double sigh). 

I don't like the marathon that my days have become: change diapers, make cereal, chase crawler, snuggle non-crawler, find "Curious George," find clean underpants, find dirty peed on underpants, start laundry, comb hair, swim lessons, change into work clothes, wash parts to milking machine, pack lunch, drive downtown, and holy crap it's only 9:30. 

Notice something? There's no shower in that routine. Not most days. I used to be the girl with the pink patent leather shoes and the matching handbag. Yesterday, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hotel window downtown. Hair? Pony tail. Nails? Used to be pink. Shirt? The tiniest tiniest Koolaid stain on the sash. But it was still there.  Skirt? Zip closure thank you very much. 

Handbag? From Target. Not as in purchased from their super cute line of summer handbags. As in white plastic with adorable little red targets on it. Because my super cute little patent leather bags are packed, my super cute leather tote bag was holding my super dirty dry cleaning, and I was in a super hurry to get away from my super loud four year old. Functional? Of course. Worthy of judgment-y stares from cute young things in power suits? (summer associates of the world, I'm looking at you in your fabulous suits and heels). Absolutely. 

I started out my part time routine dedicated to parenting perfection. If I'm not billing time, then I'm building quality time with my kids. That's the way it's going to be. And that's the way it has been. Until now. 

Something's got to change. And perhaps it isn't only my job that doesn't quite fit. For the first few months of this new gig, I spent every non-working moment with my kids. I played trains with RJ and let GiGi nurse herself into blissful oblivion.  And every night, I go to bed angry, irritable, and exhausted wishing for just two more hours to write or play my violin or do something (anything) that used to be mine and mine alone.   

If this part time thing is going to work, I have to overcome the guilt of not spending every non-work moment with my children. Because, spending every single minute of the day with either (1) a law book and computer or (2) one child who has an inexplicable need to touch me all the time and one child who has an inexplicable need for num-num all the time will make me nuts. 

Nothing changes with inaction. So, I dove right in. Instead of figuring out a weekly menu plan or trying to read a deposition, I painted my nails while RJ had swim lessons. (Red. Sally Hanson Salon Manicure in a Bottle. I'll let you know it works out.). And then, then I took the real plunge. I packed a gym bag. With something other than GiGi's Huggies and extra jars of baby food. (Why is it that a pink Nike bag just begs to be put to work as a diaper bag?)

I used to swim miles a day. Really. MILES. Today, I swam 600 yards. And I am exhausted. And sore. And kind of proud. Because, for this part time mommy lawyer thing to work, I've got to make time for me. The coat fit a little better this evening. And I found a few minutes to write too. 

So today begins a new routine. Except for the laundry. And the snuggles. Because RJ is in the middle of Lovefest 2012, and who am I to refuse a handsome little man's overtures to snuggle and tell me I'm pretty? 

(And to my working mommy friends, find a way to be kind to yourself. It matters. It makes a difference.). 

An Unintentional Break

I apparently took a break from blogging. It was unintentional. I just found so many other things that needed to be done. So I did them.  I painted the inside of my china cabinet purple. I hung approximately 487 family photos. I made 24 burritos. (Super easy freezer food makes me do a little twirl at supper time.).

I billed some hours. I read a lot of stories. I grocery shopped. I watched some (a LOT) of Thunder basketball and washed RJ's Thunder shirt a hundred times.

I watched the end of "The Black Swan." I watched the beginning about two weeks ago. It took me that long to get up the nerve to watch the end. At 10 a.m. So the shadows couldn't find me. That is one freaky movie.

I did a conference call from the neighborhood pool.  (Ask me about going part time. The view changes day to day, but a call from the pool isn't exactly a bad day--though leaving RJ sitting on a lounge chair screaming so that I could wander outside the gate to find a signal wasn't exactly a good day either. Balance. Juggle. Something like that.).

I'm working on something really substantive and thought provoking. Or at least semi-interesting and entertaining. Until then...

Hats are kind of her thing. 

GiGi started trying to walk. Her proportions are proving to be a challenge. 

This is what sibling love looks like at my house. (Go Thunder!)

The Thunder lost. 

Her daddy is in trouble when she turns 16. Or 36. Because she's not dating until she's 36. 

She hearts her big brother. (He spends a lot of time wandering around in his underpants. Note to self: must fix this before GiGi turns 10 and has slumber parties.). 

We celebrated Father's Day. (Go Thunder!)

No really. We are in for a world of hurt when she turns 16. 

She canNOT believe the Thunder lost. 

Fluffy! He loves his blankie. And he's still my baby. 

Look out world. GiGi is on the move. And she's serious about it. 

Peek a boo!

I got my cape. And RJ stole it. But I'll get it back. And write about it. Be sure of that. 

(Yes, we are "those" neighbors. The ones with the toddler car that has been sitting on the front sidewalk for three days. There's a fire truck, a police car, and a wrecker too. We do it up right.)

GiGi loves ice cream. 

I mean, she LOVES ice cream. 

Someday she will not like me much. 

But this belly makes me smile. 

And seriously, who doesn't want something so very good that it makes you point your toes?

GiGi loves ice cream. So does her brother. But he loves her too. I don't understand sibling love. But I know this: sibling love is giving your sister licks of your ice cream when she drops hers. 

My babies love ice cream. And each other. (And oh yeah, Thanks Thunder! You've made the last two weeks most entertaining at my house--and picking out RJ's outfits have been pretty easy too.).

I know Superman and Wonder Woman

RJ is obsessed with super heroes, which is interesting since he's not allowed to watch "The Avengers" or any other super hero movie. He would flip if he knew my secret: I know Superman and Wonder Woman. I just can't figure out how they've always kept their capes hidden.

My parents crossed the state and back again for every hot, smelly, rainy, cold, and nasty swim meet I ever swam. My mom sorted hundreds of event cards into heats, herded water-slick 8-year olds to the starting blocks, and then made sure they all got the ribbons they were entitled to. Or weren't. Helicopter parents existed in the 80's too--one dad tried to steal ribbons for his kid. My dad hauled yards and yards of moldy shag carpet into the old wooden gym at the YMCA--we had to protect the floors from puddles while giving 100s of kids a place to snack, sleep, and play cards between events. After he did that, he stood for two days on wet concrete with a starting gun over his head. Or watched a million flip turns, disqualified 10 year olds, and bore the wrath of the angry mommies.

Mom wore t-shirts and shorts. Dad wore a white official's polo and shorts. I cannot for the life of me figure out where they hid their capes. Maybe they were at the concession stand under the chili crockpots.

Because a cape is the only way they did it. They have to be super heros.

My house is a wreck. I can't make it to one gymnastics class a week. And, this morning, RJ was late to the first day of summer camp.

Mom made the best birthday cakes; they looked like they came from a bakery. And if there was call for a punch bowl, she was there. And the punch was good. And on time. If I needed a costume, or a party dress, or just something pretty to wear to school the next day, the sewing machine hummed late into the night. And by the next morning, it would be hanging in my bedroom. Her cape must have been in the washing machine with the rest of the laundry. I never saw it those mornings.

My wedding was a feat of super hero proportions. 400 pink roses. Yards of satin and tulle. Twinkle lights.  She wore a beaded formal. No cape.

Every morning, Dad left the house before sunrise and didn't get home until dark. And somehow he found time to help a 15 year old girl restore and old car. Or rather, he restored an old car while a 15 year old girl sanded, scrubbed, and loved every minute they spent together at the barn working. Or whined that she was hot and greasy and tired. And loved every minute of it.

We spent a hundred hours on that car. I never saw the cape. He must have taken it off so it didn't get caught on the fan belt.

Hubbsie lost his ring in the yard at the old house. Two days before closing, Dad came down with a metal detector. And found the ring. He said it was a metal detector. I didn't see it. Super human powers.  No cape. I am convinced that he now keeps it in the trunk of his car.

This parenting thing isn't easy. There aren't enough hours in the day. There aren't enough minutes in the hours.

I never sleep. I never get all of the boxes checked on my to-do list. We've been in our house three weeks, and I can't get the boxes unpacked and the books on the shelves. Mom was here for two days, and the house looks like a home.  She still has her cape somewhere.

My son is obsessed with super heroes. Someday, I'll tell him I know Superman and Wonder Woman. Until then, I just wish they would they would tell me where to find the cape store--because life gets busier every day. And I hope that I can do as well for my babies as my mom and dad have done for me.

P.S. (I know they read this, so Thanks Mom and Dad!)

Nothing I expected, everything I could want

I often say, "GiGi is nothing like what I expected, but she's everything I could want." I expected a tiny, fragile little thing that I could dress in ruffles and bows. I bought clothes before she was born--sized seasonally for my tiny, fragile little thing. She is currently into her Fall 2012 wardrobe.  Fleece trousers are not flattering this time of year.

When she was born, she was all thighs. And cheeks. Now, when she crawls, she uses her booty to drive herself. Sway it to the right, and away she goes. Sway it to the left, and away she goes.

She's tough. She tolerates her brother's kisses and bites. His snuggles and more often, his wrestling.

I expected that my baby girl would be all sugar. Very little spice. Absolutely no burps, toots, or anything else yucky.

Until last night. See this?

She's smiling at you because she's pooping in the tub. At this very moment.

She's very sugary and sunshiny and anything else you can think of to describe a happy, laid back baby. She's a little spicy--fits over toys and the car seat make me laugh. 

She is also a whole lot of yucky.

(Oh, and she's still all thighs. Not as much cheeks. But very much more than I could ever want in a little girl.).