I must be getting reflective in my old age...

This week an old classmate of mine died.  Its not the first time it's happened, and certainly won't be the last, but it really did something to me.  Maybe because he was only thirty.  Or because it appears to have been some strange medical fluke- as far as I know, he wasn't sick and there wasn't some sort of traumatic accident.  Maybe its because I haven't spoken to him in probably 18 years, and that's the age of a college freshman and I can't believe I am that old. 

I wasn't the only one struck by this, it seems.  Our little catholic school class of 35 kids or so, scattered all over the country, was mobilized by this.  Facebook, these past few days, has been overwhelmed with outdated pictures while we all bemoaned our puffy bangs and stone wash jeans and braces.  Friend requests were sent with reckless, nostalgic abandon. 

It really is an incredible and wonderful thing.  Very healing.  There's even been talk of a middle school reunion.  Wouldn't that be something?  To reunite our close knit class after so many years?

Let me just say: I would love a reunion.  After a few days of this, however, I started to wonder. I read a post from a old classmate who spoke about forgiveness and I had a conversation with another friend whose memories of grade school weren't all shiny and covered with rose colored glasses.  I could relate.  In the mass of names that commented on pictures, there were a few that pierced me.  Just reading the letters gave me a queasy feeling in my stomach.  The insecurity and confusion I felt at twelve was incredibly enough, still there. 

It once more occurred to me that wounds run deep.  Of course, everyone says this.  This isn't a new revelation.  Books and songs, movies and documentaries are all built around this principle.  But what I am just now beginning to wonder about- what never crossed my mind before- is that I think everyone has these wounds.  And I mean everyone.  You may have already known this.  I'm dense and self-absorbed sometimes.  Forgive me.

See, I thought I was one of the Wounded.  One of the select few who was either picked on or maybe just overly sensitive to criticism (which I realized didn't matter, because hurt is hurt is hurt- however it comes about).  But now I am wondering if every single one of us has a bit of pain when they think about that super vulnerable time in our lives.  The popular girl with magically perfect hair. The good looking basketball player with the starter jacket.  The brainy kid who was reading in preschool.  The chubby girl with a strange name.  Whether they were awkward on the play ground or uncomfortable on the bus or were mistreated at home... we all had our heartaches.  And at thirteen, I doubt any of us were emotionally mature enough to cope. 

I'm not proud of this, but a few months ago, I was told off.  As I said, our grade school class was tiny.  Same thirty or so kids for 10 years.  Rules were established, codes were made, inside joke were... inside.  So you can imagine, typical pre adolecent grievances aside, it would be particularly difficult to join our class as an Outsider.  Not only that, but one who had a tough time in public school so their parent's decided a private school may be a better option.  Add to that, a strictly Jewish girl in a strictly catholic school.  I don't recall making fun of this girl, myself.  In fact, I doubt I had it in me.  But, I never stood up for her.  I never defended her or befriended her and I probably joined in the laughter.  I don't remember.  To be perfectly honest, I don't want to.

I recall running into this particular girl in high school on occasion and doing the whole "Hey, how's it going?" thing.  Nothing sincere, but friendly enough to think I did my part in making up for her humiliation.  You know, letting bygones be bygones and all.  Then ten years later, I began to run into her at my work place.  She would come in with her parents and seeing her through older, wiser eyes, I was able to realize that there was something a little off with her.  She would pick on my employees and was very confrontational.  Its difficult to describe, but we all knew something was different and so we took her words in stride.

She never really spoke to me, though.  Always avoided me.  It was awkward because we clearly knew each other.  I wondered how long this would last.  My answer came on a quiet evening at the club.  She strode up to me with her head held high and said "If you would like to apologize for how you treated me in junior high, I will accept it now."

Wow.  I was stunned.  Literally speechless for a full thirty seconds to a minute. My staff were of course up at the desk with me, studiously trying to appear to not be listening.  Bless them.  A thousand retorts spun in my brain ranging from a defensive "I never actually made fun of you" to "where do you get off accosting me at work?" to "what do you know about me?" to "good for you!"  The latter won out.  I apologized.  Not only for me, but for the rest of my class. I was proud of her.  I imagine that she must have been working up to that for a very long time.  In fact, I think she was waiting for me to step up and once she realized I wasn't, she forced the issue. 

Now, I still don't think she should have done it the way she did.  I was at work after all.  And after she got that off her chest, she took the opportunity to tear me down at every encounter after that with backhanded compliments.  But, I am almost thirty and have been very blessed.  I can take it.

In a recent telling of this story to a friend, they confessed that they had tormented her in high school.  Because they, themselves had been tormented in junior high.  They felt responsible for my tormenting at twenty-nine and sincerely apologized.  I accepted, but then realized I needed to apologize to them as well.  You see, I never stood up for them either.  Hurting all around.

The circle of life.

So. I wasn't ONE of the select few.  I was just one among the masses. And despite this, we all survived, it seems.  And that's the point. (I know you were probably wondering. What IS your point, Erin?)  Some of us matured early and got it right in high school... we became those super cool kids who didn't give a sh*t and were loved by everyone.  I met one of those people once.  I am still in awe. Some turned their hurt into anger and took it out on someone else.  I certainly get that.  Its a vicious circle, but it's such a human response.  Others still channeled their pain in to something positive.  I remember being in the snow ball club in high school.  I did it for the free candy and the perk of getting out of gym class, but there were some sincerely caring kids in there who were hoping to change things. I admire them for that; to be so enlightened at fifteen.

In college, it was more common.  My husband and I talk all the time about how college was where we both finally felt like we were able to find our true selves.  It took moving six hours away from everything I knew to REALLY know.  I still have a hard time being back in Illinois sometimes for that very reason.  Sometimes I will drive past my old schools and have fond memories- much like I did on fb this week.  Sometimes I don't.

But, we all did it.  We've all come to terms with our selves, I think.  It doesn't mean that the hurt or insecurities have vanished.  I think it just means that we have enough life behind us to cover up the hurts with good things.  And that's survival.

A year since we decided to get healthy...

Okay.  So this is me last summer.  Nearly one year ago.  Twenty pounds ago.  Mostly around my face, from the looks of this photo.  Now don't get me wrong... its not a terrible picture, nor did I feel like I was overweight, really.  But I definitely felt sluggish and uncomfortable and out of shape and, really, really self conscious about my figure.  I had a hard time chasing after my kids.  I just didn't feel like it. Ever.  Our bonding activities were baking cookies mostly.  We love cookies.  Yum.  Cookies.

Anyways...

Mike and I had a "come to Jesus" talk with ourselves last summer.  We decided that eating dessert every single night probably wasn't the best choice.  We also felt like we were getting lazy about our meals.  Because our dinner time is often a fifteen minute stint between when Mike walks in the door and I walk out (to work), we often needed a quick fix.  Frozen pizzas and mostaccoli and chicken nuggets were pretty commonplace.  Then Mike would eat three bowls of cereal later on after the kids went to bed because he was still hungry and I would grab a bag of peanut M&Ms at work telling myself that peanuts were nutritious and chocolate was a treat.  You can see how easy it is.

Many of you have heard bits and pieces of our "story" over the past 12 months, but I thought I could share some of what has worked (and not worked) for us.  I'm not a trainer or nutritionist or expert at all. I am still working out the kinks and making wrong choices all the time.  Just because I work at a health club doesn't mean squat (pun intended) though I do pick up on things, I suppose.

Here we go:

1. Sweets are a treat not a fourth meal.  They are not a snack and they are not a filler.  They are a reward.  Something to get excited about.  We actually had to cut out sweets cold turkey for about two months when we started this. No pop, no juice, no jello. Nothing. Then, we found that "holidays" such as birthdays or Thanksgiving or Christmas, tended to arrive once a month.  We allowed sweets on those days (and only on those days- we literally threw out a ginormous bag of halloween candy before we went to bed that night).  After about six months, we slowly worked treats in.  Like, "we just worked all day around the yard and got all hot and sweaty- let's get ice cream!" kind of treats.  We have weeks where I bake something, or we go on vacation or like last weekend, where it was hot and I wanted Ben and Jerry's, and we blow it, but for the most part we've really made an effort.  I don't keep sweets around.  That helps. A lot.  I can't tell you how rewarding it is for me to hear how excited Jonah gets about the idea of running out for ice cream.  Its not a requirement after dinner, rather, its an honest to goodness surprise!  That's so amazing to me. Which leads to my second one...

2. Get rid of processed junk food.  This is a toughie.  Its soooo easy with kids especially, to buy quick junky snacks.  Fruit snacks and crackers and chips... to be able to just grab a little baggie from the cupboard on the fly is awesome.  My kids are super active, so I wasn't worried so much about the sugar or whatever else.  However, if we have the snacks, Mike and I would eat them.  And they are expensive.  And, really, my kids don't need the sugar, even if it wasn't really affecting them that I could tell.

So what do we do?  I air pop popcorn.  I give them raisins in those little boxes. We buys fruit in bulk.  Mike and I will eat chips and salsa or hummus.  Not completely healthy, but a better option. I started making my own granola (very easy by the way, and you get way more than if you buy it in the store).  Mike will have a bowl of that with skim milk or yogurt at night if he's craving something.  I'll buy dry fruit, if the season isn't conducive to good, cheap fruit.  Sometimes, I'll buy a big bar of dark chocolate and freeze it and break off bits when I need a fix. 

For meals its the same principle.  I'll be the first to admit, that being home during the day helps.  I can prep veggies and defrost chicken while kids are napping.  Usually I try to have dinner waiting for when Mike gets home (not because I'm so house-wifey, but because I have to leave for work)  I have found some pretty delish and easy crock pot recipes online, though, that are totally doable for those who work 9-5ers.  Also, I've learned that doing things on the weekends is best... making granola or baking bread or making big meals that take a long time.... we do that on Saturdays if we can.  we use as much from our garden as possible.  We buy brown rice and wheat tortillas and because Alice has a dairy allergy, we'll use avocados instead of sour cream, or ditch the cheese toppings that I put on EVERYTHING before she was born.  One huge blessing out of having a child with an allergy is that it makes me rethink food in general.  All our meals have to be specially made.  You have no idea how much dairy you eat until you can't have it any more!  It causes me to be creative, for sure.

3. Stay active.  Sounds so generic, but its the truth.  It would be so easy for me to veg out when the kids take a nap.  Sit on my bum and read or write or play mah-jong on my kindle.  But instead I clean the house, do laundry and then hang it on the line.  Do youtube exercises.  Seriously. Or if I need to relax, I sit outside.  I don't snack when I am sitting outside.

On weekends, when we're all together, we go places.  We go to the zoo or to the farmers market or swimming or to the botanical gardens or strawberry picking.  Mike works with the kids in the garden (which helps when you want to get your kids to eat veggies!  If they grow it themselves, they are way more willing to try).  I run every other day by myself.  Just me and my ipod.  I've considered getting a jogging stroller, since I feel bad leaving Mike on our only nights at home together, but I've found that I have to be alone.  I NEED to be alone.  And when I come back, I'm a better wife and mom because of it.  I've also found some great thirty minute videos on youtube for pilates and yoga.  I do those on my non-running days. 

I've learned that diet will help you lose the weight, but it won't get you fit.  You need exercise for that.  That's my newest project for myself- toning up.  I've tossed around the idea of signing up for a race of some sort- a half marathon or maybe even the whole enchilada... but I run very, very slow (just ask my brother in law) and I just don't have it in me to be competitive.  Even with myself.  :)

So there you have it.  Lots of people have asked us what we've been doing to lose the pounds and that's it in a looooong nutshell.  :)  Its not perfect.  And its taken a long time.  Probably longer than if I was more dedicated, but eh.  Most importantly, I feel awesome.  I wear shorts and tank tops because its hot out, instead of hiding my arms in cardigans or wearing my jeans rolled up.  I don't censor pictures of myself.  You know what I mean... the whole "grab the camera the second someone takes a shot and double check the double chin?" I don't do that anymore. 

I tried to find a recent pic to post, but I honestly don't have a camera right now and I couldn't figure out how to get one from my phone.  My phone isn't of the "smart" variety and anyway, they say a machine is only as intelligent as the one operating it... so... 

This is all I have.  Hopefully you get the jist.  :)

I'd love to hear your ideas or suggestions or recipes or whatever... like I said, its been a looong work in progress.  I've also enclosed a recipe that's a big favorite of ours... http://allrecipes.com/recipe/black-bean-and-rice-enchiladas/detail.aspx?event8=1&prop24=SR_Title&e11=black%20bean%20and%20rice%20enchiladas&e8=Quick%20Search&event10=1&e7=Home%20Page

Let me know what you think if you try it out.

Judge, ju-ju-ju-judge

Ew, I've had my butt kicked this morning.  Metaphorically, but still... I hate that.  I was reading through my cnn.com and ew.com and whatever else.com that perks my interest in the morning whilst I drink my coffee and I started to get all disgusted and judgemental about some of the comments people wrote.  Most particularly, if you must know, I was reading about how Gweneth Paltrow "tweeted the n-word" (not at all as bad as it sounds) and how Jason Alexander called "cricket" a "gay sport" (apparently as bad as it sounds, because he apologized quite thoroughly, though I didn't bother clicking on the clip because, lets face it, I never cared for George Costanza anyhow).

Anyways, I was thinking to myself about how not only the aforementioned celebs (and celebs in general) can really be stupid in what they say to the public at large, but also how many stupid average Americans get on their high horses and make terrible comments on the Internet.

I think I have even blogged about such things- forever and a half ago.

All well and good for me to feel this way.  I'm so above all that, right?  Jesus is my best friend- surely I have only the purest and kindest thoughts and as such, that's all that come out of my mouth, of course.

Not so, friends.  A little inner reflection this morning and I'm pretty annoyed.  When on earth did I get so petty?  Last night I ranted about fake boobs for a full 5 minutes at work.  Really?  I won't get into the details, because really its not important.  Suffice it to say, it was unkind and shallow and... unkind and shallow.

I get so passionate about bullying and cyber hate and racism and sexism and whatever-isms, but when it all comes down to it, its all about unkind words and actions, isn't it.  Perhaps the women on the Miss USA pageant don't care that some no-name stay-at-home mom ranted about their cosmetic alterations to her friends.  And its all well and good for me to say "God is the one true judge" when it comes to heavy issues like abortion or adultery, but then why don't I let Him be the "true judge" of everything else too?  Why do I feel the need to put my two sense in?  Who the heck am I?

I'm Convicted, that's who.  "Weighed, measured and found lacking" by anyone who'd want to judge me.  Therefore, I'm blessed that you all aren't the judge of me, just like I'm not the judge of anyone else.  Whether it be on my looks, or mothering skills, or managing skills or running skills (thank Jesus) or knitting skills...okay, now I'm just getting ridiculous- but you know what I mean.  I'll let the Big Guy judge and I'll bet he could care less about Miss USA's cup size. 

Okay... so that was a bit heavy... so here's something light... a series of commercials entitled "don't judge" that are pretty hilarious.  Happy Tuesday, everyone!  See you next week!

http://www.cnn.com/2012/05/30/living/tweens-sexy-too-soon/index.html?hpt=hp_t2

My two children are still a ways off from tweenage-hood, being 19 months and 3 years old... but this article gave me pause this morning and I am curious as  to what other parents and not-as-yet parents of our generation are planning to do to prevent this pheneomenom from disrupting childhood.

Mike and I have made some pretty lofty claims thus far, ranging from "no cell phones until they drive" to "no dating until junior year of high school".  I already refuse to dress Alice in anything that has snotty commentary on it- such as "princess", "diva" or the like.  We conscientously chose to not subscribe to cable, and therefore Jonah is limited to only pbs cartoons or kid shows and we don't keep sugary treats in our house unless its a special occassion.  These ideals work for us now, but I realize its foolish to assume that we won't ever change our minds.  I know this, but I can't help but feel really sad already for the lack of innocence that my children's childhood will likely contain.  In our home we can make our own rules, but what of outisde the home?  Schools, movies, friends houses?  It sickens me to think of what is out there online for kids to find!  When is too soon for a child to have facebook?  Watch PG 13 movies?  Play outside in the front yard by themselves? 

Just one example: those "50 Shades of Grey" books are everywhere in the news. Now I'm not writing to tell you my opinion on whether or not your should read them.  I don't care.  I'm not, because I'm not mature enough.  It busts my gut not to read something that everyone else is reading, but I just can't.  It skeeves me out to read graphic romance novels and from what I can tell, these are on the hardcore side of graphic.  Not my cup of tea.  Anyways, I was reading about them this morning and had the thought, "would I want Al to read these?"  At what age would I be okay with her reading something like that?  More to the point, at what age would Mike be okay with her reading something like that?  How many twelve year old girls with moms, grandma's, babysitters, older sisters who have read these books are going to sneak them out and read them?  Afterall, moms and daughters across America read Twilight together, and "Shades" started off as a Twilight fanfiction... its basically just taking it a step further, right?  Well, maybe a HUUUUGE step, but I digress.

I guess my conclusion is (and like I said, its liable to change and morph as I grow as a parent), children will look to their parents first as rolemodels.  If my son overhears Mike making some lewd comment about a busty server at an IHOP, he's likely to do the same.  He completely idolizes his dad in every way.  No exception.  If I start leaving the house dressed like Rihanna, Alice will do the same.  She will see the attention, negative or positive, that I recieve and will want the same. 

If our kids see us on our smartphones, making fun of some poor sap on youtube while drinking a high calorie latte and complaining about our cottage cheese thighs... they will do the same.

However, if our kids see us playing outside, turning off our phones, baking cookies (even if its from a tube), watching family friendly movies and lending a helping hand to a stranger... they will do the same.  If they see their father and mother hug at the end of a long day apart, they will expect the same.  If they see their dad planting in his garden or cheering at a soccer game, they will do the same.  If they see their mom digging for worms or reading a book or pretneding to hunt dragons... they will do the same.

I can't control what my kids see other people do.  I can only hope and pray that they will weigh it against what I have instilled in them from birth and maybe, just maybe, they will come out the better for it.

So readers (if there are any of you still out there...), what about you?

Now that's romantic.

A few weeks ago I was chatting with some of my Monday night coworkers about romance. The only guy on the shift is a nice enough mid twenty something male who has plenty going for him but who couldn't figure out why girls seemed to shy away from him. In his mind, he was the perfect catch. That was perhaps the issue, but that's a discussion for another blog. "I'm the last of dying breed" he said to me after describing his last romantic encounter with an ex that included a bubble bath, red roses, wine, candles... you know, the whole enchilada.

I detected a distinct hint of pride when he said this, though I think he felt it churlish to really brag. He was after all surrounded by two married stay at home moms and a high school junior who was about to break it off with her long time "bf". We were clearly not the ones he wanted to impress with this statement.

For some reason this 3 minute long conversation has kind of stuck on rewind in my brain for the last few weeks. Perhaps it is because with Valentines Day rapidly approaching, pop culture has been pretty saturated with mush. At any rate, it instigated a good deal of reflection on my part. Mostly when I was in the shower, because the water drowns out the sound of my children screaming at me.

When was the last time my husband drew me a bath or bought me roses or even lit a candle? See, the truth is, I don't particularly care for baths in our tub- the paint is all chippy and though we have plans to renovate our bathroom after we get our tax refund, life is unpredictable. And I actually don't like roses. At all. Especially red ones. I do like candles, but I prefer ones that smell like apples or pumpkin or baking cookies and my spring fever is not really conducive to that... Mike likes evergreen scented ones. Same deal applies.

I racked my brain for the last truly romantic gesture my husband did for me, but the fact of the matter is, we just don't do stereotypical romance. For some reason, whether due to the fact that we're just more creative then that, or maybe just that we're poor, we've strayed from the social norm. So when girls look at me all sympathetic-like when I confess that my husband has never in our 10+ years of knowing each other, taken me to an uber fancy shmancy restaurant with food I can't pronounce and that probably has mushrooms in it, while playing Boccelli and presenting me with expensive jewelry...

It kind of irritates me. I get all defensive. I mean, we're just not like that. So he hasn't taken me to any swanky restaurant downtown ever. When we were in college, he planned a picnic on my dorm room floor. With no fungus, thanks very much. And while I'm cool with the classical vocal standards, my man is a bit more punk and country than that. In fact, while on vacation with his family a few years back, he sang Brad Paisley's Mud on the Tires at karaoke night, dedicating it to me. Sober. It still makes me smile all stupid when I think of it. He saved an entire summer working 13 hour days with the park district (not an easy feat, mind you) to buy my beautiful engagement ring and band. Maybe I don't get diamonds for "push presents" or random anniversaries, but once he went to a silent auction for his work and the ladies all convinced him to bid on a pearl necklace for me. The proud look on his face when he came home with such a classy gift was worth every penny.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a sucker for romance. I've read every work of Austen several times through. I watch reruns of The Office just to relive the Jim and Pam saga over and over. I wait in long lines with spastic tweens come opening night of each of the Twilight releases. I bought conversation hearts even though I don't really like the taste. But for all the stock that I put in romantic words and gestures, I don't remember a single word of Mike's speech when he proposed. Not one word. I do remember however, that he asked both of my dads and my mom for permission to propose in the first place. Because he knew it meant a lot to me.

And that's really it, isn't it? He knows what is important to me and he strives for that each and every day. He loves our children without abandon, even when they screech and scream and interrupt our Valentines dinner plans. He shovels the end of our driveway because even though I probably can get out, he knows I'm too nervous to try. He doesn't pout and complain when I fall asleep early. He compliments my cooking even though we both know its far below par most nights. He tells me I'm still "hot" even though I've had two babies in two years and my belly is stretched beyond appropriate bikini use. He still kisses me to distraction and he still makes me want to be a better wife for him.

So there. I have to disagree with my coworker friend. He's not the last of a dying breed; maybe just the last of a different one. One that I don't want to be a part of anyway.

Happy Valentines day, dear readers and friends and a very happy Valentines day to you, Mike. Infinity times three.

All Before 9 am

This morning started off pretty well. I had noticed last week that staying home with my kids has this phenomenom of causing all the days to run together in one giant blurry Woodstock-worthy haze. That, coupled with the fact that I am currently working through my weekends at "The Bridge" lent to my decision that Thursday is the new Sunday where this Mom is concerned.

So I made the rule of "no real clothes"- we would wear our pjs all day long. And we'd eat a real breakfast that I actually cooked, rather than just toasted or microwaved. Just like regular folks do on a real weekend. Jonah and I had decided on scrambled eggs with cheese and toast with jelly; A gourmet chef I do not claim to be, afterall.

I took out the ingredients but noticed that there was a pretty sizable stack of the previous night's dishes taking over my counter space so I went to tackle those first. Jonah requested The Artistocats as his morning-mommy-making breakfast-movie (I never said I was mom of the year- my kids will be familiar with Disney classics and I'm not ashamed to say it. At least its better then the ginormous purple dino that should remain ever nameless on this blog). I set him up with his dvd and took to the dishes to task.

That was my first mistake. My boy doesn't like to wait. Within seconds I hear a rustling in the living room. I quickly ran in and saw Megan licking a butter wrapper like it was the last popsicle in the ice cream truck in the midle of July. My son? Well this is what I found...

"Yeah butter!" Really. That's what he said to me. "Yeah butter!" Like he was butter's own personal Cheerio. (That's a Glee shout out, just in case you didn't catch it.) Ewwwww. Ew.

Then, just cause its gonna be that kind of day... as I'm placing the butter in a dish to deal with later, I hear a shatter. An enormous shatter. Like a shatter I've never ecountered before. Man do those glass pirex bowles shatter. There was glass in Wyatt's kennel, behind our trash, somehow it hopped on the counter... incredible. It was a glassplosion.

And then just a teenie tiny "Oopsies, Mommy." Yeah. Oopsies.

This is post clean up... I figured risking the safety of my family in order to take a live action shot for my blog probably wasn't kosher with the DCFS folks.

Finally, hurricane Jonah was cleaned up, the dishes were hastily finished and I was getting my ingredients together again. Eggs. "Mommy eggs." That's right, my smart boy, Eggs. Where were my eggs?

He hands me two, but there were three in the carton. Where of where did that egg get to?

I'll tell you where.

In case you don't have the decor in my home memorized (for shame!), that's my couch. With egg yolks on it.

All before 9 am.

Cereal never treated me this bad. Just saying.

Snow day

"Hey Jonah, tell your mommy that you want to shovel the driveway today."

That's how it began. Smirking as he walked out the door this morning, my husband knew he had planted the seed. The seed of hope in my almost two year old son, but also the seed of guilt in me. He was heading out to work despite the epic blizzard of the century that is supposed to hit this afternoon and I was staying home all cushy and cozy in my pjs and slippers.

I told myself it was silly to even shovel the 2.5 inches on our driveway, when in the grand scheme of things, they are calling for over a foot of snow in the next twenty four hours. I said to myself "Alice is sleeping, and you really can't leave her in the house." I thought about the insane amount of time it takes to get Jonah dressed in all his heavy layers. I thought about the fact that we only have one shovel and I would likely spend all that time out there fighting with Jonah over it.

But then another thought occurred to me. This may be a great way to tire that boy out for a nice loooong nap. Maybe just maybe the universe would align and for once when Jonah goes down for his nap, Alice won't wake up immediately. Maybe I would get a chance to shower. Really shower. Like shave my legs and get all the suds out and everything!

So with dreams of my shower to cheer me on, I gathered up the snow gear scattered throughout our little house. All in all, it took only about ten minutes, which is actually not too bad. I kept Jonah's footie pjs on, to speed things along and despite his best efforts each time I opened my bedroom door, he was not successful in waking his baby sister.

I grabbed a broom, hopeful that it might deter my son from a shovel tug-o-war and we headed out. Within seconds Jonah face planted in the snow. On purpose. He repeated this action with a giant silly grin on his face until suddenly he got to be less and less enthusiastic. Until he actually started crying. Snow is darn cold, afterall. Try as I might, I have thus far been unsucessful in communicating this to my boy.

I shoveled my little heart out, but I had only cleared our tiny porch at this point and being that I barely made it 3 minutes, I was not ready to give in so easily. I ran inside for another pair of mittens, strapped them on his red little fingers and we pressed on.

My dear child decided to take a little hike around the perimeter of the yard. I was working around our car when I heard his cries. He had somehow managed to burrow himself into the little drainage ditch at the end of our driveway. Once more, I picked him up, brushed him off and fetched yet another pair of mittens for his now purple fingers. Again, I began to shovel.

I was heading towards the end of our drive when he cried out again; this time even more pitifully then before. I rushed toward his voice only to to stopped short by the sight of my son army crawling towards my husband's boat with all the fervor and desperation of a boy lost in a desert who had spotted an oasis. "Mooooommmmy! I want the boat! Mooooommy! Boooooooat!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Of course. A boat is exactly the kind of thing that will save you in a situation like this.

He is so his father's son.

I fetched him again, got yet another pair of mittens, which I strapped to his purple and shaking little figners, and finished the driveway wtihout incident. He forgot his need for some time on the high seas and was content to pretend to shovel with his mother for a while and as I am writing this, we are safe and warm inside, though he is refusing to let me take off his coat, boots or snow pants still.

He keeps saying "Mommy, I want to go outside."

Oh heck no. We're good till spring.