Slideshow

Our trip to France in 2006.

Our house, when we first bought it in 2003, before the weeds took over the front yard.

Claire, crawling into the dishwasher.

Mary Grace with Kona.

An old, scanned copy of a high school formal dance.  I went with Jack's namesake.

Camping at Grandpa Ben's farm.

Chuck, Mary Grace, and Claire "flying" on the swings.

Grandpa Bob, when he was older.

An old scanned photo of Aunt Kathryn with a newborn Kelly - Kelly's in nursing school now.

Mary Grace's first preschool graduation.

Emily Pinkerton's concert in Grammaland.

Claire melting down at her purple birthday - before I learned how to schedule things around naps.

Cameron's first birthday.

Aunt Jill's baby shower - now Alex almost two.

Grandma Gleason.

Mary Grace hugging Widget in Gramma's window.

Ken and Shannyn's new house when they first moved in.

Mimi's wedding.  Has there ever been a more beautiful bride?

Mary Grace as a baby, looking so much like Jack.

Me, exhausted, right after giving birth.

Me, standing in the sun at Mimi and Trey's wedding.

The Children's Museum.

An old scanned picture of Barbara-Dahling and Uncle Dale from college.


Max.

There are more photos of loved ones who have passed away than there were last time we watched a slideshow.  It hurts.  More friends we've lost touch with, too, in spite of Facebook.  I think of all the good stuff that's lost to us, and I wish that we could just live the last ten years on an infinite loop, over and over and over again.  Well, most of them, anyway.

This is what it feels like to get old.

And then I remember what I tell the kids - don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened.  I think it's a paraphrase of something Dr. Seuss said. 

That guy knew everything.

He's gone, too.

I need chocolate.

I Have Safety Fatigue

Just in time for our third child to be born, they recall every crib in the known universe.  I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to safely pick a baby up out of a crib without a dropping side - at 5'4" tall short, it's not easy.  I guess I'll get a step stool.  That should be REALLY safe at 3 am.

I've thrown out and replaced all of our plastic sippy cups due to concerns over BPA.  We also bought Pyrex storage containers to replace our plastic ones, and we use them most of the time.

At the grocery store today, I spent $7.50 for a gallon of Horizon Organic Milk.  We also buy our beef from a relative who only uses antibiotics when his cows are ill, and who doesn't use growth hormones, and who feeds the cows grass most of the year.

But I have safety fatigue.  I find myself wanting to rebel against the constant vigilance that is required of us - today's parents.  I am sick to death of having Google News Alerts for product recalls.  I'm pretty sure the bars of my crib were more than 2 inches apart AND the side dropped, and somehow my fat head and I managed to survive.  I remember riding in the back of the station wagon, and in the back window of the car, and somehow I survived.

There's a big part of me that thinks that they do this to get us to buy more stuff.  We threw out the carseat we used with the girls because it was 5 years old, and supposedly the plastic degrades after 5 years.  We threw out the stroller it came with because it, too, had been recalled, and the "fix" was a cheesy velcro and fabric cover that any baby I've ever met would rip off in about 10 seconds.

We've given up high fructose corn syrup entirely because of this video (we were on our way to giving it up because common sense says it's bad, this, and having to throw out everything in our fridge, pushed me over the edge):



I'm sick to death of anxiety.  I'm sick of worrying that everything from the milk my kids drink in the morning to the shampoo I use on their precious little heads at night is going to kill them.

I'm about ready to call it quits - to ignore the recalls and just keep using whatever works - because I don't trust the people in charge, and I don't want to spend the money, and I'm just plain tired of worrying about everything.

How do you decide, as a parent, what to worry about and what to ignore?  Do you follow every safety recall and take away the things that are "dangerous" or do you selectively ignore some?  Do you buy organic?  Where do you draw the lines?

Because seriously, sometimes my line makes me feel like a chump.

...and as long as I'm into the wedding album...

How hot is that guy I married?



Rawr!

That is all.

Another Milestone

Today, for the first time since then, I weigh less than I did on my wedding day.

I am at SW-25.

(Maybe this cold isn't all bad).

I'm 1/3 of the way to my goal.

When I get better I'll post a progress picture...  But it's really hard to feel pretty when you have to blow your nose every eleven seconds, even if you are thinner than you have been in eight and a half years.


I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your support and encouragement, and for continuing to read in spite of my endless talking about food and diet and exercise.  I love all of you!

College Flashback

I couldn't think of anything to write about, today, so I did a search for writing prompts and came across this page. #12 is "Write about a brief but scary encounter with one of your old professors," and I realized when I read that, that I have never told you, teeming dozens, the story of Endangered Languages.

When I was a freshman at IU, I took a College of Arts and Sciences class called Endangered Languages. It fulfilled some requirement that all of my other classes (like yoga and beginning guitar) could not.

There was a really cute boy, who had kind of a studiously handsome thing going on, in my class. I actually followed him home one day, and lo and behold - he lived in my dorm! Fate!! I lived in Willkie - the girls lived in the north tower and the boys lived in the south tower. I had to go to the boys' tower to get my mail.

I spent a lot of time getting my mail and hanging out in the dining hall for the next week, hoping to run into him. FINALLY I did.

"Hey, aren't you in my Endangered Languages class?" I said smoothly.

"Yeah, hi, I'm Bryan," he said, I swooned.

"I'm Amy. Nice to meet you. Do you have a copy of the paper assignment? I can't find mine..." complete bull. It was in my backpack.

"Sure, come to my room, it's right over here, and I'll get it. You can make a copy." I was dying. This was going far better than I'd hoped. Maybe he'd noticed me too! Maybe he liked that witty but intelligent remark I'd made during our last class. Maybe we'd get married and have a half a dozen studiously attractive children!!!

"Ok!" I walked to his room with him. He opened the door and there was a girl, a really pretty girl, sitting on his floor.

"Oh. That's the girlfriend," I thought. "Bitch."

Turns out that she was looking at me, thinking, "Oh, that's the girlfriend. Bitch." But I didn't know that until much later.

Anyway, back to the class. It was really intereting... for the first two weeks. Then it got totally repetitive and lame. Bryan, who I was sitting next to, now, was still not in love with me. He and I would write notes back and forth to each other - including dirty limericks about the subject matter. "There once was an Injun named Ishi..." went one. The rest is unprintable.

It was one of those classes where they assign 6 papers, but only average your five highest grades into your final grade. I had As on all the papers, but if you skipped one it counted as a zero, even if you'd aced all the others. I had to turn in something order to get the A I had already earned.

Being the smart-alecked 18 year old that I was, I chose to write, "Why I Didn't Like This Class," as my final paper. I explained that the subject was really interesting at first, but it seemed like they had run out of material really early on, and the rest of the class had been really boring. I suggested that they either make it a half-semester course or make it part of a larger class, maybe on endangered cultures. I thought they could add a bunch in about the other aspects of humanity that were being lost along with these dying languages... I was as respectful as possible, while telling the professor that his class sucked.

I went on for five pages.

I honestly didn't think that the professor would ever see it. The TA, who was a tool, had graded all of our papers up to that point. If the prof did see it, it wouldn't be until the class had ended, and I wouldn't have to look him in the eye. Of course, Bryan read it and loved it, and egged me on to turn it in. Wanting to impress him, I did.

We turned our papers in the Wednesday before the last Friday of class. On Friday we had presentations to give. My group had been scheduled for that day. Immediately before class, the professor (the one who had stopped class a few weeks before to ask Bryan and I what was so funny, when we wrote the dirty limerick) came to me and said, "Are you Amy?"

"Yes?" I said. Bryan was riveted. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, hanging on every word.

"I need to speak to you about your paper after class."

Bryan's jaw hit the desk. My palms were sweaty and my heart raced. I was a wreck for our whole presentation (it was a group thing - I hate group projects). 50 minutes ticked by like I was waiting for an execution.

Mine.

Finally, class ended for the day and the semester - all I had to do was get through this conversation and I'd never have to see this prof, or Endangered Languages again.

Bryan dawdled getting his things together so he could eavesdrop. My face was crimson.

"Amy, I want you to know," said the professor without a hint of sarcasm, "that I really appreciate your paper."

"Excuse me?" I said. Bryan had given up all pretense of not listening, now, and was obviously hanging on the professor's every word.

"I mean it. This class was originally supposed to be about endangered cultures, just as you said. We were only going to spend about two weeks on languages. But the anthropology department said they had a class that was too similar, so at the last minute we had to cut out all the culture stuff and fill a whole semester with languages. You're 100% right. There wasn't enough material for a whole class."

"You've got to be kidding me," Bryan muttered.

"I am going to take your paper to my department head, and show him that a student cared enough to write her final paper on how to improve this class. I hope that I can make a lot of changes next semester, thanks to you. Of course, I can't give you a letter grade on it, but I checked and you already have an A in the class."

I was stunned into absolute silence. Those who know me know that is something that never happens to me.

"Thank you," the professor said, "It's been a pleasure having you in class."

"Ok," I said. I was so shocked, my neurons weren't even firing.

"Good luck with next semester. Enjoy your holidays!" he said.

"Ok," I said.

Bryan and I walked out together. We almost made it to the hall before we started cracking up.

The rest of the story:

I haven't seen Bryan since 1996. If you're Bryan E. Moore and you know this story, e-mail me, for crying out loud.

The bitch on the floor in his dorm room and I went on to become best friends - she was my maid of honor, and I was hers. She's in Louisiana, now, finishing her Ph.D. in anthropology.

The only time I've used anything I learned in that class was to write this post.

Memorial Day Museum

Saturday night, after BJ got home from the race, we were laying in bed waiting for the kids to fall asleep.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?" BJ asked. I kicked around the idea of painting the living room, staining the chairs we've had since MG was tiny, and a host of other projects that need attention at home. He was, understandably, unenthused. I realized that we spend way too much time working on the house, and not enough time doing fun stuff, so I suggested that we drive to Chicago and visit the Museum of Science and Industry with the kids. BJ agreed, and so we did.

We took 94 in and got off at Stony Island to go to Al's Italian Beef for lunch. My grandfather used to ride along with a fire department across the street from the original Al's, and so it became a family tradition to eat there. Whenever any of my relatives would fly into Midway, whoever picked them up would grab a bunch of sandwiches and bring them home to Grammaland, and we'd feast. Eating at Al's took me right back to being a kid, sitting around my Grandma's table with my aunts and uncles. The guy who was working the counter asked us, as we were leaving, how everything was. "Just like I remember," I said, trying not to cry over a sandwich. (At the original Al's, the owner wears a huge gun on his hip. It's very Chicago.)

I love the way they've changed the parking at the museum, even though it costs a fortune. Everyone parks underneath the museum, so in the winter you wouldn't need to worry about coats and stuff.

In an express train from the 1930s.

Pirates! Argh!!

MG's plumber butt, for added authenticity in the "how plumbing works" exhibit.
I swear I did not stage this - she's just outgrowing all her pants.

It's a Moooseum!

Playing gears with Daddy.

In front of the German U-505 submarine. They've improved this exhibit 1000% in the 15 years since BJ and I saw it last. It used to just sit outside in the parking lot, basically. Now it has its own exhibit hall, and you can walk all the way around it (but going inside costs extra).

They've changed a lot, actually, in 15 years. I can't say that I love the "improvements" to the Coal Mine exhibit. The train ride used to be MUCH longer. I swear, when I was a kid I thought it took us all the way back to Indiana. Does anyone know if they had to shorten it to add the underground parking? And they don't do the demonstration with the methane detector anymore. Our guide showed us a couple different kinds, but she didn't "pop" the old kind.

You just can't go home again. *sigh*


Daddy's girlies love rockets!

This was their favorite exhibit:

The crazy little chicks would run around and around in circles, and MG said, "Look at 'em go!" and jumped around like she could hardly stand it. I think we may get a couple of eggs with chicks inside, raise them until they get too big, and then take them to Nancy's farm in a year or two (when the kids are old enough not to squeeze them to bits). Wouldn't that be fun??

After the museum, we located the nearest Giordano's on the GPS (hooray for mobile Google Maps!!) and arrived to find this:

I guess Google Maps doesn't know everything. No worries - we found the next nearest one downtown and went there. By the time we arrived, the kids were pretty strung out. We had to wait, which added to the chaos. But aside from the behavior at dinner time, it was an awesome day.

So, does anyone want to come wrangle girlies while I paint the living room? BJ has a business trip this week. Or, you could come teach me how to stain chairs!!

I hope everyone's Memorial Day was as much fun as ours!

Happy Anniversary, BJ! I can't believe you've put up with me for 8 years!!! I love this family, and all the memories that we've created together.

9/11/2001

I was getting ready for school, watching the Today Show as I always did back then. Almost immediately after the first plane hit, they had cameras fixed on the World Trade Center. I called BJ on his cell phone to let him know what was going on. He was going to a job fair that day, and since he's in aero/astro, I figured that he would look like a moron if he didn't know what was going on, and I didn't want that...

"Some air traffic controller is so fired," I said, "Someone just flew a small plane into the World Trade Center!"

We chatted for a moment, maybe two, before I saw the second plane hit the second tower, live on TV.

"Oh my God," I said, falling to my knees, "It happened again! They're doing it on purpose!"

We debated about whether or not I should go to class (Geology 101, or "Rocks for Jocks" as we called it). We decided that there was nothing I could do, even though all I wanted to do was stay home and watch the news, so I went.

The whole way to class I felt like I should stop people on campus and tell them what was happening, but I didn't. I knew the world had changed, and if they had another hour or two before they realized it, well, so much the better for them. Ignorance is bliss. "Enjoy it while it lasts," I thought.

Everyone was talking about it before class. Several of the girls I always sat with had boyfriends who were in the military, and they were scared. Would it mean war? Someone said, "A plane hit the Pentagon," when another student came in and asked what was going on.

"No," I said, "Not the Pentagon, it was the World Trade Center," I said. I didn't say it, but I thought, "you idiot."

"No, there were three planes. Two at the World Trade Center and one in DC, it hit the Pentagon."

Oh.

Oh God.

And then the girl I'll never forget, who stood up, hysterical, leaving all of her things behind, who ran out of the room screaming, "My dad works in the World Trade Center!" I don't know where she was going. Maybe to find a phone? I never spoke to her. It was a large class, and I didn't know how to say, "Is your dad all right?"

Of course, we didn't know about the one that would go down in Pennsylvania, yet. It was a 9 am class (we were on Chicago time, then).

I remember that the professor said something profound and appropriate, about how even though people were living through a tragedy at that moment, life needed to continue, and so we would proceed with the lesson he'd planned, but that he didn't want us to think that his heart was any less heavy than anyone else's at the news coming from the east coast that morning.

I was in class when the towers collapsed. I saw it later on the news, over and over again, as did anyone with a television that fall.

I didn't know anyone in the towers. I didn't know any of the police or firefighters who died that day. Sometimes I think I'm the only person in America who can say that. But I remember. I remember what a beautiful day it was, hardly a cloud in the sky, perfect fall weather. I remember how it felt. The anger, the fear, the sadness, the impotence, the fear, the fear.

I remember thinking that nothing would ever be the same. I remember wondering if we would ever feel safe again. I remember thinking that the world had changed forever.

It sickens me that the events of that day have been used to further political agendas, but I guess it was naive to expect anything else.

I'm grateful to all the people who have worked so hard to ensure that nothing has happened since - the FBI, the CIA, the TSA, the local police departments all over the country, even the federal government and the Department of Homeland Security. I may not always agree with their methods, but they've worked hard. They've succeeded. It's really a wonder that nothing further has happened since that day. Will we ever know about all the things that could have happened, without their diligence?

Nnone of us who lived it will ever forget that day, whether we were physically there or not. Our hearts were there. And our world has never been the same.

..||..

A much better picture

Ok, the dress was still hideous, but I had supermodel hair.

I made a deal with the Devil in high school. I distinctly remember saying, "I don't understand why I have to get zits now. I'd rather get them when I'm, like, 30, and it doesn't matter."

Anyone who knew me then and has seen me lately knows that the prophecy has been fulfilled.

Note to my 17 year old self - it still matters when you're 30!!!!

Narg.

It's only 9:30 am and I've already vacuumed the whole downstairs (because Lucy stepped on a little piece of glass from a wine glass I broke two weeks ago, even though we've been running around barefoot in the house ever since. She's just lucky, I guess), and picked up a dead bird in the yard (eeeww... thanks kitty). Lucy and Jane are outside with the kids, and I'm going to run upstairs, sneak a shower, and see if I can make any progress on the Mountain of Laundry that I need to fold and put away before the natives get restless again.

I lead such a thrilling life.

I promise I'll quit with the vintage photos, now. But Mom sent that one last night, and I had to redeem the awful official dance picture of me in that same dress. I think it has inspired me to grow my hair out again. I have fantastic hair, when I remember not to mess with it. Note to self: no dye, no highlights, and dear God in heaven - no perms. Thou. Shalt. Not. Besides, it's a lot cooler in the summer to be able to put it into a pony tail or braid than it is to have this mid-length hair that I can't pull back.

BJ will be pleased. He likes my hair best when it's long. I think it speaks to his inner caveman... It's much easier to drag someone back to the cave when her hair is long.

Ok, seriously, time for me to go clean the cave. Ugh.

Child of the 90s

Barbie and I got to talking about JP, after I posted about him a couple weeks ago, and she sent me the following pictures. I couldn't help but share...

Homecoming, 1991:



Now that's a dress! I kind of miss the big shoulder, big hair look, and I hope it comes back. It's hard to believe that it was 17 years ago. What breaks my heart about this picture, besides the fact that I really miss my friend, of course, is that I thought that cute little body was SO fat. Seriously, those legs? I would kill for those legs. I guess you "don't know what you've got, til it's gone."

This was the Christmas dance the same year - by then we'd broken up, but we both wanted to go and we were still friends, so I borrowed a dress at the last minute and we went.

Not my best look, but still. It was a lot cuter without the stupid hat.

This one is from much later - 1997. That's BJ in the chair, in the white sweatshirt. JP has his arm around the blond girl whose name I don't remember. That's our friend, Bill, with the dark hair on the couch. He works for the State Department now and has lived overseas in unpronouncable locations several times. He's one of the smartest people I know (which is saying something, I hang out with a bunch of rocket scientists, for Pete's sake). The Asian girl sitting in front of the couch is Linda. She was brilliant and funny, her brother was the validictorian of our class (JP was the salutatorian). I have no idea what happened to them, but I'm sure they're doing fabulous things. Sitting on the floor is John, he lives in Chicago now. I can't remember the name of the guy with the glasses, either. BJ will remember. Was it Jeremy??

We had gone to the beach that day. This was right before BJ and I started dating. I had such a crush on him. In fact, I only took this picture so that I could have a picture of him! Shortly after this was taken, I ran out of excuses to go to Grammaland every weekend and had to confess that I had a huge crush on BJ.

How can 17 years go by in the blink of an eye?

WFMW: Food on the Floor

When I was a kid, we didn't have a lot of money for vacations and dinners out and stuff. Of course, I never realized, then, that things were tight. Kids don't notice such things, no matter what the TV commercials try to tell you. Anyway, Mom had to get creative to keep three kids entertained.

We had this old rectangular dining room table that she had cut the legs short on, to make it coffee table height. Every once in a while, Mom would make an ethnic dinner (Mexican, Chinese, etc.) and we'd eat around the coffee table. She would decorate (my mom makes Martha Stewart look like an amateur) with stuff we had lying around the house - a big hat for a sombrero, some interesting multicolored fabric for the table cloth, candles in wine bottles for Italian night - and we would have a fancy dinner in. Sometimes she even played music from the country the food was from - I remember opera on Italian night.

It was so much fun. We used to laugh and laugh. The extra effort she put into the meal and the decorations made it feel like a party. Sitting on the floor, instead of at the table, made it feel sillier than a regular meal. Of course, there was always dessert. I particularly remember Spumoni on Italian night.

I guess this isn't really about Food on the Floor, although it's a great idea and you should totally try it with your kids. I think my real point is that kids don't need to spend tons of money to have fun. Every day meals can be a party if you shake things up a bit and make it special. Be creative, and include your kids in the things you enjoy. Mom enjoyed food and cooking, and so she found a way to make it fun for all of us.

You have to make dinner, anyway, right, so why not make it Food on the Floor?

(That coffee table was great for kids, by the way. We had plenty of room to draw and build Lego masterpieces. It took up a lot of space, but we played on it (under it, around it) all the time. I have one, too, but it is living in the garage under the old couch for now.)

Here for Works for me Wednesday? Check out some of my greatest hits...

How to save time and water when you're doing dishes.
How to save a fortune on your groceries without clipping coupons.
How to teach your baby to use a straw.
How to make money with Daytipper.
How to have fun with your kids in the snow.
How to save money when shopping online.
How to prevent frozen hands when sledding.
How to prevent disease with a handy new product (update, it worked - we never got sick!)
How to easily feed a crowd.
How to pack a smaller diaper bag.
How to make Mush McPuna.
How to organize your Christmas list.
How to breathe new life into your lamps with spray paint.
How to use calling cards to give the illusion that you have it all together.
How to use GCal (again) for menu planning.
How to save yourself time in the kitchen with a hot water tap.
How to tie your shoes if you have lollypop thumbs like me.
How to feel good about spending insane money at Christmas.
How to prevent dryer fires.
How to use Google Calendar to organize your family.
How to save a zillion dollars with the Magic Bullet.
How to quickly cool Mac & Cheese.
How to soothe a teething baby without whiskey - oops! I mean Tylenol.
How to do Time Outs correctly.
How to improvise a changing table.
How to get a baby and a toddler into the car.
How to keep your house decluttered with an old waitressing mantra.
How to find a great baby sling.
How to manage your grocery list online.

Thanks for stopping by! Hope to see you again soon!

Visit Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer for more WFMW tips!

I have an idea

So I was watching Dr. Phil yesterday, and he was talking about MRSA - the super scary "superbug" that is probably going to kill "more people than AIDS," according to the show. What scares me the most is that a minor skin injury, just a regular cut, can let MRSA (which is an antibiotic resistant strain of staph) into your body. Once it's there, it's really hard to kill (antibiotic resistant). This 19 year old girl (who appeared healthy and strong) had been living with it for a year. A young boy who was immune compromised died of it extremely quickly when he caught it at the age of 13.

I got to thinking about how devastating it would be to take my healthy kid to the doctor for something totally routine, like the removal of a mole or something, and have them come out with MRSA. It kind of reminded me of when we took MG for her 18 month well-baby visit, and we came home with rotavirus. I thought, "Boy, wouldn't it cut down on these sorts of infections if we could return to the days of house calls?"

But I thought, "No, doctors need all their stuff. They wouldn't want to visit sick people, and then find out that they need some important equipment that they don't have in their car..."

But what about those well baby visits?

Shots are portable. Scales and tape measures are portable. There is nothing that they do in a well baby visit that they couldn't do in the baby's home. This would surely prevent well babies (like MG) from getting (and then spreading) common illnesses like rotavirus (and the flu, and every cold that goes around all winter, and so on...). It would protect the members of our population with the least mature immune systems from contracting illnesses. That would, one would think, prevent the spread of those illnesses in the general population (how many times have you caught a cold from a kid?). Then we'd need fewer antibiotics to begin with, because disease would spread less. That would not only protect kids from getting things like MRSA in the doctor's office, it would also prevent the creation of these "super bugs" (or at least postpone it) in the first place.

And, as a side-effect, how many cases of abuse and neglect would be caught if the doctors were visiting people in their homes, instead of the people coming to doctors' offices? I also think that parents would be more likely to really talk to their doctors about issues if they hadn't just spent 30 minutes sitting in the waiting room next to the person who was waiting for them to finish their kid's appointment so they could get their sick kid home.

I recently read an article (can't remember where, can't find it) about maternal mortality in the U.S., and how many cases go unreported (because death certificates in many states don't ask if the woman was pregnant immediately prior to or at the time of death). More to the point, it said that many of these deaths could have been prevented if someone had visited the woman's home in the weeks immediately following birth. One particularly sad case was of a single mother, whose family lived in another state, who died of a postpartum hemorrhage. The baby starved to death. They were found much too late when her family hadn't heard from her.

Home visits after birth are standard in many European countries (where the maternal mortality rate is much lower). The article suggested that if we adopt this model in the U.S., we could prevent a lot of death and suffering.

I think we need to return to a home-based model of medical care in this country. Yes, I know that time is money to doctors. Yes, I know they need their equipment. Yes, I know that it would cost more. But I think it's worth considering. I just wish I could figure out who to write to or talk to about my suggestions (besides you all, of course).

The Rest of the Story

We all know that Ray Kroc was the guy who found the McDonald brothers restaurant and turned it into the global empire that it is today, but what most of us don't know is the (completely fictional) tale of how the McDonald brothers got the idea to open the first McDonald's in the first place.

It all started with their mother. Hattie McDonald was from the Old Country. She spoke with a brogue, loved the bagpipes, and was as good a cook as the British Isles ever produced. She would lovingly prepare the haggis and other traditional fare for the brothers Mac every day. Her Sunday meals were elaborate enough for the Queen herself. Her holiday dinners were spectacular.

But poor old Hattie McDonald, as she was the mother of sons, her efforts were never fully appreciated. For her boys would sooner hoover up a meal in eleven seconds than linger over the subtle flavors and textures that Old Mrs. McDonald had so lovingly prepared. Her husband, alas, was no help. He would simply belch, say, "Boys will be boys," and retire to the couch with his belt unbuckled for a nap, while Hattie would spend as many hours in the cleaning as she had in the cooking, feeling very unappreciated and taken advantage of.

And so one fine summer Sunday, Hattie had finally had it. She looked about her kitchen and said, "Enough! I will no longer slave in the kitchen for these ungrateful heathens. If they are going to eat in eleven flat seconds, then I shall cook in eleven flat seconds, and we'll see if they like it!"

Poor Hattie just wanted a little appreciation. She just wanted someone to say, "Gee, Ma, this is a fine haggis you've made for us today!" or even, "This parritch just keeps getting better and better, Mother dear!"

Hattie pounded out some ground beef as thin as you please, and fried it up in a pan. She cut up some potatoes and fried them in oil. And to top it all off, she served the "meal" on old newspapers, instead of on her dear departed great grandmother's china.

Hattie's plan was that the brothers McDonald would hate this hurried up meal, and would finally come to appreciate all of the loving attention that she had been paying them with her food, all these long years.

Alas, we know that it wasn't meant to be. The brothers McDonald loved the meal. What's more, they saw the potential for a fair living, if not an empire, in those paper wrapped sandwiches. Then Ray Kroc came along, and the rest, as they say, is history...

But what happened to poor old Hattie? Did she stick her head in her gas oven? Did she cut herself while slicing the haggis and bleed to death? Did she leap off of the first set of golden arches to her demise?

We may never know, friends. Because I made all of this up entirely. But it is exactly the kind of thing that runs through my head as I'm spending an hour cleaning dishes from a meal that I spent four hours preparing, and that my family has hoovered up in eleven flat seconds.


Haggis picture courtesy of sausages.co.uk. The preceding tale was fiction, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for Ray Kroc and the McDonald brothers, because they really existed, but I don't believe that their mother's name was Hattie, or that she committed suicide.

WTMonday: Official proof that "they" have run out of ideas

It's a special Monday edition of WTFriday... I just couldn't wait to tell you that The New Kids on the Block are reuniting!


SeeqPod - Playable Search

No, I wish I were kidding. According to other blogs, which directed me to this website which I don't actually read, the NKOTB are reuniting (the video is especially moving, don't miss it!).

Well, I guess if the Spice Girls can do it...

I will admit that I luuuuvvved the New Kids when I was in middle school. I even went to the concert. I know. I think it's brave of me to put this out there as a matter of public record, too. But unlike their other millions (?) of fans, I haven't been awaiting their return. In fact, of all the music I listen to, NKOTB are one of the few bands that I used to like but refuse to listen to now (Michael Jackson, the Nelson Brothers, and those kids that sang MMMbop are also in this category). I mean, I'll rock out to a little "Ice, Ice Baby" now and then, and even a little Milli Vanilli, but I do not get all nostalgic for the New Kids. I. Just. Don't. The fact that I used to like them is still embarrassing, and it's been, what, 20 years?

And let's talk about names, while we're discussing reunions... When naming one's band, it's probably best to avoid names that include references to your age - New Kids, Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys. These things work when you're a teenager, but they just don't have the staying power of, say, Aerosmith or the Rolling Stones. It's cool to go see Aerosmith in concert. It's just kind of sad to see the Beach Boys. They're all eligible to be AARP members, they're no longer boys. The Spice Girls should reform as Old Spice. And New Kids? Well, let's just say that New Soccer Dads in the Minivan* would be more accurate, now. They're all pushing 40. And while the Rolling Stones may hear the occasional Kidney Stone joke, it's not nearly as pathetic as a bunch of grown men calling themselves Kids. For that matter, 20 years later they are no longer New, either.

Recycled Old Guys on the Block? Retooled Middle-Aged Men in the Minivan? Eek.

In other news, a whole bunch of people are pregnant and I'm not, and I'm kind of getting baby envy. I can think of 5 expectant moms right off the top of my head. Meanwhile, I'm going through the kids clothes today, pulling out the stuff that Claire has outgrown, and looking at the little bitty outfits and stuff, and I'm starting to think about #3. I'm out of my mind. We don't have room in this house for another baby, much less room in the budget. It would just be silly. Still, matters of the heart (and the ovaries) seldom have anything to do with logic. Maybe I just want to have the new kid on the block. *Snort* I'd better keep Hangin' Tough. You know, take this motherhood thing Step by Step. Even though I know I'll Be Loving You Forever, kids, I don't necessarily need another one of you at present. Oh, I know, I have The Right Stuff. Maybe next year we could have a Valentine Girl? What do you say, BJ, Let's Try It Again? Tonight? Baby, I Believe In You! Don't Give Up On Me! Treat Me Right!**



* I say this as a Mom who drives a minivan, but I'm not trying to be cool, or a sex symbol, or to sell you anything, either, so I'm not nearly as silly.

**Hold On! I'm totally kidding! Don't Give Up On Me! Hahaha! Ok, I have to stop. Stop It, Girl! Heeee...

*** Picture courtesy of my bedroom wall, circa 1988. I used to have this whole theory about how you could tell a lot about a girl by which New Kid she was in love with. Take the poll!

Syrup of Ipecac?

Mom and I are sitting here having a discussion about the 50 Best Parenting Tips, and one of them is to keep ipecac in your glove box, in case you have a poisoning situation on the road. I read that and said, "Uh oh, I'm going to have to write a letter. They don't want people to use ipecac anymore." Mom was horrified* (see also: car seats, driving into the river, etc.) and said, "But what are you supposed to do if they eat a bottle of Tylenol? That will kill you!" I looked up the current guidelines for use (VERY useful website there, folks, and not just for ipecac!) and as I thought, they only seem to want you to use it if you're more than 60 minutes away from an emergency room. Mom says that you'd have to wait at least that long in any ER, so you should give them ipecac even if the hospital is just across town, like it is here. I say that if I walk in with a kid and say, "This child ate a bottle of Tylenol 10 minutes ago!" they're going to hop to and skip all the time-wasting preliminary stuff.

What say you, internets? Ipecac - yay or nay? And be sure to list your age (or, at least, your generation) with your answer, because I have a feeling that makes a difference.

* Edited to add: Mom insists that she was not "horrified." She was calmly and moderately concerned. Duly noted.

This American Life

Ok, now I feel like a jerk for complaining. Listen to this episode of This American Life if you want to understand why.

I found the prologue, about how "experts" recommended against showing affection to children in the early part of the 20th century, especially interesting. The other two stories are very powerful as well.

I think I feel even better about my decision to stop listening to "experts" after hearing that. I wonder if any of you Baby Boomers will feel differently about your relationships with your parents, in light of this perspective. Interesting...

Return of the Drive In

Claire is doing much better. The fever broke after about 24 hours. I think it was the rotavirus vaccine that did it to her. And 24 hours of fever is better than the fun we had when MG had rotavirus. I was hugely pregnant with Claire - it was about 6 weeks before she was born. MG caught it at the doctor's office, and within 18 hours was puking her little guts out (11/12 times she threw up, she got it all over me. Motherhood is so glamorous!). We ended up in the emergency room. BJ and I had it, too, but not as badly as Mary Grace. It was absolutely miserable, and something I never want to do again, hence the vaccine. See, I used to be all, "Oh, we don't need flu shots and chicken pox shots and stuff like that because they won't be maimed or disfigured if they live through the flu or the chicken pox, so just give us the polio and the MMR and the DTAP and all the vaccines against really dangerous stuff, and we'll get immune to the not-as-dangerous stuff the old fashioned way." Yeah. And then I met rotavirus. Good Lord.

I can't imagine living a hundred years ago, when people used to die of simple infections and dehydration and other things that are so easy for us, in the U.S., to deal with now. It used to be normal for mothers to have lost a child, or several children. In some places it still is. I can't imagine. Those people didn't/don't love their children any less than we do. I'm really grateful to live in this time.

So, speaking of The Way Things Were, we went to the drive-in again last night. They were showing Ratatouille and Live Free or Die Hard. It was nice to see an adult movie that is still in theaters for a change. Ratatouille was cute, but over MG's head. Die Hard had some funny dialog, but required an uncomfortable level of "suspension of disbelief." They did some things with a fighter jet that were just not even possible. Oh well, it was fun. We didn't get home till 2 am. (The girls fell asleep long before the second movie came on, of course). BJ, the wus, is still upstairs sleeping. He made a brief appearance and then went right back up to bed.

I don't think he's been puked on, either. Sucks to be The Mom.

The Way Things Were

My mom is horrified by car seats. She is convinced that I am going to drive into the river and that I'm not going to be able to get the babies out of their seats. It doesn't matter that I'm about 4 times faster at getting the babies in and out of their seats than she is (practice, practice, practice). She thinks the seats are little plastic death traps.

This has prompted her to tease me about all the harnesses in my kids' lives. The swings, the high chairs, the bouncy seats - all of the things that we put our kids in, today, have at least 3-point, and usually 5-point harnesses. My generation has an expectation that if you put a child in something, he or she will still be there when you come back.

Apparently this was not The Way Things Were when my mom was raising us, which brings me to our new feature:

The Way Things Were

...in which I will explore how parenting has changed since the stone age when I was little.

We begin with car seats. Apparently there was no such animal when I was a kid. Acceptable substitutes included laundry baskets, a parent's lap, and the back window of the car. Apparently when one parent was traveling alone with a child, it was standard practice to hold a child in one's lap while one was driving. DRIVING. Apparently Mom even nursed me while she was in the act of driving at times - not just as a passenger in the car, but while she was in control of the trajectory of the vehicle. And this was not an abnormal thing to do - my friend Shannyn's mom, apparently, did the same thing when Shannyn was little.

These days, if you don't spend $200 on the state of the art car seat, with a five point harness, cushioning, and its own miniature airbags, and if you don't strap Junior in more tightly than an astronaut on the Shuttle during take-off, you are a Bad Mommy. And children have to stay in their car seats until they are nine years old. Nine. Years. Old. Mom was probably driving when she was nine.

In addition, children are not allowed to ride in the front seat until they are twenty. This poses a serious problem for the 16 year old, learning to drive, because he or she must actually learn to drive from the back seat, and then transition to the front seat when he or she is old enough to not be frightened by the airbags when they go off.

I rear ended someone once (BK - before kids), and my air bags went off. Holy crimeny, that was scary. It sounded like a gun going off. My thoughts were, "Who's shooting at me?? What's all this white stuff???" before I figured out what had happened. And I had huge bruises and chemical burns on my forearms.

If you ask me, the greater risk is to the elderly, who may very well have a heart attack when the air bags go off. It seems to me that, given a choice, the kids with young, healthy hearts should be driving, and all of us old farts should be cowering in the back seat. Kids would probably make better drivers anyway. Have you ever watched them play video games?

What else was different when you were raising kids? Drop me an e-mail or a comment, and your crazy parenting practices may be featured in a future installment of The Way Things Were.