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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.