Friday, December 14, 2012

Perspective

I've already fixed my cocktail for the evening and am ready to sit down and indulge in the remainder of season two of Downton Abbey - I'm hopelessly hooked, speaking internally in a delightful, if muddy, British/Irish accent and readying myself for the day when I can "take to my bed and ring a bell for service", as my friend Mary has said. But before I permit such festivities I feel it so important to share my feelings and racing thoughts about the school shooting that befell Sandy Hook elementary school in Newtown, CT this morning.

I've only read the bare minimum news coverage so as to stay informed without letting it swallow me whole. My first sighting of the news was during an endless scroll through my Facebook newsfeed full of distraught messages that sent me directly to my CNN mobile app, my eyes partially covered in anticipation of what horrors had come knocking, this time around.

My stomach dropped right down to my toes as I took in the screaming headlines of a mass shooting with a significant loss of life - most of them being precious, innocent children. At this time there are twenty families who have received the most devastating news that any parent can ever fathom: your child has been killed. At school. At their elementary school! A place to which we send our children to learn, expand, socialize and make a place for themselves. An environment that we expect to be not only safe, but warm, supportive and full of potential; a place for them to grow into their future selves.

I've had a sick feeling since having first read the news; walking down the aisles in the grocery store seemed so normal, casual, almost disrespectful. How could I be so unconcerned as to be deciding over organic eggs or not? How indeed, when mothers, fathers, siblings and extended families all throughout CT and the nation, for that matter, will be making decisions regarding funerals and memorials for their dear, sweet babes.

Twenty pregnancies; twenty labors and deliveries; dozens of proud parents sobbing and cheering as they met these little wonders to whom they'd been gifted the opportunity to bring up - all of this cut short by the actions of one. No more firsts will be had; family make-ups irrevocably changed; best friends lost; an unending series of unanswerable questions that this community will face not only for the sake of outsiders, but their very own children and students who must now come to terms with the destruction of their safe space and shattered ideals at an age far too young for reason.

As I sat down to dinner with my children tonight, my mind was focused on the families I imagined as having been caught in the fray. The single mom, called up at her second job to be told that her son, the reason she wakes every day and works as hard as she does to make a better life, her lifeblood, her person, her one special person to whom life attaches all meaning, has been stolen away from her.

The new-to-town family, just relocated to the area from across the country, haven't yet met the neighbors but are now tragically familiar with the police force as a knock at the door this morning forever altered the course of the lives they'd so carefully considered and sought.

The couple who struggled for years with infertility only to be blessed with a late-in-life child, a child they so doted on and a miracle for which they never stopped thanking God. The life they had finally achieved after years of false starts and disappointments, destroyed in mere moments at the hands of a stranger.

I keep thinking of all the presents bought, wrapped, set under the Christmas tree now never to be had; Elves on Shelves that no longer have a purpose; the smiles and giggles that won't be heard in the coming weeks as we all gather and celebrate this season of togetherness. The pall that will forever be the holiday season for the families who must now lay to rest their children, and along with them, the life they had known and all the moments taken for granted.

I prayed over our meal tonight and cried as I spoke; my babes giggled as they watched me wipe my tears and for a moment I was tempted to ask them to respect my sad feelings. But I didn't. Because I'm so very, very fortunate that I don't have to explain this tragedy to them, nor could I in any manner that would make sense to them. None of this makes sense to me as an adult; thank goodness my babes are innocent enough that I've been spared the complicated conversation, at least this time, anyway. But the same can't be said for the impacted families and communities who are now tasked with the impossible: to make sense of the senseless and explain the unexplainable.

For all my grumbling I know there are many moms in Newtown who would give anything right now to hear potty talk at the dinner table; deal with vomit in the car; be a party to a kicking and screaming tantrum in the middle of Target; change wet sheets in the middle of the night and inhale that sweet, delicious scent of their sleeping loves. To that end I pray that I can retain the feelings I'm pouring into this post and never forget the sobs that have wracked my body as I consider "what if..."

So I ask that you call on your beliefs, whatever they may be, and send love, light, prayers, good thoughts, healing wisdom and anything else you can muster to the dozens of parents and hundreds of families who have been shaken to their very core by the events of this morning.

For your own loves, speak loudly and often of the love in your heart; there's no such thing as too much nor too often.

Love and light,
Leah

Friday, November 30, 2012

Spilled Milk

I was given this card after the birth of one of my children and laughed because it'd never happened to me. Until the fateful weekend when my now ex-husband left the freezer door ajar while we were out of town; an entire grocery bag of frozen breast milk thawed and had to be tossed. My daughter was only a few weeks old and I screamed at him "That was all the colostrum, you idiot!!It's like liquid gold! I can never get that back! Never!" I sobbed for an entire hour, inconsolably. Perhaps my post-partum hormone festival had something to do with my reaction, but I still say that the loss of 100+ oz of breast milk totally justifies my hysteria.
 
 

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Real Friends Take Care of Your Maggots

I've been very fortunate to have found an amazing community of women whom I am blessed to call my friends; they're supportive, compassionate and always entertaining. With that out of the way I have to say, I'm winning the Best Friend Ever award along with Loyal Friend #1.

Three of us got together for Coffee & Conversation and our hostess was having a bit of a fruit fly problem. She'd spent the better part of three days on a bleach and Lysol bender trying to eradicate the pesky flies from her kitchen and had resorted to a darling little dish of vinegar and Dawn at the sink for pest control - thank you, Pinterest! The topic was soon forgotten as we moved on to the more pressing matters of preschool politics, curling irons and holiday plans. 

Midway through our morning, the kids came bouncing down the stairs to regale us with tales from their bountiful imaginations. All four of them were twirling around, dressed to the nines in old Halloween costumes and Christmas dresses, acting out a story about little bugs that were flying around upstairs in a bedroom. Loyal Friend #1 was really getting into it, acting it out with them and adding her own twists to the tale. Bless her oblivious little heart; it was sweet while it lasted.

Hostess and I made eye contact and you could see the wheels turning as we came to the same conclusion, silently mouthing Fruit Flies? to one another over the heads of our unsuspecting children and LF#1. We asked the kids to show us the bugs and they were only too happy to oblige, all seven of us trucking up the stairs as they exclaimed "There's a jillion of 'em!" The moms were moving noticeably slower than the kids and my stomach was starting to knot up; Hostess was already gagging and sweet, sweet LF#1 was still clueless.

Our fears were only too realized as we walked into the bedroom and came upon a swarm of fruit flies large enough to carry away the Fisher Price kitchen set that they were hovering around. The little sink was full of an unidentifiable, thick, brown liquid that seemed to be dripping from behind the door of the miniature microwave. Hostess was covering her face with her hands and I had pulled up the cowl neck of my sweater so as to minimize the likelihood of my inhaling any of those little mothers. LF#1 barreled into the room, still not fully aware of the situation and literally jumped and screamed when she saw what the rest of us were already recoiling from.

Hostess and I backed up and made LF#1 open the microwave door to just exactly what horrors lay behind it. And oh, was it ever horrific: a ginormous pile of brown goo that was teeming with fruit flies and maggots. Hostess was already halfway down the stairs, gagging all the way and racing for the bleach. The kids were pretty sure it was a granola bar but I'm positive that those don't melt; I deduced that it had been, at one time, a banana and was now simply a feeding station for larvae.

Hostess was completely out of commission, face ashen, as she battled back from the brink of a nervous breakdown. LF#1 and I got to work, shipping the kids downstairs so we could chemical bomb the room.

Us, to hostess: "You probably shouldn't let your child sleep in this room tonight."

Her near-tears response: "How long has she been sleeping in this bug infested room to begin with?!?!" We figured later that the offending banana had been festering for two weeks since the kitchen had been moved upstairs from its former place in the living room. We discussed a new idea that perhaps children are best kept in the dining room with food.

Once the chem bomb was unleashed I started working my MacGyver magic with a few garbage bags and some duct tape; I fashioned up a makeshift gunny-sac that we used to contain the entire kitchen set, then we tossed it outside so Hostess could simply point it out to her husband and allow him to deal with it. For our money, LF#1 and I would have pitched that kitchen in a quick little minute but Hostess and her husband are pretty sure it can be redeemed.

The entire experience was hilarious, at best, traumatic, at worst. But perhaps the most disturbing part of the entire incident came nearly a week later when I was back at Hostess's house for coffee; not only was the "redeemable" kitchen still sitting on the back patio, wrapped in all its plastic glory, but this little gem was sitting on the couch. If my lens was faster I'd have caught the best part: the fruit fly sitting atop the banana, having a little munch. The moral of the story is this: Good Friends handle your maggots for you. But only once.



Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The Good Doctor

Due to post-divorce changes in insurance I found myself needing a new eye doctor. I ended up with a referral from my family practitioner to one of the ophthalmology clinics in town. Hands down, the very best referral I've ever been given. Note to self: send thank-you gift to Dr. S.

I arrived for my appointment needing a new prescription for my glasses and contacts and with a few questionable neurological symptoms that my family practice doctor thought best evaluated by a professional of the ocular sort. With nothing but the name of the doctor and an appointment time I had no idea what to expect. The optician was very friendly and nice, finishing her part of my visit quickly and leaving me with gigantically dilated pupils and streaks of angry, yellow eye drops running down my cheeks. Between the yellow tears and my incessantly watering eye relieving me of my mascara and eyeliner at a record pace, I'm pretty sure I looked ten shades of beautiful.

And in comes Dr. Gorgeous. Dr. Holy-Buckets-I-Wish-I-Would-Have-Showered-For-This-Visit. Dr. You're-So-Hot-I-Forgot-Why-I'm-Here. Dr. Thank-God-You're-An-Eye-Doctor-And-Not-My-Gynecologist. And he smelled good. Sooooo good. Like a warm spring morning, a crisp fall evening and a steamy summer night all rolled up in one dark haired, blue-eyed, muscular package.

His exam was thorough and painless. Ok, yeah, the eye doctor is rarely painful but just let me have my moment here, ok? He recommends some further testing but says he won't be able to read the results for a few weeks as he'll be out of the country. Must be nice to head out on vacation in April, right?

I went out to the reception desk to schedule my next appointment, a little skip in my step knowing that I would see him again soon. He finds me before I leave the office and hands me a pair of Seriously Glamorous plastic inserts for my sunglasses, you know, to counteract the dilating eye drops. There is no way to convincingly suggest that I won't be needing them; between the tears and eye drops I look like a domestic abuse PSA. Still, I insist that I'm fine and my eyes feel great. Never mind the fact that I literally can't even keep them open due to the bright sun shining in through the excessive number of windows.

Hoping for a subtle attempt at further conversation I say "Have a great vacation!"

Stoic, Handsome Doctor: " It's not actually a vacation; I'm going to Honduras. For a humanitarian mission with the National Guard; sort of like Doctors Without Borders."

Me: "Oh, wow. What will you be doing there?" Really, Leah? Really?

He lifts an eyebrow and slowly says "Um, I'll be doing eye exams. And minor eye surgery. For women and children without access to health care."

Of course you are. Of course. Because you don't have enough going for you, you must also be a Soldier. A fricking Soldier. A humanitarian-mission-taking, child-sight-saving, well-dressed, gorgeous, great-smelling Dr. Soldier. Advanced degree: check. Dedication to his patients (worldwide, no less): check. Sense of civic duty: check. Uniform, Uniform, Uniform: checkity check check check.

That about wraps it up, ladies. Quite possibly the most highly specialized brand of Man Candy ever created. And I have an appointment with him in just a few weeks. My dry eyes are simply torturous and I have no doubt he'll be quite concerned.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Shit Just Got Real

On the eve of my 30th birthday, it seemed only fitting that I cross the very last threshold into the Land of Bona Fide Grownups. My first assigned task in Adult Town involved just enough money to cause serious second thoughts and give me a stomachache. Also, I cried the whole way home.

It is a gorgeous new necklace or pair of diamond earrings? Maybe those $600 riding boots I've been eyeing? Or maybe I finally went out and bought every Cuisinart and KitchenAid appliance I've ever wanted? Of course I deserve all of those things, but I went bigger. Much bigger. Think: living room. As in, Living Room on Wheels.

That's right, I bought a minivan. A full-fledged-soccer-momming-grocery-getting-zero-sex-appeal-inducing-kid-pleasing-ego-murdering Chrysler Town & Country. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I've been doing a pretty solid job of both.

I could go on for days about how comfortable and practical it is, how much the kids love it and how nice it'll be for long trips in the car. But that only adds to the stark reality that is the loss of my twenties, my "carefree" twenties that I packed full of every life experience possible:

20-22: Just a lot of floundering and a general search for purpose. I am bad at this.
23: Started dating the man who would become my now-ex husband. Aim high, ladies!
24: Married that man. (my inner monologue on the way down the aisle: "This will not end well.")
25: Gave birth to my sweet, firstborn son. *win*
26: Gave birth to my beautiful daughter. *win*
27: Gave birth to my littlest and last babe. *win*
28: Got divorced. True to form, it Did Not End Well.
29: Had a hysterectomy. Take that, Tampax and Midol!
29+++: Bought the damn van and left behind life as I know it.

It was every bit as crazy as it looks, and then some. Though with all that in my past, my thirties can only bring calm, right? Because that's what I'm telling myself. Over and over again I tell myself that 30 is good. Thirty is peaceful. Thirty is forward motion. Thirty is the *Decade of You*! Right? RIGHT?!

Sunday, September 30, 2012

It's a Fine Line

I'm beginning to see that in this small world, there are Six Murky Degrees of Separation from the People You Blog About and May or May Not Offend. Believe it or not, I don't seek out controversial subject matter, nor do I seek to offend my readers. And because I'm very aware of my oft-missing filter, I'm at a constant crossroads that is currently crippling my writing process.

Do I write what I live, see, experience and think? Even in a small city where everyone is so interconnected? At the risk of offending untold numbers? Or should I embrace this chance to reach into the closets of other, though certainly more controlled, filterless-minded individuals like myself? This never-ending question circles through my mind, round and round until any hint of creativity has been murdered and I'm left without a single, worthwhile thought in my head.

Writing is my outlet, my therapy, my cleansing process. It is the fastest, easiest way for me to rid myself of the busyness of my mind and free up room to deal with my current reality. Realities such as diapers, dirty dishes, to-be-folded laundry, homework, and seriously, you're fucking hungry again? Really?! I just finished scraping the oatmeal off the walls; you're gonna have to wait.

My self-imposed writer's block is killing me; keeping all of my loud opinions hidden inside just can't be healthy. So from here on out, I'm taking off the gloves. I've lived my life, thus far, by the seat of my pants and while it's not always served me well, it's gotten me to where I am today. And today is a good place to be, bitches.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Unbridled Creativity

My daughter definitely has a creative streak, as is evident by the many and varied art projects that adorn the doors of my kitchen and dining room. Aside from the standard daycare send-alongs, we have a collection of projects born from the pretty impressive contents of our "craft crate." The crate is the most widely used source of entertainment in our house and by keeping it updated and refreshing it often, the kids don't get bored of the contents.

Sweet T's creativity knows no bounds. Really. Last fall she treated me to a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. It was a truly remarkable abstract done in bold black, a real Statement Piece, if I've ever seen one. I thought the title needed more thought, but I kept my opinion to myself.

"Giant Box-Marking Sharpie on Suede"
by Sweet T Schroeder


And again yesterday, she blessed me with another one of her original works. When I pick the kids up from daycare we have a pretty standard episode of Schroeder ridiculousness and it goes a little something like this: everyone is clamoring for my attention and some (The Baby, I'm talking about you) will literally climb the bodies of the other siblings in order to be the first into my arms. You must feel so loved! you're probably saying to yourself. Yes, quite.
Realizing that my attention is not just divided but completely frayed, they take to their own devices. G runs towards the building and pretends not to hear my unending refrain of getinthetruckGetInTheTruckGETINTHEFRICKINGTRUCK! The baby takes off, running the length of the playground fence in search of his water bottle and an escape route. I can usually count on Sweet T to be my little momma hen and assist in the capture of her brothers.
But yesterday was not one of those days. While the boys ran in their standard - and opposite - directions, Sweet T obediently went and stood by her door, waiting patiently for me. I was getting the details of the kids' day from the teachers while chasing down The Baby and yelling for G, barely registering the loud pounding noise in my periphery.
I finally made my way to the truck in time to observe my daughter, deep in the creative process. She's unleashing the beauty of her next masterpiece, all over my truck. With a rock. A big, fat, dent-making, door-scratching, paint-scraping, mother-loving ROCK. A fucking ROCK, people!

I gasped, she dropped the rock and with wide eyes, nodded along when I requested that she not color my truck with rocks. Ever again. Actually, let's just not even touch the truck. Remarkably, not another word was needed to gain complete compliance from my entire crew for the remainder of the evening.

Being that I'm in the midst of trying to sell my truck, I've decided to fully market her latest work. I intend to play up the fact that the new owner of my Land Rover will be in possession of one of the earliest works from an up-and-coming, child prodigy, mixed-media artist. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'll have to fend off the throngs of people flocking to my door, cash in hand.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Sweet T: 1; Momma: -2

My daughter's pacifier got "lost" when she was about 2 1/2. But no worries, she just picked up her thumb and had an instant (not to mention un-loseable) replacement. I didn't fight it because she's a pretty steady bedtime-only sucker and it's not interfered with play or socialization in the least. I cannot say the same for my son, who is now 4 1/2. His pacifier also got "lost" around the same time but he did well with the transition. That is, until about 6 weeks ago; out of nowhere he came home from a visit with his dad as a die-hard thumb sucking fanatic. I kid you not, that stub only came out of his mouth at meals and when he needed to speak.

Being as G is my oldest child, and constant victim of my numerous and on-going parenting failures, I have been at a complete loss for how to deal with this situation. I tried the whole "you're not a baby anymore and big kids have much cooler things to do than suck their thumbs" along with "dude, seriously, the smacking/sucking noise is making me homicidal" and on to vague, crunchy-theory directed "let's try to find another way for you to self-soothe that doesn't involve appendages and saliva." Not to mention that daycare was commenting about and questioning the behavior and its sudden onset and constant presence.

Eventually the slime and suckling got the best of me and I ordered a bottle of Mavala Stop - a nail polish with a distinct, terrible taste that is for nail-biters and thumb suckers alike. I must admit, I was feeling nervous and more than a little guilty about using it; but my parents used something like it with me and it didn't cause any long-term hatred for them, so onward I went. G and Sweet T were obliviously excited to get "toe-polish" on their thumbs; that alone made it a little more heartbreaking, as in the back of my mind I was thinking "you have no idea of the reality to come, though I've prepped you and issued constant reminders of the function of said toe-polish."

Sweet T threw a fit shortly after the initial application and immediately popped her thumb in her mouth. With watery eyes she drooled, moaned, groaned and complained all through stories and the bedtime routine. Six drinks of water later she was still lamenting "It's not getting out of my mouth. It's stuck on my tongue, momma." G was impressed enough by her reaction that he didn't even attempt so much as a lick. Though I did bust him stealing the baby's pacifier shortly thereafter. Hey, I'll take my victories where I can get them.

The next night was a little more interesting: G had decided that his forefinger made a perfectly acceptable replacement for his thumb so he was no worse for the wear. Are you fricking serious, kid? So he got the royal treatment: all ten little fingers painted for prevention. It gets better though, because he then transitioned to sucking the flesh of his forearm; his entire arm is still peppered with giant hickeys and he looks like a battered child. He's nothing if not innovative, right? At least there's that...

Sweet T was an entirely different story. As I went downstairs after tucking them in she starts a rousing round of "I don't have anything to put in my mouth!!" and carries on for some time. Now, a little background on my baby girl: there was an entire year of her life that when angry or frustrated, she would scream and cry until she vomited. Intentionally. It was lovely, really.

After a solid 30 minutes of crying I hear the dreaded "I puked, momma!" I stomped upstairs and started the water in the tub before silently stalking into her room to survey the damage. And damage there was; her entire bed, the carpet, her whole front and her long, beautiful (just washed) locks were covered in goop. Being more than a little disgusted and irritated I gave her the whisper-quiet lecture about how screaming until you vomit is NOT the way to get through life, then shipped her off to the tub while I got out my haz-mat suit and attacked the mess before me.

Being the lazy mom that I am, it wasn't hard for me to decide that rather than spend 45 minutes rinsing and gagging over the soiled bedsheet and jammies, I would simply stuff them in a Target bag and toss them in the trash. And before you get all uppity and send me emails about waste and eco-friendly habits, know that I'll expect you to back up your rhetoric by offering to come and pre-rinse all of my kid-soiled linens and clothes, you know, in the name of eco-consciousness.

I bathed my daughter for the second time in less than an hour and trucked her back to bed, but not before having a whole bunch of water. She was completely silent, as is often the case after one of her Super Mega Vomit Tantrums and she apologized as I snuggled her back to bed.

After replaying the scene in my head later that evening, I realized that she was still throwing up when I came upstairs and kept drooling and gagging while I got her undressed. And then it dawned on me: holy crap, she didn't do this on purpose. I think it was the perfect storm of screaming and getting worked up and then putting her thumb in her mouth that led to the Big Event. I felt terrible and about two inches tall; here I'm angry with my child because of actions that were not, in fact, intentional but rather entirely situational. And from a situation that I had created with my Genius plan for thumb sucking eradication. Lesson: learned. In spades.

I went upstairs right away and removed the polish, feeling more guilty by the minute. I spent the next two days apologizing profusely, owning my wrong-ness and vowing to be less shitty. As of today, Sweet T is a happy-go-lucky thumb sucking 3-year-old; for my money, she can suck that bad boy until she's 35 if she feels so inclined. As for G, he's moved on to sucking the life out of his bottom lip and won't dare chance tasting the "toe-polish." I'm pleased as punch and he's pretty proud of himself, as well. So I guess we'll always have that, right?

Monday, July 16, 2012

Scar-fading Miracle Mask?

I'm always up for trying homemade beauty treatments. I mean, who wouldn't want to claim responsibility for the production of their own beauty regimen resulting in beautiful, clear, porcelain-esque skin? I decided to try out a nutmeg-honey-lemon-cinnamon mask that promised to rid my face of any acne scars and clear up/prevent future blemishes. Knowing that all of the aforementioned ingredients are renowned for their healing and beneficial properties, I was sure that this one was going to be a keeper.

To start off, making the mask is a giant pain in the ass. Honey and lemon mix together just fine; add in the cinnamon and nutmeg and you might as well be trying to get oil and water to play nice. I tried stirring it together; then I used a whisk; then I tried to break up the powder bubbles with my fingers. Eventually I gave up and just stirred the whole concoction with my hands, kneading it like bread dough. Note the hot mess that ensued from the preparation.

And I like nutmeg just as much as the next girl; I'm a big fan of freshly grated nutmeg sprinkled over my fettuccine alfredo or in my hot chocolate on a cold day in the fall. But that's where my fanaticism ends. Turns out, the incredibly strong scent of nutmeg radiating from my face for 30 minutes was enough to trigger a migraine. No joke, I kept sniffing around my house, trying to find what smelled like mildew until I realized it was my own face. Just wash it off! you might be saying. Nay! I will suffer endlessly for the sake of genuine experiences in the name of journalism.

The original blogger, whose recipe I used, does make note of the fact that the mask burns "a little." Yep, I was gritting my teeth and my eyes were watering the entire time. My face was really red and irritated when I rinsed off the mask and it took two days before my skin felt normal again.

All in all, this magical scar-fading mask ate up an hour of my life that I will never get back and gave me a headache the likes of which made me want to vomit. I'd have to say, this one didn't make the cut.

Link to original Pin


Friday, July 13, 2012

Mug Shot

Anyone who knows me well is aware of my affinity (bordering on problematic obsession) for coffee; strong, dark and black. Along with my coffee love comes an adoration for great, unique mugs and other coffee vessels. I like to buy a mug any time I take a little trip or vacation; it's a memento that will be used often and keeps the memory of the trip fresh in my mind. I find myself sitting with my morning coffee, reflecting on the times had; good, bad and shit-show ugly, it all goes down a little easier with great coffee in a fun mug.

With this love in mind, I squealed (audibly, at work) when I found an amazing Pin with links to 50+ high-end-retail-knock-off DIY projects. The picture below was my first inspiration, a place setting from West Elm. I love the imperfect perfection, simplicity and cool calm of the dark blue on stark white.

50+ Retail Knock-Offs Pin



So I dug around through my vast collection of DIY Pins and mashed together the ideas from several similar themes; here's what I came up with: porcelain paints on dollar store mugs, baked at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. I picked up the paints on clearance at Michael's; they were $2.49/ea and the mugs were $1/ea. Quick note on the mugs: minimal selection (obviously; it's the dollar store) and one of the handles broke while I was painting it. So I ended up with only one mug, but that was fine for my first experiment. The project was surprisingly easy, with minimal set-up/clean-up and took less than 30 minutes, start to finish. Once you get the hang of it, I'm certain you could bang out a set of four in less than an hour.

Sharpie on Porcelain Pin

The hardest part for me was deciding what sort of style/pattern I wanted to use for the mug. (Visit my Pattern Possibilities Board if you get stuck!) I was nervous about ruining the mugs but the paint is easily washable, before it is baked. I tested out a few designs and found that it's a bit challenging to get the hang of the flow of the paint and the curvature of the mug. I did a few trials on plain paper and then let the paint fly in a lovely, imperfect pattern that turned out exactly as I'd hoped it would.

Below you can see my results of my own, original design as well as a picture of the specific paint used for this project. I didn't use the pewter color, though it is shown in the photo. I let the paint dry for 24 hours, per the directions, and then baked the mug according to the specs on the paint packaging. I was absolutely thrilled with the end result and gave it as part of a house-warming gift. This is, to date, my favorite Pinterest production.




Thursday, July 12, 2012

Cutting Continuous T-Shirt Yarn = Frickin' Rad

I came across this Pin a few weeks ago and could hardly contain my excitement. With this simple trick, I've been able to filter through the piles of clothes that I no longer wear and combine two of my passions: crocheting and re-purposing of everyday items. The tutorial from the video is clear and easy to follow and I didn't have to change anything. The process is a little time-consuming but pretty mindless and not challenging at all. My kids were with their father for the weekend and I ended up with the stomach flu (awesome, right?), so I spent all day Saturday on the couch, watching bad movies and making yarn.

The only issue I encountered, happened when I didn't leave a large enough space at the top of the fold; make sure you leave a solid two inches, otherwise you'll end up with too-thin strips when you're finishing with the scissors and the fabric will rip when you go through the stretching step. I also found that tissue-tees/burn-out tees don't work because they are too thin to sustain the stretching step.

I started with 14 ratty, ugly old tees and long-sleeved shirts and ended up with 12 balls of t-shirt yarn in varying colors; the bottom picture is the finished product. One tissue tee didn't work and another long-sleeved tee was shot; rather than curl up when I stretched it, it simply expanded into a sad, wide strip that was unusable. I'm going to start by making some fun rugs for the bathrooms and kids rooms; they'll be washable and absorbent and better yet, Free!

The only problem now is containing myself from going through every item of clothing in our house and tossing everything in my to-be-cut pile. So you can bet your sweet ass I'll be trucking down to Goodwill this weekend and picking up some XXXL ugliness on the cheap, all in the name of homemade handicrafts. (Napoleon Dynamite reference, anyone?)

Link to the original Pin and video tutorial
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Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Cheap & Easy Homemade Taco Seasoning

I have a son who was diagnosed with a very serious dairy allergy as an infant, four years ago. In the time since, I've become a food-label reading expert and I can spot hidden dairy at 10 paces. I'm continually surprised by the amount of foods that are processed with dairy/dairy by-products as fillers; for this reason, we have to stay away from most processed foods in our house. Note: this does not make me a crunchy, holier-than-thou, I'm-superior-because-we-aim-for-a-whole-foods-diet kinda lady. Quite the contrary, because I'd give my left foot to be able to toss Kraft Mac 'n Cheese and goldfish at my kids and wrap the night up with warm, ooey-gooey chocolate chip cookies.

Anyway, back to tacos: I was disappointed to find that lots of packaged taco seasonings contain dairy. Then along came Pinterest with more homemade (and ridiculously inexpensive) magic in the form of taco seasoning. Simply mix equal parts Ground Cumin, Chili Powder, Onion Powder and Garlic Powder. I cannot stress this enough: it fricking smells and tastes REAL. Like, Ortega-style real. The only thing I would change is to add 1/4-1/2 part salt to the mix. Example: 1 tablespoon of each of the spices and then 1/2 tablespoon of salt.

I threw a couple of tablespoons of this pretty little concoction into my crock pot with some chicken breasts and a few hours later, we had a delightful meal of chicken tacos which none of my children ate, but I gobbled with gusto and a heart full of homemade pride.

Here's another little tip to keep the cost down on this already very inexpensive mix: go get all the spices from the bulk section of your local co-op or Whole Foods. They're so much cheaper than the bottled spices that you usually buy and I guarantee they're much, much fresher and better tasting. If you're intimidated by the bulk section, here is my advice for you: Get Over It. I admit, I used to shield my eyes when I went by the bulk bins because I didn't know how to shop them; then I had the opportunity to listen to a speaker from my local co-op and I am now a very proud bulk shopper.

Try this out and let me know how it goes over at your house. And I'd love to hear about any of your special homemade seasoning mixes.

Link to the original Pin


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Girl, Your Towels Reek

I always have bleach in my house, mostly for the relative frequency with which one of my children poops in the tub and I have to sanitize the entire room. Oh, and for the occasions when the sprinkling of baking soda isn't enough to kill that dead smell, lingering at the bottom of my garbage can.  But save for those few instances, I don't use bleach. And never, ever on my laundry; I have ruined far too many items of clothing to ever be able to justify pouring that yellowish chemical factory into my washing machine.

So imagine my delight when I came across this lovely little nugget of wisdom on Pinterest. Wash a load of towels on hot with a cup of vinegar - or if you're like me, just pour until it feels right. Then wash again in hot water with a cup of baking soda - again, I sprinkle until I'm satisfied. Don't use soap with either load; it negates the purpose of the vinegar/baking soda rinses. These natural products that we all have on hand in our homes serve to strip our towels of the left-over residue from our detergents and fabric softeners.

No kidding, ladies, my towels smelled like nothing when they came out of the washer and dryer. And by nothing, I mean Fresh and Lovely. No lingering rank mildew or sour I-should-have-washed-this-last-week smells. I tossed my bath rugs and kitchen rags/towels in as well and I was beyond impressed with the results.

And in case you're wondering, I have a top-loading HE machine and I poured both the vinegar and baking soda directly onto the towels. Do this; do it Now and then come and tell me how lovely your towels smell.


Link to the original Pin

Wash towels in 1 Cup of vinegar on hot, then again with 1/2 cup of baking soda on hot. Kills the musty smell that builds up over time.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Easy Fruit Cobbler

This recipe speaks to the inherently lazy nature of my baking skill set. Plus, it tastes great and I used a dairy-free cake mix to make it friendly for my eldest son.

While the recipe calls for a can of diet soda, I can tell you definitively that you do not need to use chemical-laden-artificial-sweetener-grossness. Instead, use a can of sparkling water; I used grapefruit-flavored LaCroix. The cake mix and fruit are plenty sweet enough and do not need any extra sweetness from soda.

The recipe calls for mixed berries but I used what I had in the house, which happened to be raspberries, mango and blackberries. It was so, so good and got great reviews from the people I had over that evening. This is a great recipe to throw together in a hurry for a last-minute dessert or impromptu get together with friends.

Link to the original Pin

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DIY Microdermabrasion

Link to the original Pin

Somehow I managed to get through the entirety of my adolescence with flawless skin. Not that I ever complained back then, but I'd have much rather had bad skin when everyone else was enduring the same horrors of hormonal imbalance than now, when I should be well on my way to worrying about crows feet and age spots. At any rate, I've not yet mastered my post-children-approaching-my-30's-getting-drier-and-simultaneously-more-breakout-prone skin.

I've paid ridiculous sums of money for microderm product sets that did nothing more than cause teenage-esque breakouts on my late-twenties complexion, so I was excited to find this suggestion for inexpensive, at-home microdermabrasion. Simply mix three parts baking soda with one part water, forming a paste, then massage in a circular motion over your entire face, avoiding the delicate eye-area. It works beautifully and leaves your skin feeling silky-soft. Follow it up with your favorite moisturizer and you'll be delighted with the results.

I do this before bed and not more than twice a week; don't overdo it because you'll strip your skin past the point of silky and into the raw neighborhood. I've also used orange juice in place of water and found that to be a great combo when fighting a breakout. The citric acid in orange juice works as a great toner, brightener and tightener. Plus, it smells awesome.

Slow Cooker Steel Cut Oats


Steel cut oats in the slow cooker. Yes, please.
I adore crock pot cooking for about a million reasons, not the least of which is the dump-it-and-forget-it aspect. This recipe for overnight steel cut oats is nothing short of brilliant and absolutely delicious. I've made it twice now with varying results but the issue is not the recipe, rather my old crock pot that was in the midst of a long, slow, tortured death.

The offending crock pot chose to take a big fat dump while I was at work a few weeks ago. I anticipated coming home to a kitchen that smelled of delicious southwest chicken to be served over rice with cheese, green chiles and sour cream.  Rather, I arrived home to a blackened, acrid smelling, unrecognizable hunk of dehydrated chicken and what was at one time a jar of salsa and some taco seasonings. After a rather unceremonious tossing of said crock pot into the dumpster, I vowed to splurge on a beautiful new slow cooker. Or at least borrow my sister's.

But back to the overnight oats. They're delicious and I can see this being a staple in our family during the cold months. The original recipe doesn't make as much as I thought it might so I'll double it in the future. This will allow for leftovers that I can bring along to work. And I think you could easily freeze leftovers in single-serving containers, just add a little liquid when re-heating. We love hot breakfasts at our house and the versatility of the recipe will work greatly in my favor. It's also easy enough that my kids can help prepare; as every parent knows, kids are far more likely to eat something that they've had a hand in making.

Let me know if you try the recipe and what you used to flavor it. And how did your kids like it?

Link to the original Pin







Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Calm Bottles: Not Just For Kids

I renamed these Calm Bottles and made them for my kids a few weeks ago. They are seriously awesome and I love them just as much as my kiddies do. My intent was not to use them as a "time-out" tool but rather as a distraction from gross behavior and sibling fighting. Also as a fun tool to help them settle down at bedtime and for trips in the car.

We took a family trip to the craft store and stocked up on ultra-fine glitter and coordinating glitter glue. Turns out we didn't actually need to spend the money on glitter glue; clear craft glue will work just as well at a fraction of the price. Also lacking from the original posting was the size of the bottle used for the recipe given. I bought the one-liter bottles of SmartWater and ended up having to halve the mixture because it was far, far too thick to ever settle. Talk about a break, if you're using them for time-outs.

I'm going to make a few more so the kids can choose different colors and to maintain the novelty; I plan to milk this project for as long as I'm able.

Link to the original Pin

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Monday, June 18, 2012

This Could Be A Problem: Coconut Chocolate Mousse

Holy crap, this is ridiculously delicious. I've made it twice with better results each time after some small modifications. I used Golden Star brand coconut milk, and while I put it in the fridge overnight, I didn't leave it uncovered; I didn't want it to end up tasting like the inside of my fridge. I would recommend not using any of the liquid that remains at the bottom of the can. And don't be like me: I got a little aggressive with my spatula while trying to coax the solid milk out of the can and ended up splashing a pretty healthy amount of coconut water all over myself. And my kitchen counters. And the floor. Coconut is oily. It was awesome.

The recipe needs sugar! I used a smattering of Stevia the first time and a few tablespoons of powdered sugar the second time around and neither time was it sweet enough for me. I would use at least 1/4 cup of a dry sweetener, and I think powdered sugar and Stevia are the best choices. For the second trial, I crumbled up some shortbread to sprinkle on the top and the texture it added was great. I used my hand-mixer both times to get a great whipped/mousse consistency and then I put it in the freezer to set up a little further. The freezer step might not be necessary if you omitted the remaining liquid.

The best part about this recipe is that aside from tasting delicious, it's made with healthy, good-for-you coconut milk and it's dairy-free, ensuring that my son can enjoy it along with the rest of us. This will be a staple dessert in our house.

Link to the original Pin

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Baked Oatmeal To-Go (directly into the trash)

This recipe sounded great and had me dreaming of lovely, simple mornings with my kids. I pictured our usual frantic race out the door for work and school tempered by the nutritious and delicious portable breakfast in our hands. As is so often the case, with my endless optimism, that isn't even close to how things played out.

The recipe author touts the "sugar free" aspect and the versatility of this ideal breakfast; while it's certainly versatile, there isn't one mother-loving ounce of flavor in these squishy, sad lumps of oatmeal. My two oldest children politely tasted the original product; G took a teeny, tiny bite and gave me a sweet, polite grimace and T swallowed hers with a look of genuine disgust adorning her pretty face. The Baby, not yet being versed in social graces, grabbed it out of his mouth and threw it on the kitchen floor, spitting out the remainder. His comment: gucky (our family's versatile word for gross, yucky, icky, dirty, don't-touch-that, spit-that-out-right-this-instant).

My second effort had me slathering enough peanut butter on these suckers to make them palatable to even the pickiest of eaters. But still, no takers. I grudgingly ate every last one of these leaded breakfast bombs because, Dammit, They're Healthy!

Best part? I made a gigantic double batch. You see, I was so convinced that they would be incredibly delicious that I made a batch of regular muffin-sized bombs for my family and a whole pan of mini-muffin sized bombs to take with to work. As for this recipe, it won't be happening again at House of Schroeder.

This is the link to the original Pin.

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Wednesday, June 13, 2012

My Latest Project

So, as any of my Pinterest followers know, I'm a total whore for that website. And I'm convinced I'm now an incredibly-stylish-DIY-master-gourmet-chef-fitness-model-parenting-expert-interior-designer-extraordinaire because of all of my amazing re-pins. But the guilt has started to eat away at me. What if all my loyal followers are under the impression that I've actually accomplished such amazing feats as I'm so quick to Pin?

And with that guilt, my latest undertaking was born. Well, that and the fact that I no longer have cable and there is only so much time I can spend listening to my iPod and paging through old pictures. Seriously, add a little liquor and I'd be a drunk-in-the-making. So I've decided to challenge myself to A-Pin-A-Day; I'll be keeping myself accountable by posting the results of my attempts here on the very pages of this virtual, filterless therapy session. You'll have to bear with me as I try to figure out how to link up my Pins with the blog etc.

I'll be attempting recipes, DIY projects, home design tips, sewing fabulousness, skincare remedies and other Pinterest magic. I'm really excited about this and I can't wait to share my latest and great accomplishments and tragic failures with all of you. Cheers to crazy craftiness!

Friday, April 20, 2012

Die, Charter, Die.

After years of loathing and resentment, I'm finally severing ties with Charter. I've been a reluctantly loyal customer for 11 years and the reason I've yet to leave is sadly simple, and a testament to my innate laziness: my email address has a Charter domain name and it's a pain in the ass to round up all my contacts and make the switch in my numerous online identities.

I should mention the final straw in my years-long battle: my wireless Internet doesn't work more than eight feet from my modem. No joke. Not upstairs, not in my kitchen, nowhere but the confines of my living room. And every time I call to complain, they tell me that the signal "looks just fine" on their end. Blow me, Charter.

So I finally set up a new email account and before I close my account with them, I need to know from whom I should be getting my Internet service. I don't have a land-line and getting rid of cable will no doubt cause more than a few moments of panic; this process will be like ripping off the giant band-aid that is my reliance on television to fill up the too-quiet moments in my life when my brain needs silencing. At any rate, all I need is wireless Internet service and I need your suggestions, horror stories and tales of customer service, rotten or otherwise. Cost isn't as much as factor, as it will no doubt be less than I'm currently paying for cable and super shitty Internet non-service.

Oh, and here's another question: will my TV work without a converter box, now? And is it just me or does "converter box" make anyone else feel like it's 1952? I didn't have to deal with the digital conversion in 2009 because again, I've always been a Charter monopoly victim. Please advise, oh More-Knowledgeable-Than-I readers.

One more thing: how do I get my new gmail address to work in Outlook? Ok, that should do it.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Courtship, You Say?

For one of my classes this semester, I was tasked with writing a paper detailing the courtship rituals in twentieth-century America as compared to today. I had a great time with this and felt compelled to share a few excerpts with you, so that you may laugh with (at) me and perhaps even find a bit of yourself or your past in my musings on dating, as I see it.

                I tried to picture myself in the days of calling and supervised dating; I was much more the girl whose suitors simply slowed down, honked and waited for my signal to “keep driving, I’m going to run through the neighbor’s backyard and I’ll meet you at the end of the block.” And to call them suitors is pretty rich; in reality, they were most likely just the latest guy in town to have received his license and/or a new vehicle and our time together would be spent doing nothing more than driving up and down the endless, omnipresent Main St. that ran through my hometown. It wasn’t so much a date, as a fruitless waste of fossil fuel and a quick way to anger your parents with the number of miles put on the car in one evening. And never could said parents be convinced that you had, indeed, only been “cruising Main”; the odometer suggested something more along the lines of a trip from west-central Wisconsin into the southern tip of Illinois.


                In my personal experience, the vast majority of my dates have absorbed the literal cost of our time together; me, more so the emotional cost. But while most of my paramours have held with tradition, I did have a really amazing experience with a young man we’ll call Kevin, because that is his name. Kevin picked me up and swung into the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way to see a movie. He didn’t ask if I was hungry, nor did he offer to get me anything; I guess it was good that I’d eaten before I left the house. Another quick stop, this time at the gas station, and we arrived at the theatre with not a moment to spare.
               At this time, I’d like to thank my parents for instilling in me the notion that a lady must always have a little cash on hand; Kevin was conspicuously busy doing absolutely nothing as the ticket sales girl hands me our tickets and informs me of the charge, directing us to theatre four, on the right. I use the last $20 to my name and spend the next two hours and twenty minutes trying to fend off the hands of Gropey McGroperson and wishing that I’d met him at the theatre so I didn’t have to ride home with him.
               He uses the ride home to further fondle my left knee and tell me how great my laundry detergent smells; I can hardly hold back from telling him that his Grandpa’s cologne isn’t doing him any favors and I’ll be bathing immediately once I arrive home to rid myself of the cloying smell of imminent death. Naturally, he’s expecting an invite into my humble studio apartment for a nightcap but I barely waited until he’d pulled up to the curb before I was out of the truck and barreling in to my Gain-clean-and-fresh home, securing the deadbolt behind me. That was nine years ago but I still recall every single detail, primarily due to the mortification factor. Bad dates are part of the deal and somewhere, someone told me that you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince; Kevin is one frog whose story deserves retelling.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Again, With the Customer Service

I had a meeting this morning with a client and being that I was early - that never happens - I ran through Dunn Bros for a delicious, steaming hot, large dark roast. I drove to the Perkins on 40th Ave W and responded to a few emails while waiting for my client to arrive. Like I said, early. I hardly knew what to do with myself.

When she arrived, my coffee had just cooled to a point that I could drink it without subjecting myself to a full-mouth exfoliation. As we're being led to our booth, a male employee actually grabs my arm and physically stops me, exclaiming, "Oh ma'am! We do not allow beverages here!" I was totally shocked and started to mumble something about how it was just coffee when he literally rips the coffee cup out of my hand and tosses it on the pile of dishes in his arms as he races away, leaving me speechless.

Are you kidding me? There is no way that just happened. I was physically shaking as I walked the rest of the way to the table and sat down. The delightfully cool plate of pancakes were perfectly mediocre and I settled into my meeting with no further assaults. But my favorite part of the meal was, by far, the $2.19 carafe of brown-water that stood as the logical substitute to my delicious, expensive, worth it, large dark from DB.

As I was pulling away from the restaurant, Mr. Grabby walked in front of my truck on his way back in from the dumpster, no doubt having disposed of my illegal beverage. If I had lesser morals I'm certain I would have given in to my impulse to run that crusty old man under the tires of my truck. Dick move, man.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

At the Risk of Sounding Like an Octogenarian...

What is with the youth, these days? Specifically, when did customer service hit the shitter and never look back?

My sister called this morning and suggested we lunch together at Takk for Maten. Neither of us had eaten there before but I'd heard good things from a friend. One friend. Like, two years ago. That aside, I was looking forward to our date and only had to circle the block four times to find parking six blocks from the cafe.

I was late (as usual) and my sister had already gotten the lay of the land. Apparently you fill out your own order ticket at your table, bring it to the counter, pay for your meal and then take your seat to wait for someone to bring out your food. There were only a handful of people in the restaurant and my sister was advised that we needn't fill out a ticket for our order but could simply present our requests verbally.

We looked over our menu and approached the counter. Mind you, there are three young female employees and exactly nine customers, my sister and I included. The 1:3 ratio seemed promising.

S and I stood there for a full six minutes without so much as a greeting. Nothing. No eye contact, no nod of recognition. The girl working the register simply stared between the screen and the order slips in her hand as if she was bound and determined to learn to read, right before my very eyes. Eventually she looks up and asks me if the tickets she's holding belong to us. No, I say, we're just waiting to order. Still nothing. No explanation, she continues to act as though we are merely a figment of her altered state.

A second employee comes over to assist with the terribly challenging order-at-hand and she is equally apathetic. After a few minutes she asks me what kind of bread I wanted my sandwich on. I inform her that the order doesn't belong to me and my sister interjects to suggest that we were told we could order at the counter but are still waiting. The third girl pipes up from the coffee station to say that we're fine and can indeed order at the counter. The first girl, who has been standing next to the register doing absolutely nothing, nods along and says Yeah, you can totally order here. It took every single bit of self-control and societal grace that I possess not to come back with When, exactly, might I totally be able to order?

Eventually, and after much explanation, we have completed the exhausting task of placing a lunch order and have seated ourselves; me with my self-serve water and S with her poor excuse for an Americano. A few minutes later, one of the girls brings out another Americano. We point to S's cup and explain that she's already got her coffee. Puzzled, she asks my sister, But didn't you order an Americano? Why yes, as a matter of fact, she did. And she's drinking it right now.

Our utterly disappointing, not appealing and over-priced/small portion meal arrives and it takes us about four minutes to consume the entire affair. But don't worry, my sister got her pie long, long before the lunch was served, so no need to worry about not having enough room for dessert. Having enjoyed a delightfully underwhelming and at times totally ridiculous meal, we're finally free to leave this small, sad restaurant that reeks of a burned-to-hell oven in the middle of the self-cleaning cycle. There's no farewell or thanks from the staff as we leave, the final nail in the coffin of obscenely bad customer service.

It's only fair to note, that my sister and I have notoriously bad luck when dining together in public. And today's lunch didn't disappoint; in fact, it may have set the bar even lower. We won't be returning to Takk for Maten, and if you're considering a trip down that way, save yourself the time and effort and go somewhere that you'll be appreciated. Like Burger King. At least there, you can Have It Your Way.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Universal Truths of Motherhood

There are many universal truths of being a mother and never have they been more apparent than the last few months of my life. One shining example stands out as I sift through the dirty clothes before I toss them in the washer: I always, always have a tissue in my pocket. Every jacket I ever pull out of the back of my closet has at least one; my hoodies and zip-ups usually have pockets bulging with half-used, ripped up, balled up and occasionally (ok, rarely) an unused Puffs Plus Lotion. I am as likely to wipe your child's nose as I am the noses of my own children and if you sneeze or sniffle, I'll have to hold back from offering you a mildly crunchy but utterly sincere sign of motherhood at it's best.

I have more experience than I'd like with the sheer terror that is Melissa & Doug sound puzzles at dusk. If you've not been a party to such a delightful experience, I'd be happy to loan you one of ours. Sleep well, especially when you can't find the elephant...

Zhu-Zhu pets are the bane of my existence. At least, they are at 2:30 am when someone needs a drink of water and I'm stumbling around sans glasses in the pitch-black hallway. Do you know how long those fricking things run without being played with? Bump, thump, ZING, chirp chirp, giggle, ZING, thump, BUZZZZZZZ. At last count, 18 minutes. And yes, I looked for it... all the while crossing my fingers that no one wakes up from the ruckus.

Although, I must say I cannot refrain from laughing while watching my 17-month-old chase and run from his sibling's Zhu-Zhus with horrified delight. He's fine when they're jamming themselves into the wall but when they turn themselves around and head towards him? Well, let's just say I really wish I had a camera with a faster lens. Because those would be some Hilarious pictures.

While I trend towards a more alternative vaccine schedule and fully embrace and prefer holistic medicine, I maintain a deep, abiding love for the wonderousness that is Amoxicillin. Seriously, I almost wept with joy yesterday upon squirting that disgusting pepto-pink liquid down the throats of my three eager babes. Today we are on day six of a nasty case of strep throat, and because I am the Mother Of The Year, they were only diagnosed yesterday. After untold instances of vomiting and intermittent fevers, never mind the screaming, crying and general malaise running rife through my home, it seemed only logical to take the littles to the minute-clinic for a throat culture. Three raging positives later, I danced out of the pharmacy with vials of pink gold and the light at the end of the tunnel in plain view. Sleep, beautiful sleep, was had by all in my house last night. It was a thing of such beauty that I wish someone had been there to witness it along with me. Perhaps now strangers in public will stop telling me "Gosh, you look tired."

What are your universal parenting truths?

Thursday, March 1, 2012

I'm Having an Affair

And everything people say about the intoxicating effects of an affair are absolutely true. I'm addicted to him - the way he smells, the way he makes me feel inside, how my heart races after I've been with him. He makes me happy and energizes me; with him in my corner, I feel like I can accomplish anything. He's incredible and I love him. Love, love, LURVE him.
He never lets me down; he's always there for me and on the rare occasion that I can't get ahold of him I panic and feel physically ill. Sometimes I wonder if I love him too much. Perhaps I'm even dependent on him? For instance, today: I came home from running errands and his incredibly sexy smell was calling to me, begging me to drop everything and spend an hour with him. In my head I was thinking, No, this is a bad idea. Don't do it, Leah. You'll regret it in a few hours when you're alone and all you can think about is him. And so for the first time in as long as I can remember, I resisted him. I employed the shreds of self-control that I possess - and let's be real, I wasn't entirely certain there was any left to speak of - and instead of brewing up a steaming hot pot of organic, certified fair-trade French roast coffee from Alakef, I took out the garbage and did the dishes.

What? You thought I was talking about a Man? Oh, ladies... Don't be silly. We all know how I've survived the last year and it certainly hasn't been wrapped in the arms of a handsome man; coffee is where it's at.

Friday, January 20, 2012

Confessions of a Stressed-Out Mom

Being a mom is hard work, no matter who you are or your life circumstances. Sometimes I get so bogged down by the challenges that I forget to enjoy the good things that motherhood has brought to my life. So in the interest of transparency and a desire to make you all feel better about your Crappy Mom moments, I will share with you my confessions.

I have been a rotten mom for the last three-ish weeks. Really rotten. The kind of rotten that is eating away at my conscience and I'm pretty sure is giving me an ulcer. And I can't find a way to get out of this pattern. My kids have been gross and I've been even worse. My home has become a cacaphony of screaming, crying and non-stop arguing and most surfaces are covered in some manner of nose slime and bitter, angry tears. I can't seem to shut off my snap-response reaction; someone acts out, I yell and the cycle continues until I can hardly even look at them. The anger I feel is blinding and makes me feel so incredibly guilty. I love them, more than anything in the world, so why am I being so immature in the way I'm handling things?

My daughter is just now starting to implement some classic passive-aggressive revenge. For example: T is potty trained and completely capable of informing her caregivers when she needs to use the bathroom. But for the past few weeks she's been punishing me for sending her back to daycare after a lovely three weeks at home with her momma. She is pooping and peeing her pants all the time, informing me after the accident that she needs to go potty. She does it at home, at school and everywhere in between. I've been good about not yelling at her when the incidents occur but I do express my wishes that she inform me Prior to peeing all over the stairs. What makes me crazy is the little look that she casts my way - the one that says "Ha-ha, I win and there's nothing you can do about it." And heaven help me, she's right. She's also at that lovely stage where she cannot be brought out in public. You know what I'm talking about, every child goes through this stage, some more than once.

And my big boy has entered a phase of constant arguing. Everything I say is wrong. My driving is wrong. The way I'm pouring the milk is wrong. I'm doing the laundry wrong. I can't tell time correctly. I know nothing. In fact, it's amazing I survive each day with my complete lack of knowledge. If he keeps this up, he just may be ready for law school by the third grade. And I will certainly be driven to an early grave. Of course, I know better than to engage in an argument with a four-year-old. While he is capable of understanding bits of rationale, he still lives in the wonderfully narcissitic world of childhood. And while he enjoys knowing that he is always right, I can't stop myself from arguing and I can't figure out how to tune out the constant barrage of his version of You Suck.

Because I'm a reasonably intelligent woman, I've been trying to change the tone in our home by making more time for stories, snuggling, family fun and otherwise enjoyable activities. But no matter what I do, the big ones end up arguing and try as I might, my lap simply isn't big enough for three kids. I end up exasperated and give up easily. That's not the mom I want to be; it's not the mom I want my children to recall from their childhood. I find myself having to apologize almost nightly for my nastiness and it breaks my heart when G's response is simply a smile and "It's ok, mom." T will look at me with her sweet, open smile and tell me I'm beautiful. So what the hell is wrong with me?! Why can't I remember what lies beneath when T starts to channel Linda Blair in The Exorcist? And when G feeds me nothing but the four-year-old version of the middle finger all day?

I know that my actions and responses set the mood for my family and that the responsibility lies with me and only me. That's a heavy burden to carry and though I may be broad-shouldered in a literal sense, lately I haven't been strong enough to get out of my own way. What discourages me most is that I can be a really great mom. In fact, sometimes I even feel a little superior. Sometimes I impress myself with my ability to maintain a cool demeanor and refrain from internalizing the situation, or diffusing the uglies before they get out of hand. It makes me so sad when I lose that part of me, when I fail to live up to my own potential.

Last night I worked really hard to keep myself in check. I was silly and happy with the kids and exercised patience during the few moments it was needed. Not surprisingly, we had a great night. The best night I've had with my kids in months. I enjoyed every moment of our night together and found myself not wanting them to go to bed quite yet because I wanted a few more snuggles. There were no tantrums, no accidents, lots of giggling and some snuggling and I never had to raise my voice. They got through the bedtime routine without incident and said goodnight happily as I sang our Goodnight Song on my way down the stairs. All three of them slept late today; I'd hit the snooze button twice and was up reading my email before G came barreling into my room for a little snuggle before our day started. The kids woke up on their own, every one of them cheerful and sweet. The only incident came when it was time to get our jackets on G was arguing about shoes v. boots. He got it together and while I explained that I wasn't happy with his behavior I refrained from yelling and didn't escalate the tension further.

So, I did it. I got it together and my sweet kids came back. We had a great night, a great morning and all is well in the Schroeder house. But how do I keep it this way? How can I keep myself on this track and what do I do when I find myself veering off into Crappy Mom territory?

Monday, January 16, 2012

I'm Just Lucky Like That

My kids went to bed beautifully on Friday night; they took baths, ate a yummy dinner and then slipped into a lovely slumber with no fussing of any sort. Or at least not until 11:30 when G woke up to go potty. But still, armed with amoxicillin for my sinus infection and bracing for a weekend with three kids and no plans, it was a good night.

Until 1:30, when I woke up to someone knocking on my door. Hard. And then with the doorbell, over and over. You should know that this isn't the first time this has happened. The teen mom who lives next door with her son and absentee mother often has late-night company that confuses my door with hers. I know, I know, my friends do it all the time too, at 3:00 in the morning. So while I was tempted to chalk it up to the skank-around-Sally next door and ignore it, the incessant ringing and pounding was bound to wake my sleeping lovelies and then I'd have a hot mess on my hands.

I crept over to the window to peek outside and my breath caught in my throat because outside my house is a police cruiser. All I can think of is that my kids are safe with me inside and the only reason the police could possibly be at my house in the middle of the night is because the neighbors finally set the place on fire with their constant pizza burning and they were coming to get us out of the house safely. Now, I know this is almost the least rational explanation that I could have come up with, but it was late and I was disoriented, braless and now full of fear, running down the stairs to meet up with the police.

When I open the door the officer apologizes for waking me and asks if I'm Lindsay. It takes me a minute to convince him that I am not, indeed, Lindsay and he takes another tactic. "Do you know Rena Lilly*?" gesturing next door. Ahhh, yes, the absentee mother. While not friends with Ms. Lilly, I have had numerous polite, overly-personal-on-her-part conversations in the eight months that we've been in this house. One would think by now, she'd know my name isn't Lindsay. But that's the least of my worries because by now the cop is regaling me with the story of Rena's Night Out.

Apparently, she got in a fight with her boyfriend while driving from one bar to the next so he pulled over, shoved her out of the car, threw her keys at her and drove away, leaving her to roll down into the ditch in her drunken stupor and lay there in the freezing cold until someone equally as drunk called the police and then ran, lest they get picked up for DUI. The office looked high and low for Rena's keys to no avail and dirtbag boyfriend wouldn't answer her calls and eventually shut his phone off so he could enjoy his night out without all the pestering from his drunken, assaulted girlfriend.

The officer explained to Rena that her only option was to be taken to detox, as she had nowhere to go. Her response? She'd rather go to jail. OR LINDSAY'S HOUSE. And that brings us back to the present: he asks me if she can sleep on my couch and it's clear that No isn't an option. He warns me that she's "pretty drunk" and heads to the cruiser to help her out of the backseat. She weaves and wobbles her way up the sidewalk, bumming a cigarette from the officer on her way. Once inside my house, I guide her to put her things down and kindly go outside to smoke with the officer. I think it was a bonding moment for the two of them. A way to debrief after the trauma of the night, if you will.

I ran upstairs to grab some blankets and a pillow, looking at everything I own and thinking "what do I not mind getting full of puke/snot/blood/urine tonight?" I rustle up some old linens and get downstairs just in time to see her stripping her pants off with the door still wide open. She hands me her pants, then looks at me tearfully and says, "Do you have some clothes I can wear, 'cause I peed my pants." Wow. I'm now at a loss for words. And my hands are full of a grown woman's urine. After a few attempts at conversation and lots of crying, I get her tucked in on my couch (making a mental note to schedule a steam-cleaning) and head up to lay awake for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I ask her where her daughter is and find that she hasn't seen her, nor the grandson, in two days and that's what started the Fight last night. A moment later I mention that there's a strange car parked outside and I think I can hear music coming from her house. She jumps off the couch and races to her front door. Knocking, ringing the bell and kicking the door, no one will answer. She comes back in my house and runs out my back door, ten seconds later she's flying back to her front door and throws up her hands, yelling "They fuckin' left!" As luck would have it, my four-year-old was awake to witness the spectacle.

Rena goes outside again and runs around the back of the house and after a minute or so, comes back in. She grabs her stuff and sputters "I gotta go quick before they lock the door again" and just like that, she's gone. I haven't heard a word from her since, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, dirtbag boyfriend's car was out front, nestled in for a sleepover.


*Names have been changed to protect those with questionable judgment and situational incontinence.