Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven

I love to bake. And I really love to bake cookies.

The summer I turned eight, my mom and a few of her friends put together a 'Finishing School' of sorts for their daughters. Two of the moms taught a cooking class on Mondays, two taught sewing on Wednesdays, and two taught manners and etiquette on Fridays. We probably did it for six weeks or so, then had a program at the end. We cooked the meal (sort of), wore our little aprons and hats that we had sewn, and used our manners. We also had a fun little fashion show modeling our mothers' own wardrobe (early 80s--sooo vogue). 

The cooking day was my favorite. We each had our own set of measuring cups and spoons, as well as recipe cards we put together. It was hard for my 2nd grade handwriting to fit a whole recipe on that little 3X5 card! But once I had my recipe copied, measuring and stirring and putting it all together was a thrill. 

I remember feeling like a whole new world was opening up--if I could read and understand one recipe, I could do them all! I also learned a love for fractions--doubling a recipe meant twice the cookies as long as I knew what 2/3 times two was. (I always like math as a kid too, so it was good fit.)

After my summer cooking experience, I asked my mom on  a regular basis if I could make cookies. Her answer was always the same--I had to finish them (and not leave it for her), and I had to clean up. 

I remember many a bar cookie that had started out as regular drop cookies, and I'm sure I didn't do near my share of the cleaning up part; but my mom was always a good sport about letting me have my turn in the kitchen.

Lincoln is delirious with the deliciousness of his cookie.

And so my love of baking continues. Now my kids can help--measure and pour ingredients, stir the batter, and especially lick the beaters. I think my mom was crazy-nice to let me do it all myself, as I am nowhere near ready to surrender the kitchen to my little 7-year-old. 

If only I could bake and not partake . . . 

All she wants for Christmas

Our toothless WonderGirl.

Oh wait, I guess that was last month. Hopefully she'll get her two front teeth back in before next Christmas. 

Aubrey lost both of her two front teeth just 10 days after Christmas. Gavin helped Aubrey with her first tooth on Sunday, then turned around and did it again with the second one on Monday. Removing bloody human parts is not my forte', so Gav takes care of it. I get squeamish just watching her wiggle them, and I can barely type about it now without shuddering. Blech. 

Apparently, the Tooth Fairy covering the Puget Sound is a total slacker and couldn't make it here two nights in a row. We had one very unhappy toothless girl on Tuesday morning. Maybe the Tooth Fairy didn't come because Aubrey fell asleep with her lights on. Oops. Thankfully, she came the next night and left a note and DOUBLE MONEY to make up for the delay. What a great Fairy she is!

Aubrey's tooth box from the dentist and (oh-so-clever) tooth-shaped note from the Tooth Fairy.

How do I love thee?

My sweet Lincoln is nothing short of relentless--especially in the morning. Are all four-year-olds like this? He is our earliest riser, and he wants someone to go downstairs with him immediately to get his morning milk and turn on the TV. He does not stop asking. Over and over and over again. 

Unlike Lincoln, I am NOT rip-roarin'-ready-to-go when my peepers first open the greet the morning light. It takes me a few minutes to realize it's time to get my groove on . . . again. So I have made a few rules about his morning routine:

1--I will not go downstairs with him before 7:00 a.m. Even if I'm awake. I'll make beds, fold laundry, whatever. If the clock says 6-something, forget about it.

2--I will not get milk for him until he has eaten something for breakfast. Even if it's just a few apple slices--my son has to eat some real food before guzzles down his chocolate milk (no sugar added, mind you--Nestle makes it).

So this morning, Lincoln is asking--again--when we're going to go downstairs. It's already after 7, so rule #1 doesn't apply. I told Linc we had to have a prayer with Gavin (he was just leaving for work), then we'd go. No sooner were the 'amens' said, and Lincoln is tugging on my arm, "Yet's go, Mommy! Yet's go down-tairs. We aw-ready said da pwer!" 

Before we could go, I asked if he knew who loved him (Mommy) and said he had to give three reasons why he loved me back. I thought I was being sneaky and buying myself more time. Not so. He came up with these answers in no time flat:

Because I am your son.

Because Jesus gave you to me.

Because you love Daddy.

Aaah, isn't that sweet? 

While I'm smiling and taking in the tenderness of my cute son, he once again tugs at me, "Okay mommy! Yet's go NOW!"

And . . . tender moment gone. 

(Until now, when I can blog about it.)

This is not my kid . . .

THIS is my kid.

Whoever coined the phrase 'terrible twos' did not have children. In my house, the so-called 'terrible' behavior begins several months before my child turns two, and continues well after he or she turns three. Wouldn't it be nice if it were limited to the 'twos'?

When not getting into cabinets, Jace's other specialty lately is digging through the trash. He especially likes finding the other kids' thrown away pudding cups. He's a little raccoon, foraging for treats in the garbage. 

Never mind the well-balanced food he is served at meal and snack times--that is for throwing overboard. So, in addition to cleaning up trash scraps he has dug out of the garbage, I also get to pick up green beans, grapes, waffles, pizza bites (that's just today) and all other bite-sized foods that he has launched from his chair. 

Of course I still love him, what's not to love? 

Mia madre

Today is my mom's birthday. When I was a kid, it seems like she went through a '37' phase--meaning every year she turned 37. Again and again and again. Since that's only two years older than I am right now (yeah, I'm an oldie but goody), I can't really say she's 37 anymore. Sorry, mom. But trust me, she isn't a day past 48. 

In recent years, I've sent flowers to my mom for her birthday. I know my mom has always appreciated the flowers and the gesture; but of course they're gone in a few days, and yet another vase is cluttering her cupboard. I wanted to do something a little more meaningful. 

Rewind to 7 years ago. I was pregnant with Aubrey. My mom had recently been diagnosed with endometrial cancer. I will never forget the day she received the results of her biopsy. I had a doctor's appointment and called my mom from the waiting room. I just had to know. 

The news wasn't good. We had hoped the cancer was only in her uterus, but it had spread. The worst part was that some cells were found in her lymph nodes. I was devastated. I sat in the chair in my doctor's waiting room, asked my mom questions, and sobbed. I think I left the office that day without even seeing my doctor--just rescheduled so I could go be with my mom.

My mom took her treatments like a champion, and I'm happy to say that she is a survivor. She had several weeks of radiation treatment, including one internal radiation procedure hours before Aubrey was born. She was literally 'radioactive' and had certain restrictions about being around babies, but fortunately she was cleared before my daughter entered the world.

Gavin and I called my parents on the way to the hospital when my water broke. We were living in Utah at the time. My dad answered, was business as usual, and said to keep him posted. Apparently when he hung up the phone, my mom asked who it was. Dad answered nonchalantly, "Sarah. She's on her way to the hospital. Her water just broke." 

I can only imagine the flurry of activity that took place then, because mom arrived at the hospital not much after we did. Remember--she was recently discharged herself from the same hospital for her radiation procedure. 

She was tired, she was in pain, yet she was THERE. All night. Smiling and watching and waiting. There for me when I needed her.

Aubrey was born at 6:18 a.m. the next morning. My mom probably hadn't slept in 48 hours. That's just the kind of woman she is. I call her Mother Theresa. If we were Catholic, she'd definitely be nominated for Sainthood.

In the following weeks, my mom started chemotherapy. I think she had a total of six treatments, three weeks apart. I never heard a single complaint from her. She did what she had to do, and she made it!

So mom, instead of flowers this year, I made a donation in your name to the Huntsman Cancer Institute. 

Thank you for your example of strength and taking care of what matters most in life. I love you. Happy Birthday!

Let it snow, let it snow . . .

. . .  let it please stop snowing. 

I never thought I would be so happy to see rain in Washington. But the rain that fell recently meant the snow was finally being washed away. Thank goodness for that.

I don't mean to be a total humbug, but I really don't like snow. I don't like driving in it (and I especially don't like how others drive in it). I don't like being homebound because the roads aren't cleared (I was astonished several days after the storm how many roads were still a disaster--it was pathetic). I don't like shoveling snow off my walk and driveway. I don't like taking 20 minutes to find all the hats, mittens, scarves, and boots only to take them all off again 10 minutes later (while mopping up a puddle of water on my floor). And I especially don't like school being cancelled because of it (although I loved no school as a kid).

The only redeeming factor of snow is that it is pretty, but it's just as pretty in pictures as it is in real life. My apologies to all you Winter-wonderland lovers. It's just not me.

Western Washington hasn't seen snow like this in decades. Our babysitter never remembered the snow as deep as it was, and her mom said she only remembered once or twice in her lifetime where there was that much snow. So, while it was here and since I knew it wouldn't be around for long, we tried to get out and enjoy it.

There is a great drainage area just down the street from our house, and its slope is perfect for little kids and sledding. Aubrey begged and pleaded to go after the first snowfall, so I drove her and Lincoln over there (like a block away), while Jace and I stayed in the warm car. A couple of days later, Gavin was a good sport and took Aubrey and Lincoln. Jace was napping, but we joined them when he woke up.

I love how Lincoln has his eyes closed. He closed them every time--my cute little scaredy cat.

Aaaah, so cute.

And still so cute, but a different cute. Notice the snow on his left lapel--Aubrey was aiming her snowball at her daddy, but Jace caught it. Poor baby. And that massive bruise in the middle of his forehead was from Lincoln knocking him into the doorframe a day or two earlier. It's like WWF at our house sometimes.

Proof that I was actually there--out in the snow, smiling. The snow is not so bad I guess, and I can only say that now because it's gone! Hooray!

Naughty or nice?

He came . . .

He saw . .  .

He delivered!

The kids had a great Christmas this year. Notice the 'Jacerimeter' around the bottom of the tree. We had to keep the ornaments out of reach of tiny, curious hands. It worked out pretty well.

As you can see, Aubrey's list was quite extensive. She wanted bendaroos, Miley's house (the one thing Santa obliged her with), East high from High School Musical (a gargantuan toy similar to the Hannah Montana house), a TV, a Wii, a Nintendo DS, Little Pet Shop, My Little Pony, and a magic elf (I still don't know what this is--but she told Gav all about it too, it disappears to people you don't want to see it). Her list would have made a great MasterCard commercial.

The kids were thrilled Christmas morning. For the first time, we incorporated one of my family's traditions growing up and moved Lincoln's mattress in Aubrey's bedroom so they could sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve. I think my parents sequestered all six of us into the same bedroom to keep tabs on us so we wouldn't sneak out. Luckily our little tykes haven't discovered the fun of sneak peeks . . . just yet anyway.

Lincoln didn't make it all night in Aubrey's room. As he has done for the past six months or so, he ventured down to our bedroom and some point in the night and made himself comfy on our overstuffed chair and ottoman. Aubrey awoke a little after 5 a.m., but we convinced her to go back to bed until 7:00. By then, Aubrey and Lincoln were both awake, and they were happy to sing a Christmas song softly to Jace while he woke up.

Jace loved his little puppy dog, and still gives him big cuddles whenever he holds him. He's so cute and loves to snuggle stuff, and especially likes dogs. Outside of 'ma' and 'da', we're pretty sure 'daah!' was his first word. Santa was so smart to bring Jace a big puppy to love (but not one that barks and poops).

When Aubrey and Lincoln were done opening presents and ready to play, we had to block little Jace from the fun. Poor baby. He only watched pathetically for a minute or two, then found other stuff to do. He'd check back on his big brother and big sister from time to time though. 

They played for hours in the exercise room--I think Aubrey even let some of Lincoln's jungle animals be a part of Miley's Malibu beach party. And Miley might have gone on a jungle safari or two of her own. 

And here they are, hours later, still going strong. Notice we moved the toys up to the bar, once again out of reach of sweet little Jace. 

Aubrey didn't even get dressed on Christmas day--just stayed in her PJs until bedtime (when we made her change into a fresh pair). 

A full day in pajamas with happy, cooperating children is my kind of 'Merry.'