Happy Birthday

Happy First Birthday Jake!

To celebrate, your dad's out of town, but returning late tonight after bedtime.

And mom's leaving town right after work for a few days.

Ah, life as a second child, no?

Kisses, loves and hugs!

Of Co-Ops and Parent Meetings

My love affair with Jake's daycare has waned somewhat given the events of last night.

Last night I was voted off the Gratton island and forced to go to the first of the daycare's twice yearly parent meetings. Mind you, I had to go because David is currently in NYC on business. Some people will go to any length to get out of co-op duties.

Now, a co-op sounds great in theory until it's 7:49pm on a Wednesday night and you're listening to a soft-spoken, mumbling Public Health representative, with a thick Scottish accent no less, talk about Norwalk virus and the horrible plagues that vomit and diarrhea can unleash on the daycare and family arenas.

And you've already spent the previous 48 minutes of his speech writing a to do list, composing a grocery shopping list, mentally formulating tomorrow's work day, debating whether or not to play games on your Crackberry, and doodling 50 or 60 random items on the agenda thus obscuring the aforementioned lists.

When Dr Doom and Gloom made us pretend to wash our hands while singing the alphabet song at half speed, I knew it was the beginning of the end of my daycare honeymoon phase. I'm a grown woman. I know how to wash my hands. I also know my kids should be washing for 30 seconds, but frankly, if I can get Nate to go wash his hands at all, I figure I'm beating the boy curve by at least 10 percentile points. Jake's hands? Well, they get washed twice a week in his bath. Usually. Unless it's a really busy week.

Anyway, Dr D&G finally got the hook after half the room had nodded off, and the Parent Board went through business as usual (which, frankly, could've been summarized in bullet points in an email as far as I can tell). That is, all but the last point.

The Work Party.

All parents are contractually obligated to spend one day, twice a year, helping to clean out their child's facility. (The daycare society has three locations). Personally, I wasnt' too worried about the event; I had visions of neatly stacking blocks in colour-coordinated piles, or gluing together pieces of broken toys.

Uh uh.

The sinking in the pit of my stomach began when the first daycare said they needed a chainsaw, tall ladder, and several wheelbarrows, amongst other items. Um, severed fingers anyone?

Then there was the mention of scrubbing down the walls and floors next to the boys' urinals. Gag. Like seriously. It's all I can do to scrub our family bathroom once a week and I live with a man who has abnormally clean bathroom habits.

D Day is October 4th people. It might just herald the end of the love affair. Especially if I pull washroom duty.

I think I hear NYC calling me. Excuse me while I go book my flight.

Overcome... Overcame

I don't know how many of you know you have a flaw, a serious flaw, and take steps to overcome it.

It takes a lot of courage to face up to the truth about yourself. To realize that you haven't done your best. To know that you haven't even come close to it. And to decide that those around you deserve better.

Early this spring, I decided that I would take on my one flaw. (It's my blog and I'm only admitting to this one; I don't care what the rest of your are muttering up your sleeves.)

You see, I am a murderer.

A plant murderer to be specific.

If you've been following this blog, you'll know that earlier this spring I grew two enormous pots of herbs. I had more fresh herbs than what you find at the grocery store.

Somewhere in August, the plants died. We went away. There was a drought. Meh. Who could eat all those herbs anyway?

What I didn't tell you, is that I was pinning all my hopes on the tomato plant. It was huge. It flowered repeatedly. It seemed to be thriving.

Eventually, it was covered in 40 odd green tomatoes, of varying sizes. That never seemed to ripen. Some of them had been on there for two months. NOT TURNING RED. I fertilized. I watered. I rotated the pot. I moved it around to be in sun all day.

And then, last week, things started looking up. One of the grandfather tomatoes looked to be a little less green. In two days there was no doubt about it. It was turning.

Glory be!

Not only that, but others were following suit. I had succeeded. No longer would I be known for my plant graveyard. All former transgressions would be forgiven and I would be heralded for my tasty, vine-ripened fruit.

On Thursday, I came home from work, knowing that the first tomato would finally be ready to grace the evening's spinach salad.

And what the frack but the ruby red tomato had been exploded all over the the plant. I'm assuming one of the bloody crows that terrorizes the neighbourhood pecked it open. And a second, not quite perfectly ripe tomato, had been gnawed at by some other varmint.

Over the following three days, every tomato has been attacked a day or two before being "perfectly picking ripe".

I am so frustrated and discouraged after my five months of hard work that I just want to scream. And throw the plant off the patio.

But I guess that would make me a plant murderer.

And I'd be right back where I started.

So I'll just go drown my sorrows in a bowl of ice cream. I guess there's an upside to every flaw.

Speaking of Birthdays...

I haven't gone to nearly as many baby showers as I thought I would have in my life.

Either friends are waiting longer, or they're staying single, footloose and fancy free.

However, lots of the mommy bloggers I have been reading are having babies and two more are on the way. Kristen and Rebecca, two giants in the mommy blogging circle are expecting in the next two weeks or so.

Julie asked us to post about our favourite baby memories. While I wish the expecting mommies well, I'm also in it for the loot. Okay, somewhat in it for the loot, and mostly just to wish them well.



I have to say, my favourite memory from the newborn stage is the "milk-drunk" hour after baby has finished nursing and is passed out on mom's shoulder. They smell good then, they're quietly asleep, and all seems well with the world.

I looked for a photo from when the babies were young, but a meltdown on my external hard drive has meant that many photos are currently inaccessible.

So here's a substitute... not the milk drunk stage, but close enough.

Virgo

Today is my 37th birthday.

I received cards from my brother and his wife and my parents (as well as a gift in the mail). My best friend dropped by work with an ice cream cake and a bouquet of flowers.

But I live in a house full of boys. And except for a "Happy Birthday" in the morning... nothing. No scribbled card. No breakfast made for me.

All this is to say that I am currently available for adoption by a family who celebrates birthdays.

Email me with your details.

I Have a Confession to Make

Am I the only person who opens the mailbox, eagerly hunts through the wads of junk mail, misaddressed mail, magazines and envelopes looking for a surprise cheque (a rare occurence) or a letter (people never send real letters anymore) only to dump them on the kitchen counter?

Where it sits.

For days.

Sometimes weeks.

I often open the bills and bank statements, just to assure myself that I didn't actually get $3,000,000 deposited from that bank scheme in Kenya because they just need somewhere to house their money while they safely escape from the country, or whatever.

But then it sits there. A growing pile constantly reminding me that I should go through it and file it downstairs in the filing cabinet. Which, now that I think about it, should be reorganized.

Because filing is such a chore. And really, why do I still have my cell phone records from 7 years ago for a company I no longer pay through the nose to contract from? I hate doing the filing.

Just curious. Do the rest of you have those piles? The ones you conveniently shove in the utensil drawer when visitors drop by?

Or am I the only one?

Indian Summer... Can We Use That Term?

When I was a little girl, and we had warm sunny weather into September, and sometimes even October, we used to call it an Indian Summer. I have a feeling that the term is probably politically incorrect, although Wikipedia just defines it in detail without saying, DO NOT USE this term. This is just my long-winded way of saying that Saturday and Sunday were phenomenal: hot, sunny, blue skies.

David used the time to BBQ yummy bones (Saturday) and whole trout (Sunday). Jake and Nate played outdoors lots, and I used the time to avoid housecleaning and laundry. Anything to skip my two favourite chores.

Jake, like any good younger brother, absolutely idolizes Nate and can't wait to do all the things he can. For example, he learned how to eat an apple on Saturday, off the core. Because Nate was doing it. That applesauce stuff? Apparently for wimps.

Nate can also ride a bike, albeit with training wheels. This absolutely confounds Jake. How can he possibly crawl fast enough to keep up?

Like any resourceful baby (almost toddler), he crawled into the next best thing:



Like all vehicle-obsessed men, they exchanged some admiration for each others' rides:



And while Nate wanted a "fashion" shot for the albums,




Jake was busy getting ready for his:

Showing you the Love

Lately, due to work and family constraints, I have not been able to show you much blog lovin'. Like many other blog readers, I've been dumping posts out of my feedreader so I don't look at a miserable total like 350 unread blogs.

But I'm here this Friday to try to make it up to you.

How?

I am going to give you something that you never thought you'd have. I'm going to give you something so sinfully good that when people leave your place, they'll want to kiss your feet first.

It's a secret recipe.

And I can give it to you mostly because, well, it's not my secret. It's actually my MIL's secret recipe and now might be a good time to tell you something about her.

You know how some people who were successful in one career could totally have had a really successful other career, if they'd really wanted? Well that's her. My MIL could have been a professional baker. Like the fancy dancy kind who produces sinful product housed behind two layers of glass in a specially, temperature controlled vault. The kind you'd pay $3,000 for a handful of truffles at your wedding as the take-away gift. (I got mine for free. Heh.)

Anyway, normally, when I ask Claudia how to make something, she enthusiastically says, oh it's easy. Twenty minutes later she's still describing the process, throwing around words like "ganache", and "soft peaks that you fold in" and describing equipment and ingredients that I've never heard of. At the end I politely nod my head, say, "Oh I'll have to try that!" and run for the hills.

However, there is one common, every day item that Claudia is known for... her giant cookies. They are phenomenal. They usually have a year long waiting request. My father can eat 62 at a sitting. (But that's another story.)

And now, I'm going to share one of the recipes with you. Frankly, it's the only one I can make where David and I agree that it tastes like the original.

I can give it away to you because, well, Claudia's going to France for 5 weeks to drink lots of good wine and eat great food and cheeses. (We were not invited I might add.)

So, Ha Ha Ha! Here it is. People will swoon and think you are the best person ever:

Claudia's Double Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients:

1 cup butter (I use salted, but I suppose you could use unsalted)
1 2/3 cup granulated sugar (white sugar)
2 eggs (I use large eggs)
2 tsp vanilla
2 cups all purpose
3/4 cup cocoa (like Fry's or Ghiradelli's)
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups chocolate chips (or mix with white chocolate chips)

OPTIONAL: Add other ingredients like chopped nuts or flavoured chips

Cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time.
Add vanilla
Sift dry ingredients together.
Add to butter mixture. Stir until well blended.
Stir in chocolate chips.
Drop by rounded tablespoon (I make 2+ inch size piles) to ungreased cookie sheets. Flatten slightly.
Bake at 350 6-10 min (less for chewier cookie, longer for crisper cookie).

The notes are mine (Mandy's) to help you.

Make them. And since I know you'll love them, You're welcome.

Reducing my Life to a List of Numbers

Number of TV shows I'd like to follow this season: 18

Number of TV shows that I'll end up following this season: 4

Number of show episodes that will languish unwatched on my PVR for months: 73

Number of times I went back to my gianormous chocolate bar after saying, "Ok, this is the last bite": 8

Number of times Nate has said he doesn't like preschool and doesn't want to go: 3

Number of times Nate said he had a great day at preschool at the end of the day: 6

Number of times Jake has giggled since I started work: 239

Number of times I've forgotten something for work or the boys' school: 0

Number of times I've avoided putting together an earthquake kit for the boys: 26

Number of blog posts I've composed in my head: 13

Number of blog posts I've managed to write: 0

Number of cups of coffee I've made in the last month: 37

Number of cups of coffee I've managed to finish: 5

Number of piles of laundry waiting to be done: 6

Number of times I've meant to call friends and family: 47

Number of times I've actually dialed the phone: 2

Number of times I've regretted not writing a real post instead of this one: 443

Just Askin'

I'd like to know how the working moms and dads out there work, enjoy family time and find time to blog. So far I've been back to work for a week and have failed miserably.

It may be middle of next week before I manage a real post. But don't hold your breath folks.

We're Back in the Saddle, Baby!

We used to entertain. A lot.

When David and I first met, one of the things that we knew made us compatible was the fact that we both entertained others frequently, from small dinner parties to large bashes. At that time, I was living in the ideal party condo. Although my apartment was only about 650 square feet, my deck was also 650 square feet. It was the known as the place to party (in the summer anyway) and I had more than a few memorable events out there.

One of the first things we did as a new couple was host a "meet Mandy's/meet David's" friends party. It was a blowout success and was responsible for not a few hookups. Unfortunately, when we decided to move in together, it wasn't big enough for us at the time (David was working from home then), so, sadly, we moved into a two bedroom in another part of the city. Sorry as we were to go, I'm sure my older neighbours on either side of me (both in their 50s) were not so crushed to say goodbye.

However, we were determined to have as much fun in the new place (despite the ghastly pink carpet) as in the old. There, we threw our best party yet: the New Year's Party of 2004. It was a black tie affair and everything from the Mandarin Mimosas which started the evening, to the food we made, to the games we played, it was a blast. At 3:30am, David had been passed out asleep for an hour and a half, I kicked the last 6 guests out. I figured my geriatric neighbours, heck, the geriatric building, had their own party when we moved out of that condo a year and a half later!

Before we moved, we had a few more parties, but nothing of the same stature as Dec 31, 2003. Nate was born in February of 2005, and when you're increasingly pregnant, you're less likely to throw a big party. Especially since everyone but you can drink. And then, when you have your first baby, life functions in coping mode, learning to survive on less sleep than you had in university, and the idea of throwing a party in a two bedroom condo is laughable at best. Can you ask all your guests to leave at 7:30pm so the infant can get his much needed rest?

But this past weekend, we broke the dry spell. We hosted the first of what we hope will be a series of Labour Day Weekend BBQ Blasts. Granted we were a bit rusty, but David's pulled pork and coleslaw buns, coupled with his yummy bones (ribs), were a huge success. We invited friends, colleagues and the neighbourhood. Not a bad mix, and we even met the couple across the road with kids the same age as ours. David's a little crushed that they're not Scotch drinkers, but otherwise, I think he's a little sweet on Brian.

Me? Well, I survived the hosting without too much trauma (except to my new carpet. Anyone know how to clean a white wool IKEA carpet properly?). It was even *bearable* without any alcohol. To that end, I was definitely in better shape than David the next day.

Now that we've broken the dry spell, I think Thanksgiving is in order. So, October 12th, party at our house. There'll be a turkey for sure. I might even remember to put the brown sugar in the pumpkin pies... but that's a story for another time.