If I had to start giving up things in my life, cable TV would have to be way down on the list. At least half of the channels my family watches, happen to cable channels. I mean, I am a huge fan of network TV and G grew up watching Public TV, but cable is where it's at.
The newest channel to make the list is the Science Channel. Super geeky, I know. G would rather watch the Science Channel than cartoons most days. I am rather glad, because I like the Science Channel too. That way we are learning, not just being entertained.
One of the shows this past week was called KAPOW! Superhero Science. I sat to watch it with him, because one never knows what will strike him as scary. As I said, I also enjoy learning and it also gives me some background into the questions he will ask M and I. The show compares superhero traits to current abilities in science and technology. The show focused on characters from the X-Men series. Never been a comics/anime kind of girl, so I learned more than science.
One of the segments was addressing the attributes of Wolverine. (Wolverine = Hugh Jackman: there's my extent of X-Men knowledge. Hunky man... yeah, I pay attention at the movie theater.) Apparently one his assets as a superhero is longevity. And that would be Wolverine, not Hugh Jackman, sadly. Wolverine is 120 years old but still in his prime.
Can humans really live longer life spans? Well, science thinks so. According to the show, an expert scientist in the field of longevity has been able to expand the lifespan of fruit flies to 3 times normal. More than 78 days. Wahoo! The show called them "superflies." How did science do this? The waited to harvest fruit fly eggs until the last moment of their reproductive window. The scientist found that over time, waiting until towards the end of the reproductive window eventually produced longer living generations. So, they estimate, in 3,000 years we humans could be living to 200.
Thanks in part to people like me. People who are waiting until they are older to have kids. So, being 35 and pregnant might actually have more of an upside than I thought.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Rumbly Tummies
I had belly pain again today. I spent most of the day on the couch while the boys did some yard work. On one of their excursions inside for a cool drink, M asked how I was feeling.
Me: "Know how you feel when you get bloated?"
M: "Yeah."
Me: "Multiply that by ten. Have it wiggle at will."
M just looks at me.
As fate would have it, M would be feeling more empathy by the end of the day.
G has been asking for Sali's Cheese Pizza since midweek. M and I agreed that we'd get some Sali's tonight. My appetite was up so I asked for Spaghetti with Meatballs with a side of Meatballs. (I still don't quite know how my son ended up being such a vegetarian idealist.) M ordered himself a calzone, a usual family favorite.
Now, in our family we have all these weird food/diet things going on.
G: No meat, no sauce (ketchup, mustard, etc.) and no tomatoes
M: No corn and no soy cause he's allergic and no dairy cause he's lactose intolerant
Me: Just generally picky, especially about my sauce to noodle/rice ratio and I tend to be lactose intolerant too, actually
Now, look above, no dairy for M but he's ordering a cheese filled calzone. Thank goodness for Lactaid, which he took like a good boy.
But, then I pushed him over the edge: I asked him to scoop me some ice cream. I'm pregnant, ice cream is a natural. No pickles though.
M: "Hey! This is a new carton!"
Me: "Yeah, I bought a new one the other day."
M: "Hm. Think I'll have some for myself then."
There is that moment when you start to open your mouth and say "Um, honey, that's probably not such a good idea." And then your brain says "Don't be a nagging pregnant wife." And you don't say anything. So I didn't say anything. I let him scoop two bowls and hand one to me.
About 30 minutes later, M sticks his head around the corner from the hallway.
M: "I shouldn't have eaten that ice cream."
Me: "No shit Sherlock." (Lactaid only gets you so far.)
M, takes pause: "I'm not getting any sympathy am I?"
Me: "No, not really. Although I almost said something to you since you had dairy at dinner."
M: "Why didn't you say anything?!?!"
Me gives a non-committal shrug.
M takes a moment to scratch his nose with his middle finger.
He walks by a short time later rubbing his tummy and frowning.
Me: "Feeling a little more empathy here?"
M nods: "Yeah, a little."
Me: "Good."
Me: "Know how you feel when you get bloated?"
M: "Yeah."
Me: "Multiply that by ten. Have it wiggle at will."
M just looks at me.
As fate would have it, M would be feeling more empathy by the end of the day.
G has been asking for Sali's Cheese Pizza since midweek. M and I agreed that we'd get some Sali's tonight. My appetite was up so I asked for Spaghetti with Meatballs with a side of Meatballs. (I still don't quite know how my son ended up being such a vegetarian idealist.) M ordered himself a calzone, a usual family favorite.
Now, in our family we have all these weird food/diet things going on.
G: No meat, no sauce (ketchup, mustard, etc.) and no tomatoes
M: No corn and no soy cause he's allergic and no dairy cause he's lactose intolerant
Me: Just generally picky, especially about my sauce to noodle/rice ratio and I tend to be lactose intolerant too, actually
Now, look above, no dairy for M but he's ordering a cheese filled calzone. Thank goodness for Lactaid, which he took like a good boy.
But, then I pushed him over the edge: I asked him to scoop me some ice cream. I'm pregnant, ice cream is a natural. No pickles though.
M: "Hey! This is a new carton!"
Me: "Yeah, I bought a new one the other day."
M: "Hm. Think I'll have some for myself then."
There is that moment when you start to open your mouth and say "Um, honey, that's probably not such a good idea." And then your brain says "Don't be a nagging pregnant wife." And you don't say anything. So I didn't say anything. I let him scoop two bowls and hand one to me.
About 30 minutes later, M sticks his head around the corner from the hallway.
M: "I shouldn't have eaten that ice cream."
Me: "No shit Sherlock." (Lactaid only gets you so far.)
M, takes pause: "I'm not getting any sympathy am I?"
Me: "No, not really. Although I almost said something to you since you had dairy at dinner."
M: "Why didn't you say anything?!?!"
Me gives a non-committal shrug.
M takes a moment to scratch his nose with his middle finger.
He walks by a short time later rubbing his tummy and frowning.
Me: "Feeling a little more empathy here?"
M nods: "Yeah, a little."
Me: "Good."
It's so much more satisfying to give your spouse an "I told you so" than to sound like you are being a pregnant nagging bitch. Yes, I am onery that way.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Demando Boy
The Demando Cat story was actually brought up yesterday when my husband used the phrase "Demando Boy" to describe G's behavior. G is about to turn five years old. I remember from my days of teaching preschool what this means to someone at that stage of life. It seems that around this time, the world gets much much bigger and you realize they aren't really the Center of the Universe after all. This is a very disconcerting place to be. It's not all about you anymore, and you had better figure out your place in it. The resulting behavior is ignoring your parents and trying to boss everyone around. It's trying to retain an illusion of still being the Center of the Universe and of feeling important (Some people tend to get stuck at this stage and never leave. I should know, I dated some of them back in the day.)
G has recently become more concerned about when M gets home from work each day. I usually call and ask, so I know when he's scheduled to arrive. Apparently I have set a bad precedent.
After school on the way to swim lessons, G asks when M will be home. I told him that Daddy would probably leave the office when we were headed home from swim lessons. This got him through swim lessons. On the way home, G wanted some assurances.
G: "When is Dad coming home?"
Me: "He said he was leaving at 5, and it's past 5 so he's probably on his way."
G: "Did you call him to make sure he left?"
Me: "No, but I am sure he will be on his way."
G: "Call and make sure."
Me: *Sighs and dials M* "YOU can talk to your Dad."
*M answers phone*
Me: "Your son wants to talk to you." *hands phone to G*
G: "Have you left yet?"
*listens intently*
G: "When will you be home?"
*listens intently*
G: "Okay, see you at home soon, Dad. Love you too."
*hands phone back to me*
Me: "I tried to tell him."
M: "He's such a Demando Boy."
Me: "I know. Don't know where he gets that from..."
G has recently become more concerned about when M gets home from work each day. I usually call and ask, so I know when he's scheduled to arrive. Apparently I have set a bad precedent.
After school on the way to swim lessons, G asks when M will be home. I told him that Daddy would probably leave the office when we were headed home from swim lessons. This got him through swim lessons. On the way home, G wanted some assurances.
G: "When is Dad coming home?"
Me: "He said he was leaving at 5, and it's past 5 so he's probably on his way."
G: "Did you call him to make sure he left?"
Me: "No, but I am sure he will be on his way."
G: "Call and make sure."
Me: *Sighs and dials M* "YOU can talk to your Dad."
*M answers phone*
Me: "Your son wants to talk to you." *hands phone to G*
G: "Have you left yet?"
*listens intently*
G: "When will you be home?"
*listens intently*
G: "Okay, see you at home soon, Dad. Love you too."
*hands phone back to me*
Me: "I tried to tell him."
M: "He's such a Demando Boy."
Me: "I know. Don't know where he gets that from..."
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Master of Our Domain
I bought this T-shirt a long time ago for my husband when we were proud parents of just two cats. (Sebastian and Bina) I found this shirt particularly funny because Sebastian is a Demando Cat.
One of the great things I find about cats is the ability to set cat food out and let them graze at will. We've never really been fans of the "scheduled feed," partly because we're just not "scheduled" kind of people. This tendency really skews us to being "cat people" instead of "dog people." So, it's dry food open buffet at our house with special "tuna" (wet food) dinners offered every now and again.
Despite having an abundant supply of food on a consistent basis, Sebastian has been extremely bothered by the ability to see the bottom of his food dish. Usually this means that all the food has been pushed up against the sides and there is really plenty food left. Still, a spot is a spot and it causes immense consternation. More times than not, all it takes is a simple shake of the bowl to appease his Siamese worries of impending starvation. If he can't see the bottom, life is good. One spot of "blue" and life is filled with stress and anxiety. (We seem to only buy blue colored food bowls, so the catch phrase in our house is "Oh my G-d, there's BLUE in my bowl!")
Just like Demando Cat, Sebastian is not afraid to come get you at any moment of your day and tell you all about his deepest concerns of Languishing in Utter Starvation since we have obviously neglected an Important Act in His Daily Existence. This has even extended over the years to the water bowl which must be nearly full and As Fresh As Possible. Even worse, he's taught the other three cats to exhibit Immense Stress and Concern over the whole "blue" issue. (Well, I take that back a little bit: Phineas isn't as well versed in this idea, even though he's a Meeze. I think his feral background just makes him thankful there is food, period. I give him another year or two before he learns to fully express himself in this manner.)
The ugliest side of all this, is that Sebastian is also an emotional eater. If you have let the blue spots reside for any length of time which he sees unfit, he's gonna let you know exactly how he feels about it. Once you do see the Errors in Your Ways and amended yourself by filling up the Blue Bowl with tasty morsels, you must still be Punished. He will gorge himself on food then find a spot close to wherever the Offending Human may be and throw it all up, a.k.a. "yawking." Usually it is a spot where you will hear the deed, but not see him do it. He just needs to show you how he feels, not just tell you. (A reason to detest carpeting and thank the Universe for hard surface flooring.)
His bulimic tendencies aren't only about the food bowl, though. Any time he feels Neglected, it's open yawking season. We have learned to live with this personality trait, because I tend to think every being has their own special neuroses. We just have to acknowledge them and trust that Love is bigger than those little negativities. I wouldn't have traded my 15 years of laughter and tears that Sebastian has experienced with me. We all have our demands, and really, his is pretty small in the big picture. Even if it means cleaning up a pile of steaming yawk now and then.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sebastian Bock: The Beginning
I have a Siamese fetish. I love them. Anything I love, I tend to collect. Case in point: Three out of my four cats are Siamese. My second favorite kind of cat is the Calico. Two of our four cats are Calicos. Genevieve is my Calico Siamese
My first Siamese, and my original baby in this life, is Sebastian Bock. He's now fifteen years old and I've had him since he was five weeks old. I can't imagine life without him. Anyone who has known me for a long time knows Sebastian. Over the years of spending time with him, he has provided everyone alot of laughs and even a few tears. I've always thought Sebastian would make a great character in a series of children's books, due to his utterly charming personality and his simple and innocent approach to life.
I got Sebastian when I was in college at the Univeristy of Texas at Austin. As I said, he's my original baby but technically he was my second cat. I responded to an ad for a free kitten from some fellow collegiates for my first kitten, Cecilia. I soon felt Cecilia needed a playmate so I went out on a hunt. The best place in Austin at the time was the Austin City Pound/SPCA. I visited all the time and fell in love with a little flame point Siamese kitten. He was in the top row of cages in the "strays" section of the pound. In this section, visitors must "petition" an animal to become adoptable. Of course, Sebastian had more than enough signatures. When you approached the cage, you saw this tiny cross-eyed white kitten with a tiny pink nose and huge orange ears. How adorable!
I got there the first day he was adoptable. 10 am, actually slightly earlier in order to assure I had the first adoption application. There were a couple of other people there early. I went in an announced my intention to adopt the little cutie... and found out I wasn't the only one there for him. Here I was, a college student in jeans and sneakers. The other interested party was a woman in a business suit. The SPCA staff allowed both of us to submit applications. I walked away, crushed. There was no way they would let me have him over the other woman. Established vs. student... no way.
But they called me, and they gave him to me. The woman already had nine cats, I only had one. I was the better home, they felt. I was ELATED! I ran down and picked him, this sweet, cross-eyed baby. As soon as we were in the car, I let him out of his cardboard crate so he wouldn't panic. I had a '69 VW beetle bug at the time, and within minutes the kitten was out of my sight. When I pulled up at the apartments where I lived, I got out and hunked down to pluck the kitten from the floorboards. No kitten.
I panicked. I checked again, both sides: no kitten. I panicked further... this was an old car, the floorboards of the VW Beetles at the time were NOTORIOUS for rusting out and I started to get a sinking feeling my kitten may have found one.
I was ready to cry when I hear a small plaintive "mew." I stopped, listening. "Mew?" "Mew?" I followed the sound, to underneath the driver's seat. There, tangled in the seat coils, was my precious kitten. Cross-eyed and hopelessly stuck. I plucked him out and dropped him in the inside pocket of my leather jacket and carried him safely home.
My first Siamese, and my original baby in this life, is Sebastian Bock. He's now fifteen years old and I've had him since he was five weeks old. I can't imagine life without him. Anyone who has known me for a long time knows Sebastian. Over the years of spending time with him, he has provided everyone alot of laughs and even a few tears. I've always thought Sebastian would make a great character in a series of children's books, due to his utterly charming personality and his simple and innocent approach to life.
I got Sebastian when I was in college at the Univeristy of Texas at Austin. As I said, he's my original baby but technically he was my second cat. I responded to an ad for a free kitten from some fellow collegiates for my first kitten, Cecilia. I soon felt Cecilia needed a playmate so I went out on a hunt. The best place in Austin at the time was the Austin City Pound/SPCA. I visited all the time and fell in love with a little flame point Siamese kitten. He was in the top row of cages in the "strays" section of the pound. In this section, visitors must "petition" an animal to become adoptable. Of course, Sebastian had more than enough signatures. When you approached the cage, you saw this tiny cross-eyed white kitten with a tiny pink nose and huge orange ears. How adorable!
I got there the first day he was adoptable. 10 am, actually slightly earlier in order to assure I had the first adoption application. There were a couple of other people there early. I went in an announced my intention to adopt the little cutie... and found out I wasn't the only one there for him. Here I was, a college student in jeans and sneakers. The other interested party was a woman in a business suit. The SPCA staff allowed both of us to submit applications. I walked away, crushed. There was no way they would let me have him over the other woman. Established vs. student... no way.
But they called me, and they gave him to me. The woman already had nine cats, I only had one. I was the better home, they felt. I was ELATED! I ran down and picked him, this sweet, cross-eyed baby. As soon as we were in the car, I let him out of his cardboard crate so he wouldn't panic. I had a '69 VW beetle bug at the time, and within minutes the kitten was out of my sight. When I pulled up at the apartments where I lived, I got out and hunked down to pluck the kitten from the floorboards. No kitten.
I panicked. I checked again, both sides: no kitten. I panicked further... this was an old car, the floorboards of the VW Beetles at the time were NOTORIOUS for rusting out and I started to get a sinking feeling my kitten may have found one.
I was ready to cry when I hear a small plaintive "mew." I stopped, listening. "Mew?" "Mew?" I followed the sound, to underneath the driver's seat. There, tangled in the seat coils, was my precious kitten. Cross-eyed and hopelessly stuck. I plucked him out and dropped him in the inside pocket of my leather jacket and carried him safely home.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Hosting an Alien Being
It's been one of those days where I wonder how the hell I got here. I mean, I love having my son. He is a complete joy and there are still those moments when I want to pick him up and just kiss him all over. Slurp him up. But, he's getting to that age where it's gonna be very uncool for a mom to do that to him. He'll be five in a couple weeks. Ready for kindergarten.
I watched the baby fade away and saw the child blossom in him. I looked at the calendar and thought "if we're gonna do this again, it needs to be soon." While in the process of losing my mom, I felt it especially important to give G a sibling. I wouldn't have wanted to go through that process of terminal illness alone. I have my sister. G should have someone on his side when it comes to dealing with his crazy old parents.
And so we tried, and failed once. And we tried again and succeeded. So here I am, 30 weeks pregnant (7 months for you counting it out mentally.) And I have hit the misery wall. Baby dropping, belly getting bigger, wiggles and squirms, I can't get comfortable, and I FINALLY have an appetite and I REALLY want to sleep. And, my body WANTS to cooperate with the sleep thing, except for the pressure and wiggling. Not condusive to relaxation and sleep. Hrmph. Kels did with with twins... HOW?!?!?! (Many, many kudos to Kels for pulling off that one!)
NOTE: DUE TO GRAPHIC CONTENT, SOME READERS MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION UNCOMFORTABLE
It wouldn't all be so bad if baby Twiggy would just leave my damn cervix alone. I have NO idea what she's doing, tap dancing, knitting crochet... but something that is driving me up the freaking wall. My son did this to me in utero, but he chose full fledged head butting. (VERY UNCOMFORTABLE.) But only did this in the last two weeks of the pregnancy. I figured it was his way of saying "let me out of here! I am done cooking!" But this little girl... who knows.
Cervix, um, stimulation from the outside is pretty nice. From the inside? It's an insanely weird feeling. I am sure the aliens have taken over and are probing me constantly. A little bit is annoying, but alot is painful.
10 more weeks
10 more weeks
10 more weeks
It's a mantra. I can make it. It will fly by.
There's actually SO much to do! I haven't started G's big move to the bigger secondary bedroom so we can reset the nursery in his little room. It will take some work, but will be worth it in the end. I also need to get Twiggy's infant seat cleaned up and ready and all her clothes washed. (Thanks Mel!) She's gonna be one well dressed baby!
Get out the bottles, sanitize them, get out the breast feeding pillows...etc. SO MUCH TO DO! Talking about all this does get me excited. A daughter, a little girl. How precious! I have to admit, part of me doesn't want to get excited until I hold her and see her little face. It's been a hard road, with losing a pregnancy and then my mom. I want to be so careful with my emotions. I want to tip toe there and hold my breathe and pray that everything will come out as right as possible. I want assurances. I want to count those fingers and toes over and over. I want to kiss her all over and never let her go.
It is all worth it. I know it deep in my heart and these little complaints, are just part of the territory. The Journey. Few Journies are painless. That's what makes them so worthwhile. You learn and you grow and you gain more of a sense of who you are and why you are here. It's the gift of being human being.
I watched the baby fade away and saw the child blossom in him. I looked at the calendar and thought "if we're gonna do this again, it needs to be soon." While in the process of losing my mom, I felt it especially important to give G a sibling. I wouldn't have wanted to go through that process of terminal illness alone. I have my sister. G should have someone on his side when it comes to dealing with his crazy old parents.
And so we tried, and failed once. And we tried again and succeeded. So here I am, 30 weeks pregnant (7 months for you counting it out mentally.) And I have hit the misery wall. Baby dropping, belly getting bigger, wiggles and squirms, I can't get comfortable, and I FINALLY have an appetite and I REALLY want to sleep. And, my body WANTS to cooperate with the sleep thing, except for the pressure and wiggling. Not condusive to relaxation and sleep. Hrmph. Kels did with with twins... HOW?!?!?! (Many, many kudos to Kels for pulling off that one!)
NOTE: DUE TO GRAPHIC CONTENT, SOME READERS MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION UNCOMFORTABLE
It wouldn't all be so bad if baby Twiggy would just leave my damn cervix alone. I have NO idea what she's doing, tap dancing, knitting crochet... but something that is driving me up the freaking wall. My son did this to me in utero, but he chose full fledged head butting. (VERY UNCOMFORTABLE.) But only did this in the last two weeks of the pregnancy. I figured it was his way of saying "let me out of here! I am done cooking!" But this little girl... who knows.
Cervix, um, stimulation from the outside is pretty nice. From the inside? It's an insanely weird feeling. I am sure the aliens have taken over and are probing me constantly. A little bit is annoying, but alot is painful.
10 more weeks
10 more weeks
10 more weeks
It's a mantra. I can make it. It will fly by.
There's actually SO much to do! I haven't started G's big move to the bigger secondary bedroom so we can reset the nursery in his little room. It will take some work, but will be worth it in the end. I also need to get Twiggy's infant seat cleaned up and ready and all her clothes washed. (Thanks Mel!) She's gonna be one well dressed baby!
Get out the bottles, sanitize them, get out the breast feeding pillows...etc. SO MUCH TO DO! Talking about all this does get me excited. A daughter, a little girl. How precious! I have to admit, part of me doesn't want to get excited until I hold her and see her little face. It's been a hard road, with losing a pregnancy and then my mom. I want to be so careful with my emotions. I want to tip toe there and hold my breathe and pray that everything will come out as right as possible. I want assurances. I want to count those fingers and toes over and over. I want to kiss her all over and never let her go.
It is all worth it. I know it deep in my heart and these little complaints, are just part of the territory. The Journey. Few Journies are painless. That's what makes them so worthwhile. You learn and you grow and you gain more of a sense of who you are and why you are here. It's the gift of being human being.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Egg Trauma Drama
I love to cook. Usually cooking means making a huge production out of whatever I am making. I usually come up with good results. And a very very messy kitchen. Needless to say, I don't cook very often. I am slowly learning to simplify. I am finding though, that simple isn't always simple. Some things just aren't rocket science; if they were, I might actually get it.
Given the impending Easter holiday, G's school requested that we send three hardboiled eggs to school so the kids could color them as an art project. So, yesterday, I called M on his way home from work and requested that he pick up eggs at the store. I had eggs in the refrigerator, but they were brown and wouldn't take Easter egg coloring as well as white eggs. This is a huge favor to ask of him. He hates eggs. Hates them. Won't eat them unless they are in baked goods, and despises the smell of eggs cooking. He told me he knew it was true love when we was willing to wash the pan after I made myself scrambled eggs one particular evening. G doesn't have this aversion. G once ate six scrambled eggs all by himself. I suspect it was one of those "empty leg" days. Anyhow, it's a running joke in my house about my husband's past egg trauma. He says he has no idea where it comes from, just that he dislikes them. I suspect that there's some Freudian explanation for this aversion, having to do with items that once came out of a chicken's posterior. He thinks I am silly, but then I like to bunk Occam's Razor on a regular basis.
He brought me home a 1/2 dozen carton of grade A large white eggs. Perfect. It was then I realized, I don't know how to make a hard boiled egg. Chicken curry, yes. Spaghetti, yes. Lasagna, yes. Hard boiled egg? No. Never done it. Never had reason to.
I stood in the kitchen and verbalized: "I don't know how to hard boil an egg."
M, from the other room: "Honey, you are asking the wrong person."
Me: "I wasn't asking, I was stating."
This is one of those times when not having my mother to call, sucks. And, wasn't sure I wanted to call a friend and admit I was so inept in the kitchen that I didn't know how to hardboil an egg. Luckily I am a resourceful gal. I got out the cookbook and hoped that it contained something that mundane.
M, from the other room: "You should get out the cookbook."
Me: "I'm already there."
Yes, as it turns out, we do have a cookbook that can talk you through toast. YAY! I read the process. Pan, eggs, water... bring to boil. Simmer for 15 minutes. Okay, I can do this. Simple. I place all six eggs in a pan with water and turn on the burner. I head to the living room to relax.
A few minutes later, M walks into the kitchen. "Uh, honey, did you set a timer?"
Me: "No, are they boiling?"
M: "Yes."
Me: "Then set it to simmer."
Apparently I forgot to add "for fifteen minutes." M returns to the living room and we start reviewing our taxes. Fifty minutes later I re-enter the kitchen. Eggs still simmering.
Me: "Crap!"
M: "What?"
Me: "The eggs are still simmering."
M: "It's been fifty minutes."
Me: "I know."
M: "Was that all of them?"
Me:" Yep." We looked at each other a long moment. "Do you think they will eat them or just color them?"
M looks at me skeptically. This is a conversation he doesn't want to be having. "I don't know."
Me: "Crap!"
I decided to send the eggs just in case. So, M hauled in five (minus 1 which cracked) extremely overcooked eggs. The teacher was skeptical too, so the eggs didn't stay. She did sympathize and say she'd once cooked them to the point of explosion. I hope G didn't overhear that. He might actually think it cool to explode eggs in my kitchen. That's more our family speed. Cook 'em, naw, hell, we blow 'em apart. Science is awesome. (And I know who wouldn't be cleaning that kind of mess up, true love or not.)
Thankfully there were other forward-thinking parents who sent more than their expected share of properly-cooked hardboiled eggs. For those of us who apparently don't or... can't.
Whew. Crisis averted. At least I now know, in theory, how to hardboil an egg. Perhaps I can put that knowledge to good use... next year.
Given the impending Easter holiday, G's school requested that we send three hardboiled eggs to school so the kids could color them as an art project. So, yesterday, I called M on his way home from work and requested that he pick up eggs at the store. I had eggs in the refrigerator, but they were brown and wouldn't take Easter egg coloring as well as white eggs. This is a huge favor to ask of him. He hates eggs. Hates them. Won't eat them unless they are in baked goods, and despises the smell of eggs cooking. He told me he knew it was true love when we was willing to wash the pan after I made myself scrambled eggs one particular evening. G doesn't have this aversion. G once ate six scrambled eggs all by himself. I suspect it was one of those "empty leg" days. Anyhow, it's a running joke in my house about my husband's past egg trauma. He says he has no idea where it comes from, just that he dislikes them. I suspect that there's some Freudian explanation for this aversion, having to do with items that once came out of a chicken's posterior. He thinks I am silly, but then I like to bunk Occam's Razor on a regular basis.
He brought me home a 1/2 dozen carton of grade A large white eggs. Perfect. It was then I realized, I don't know how to make a hard boiled egg. Chicken curry, yes. Spaghetti, yes. Lasagna, yes. Hard boiled egg? No. Never done it. Never had reason to.
I stood in the kitchen and verbalized: "I don't know how to hard boil an egg."
M, from the other room: "Honey, you are asking the wrong person."
Me: "I wasn't asking, I was stating."
This is one of those times when not having my mother to call, sucks. And, wasn't sure I wanted to call a friend and admit I was so inept in the kitchen that I didn't know how to hardboil an egg. Luckily I am a resourceful gal. I got out the cookbook and hoped that it contained something that mundane.
M, from the other room: "You should get out the cookbook."
Me: "I'm already there."
Yes, as it turns out, we do have a cookbook that can talk you through toast. YAY! I read the process. Pan, eggs, water... bring to boil. Simmer for 15 minutes. Okay, I can do this. Simple. I place all six eggs in a pan with water and turn on the burner. I head to the living room to relax.
A few minutes later, M walks into the kitchen. "Uh, honey, did you set a timer?"
Me: "No, are they boiling?"
M: "Yes."
Me: "Then set it to simmer."
Apparently I forgot to add "for fifteen minutes." M returns to the living room and we start reviewing our taxes. Fifty minutes later I re-enter the kitchen. Eggs still simmering.
Me: "Crap!"
M: "What?"
Me: "The eggs are still simmering."
M: "It's been fifty minutes."
Me: "I know."
M: "Was that all of them?"
Me:" Yep." We looked at each other a long moment. "Do you think they will eat them or just color them?"
M looks at me skeptically. This is a conversation he doesn't want to be having. "I don't know."
Me: "Crap!"
I decided to send the eggs just in case. So, M hauled in five (minus 1 which cracked) extremely overcooked eggs. The teacher was skeptical too, so the eggs didn't stay. She did sympathize and say she'd once cooked them to the point of explosion. I hope G didn't overhear that. He might actually think it cool to explode eggs in my kitchen. That's more our family speed. Cook 'em, naw, hell, we blow 'em apart. Science is awesome. (And I know who wouldn't be cleaning that kind of mess up, true love or not.)
Thankfully there were other forward-thinking parents who sent more than their expected share of properly-cooked hardboiled eggs. For those of us who apparently don't or... can't.
Whew. Crisis averted. At least I now know, in theory, how to hardboil an egg. Perhaps I can put that knowledge to good use... next year.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A Parent's Worst Nightmare
Since my mom died, my dad has leaned on me as a source of comfort. I don't mind so much, he's got to be crazy lonely after losing my mom to cancer after a solid 39 year marriage. He's never really been truly on his own, even when he's lived apart from us due to work obligations. He always had home to call. He used to call my mom every day during the workday as well as come home to her every night. It's a hard habit to break. I know, because I am largely the same way, M and I talk at least once during the day (usually much more.) It's a comfort and I love sharing with him.
Dad just broke up with his fiance over the weekend. I really liked her, but apparently they couldn't get on the same page mentally and emotionally. I know he's having a tough time losing two women he loved (really three, if you include his Doberman which he had to put down weeks after my mom passed.) He and his ex-fiance had also gotten to the point of talking once during the day and then an hour or two every evening. (She lives in Houston, so the phone was their lifeline.)
So, tonight, he called and we talked about this and that for a good half hour. Near the end of the conversation, he commented on something on TV. I told him I was watching Miami Ink on TLC. (A show I really enjoy... it even makes my TiVo list!) His reaction was pricelessly my father.
Dad: "Miami Ink? Don't you mean CSI: Miami?"
Me: "No, Miami Ink on TLC, it's about this tattoo shop in Miami and the clients that come in. They do some really great tattoo art. Artistic stuff, not just the biker stuff you think of when you think 'tattoo'."
Dad: "You aren't thinking about getting a tattoo are you?!?"
Me: "I might, I mean, I have been thinking about it. I love the real artistic stuff. I just don't know if I could handle the pain part of it."
Dad: "Yeah but, tattoo don't look so good when you're old. You don't want that. And think about all you will have to do to get rid of it."
Me: "Yeah, I have seen the laser procedures on TV, they don't look like fun." *Thinking, well, if I get a tattoo, why would I make plans for getting it taken off?*
Dad: "But don't they have to use like sandpaper stuff if that doesn't work? I mean, that would be really, really painful."
Me: "I don't know if they use a sandblasting type of technique. They might." *changes subject*
After I hung up the phone, I began thinking, "Why is this such a 'hot button' for my dad?" Just because I am watching a show doesn't mean I am going out to re-enact the premise of the show. Come on, I am an AVID Law & Order fan but I don't see my dad asking me "You aren't going out to kill anyone are you?" And I am also a HUGE HUGE fan of Lost, and he's not inquiring if I am going to fly to Australia and crash land... so why is he worried about a tattoo?
I guess every parent has their threshold for what is considered appropriate for their child. I admit, I already have my mental limits for G's teenagehood. I mean, I have already thought through the tattoo thing. (Okay by me, as long as it isn't on that precious face of his.) And I have already thought about piercings. (Ears, maybe tongue... not sure I can appreciate other other places I can see. Those I can't see are really NOT my business.) If he brings home a boyfriend who he loves romantically, fine. I can live with that. In my head, he's a geeky kid who lives for science experiments. He'll go to MIT on scholarship, get a great paying engineering job and marries the first girl he sleeps with at age 30. More than likely it will be something else, something that blindsides me cause that what kids do best, take you for an expected journey.
I may get a tattoo yet. I know WHO I want to do it, should I decide to embrace an eternal form of art. It is my body after all. And it probably won't be in a place my dad will usually see anyway. Still, I have to laugh because I now know what it is like to have expectations for offspring. To wish certain things for G and hope for the best. I gave him this life, I hope he uses it in a way that suits him best. Even if that includes tattoos, piercings, and alternative sexual lifestyles. Really.
Dad just broke up with his fiance over the weekend. I really liked her, but apparently they couldn't get on the same page mentally and emotionally. I know he's having a tough time losing two women he loved (really three, if you include his Doberman which he had to put down weeks after my mom passed.) He and his ex-fiance had also gotten to the point of talking once during the day and then an hour or two every evening. (She lives in Houston, so the phone was their lifeline.)
So, tonight, he called and we talked about this and that for a good half hour. Near the end of the conversation, he commented on something on TV. I told him I was watching Miami Ink on TLC. (A show I really enjoy... it even makes my TiVo list!) His reaction was pricelessly my father.
Dad: "Miami Ink? Don't you mean CSI: Miami?"
Me: "No, Miami Ink on TLC, it's about this tattoo shop in Miami and the clients that come in. They do some really great tattoo art. Artistic stuff, not just the biker stuff you think of when you think 'tattoo'."
Dad: "You aren't thinking about getting a tattoo are you?!?"
Me: "I might, I mean, I have been thinking about it. I love the real artistic stuff. I just don't know if I could handle the pain part of it."
Dad: "Yeah but, tattoo don't look so good when you're old. You don't want that. And think about all you will have to do to get rid of it."
Me: "Yeah, I have seen the laser procedures on TV, they don't look like fun." *Thinking, well, if I get a tattoo, why would I make plans for getting it taken off?*
Dad: "But don't they have to use like sandpaper stuff if that doesn't work? I mean, that would be really, really painful."
Me: "I don't know if they use a sandblasting type of technique. They might." *changes subject*
After I hung up the phone, I began thinking, "Why is this such a 'hot button' for my dad?" Just because I am watching a show doesn't mean I am going out to re-enact the premise of the show. Come on, I am an AVID Law & Order fan but I don't see my dad asking me "You aren't going out to kill anyone are you?" And I am also a HUGE HUGE fan of Lost, and he's not inquiring if I am going to fly to Australia and crash land... so why is he worried about a tattoo?
I guess every parent has their threshold for what is considered appropriate for their child. I admit, I already have my mental limits for G's teenagehood. I mean, I have already thought through the tattoo thing. (Okay by me, as long as it isn't on that precious face of his.) And I have already thought about piercings. (Ears, maybe tongue... not sure I can appreciate other other places I can see. Those I can't see are really NOT my business.) If he brings home a boyfriend who he loves romantically, fine. I can live with that. In my head, he's a geeky kid who lives for science experiments. He'll go to MIT on scholarship, get a great paying engineering job and marries the first girl he sleeps with at age 30. More than likely it will be something else, something that blindsides me cause that what kids do best, take you for an expected journey.
I may get a tattoo yet. I know WHO I want to do it, should I decide to embrace an eternal form of art. It is my body after all. And it probably won't be in a place my dad will usually see anyway. Still, I have to laugh because I now know what it is like to have expectations for offspring. To wish certain things for G and hope for the best. I gave him this life, I hope he uses it in a way that suits him best. Even if that includes tattoos, piercings, and alternative sexual lifestyles. Really.
It's All About the "M"
I have a love/hate relationship with Marketing and Advertising. I have even worked in the field and it has been one of my favorite jobs so far.
I LOVE:
- The creative process where an explosion of ideas feed off of one another
- Finding the message that will make the brand attactive to the customer
- Exploring what makes people tick and why they choose what they choose in products and services, aka the brands we know and love
There are so many brands out in our world. Ford, Barbie, McDonald's... McDonald's being the one of the first logos learned by kids.
I am clear that I am a brand shopper. I will buy things because of name and reputation. I buy into the hype. That being said, I also despise marketing.
I HATE:
- The amount of manipulation that goes into marketing, with marketers looking for your "touchpoints" or drivers into why you buy what you buy
- The fact that marketing makes some items more expensive because you are buying into a stereotype, buying into an illusion
- That advertisers use emotions and other unrelated items to get you to buy THEIR product or service (i.e. "a better life," anything related to sex, anything related to money, etc.)
I'm a "both sides of the coin" kind of gal. It just depends on when you ask me as to whether I see the positive side or the negative side.
So, I am not sure whether it's with pride or disdain that the first phrase my son ever strung together in this life was: "Cheeseburger, no meat, with fries and Sprite." And he would sing it repeatedly as we passed the McDonald's and anytime he was hungry on a road trip. He was ~18 months at the time.
It's still similar to what we order today when he gets the treat of eating out. Nowadays he gets the apples, which I am thrilled about (completely his choice). He was never really a fries kind of guy. We also have to remind the counterpeople that "no meat" also means no condiments. Kinda ruins the cheese sandwich effect if you have ketchup, onions and a pickle.
I do have to report, with some surprise, that G actually finished off Marcus's chicken nuggets from the "Golden Arches" over the weekend. He's having "empty leg" syndrome at the moment. Anyone who has boys knows this syndrome: when whatever you feed them isn't enough. (And apparently, the lines of WHAT you're willing to eat change.)
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Recovery
While I expected the sleepover to produce many funny stories, it may take me time to process the whole experience. You see... while the boys got *some* sleep, while not nearly enough which is a function of sleepovers, I got zip. Zero. Nada. Welcome back insomnia.
*sighs*
I tried to sleep. Really. Took my Ambien, even went back to take my fully prescribed dose which I had been working to reduce. I got groggy, but zoomed past groggy into "hell no, we won't go."
Thank goodness for "hands-on" husbands and Krispy Kreme since the boys were up at dawn. I tried to convince them that 6 a.m. might be fine for getting up during the week, but it was the weekend and that meant it was early, too early. Needless to say, they didn't buy it. I asked them to try to sleep more, which they tentatively agreed to. However, ten minutes later they were up and dressed on their own accord. They found things to do for a bit in G's room, they are resourceful chaps after all.
Lucky for me, my husband also tends to get up at dawn even when he tries not to. Time to whip out the secret sleepover plan: Krispy Kreme, here comes trouble.
This gave me time to rest and catch some naps. So... I shall profess my eternal love publicly to my wonderful husband. I am blessed to have such an understanding and flexible spouse. M, I love you babe.
Meanwhile, it's time for me to turn in for the evening. Family drama has exploded this evening and frankly, I am just too tired to deal. I have steered clear of blogging about it, but perhaps getting it out might be therapeutic.
One step at a time, for everyone.
Recovery never comes when we want it. But it does come. I have to trust that. Through laughter and tears, it will come.
*sighs*
I tried to sleep. Really. Took my Ambien, even went back to take my fully prescribed dose which I had been working to reduce. I got groggy, but zoomed past groggy into "hell no, we won't go."
Thank goodness for "hands-on" husbands and Krispy Kreme since the boys were up at dawn. I tried to convince them that 6 a.m. might be fine for getting up during the week, but it was the weekend and that meant it was early, too early. Needless to say, they didn't buy it. I asked them to try to sleep more, which they tentatively agreed to. However, ten minutes later they were up and dressed on their own accord. They found things to do for a bit in G's room, they are resourceful chaps after all.
Lucky for me, my husband also tends to get up at dawn even when he tries not to. Time to whip out the secret sleepover plan: Krispy Kreme, here comes trouble.
This gave me time to rest and catch some naps. So... I shall profess my eternal love publicly to my wonderful husband. I am blessed to have such an understanding and flexible spouse. M, I love you babe.
Meanwhile, it's time for me to turn in for the evening. Family drama has exploded this evening and frankly, I am just too tired to deal. I have steered clear of blogging about it, but perhaps getting it out might be therapeutic.
One step at a time, for everyone.
Recovery never comes when we want it. But it does come. I have to trust that. Through laughter and tears, it will come.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Cat stress
G is having a sleepover with his friend Marcus. They are being stereotypical active boys. The feline contingency in the house is not amused.
Sebastian Bock, my 15 year old flame point Siamese, jumped up on the desk in front of me and sat with me pondering the new person in our household. He then let Marcus pet him and offered kitty kisses for attentions paid. Sebastian came up to me later said, "You brought another one home I see... do I get any Tuna out of this deal?"
Sebastian probably was a politician in a past life cause now they are all waiting in the kitchen for their reward for the stress I have caused them. I guess a can of Tuna is just a small price...
Genevieve Rose, G's 2 year old Siamese calico, came up immediately to check out the new person. She then proceeded to leave, because two wound up boys were just too much at that moment. Notedly, she did join them on the top bunk for storytime as things settled down.
Bina Anne, our 13 year old tortie-calico, glared at me and asked "You brought ANOTHER one home?" She then sulked off to find her happy place.
Phineas Icklebutt, our 1 year old Siamese of hand-chomping fame, is remaining nervously on the opposite side of the house.
Sebastian Bock, my 15 year old flame point Siamese, jumped up on the desk in front of me and sat with me pondering the new person in our household. He then let Marcus pet him and offered kitty kisses for attentions paid. Sebastian came up to me later said, "You brought another one home I see... do I get any Tuna out of this deal?"
Sebastian probably was a politician in a past life cause now they are all waiting in the kitchen for their reward for the stress I have caused them. I guess a can of Tuna is just a small price...
Recipe for Goodness
Any time I make this casserole, I get asked for this recipe. So I decided to put it on my blog because it is super easy and super yummy to boot. Don't ask for the nutritional information, because it would be a pretty dismal picture and I don't have the exact information because I have made alterations from the original recipe. Upon request, I can give you the nutritional info for the original recipe.
General warning: This recipe is not for the lactose intolerant (unless you pop serious Lactaid-type pills, which M and I do) and not for the vegetarian. I suspect when G is ready to try this casserole, he might actually transfer to the "dark side" with the rest of his family. This dish can be as spicy as you want, although I wouldn't recommend going whole hog mild because you will lose much of the flavor. Using at least some "hot" labeled sauce won't send you to the trough for tons of water.
Second general warning: I usually don't cook with recipes unless I am in unfamiliar territory. Most of the time I am a "fly by the seat of my pants" kind of cook and hope for the best in the end.
Here's my version of Chicken Tortilla Casserole:
sauce:
1 can Cream of Chicken Soup
1 can Cream of Mushroom Soup
1 7 oz. can Verde Salsa (tomatillo based) - I try to use the Hernandez brand in the Mexican food area, which most often is found in Medium or Hot
1/3 cup of milk
meat:
1 package of chicken breasts (2-4 breasts)
other:
Corn tortillas (around 6-8, depending on your size of pan)
1 package grated cheese, I like to use either a Mexican cheese mix or Jack/Cheddar mix
1 can chopped green chilles (optional in my book, essential in M's)
I usually use an 8X8 or 9X9 square pan. This also makes a nice 9X12, although you may want to double your sauce recipe.
Cook chicken. I usually boil it to keep it tender, although it can be baked or probably even grilled (I need to try that!) I am not an exacting person when it comes to this, I throw a pan of water on to boil and then keep checking the chicken until it's white and thoroughly cooked. Once cooked, shred or cut into bite sized pieces.
Mix the sauce together with a whisk. Set aside.
Cut corn tortillas into fourths. Get your pan and begin to layer: tortillas (until bottom is covered), add chicken, pour about half the sauce over the chicken and tortillas and top with cheese. Repeat layers: tortillas, chicken, sauce, *(chopped green chilles, if desired) and finally all the cheese you can stand.
Cook at 300 degrees for an hour or unless cheese is melted and bubbling. Essentially the lower heat and longer time are to heat the entire dish without drying out the already cooked chicken.
The last time I made this dish was for Chloe's mom, Janine in celebration of their new baby girl. I used half tomatillo sauce labeled "hot" and half Green Taco Sauce labeled "mild" because I couldn't find a happy "medium. " :-P
Hope you enjoy!
General warning: This recipe is not for the lactose intolerant (unless you pop serious Lactaid-type pills, which M and I do) and not for the vegetarian. I suspect when G is ready to try this casserole, he might actually transfer to the "dark side" with the rest of his family. This dish can be as spicy as you want, although I wouldn't recommend going whole hog mild because you will lose much of the flavor. Using at least some "hot" labeled sauce won't send you to the trough for tons of water.
Second general warning: I usually don't cook with recipes unless I am in unfamiliar territory. Most of the time I am a "fly by the seat of my pants" kind of cook and hope for the best in the end.
Here's my version of Chicken Tortilla Casserole:
sauce:
1 can Cream of Chicken Soup
1 can Cream of Mushroom Soup
1 7 oz. can Verde Salsa (tomatillo based) - I try to use the Hernandez brand in the Mexican food area, which most often is found in Medium or Hot
1/3 cup of milk
meat:
1 package of chicken breasts (2-4 breasts)
other:
Corn tortillas (around 6-8, depending on your size of pan)
1 package grated cheese, I like to use either a Mexican cheese mix or Jack/Cheddar mix
1 can chopped green chilles (optional in my book, essential in M's)
I usually use an 8X8 or 9X9 square pan. This also makes a nice 9X12, although you may want to double your sauce recipe.
Cook chicken. I usually boil it to keep it tender, although it can be baked or probably even grilled (I need to try that!) I am not an exacting person when it comes to this, I throw a pan of water on to boil and then keep checking the chicken until it's white and thoroughly cooked. Once cooked, shred or cut into bite sized pieces.
Mix the sauce together with a whisk. Set aside.
Cut corn tortillas into fourths. Get your pan and begin to layer: tortillas (until bottom is covered), add chicken, pour about half the sauce over the chicken and tortillas and top with cheese. Repeat layers: tortillas, chicken, sauce, *(chopped green chilles, if desired) and finally all the cheese you can stand.
Cook at 300 degrees for an hour or unless cheese is melted and bubbling. Essentially the lower heat and longer time are to heat the entire dish without drying out the already cooked chicken.
The last time I made this dish was for Chloe's mom, Janine in celebration of their new baby girl. I used half tomatillo sauce labeled "hot" and half Green Taco Sauce labeled "mild" because I couldn't find a happy "medium. " :-P
Hope you enjoy!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Veggie Tales
I think that some of my best stories regarding G are those involving his early signs of having inherited the resessive Wood PETA gene. In other words, G is (largely) a vegetarian. I didn't train him into this thinking; he really did come this way, shirking meat at the earliest opportunity. It comes as a semi-surprise since M and I are ravenous thrilling-seeking steak lovers. Actually, just about any meat will do. So, despite having carinvoriety modeled for him since in utero, G just doesn't choose to knowingly eat meat.
I have to say it this way because he does eat meat, and those exceptions have been argued to a limited point. G will eat fish sticks because "Mom, they are STICKS, not FISH, not like you eat FISH" and he'll eat hot dogs/corn dogs because, darn it, I just never told him that the rest of the world doesn't eat veggie dogs. He's actually also been known to eat a chicken nugget or two, especially if it is shaped like a dinosaur and is called a nugget and not a CHICKEN nugget. Even then, the fish stick arguement would probably stand. Now, with all the above mentioned items one could actually argue usually aren't meat, because they probably are packed with other "soy filler" kinds of stuff and don't have the texture of a slab of other kinds of "normal" meat.
I know some day he will figure these objects of protein do actually come from a true meat source. I just figured that when he goes to therapy in the future, he can mention this as one of those "things I did to him." He can tell Oprah all about it. About how his mother lied to him about where hot dogs come from. I can live with that. And maybe I'll even get a guest appearance out of the deal.
As I said, I didn't encourage the vegetarianism, but I certainly support it. I wonder if any of those things I did in the early days had an impact on his choices: the breast milk, then soy formula (cause dairy sensitivity runs on both sides of the family), then organic veggies and fruits from Whole Foods. I didn't try to introduce meat until well after other finger foods were introduced. I just couldn't offer up the jar "meats" that the large baby food companies offered. Some foods just shouldn't be put in a blender before serving. (Unless it's packaged in a nice covering like a hot dog or sausage where the pureed form is sort of hidden. )
The first time I tried to introduce meat into my son's diet was somewhere around 15 months I would imagine. (I didn't write this stuff down at the time.) I had boiled some chicken for a dinner dish and offered him some bite pieces. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Here's some dinner. I have chicken and pears for you."
G looks at his plate skeptically. Recognizes the pears, points to the chicken on his plate.
G: "Chick-Ken?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, try it." Picks up and offers piece of chicken to him.
G watches me thoughfully, wheels cranking in his head.
G: "Chick-Ken?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, yummy."
G still ponders me a moment, I can see things processing in his toddler brain.
G shakes head: "No, no, Chick-Ken."
I can't say FOR SURE what went on in his head, what all those wheels were. I do know we had recently read "farm stories" at bedtime. I also know that shortly after this incident he was quick to point to a picture of a chicken in said farm story and ask "Chick-Ken?" I can't tell you the exact time frame in which this happened, but looking back I imagine he put two-and-two together rather quickly, if not at that exact moment. I imagine our real conversation, had he obtained the appropriate verbal skills at that time, would have gone something more like this:
Me: "Here's some dinner. I have chicken and pears for you."
G looks at his plate skeptically. Recognizes the pears, points to the chicken on his plate.
G: "Chick-Ken? Where have I heard this term before, cause I swear I have heard that name recently in another context that wasn't on my plate."
Me: "Yes, chicken, try it." Picks up and offers piece of chicken to him.
G watches me thoughfully, wheels cranking in his head.
G: "Chick-Ken? Ah, yes, I remember now. Wasn't there a creature called a chicken on Old MacDonald's farm? A live animal with feathers that you said went 'bock bock' and pecked at the ground for it's food?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, yummy."
G still ponders me a moment, I can see things processing in his toddler brain.
G shakes head: "No, no, Chick-Ken. I don't want to eat that cute thing with feathers and a little yellow beak. How dare you try to serve it to me this way. That's so inhumane! Shall I never let a poor defenseless creature who died to be on my plate pass these lips!"
While I am sure this is an exaggeration, I do have to tell you that I know the answer he's looking for today when he asks what steak is. The appropriate answer in his book isn't "beef;" no, the appropriate answer is "dead cow." I have learned this from experience. He didn't quit asking until that answer was given.
"No Mom, what ANIMAL did that come from."
As long as I don't have to slaughter and skin it, I'll take mine medium rare, thanks.
I have to say it this way because he does eat meat, and those exceptions have been argued to a limited point. G will eat fish sticks because "Mom, they are STICKS, not FISH, not like you eat FISH" and he'll eat hot dogs/corn dogs because, darn it, I just never told him that the rest of the world doesn't eat veggie dogs. He's actually also been known to eat a chicken nugget or two, especially if it is shaped like a dinosaur and is called a nugget and not a CHICKEN nugget. Even then, the fish stick arguement would probably stand. Now, with all the above mentioned items one could actually argue usually aren't meat, because they probably are packed with other "soy filler" kinds of stuff and don't have the texture of a slab of other kinds of "normal" meat.
I know some day he will figure these objects of protein do actually come from a true meat source. I just figured that when he goes to therapy in the future, he can mention this as one of those "things I did to him." He can tell Oprah all about it. About how his mother lied to him about where hot dogs come from. I can live with that. And maybe I'll even get a guest appearance out of the deal.
As I said, I didn't encourage the vegetarianism, but I certainly support it. I wonder if any of those things I did in the early days had an impact on his choices: the breast milk, then soy formula (cause dairy sensitivity runs on both sides of the family), then organic veggies and fruits from Whole Foods. I didn't try to introduce meat until well after other finger foods were introduced. I just couldn't offer up the jar "meats" that the large baby food companies offered. Some foods just shouldn't be put in a blender before serving. (Unless it's packaged in a nice covering like a hot dog or sausage where the pureed form is sort of hidden. )
The first time I tried to introduce meat into my son's diet was somewhere around 15 months I would imagine. (I didn't write this stuff down at the time.) I had boiled some chicken for a dinner dish and offered him some bite pieces. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "Here's some dinner. I have chicken and pears for you."
G looks at his plate skeptically. Recognizes the pears, points to the chicken on his plate.
G: "Chick-Ken?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, try it." Picks up and offers piece of chicken to him.
G watches me thoughfully, wheels cranking in his head.
G: "Chick-Ken?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, yummy."
G still ponders me a moment, I can see things processing in his toddler brain.
G shakes head: "No, no, Chick-Ken."
I can't say FOR SURE what went on in his head, what all those wheels were. I do know we had recently read "farm stories" at bedtime. I also know that shortly after this incident he was quick to point to a picture of a chicken in said farm story and ask "Chick-Ken?" I can't tell you the exact time frame in which this happened, but looking back I imagine he put two-and-two together rather quickly, if not at that exact moment. I imagine our real conversation, had he obtained the appropriate verbal skills at that time, would have gone something more like this:
Me: "Here's some dinner. I have chicken and pears for you."
G looks at his plate skeptically. Recognizes the pears, points to the chicken on his plate.
G: "Chick-Ken? Where have I heard this term before, cause I swear I have heard that name recently in another context that wasn't on my plate."
Me: "Yes, chicken, try it." Picks up and offers piece of chicken to him.
G watches me thoughfully, wheels cranking in his head.
G: "Chick-Ken? Ah, yes, I remember now. Wasn't there a creature called a chicken on Old MacDonald's farm? A live animal with feathers that you said went 'bock bock' and pecked at the ground for it's food?"
Me: "Yes, chicken, yummy."
G still ponders me a moment, I can see things processing in his toddler brain.
G shakes head: "No, no, Chick-Ken. I don't want to eat that cute thing with feathers and a little yellow beak. How dare you try to serve it to me this way. That's so inhumane! Shall I never let a poor defenseless creature who died to be on my plate pass these lips!"
While I am sure this is an exaggeration, I do have to tell you that I know the answer he's looking for today when he asks what steak is. The appropriate answer in his book isn't "beef;" no, the appropriate answer is "dead cow." I have learned this from experience. He didn't quit asking until that answer was given.
"No Mom, what ANIMAL did that come from."
As long as I don't have to slaughter and skin it, I'll take mine medium rare, thanks.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Phineas Icklebutt III
I have not attempted pictures yet in my blog, so here's the maiden voyage. In my previous post I mentioned the ickle kitten we were *supposed* to foster, and not fall in love with over M's dead body. But, as you can plainly see, it was love at first sight. How could you resist that face? Obviously M got over it. Aren't kittens the cutest things on the planet? They are, but admittedly kittenhood is hell. Much like childhood. That was our little ickle then.... and now? See for yourself:
He's really not this serious in person. I think it's somewhere on the Meese gene that one being of Siamese heritage must look as diginified as possible when pictures are being taken. He's a handsome guy in his teenage phase. As I said, we're still learning boundaries and that people are actually pretty okay. I think he's pretty okay too, unless he's chomping on my hand.
Boundaries
It's been an interesting couple of weeks here. I haven't blogged about it all, just not in the mood to sit and write. I guess before I write, the processing needs to happen. Otherwise the occurrences come out sideways, heaped with the negativity and frustration that come with them. This blog isn't meant to be one huge vent, it is designed to be a lot of things.
Today's lesson in my life was inspired by my youngest cat, Phineas Icklebutt III. AKA "Ickle" in some circles, but "Phinny" to me. Phineas came to us through my SIL who has a great compassion for animals and was especially concerned about the growing feral colony at her apartment complex. She managed to capture three kittens and then proceeded to try to adopt/foster them out. We already had four cats at the time and my dear sweet husband said another cat would come into the house over his dead body.
After promises of awesome sex, no shopping and housecleaning he begrudgingly conceded to ONE kitten to FOSTER for a FEW WEEKS. To show my absolute resolve in the fostering process, I let G pick out the victim kitten so I would have no emotion in the selection of the ickle beast. Of course, G being the best kid ever, picks the Siamese that I had been eyeballing all along. I don't think M's connipition lasted very long.
The kitten came home and was subsequently dubbed "the ickle kitten" in lieu of a name, because if we gave him a name, he was then ours forever. "Ickle" would have to suffice.
As fate would have it, another long painful cat drama ensued and we ended up putting down our 2 year old black and white cat, Alaistair, who had a tough life. We nursed him back from the brink of death at the age of two weeks. Unfortunately, he had internal damage that a $1,000 surgery didn't fix. In the mean time, he was getting more and more aggressive towards the other cats, given the pain he was in. Nothing could be done about that pain, other than to end it. It was a heart-wrenching decision because I take being a cat mom very seriously. Just like motherhood, once you go there, you're committed.
So now we are down to four cats, which, I have to say is a nice number. Ickle was granted a stay as a permanent resident in our home and was given a real name, Phineas, which the boys rarely call him. He's still Ickle to them. Phinny is my new baby. He is also very distinctive from the other three, given his feral upbringing. I am learning you can't take the feral out of the cat. You just have to live with it and give off a lot of love in order to balance out the instilled fear.
I have many stories to tell about how my brood has impacted my life. I think this last incident with Phineas has given me much more to think about in the grand scale of my life.
A few days ago, Phineas and I were having a lovely moment on the couch together. He had come up when called (which is a rarity) and then proceeded to throw himself at me. "You must pet me, you must love me." I totally obliged him, after all, he so rarely asks.
I scratched fervently at his head, which he LOVES. I also stroked him from head to tail, which he isn't as crazy about. I know this, but I wanted to desensitize him a little. Let him know that touch all over can be as nice as head scratchy. He tolerated it until I patted his back, instead of using a long stroke. This clearly agitated him. I moved my hand back to my lap. In a flash he whipped around and grabbed my right ring finger in his mouth and gave me a warning squeeze. I wasn't about to fight him, I *had* irritated him after all and was going to let him tell me so. But whilst processing that thought, he looked at me and processed a thought of his own. "She's not taking me seriously." I suppose that's probably the thought behind the look I got, upon whence he chomped down on the finger in his mouth. CHOMPED and gave it the death shake to boot.
I screamed and smacked his face as hard as I could muster without causing serious injury. He sped away, not looking back. I had one large puncture wound on the top of my finger that I noticed immediately. I ran to the bathroom to wash it out immediately. The water caused searing pain and it was then I noticed the second puncture wound on the side of my finger. He'd gotten two fangs well into me. That little shit.
By now the dam had broken loose and I became hysterical. My hand hurt SO badly, although my feelings were hurt worse. WHY did he do this? I didn't hurt him or maliciously provoke him.... no! I was loving him. What is a pat versus a stroke?
Well, apparently, alot in his book. I had crossed a boundary and as stupid as a boundary I viewed it to be, it was his.
My hand swelled up like a sausage and turned bright red. Phineas disappeared. He didn't want to be found. His trust had been violated, as had mine. It put me a huge dilemma with a five year old boy in the house and a little baby girl on the way. What if this had been one of the kids? Then what? I can't keep a cat who I know to go for the jugular should his stupid boundaries be violated. No other cat I have had has been one to draw blood with or without thought.
As I treated my swelling hand, I had time to reflect on all this. I realized there were some valuable life's lessons in this incident:
1) You have no position in other's people's boundaries. We all create them for our own needs. They aren't meant to hurt anyone, just protect the self.
2) Some boundaries are stupid as viewed by the other party. Regardless of how you view the boundaries, you must respect them.
3) Love, Time and Trust can alter boundaries, but both parties must be in agreement with the changes.
4) Your boundaries are yours. People may mirror them in a relationship, but not necessarily. Sometimes parties aren't even quite aware where the boundaries are until one has been violated. Then communication is key to both parties can acknowledge where the boundary is and how to handle that in the future.
Of course, most of the above has its adjustments because I am dealing with a cat, not another person. Our lines of communication are much different. As the swelling of my hand has gone down, I have made it a point to speak lovingly to Phineas. He's finally starting to settle into his old routine and not be so skittish. These are baby steps that we both need.
I still think his boundaries are stupid. I will need more time to ponder that point.
Damn cat.
:-P
(Stubborn human...)
Today's lesson in my life was inspired by my youngest cat, Phineas Icklebutt III. AKA "Ickle" in some circles, but "Phinny" to me. Phineas came to us through my SIL who has a great compassion for animals and was especially concerned about the growing feral colony at her apartment complex. She managed to capture three kittens and then proceeded to try to adopt/foster them out. We already had four cats at the time and my dear sweet husband said another cat would come into the house over his dead body.
After promises of awesome sex, no shopping and housecleaning he begrudgingly conceded to ONE kitten to FOSTER for a FEW WEEKS. To show my absolute resolve in the fostering process, I let G pick out the victim kitten so I would have no emotion in the selection of the ickle beast. Of course, G being the best kid ever, picks the Siamese that I had been eyeballing all along. I don't think M's connipition lasted very long.
The kitten came home and was subsequently dubbed "the ickle kitten" in lieu of a name, because if we gave him a name, he was then ours forever. "Ickle" would have to suffice.
As fate would have it, another long painful cat drama ensued and we ended up putting down our 2 year old black and white cat, Alaistair, who had a tough life. We nursed him back from the brink of death at the age of two weeks. Unfortunately, he had internal damage that a $1,000 surgery didn't fix. In the mean time, he was getting more and more aggressive towards the other cats, given the pain he was in. Nothing could be done about that pain, other than to end it. It was a heart-wrenching decision because I take being a cat mom very seriously. Just like motherhood, once you go there, you're committed.
So now we are down to four cats, which, I have to say is a nice number. Ickle was granted a stay as a permanent resident in our home and was given a real name, Phineas, which the boys rarely call him. He's still Ickle to them. Phinny is my new baby. He is also very distinctive from the other three, given his feral upbringing. I am learning you can't take the feral out of the cat. You just have to live with it and give off a lot of love in order to balance out the instilled fear.
I have many stories to tell about how my brood has impacted my life. I think this last incident with Phineas has given me much more to think about in the grand scale of my life.
A few days ago, Phineas and I were having a lovely moment on the couch together. He had come up when called (which is a rarity) and then proceeded to throw himself at me. "You must pet me, you must love me." I totally obliged him, after all, he so rarely asks.
I scratched fervently at his head, which he LOVES. I also stroked him from head to tail, which he isn't as crazy about. I know this, but I wanted to desensitize him a little. Let him know that touch all over can be as nice as head scratchy. He tolerated it until I patted his back, instead of using a long stroke. This clearly agitated him. I moved my hand back to my lap. In a flash he whipped around and grabbed my right ring finger in his mouth and gave me a warning squeeze. I wasn't about to fight him, I *had* irritated him after all and was going to let him tell me so. But whilst processing that thought, he looked at me and processed a thought of his own. "She's not taking me seriously." I suppose that's probably the thought behind the look I got, upon whence he chomped down on the finger in his mouth. CHOMPED and gave it the death shake to boot.
I screamed and smacked his face as hard as I could muster without causing serious injury. He sped away, not looking back. I had one large puncture wound on the top of my finger that I noticed immediately. I ran to the bathroom to wash it out immediately. The water caused searing pain and it was then I noticed the second puncture wound on the side of my finger. He'd gotten two fangs well into me. That little shit.
By now the dam had broken loose and I became hysterical. My hand hurt SO badly, although my feelings were hurt worse. WHY did he do this? I didn't hurt him or maliciously provoke him.... no! I was loving him. What is a pat versus a stroke?
Well, apparently, alot in his book. I had crossed a boundary and as stupid as a boundary I viewed it to be, it was his.
My hand swelled up like a sausage and turned bright red. Phineas disappeared. He didn't want to be found. His trust had been violated, as had mine. It put me a huge dilemma with a five year old boy in the house and a little baby girl on the way. What if this had been one of the kids? Then what? I can't keep a cat who I know to go for the jugular should his stupid boundaries be violated. No other cat I have had has been one to draw blood with or without thought.
As I treated my swelling hand, I had time to reflect on all this. I realized there were some valuable life's lessons in this incident:
1) You have no position in other's people's boundaries. We all create them for our own needs. They aren't meant to hurt anyone, just protect the self.
2) Some boundaries are stupid as viewed by the other party. Regardless of how you view the boundaries, you must respect them.
3) Love, Time and Trust can alter boundaries, but both parties must be in agreement with the changes.
4) Your boundaries are yours. People may mirror them in a relationship, but not necessarily. Sometimes parties aren't even quite aware where the boundaries are until one has been violated. Then communication is key to both parties can acknowledge where the boundary is and how to handle that in the future.
Of course, most of the above has its adjustments because I am dealing with a cat, not another person. Our lines of communication are much different. As the swelling of my hand has gone down, I have made it a point to speak lovingly to Phineas. He's finally starting to settle into his old routine and not be so skittish. These are baby steps that we both need.
I still think his boundaries are stupid. I will need more time to ponder that point.
Damn cat.
:-P
(Stubborn human...)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
