Fragile

This time around, I've been much more aware of just how fragile the little creature growing inside me is. You'd think it might be the opposite -- that as a second-time mom-to-be, I'd be brimming with the optimistic confidence of having been through this once. But it's really been the opposite. When I was pregnant with Miss Mouse, I remember having few serious worries about her being born healthy. Or being born at all. Those fears just didn't cross my mind.

In the intervening two years, though, I've watched a lot more of my friends become pregnant, and it didn't always go well. In the last year alone, three close friends of mine have suffered miscarriage and an acquaintance very nearly lost her son during delivery. It's sobering. Miscarriage isn't something people talk about very much, and so I think it's one of those things that's far more common than many people realize.

The birth itself isn't the only miraculous part of this journey. The whole process is pretty amazing, from start to finish. Each day that Baby2 is growing and thriving in there is a minor miracle by itself and not something I take for granted.

A Tipping Point

I'm going to share something very personal and very hard for me. Deep breath. Okay. I am poised on the brink of weighing 200 pounds.

Wince. Shudder. Gulp.

I know I'm pregnant and that weight gain is inevitable. And I'm a tall person so I carry a decent amount of poundage under normal circumstances. But let me tell you, there is something really really emotionally difficult for me about weighing 200 pounds, even when there's a good reason for it.

The heart of the problem right now is that I never lost all my Mouse baby weight. So even though I have gained less weight with this pregnancy, I'll probably end up weighing more in the end because I started off at a higher number.

And it hurts. Oh it hurts.

You Can't Say "Vaginal" in a Prayer

Okay, it's possible that the title of this post will attract all kinds of weirdies to my blog. If you're a weirdie and you're reading this, just keep on moving.

Anyways, today we (Josh, Porthos and I) had our 32 week pregnancy checkup. My time flies. Eight short weeks until showtime. We were scheduled with a new doc in the practice whom I'll call Dr. X. I had met her once before but this was Josh's first encounter.

Dr. X is sweet and kind and seems perfectly skilled...but she does have her quirks. She's known for saying things that sort of make you furrow your brow and think "should my doctor be saying that?" For example, she told a friend of mine that she couldn't describe a contraction because she'd never had a baby herself. To which my friend mentally replied -- "then how is it that the male doctors in the practice have no problem with this?"

Today, one of the topics on the agenda was the staffing shortage the practice is facing. They lost a doc and haven't replaced him and the upshot of it all is that I've been informed that they cannot guarantee that one of "my" doctors will deliver the baby. As it turns out, depending on what day he decides to arrive, I could be at the mercy of a resident at the hospital.

Upon hearing this, I bravely said -- "yes, well, but residents are real doctors, right? They're good, right?"

And she said - "yeah, they're okay. As long as you don't get one in July on, like, their first day, they should be fine."

Um, thanks. Let me state for the record that this was NOT a comforting response. The correct answer, Madame Doctor, is "yes, of course. Residents are fully trained and totally competent. You'll be in excellent hands."

Then there was the end-of-appointment prayer (have I mentioned how cool it is that my practice is faith-based?). Dr. X tenderly joined hands with Josh and me and prayed for a "healthy, happy, vaginal birth."

Oh my. Did she just say that? I mean, I appreciate the idea of specificity. It's good for God to know exactly what we're praying for. But as my husband said in the parking lot afterwards -- I'm just not sure you can say "vaginal" in a prayer...

In Kentucky...

Allow me to defend myself in the 'lay vs. lie' debate. I am from Kentucky, and I miss my home more than words can properly express. Since I am unable at this time (or ever, probably) to live in that blessed place there are things I do/say to try and keep my home alive in my heart:

Watching UK Basketball.

Saying 'fixin' when getting ready to do something. I.e., 'I'm fixin to mow the grass.'

Going to church every Sunday. OK, I'm a minister, and my dad is a minister, so maybe this doesn't count as a KY thing, but in KY everyone goes to church every Sunday.

Taking time in doing things. People move to fast in Pittsburgh. Y'all need to slow down and enjoy life.

Related to the above, being laid back about things. Just relax, it's going to be OK.

Saying y'all. We're one up on you crazies up here. Y'uns makes no sense whatsoever.

Saying 'lay down.'

In Kentucky life is different. We do not get caught up in things that, in the grand scheme of things do not matter. There are more important things in life, and we choose to focus on those, things that make us happy.

I may say the wrong word, but my blood pressure does not shoot up when the rules of grammar are not followed. Who is better off at the end of the day? Besides, when Jesus comes back, and he will, he is not going to care about 'lay vs. lie.'

Josh
<><

PS--Kate has a habit of ending her sentences with prepositions, so I guess we're even in the end.

Now I Lie Me Down to Sleep

As Miss Mouse's vocabulary expands, I'm trying to do my best to instill correct grammar in her wee brain from the get-go. From day one, we've resisted the urge to repeat her baby talk back to her, preferring to pronounce the words correctly for her. So, when she says "wa wa" I say "do you want your water?"

This has been going pretty well, but for some reason, Mousie has presented a persistent misuse of lay vs. lie. When changing her diaper, she insists of chirping "lay down" when I ask her to "lie down." I realize this is a common grammatical problem, but it was always a pet peeve of my mother's and she has passed it down to me.

Where was it coming from?? I knew she must be hearing it wrong somewhere. I initially blamed the teachers at KinderCare, but then last night I had the horrible realization that the grammatical rapscallion was much closer to home. In fact, he lives in my home.

Yes, that's right. My husband has been instructing my child to "lay down" when they play games together or need to change her clothes. Oh, the pain. To be betrayed by one so close to your own heart.

I'm trying to undo the damage, but I fear it may be a losing battle. Society as a whole seems determined to eradicate the distinction between those two words and I suspect it's only a matter of time before only we purists cling to the truth. Sigh. It's hard to be a voice in the wilderness.

And He Shall Be Called... (continued)

My sincere apologies. I have received several pieces of irate fan mail (okay, three pointed emails from friends and family) demanding to know why more clues to the "And He Shall Be Called..." baby name game have not been forthcoming.

Ask, and ye shall receive. We released the second clue to our church a few weeks ago and then the third clue is going out this week. There is a fourth clue (which is my favorite) that will be announced at the end of August, and a possible fifth clue that may appear a week before the due date, depending on how benevolent I feel.

Josh and I have philosophical differences of opinion about how revealing the clues should be. He's in favor of clues that would enable many people to guess the right name. I'm mean. I prefer to keep it hard because it's no fun if everybody wins (and yes, that is my ferociously competitive streak talking...)

In any case, your clues are:

#2 -- Baby 2 will not share a name with his father (Joshua David), nor with any other members of our congregation.

I realize this doesn't help you non-church members quite as much. But suffice to say it rules out several popular biblical names including John, Daniel, and Paul.

#3 -- Although referenced in the New Testament, the biblical character whose name we are appropriating actually appears in the Old Testament.

Happy Guessing!

Fickle

There's really no way to sugarcoat it -- my girl is fickle and that's all there is to it. She appears to be gearing up for a life of heartbreaking-for-sport with the way she toys with your emotions. Oh, I could list the hundreds of games she plays with the hearts of those who love her, but for today I'll focus on one specific area: her coyness around family members.

Take her grandmothers. These two sweet women want nothing more than to shower Miss Mouse with love and affection, and yet she stubbornly maintained aloof for what seemed like eons. Why, Mouse? Why??

First, let's take my parents. Miss Mouse has been a grandpa's girl from her earliest days, but she held out on my mother for quite a while. We had several rocky "visit beginnings" as my girl cowered in my arms pretending she had never seen my mother before in her life (a fact we know to be false). That's all over now, happily, and "Nana" is one of Mousie's favorite people -- as evidenced by the high-pitched shrieks she gives whenever she sees the picture of her grandmother we have tacked to the refrigerator.

But more recently, we've had to go through a similar affair with Josh's mom, whom Miss Mouse has seen less of. Nancy was in town yesterday and my cruel child paid her very little attention and only grudgingly agreed to a one-armed hug before bed. Meanwhile, she cheerfully chirped out requests for Aunt Joyce (Nancy's sister), just to pour salt in the wounds.

And yet. And yet. This morning, immediately upon waking, Miss Mouse started asking for "Grandma." Repeatedly. Incessantly. Plaintively.

What gives, Mouse? Absence makes the Mouse grow fonder? So much caprice for one so young.

Number 2 Pencil

I've been having flashbacks to my high school days. I dream about Number 2 pencils and being late for tests. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I am (once again) studying for the SAT.

You heard me right. At the ripe old age of 28, I will once again be taking that nightmare-inducing, college-prep necessity -- the SAT.

No, I'm not planning to re-enter the halls of academia as a college freshman any time soon (thank goodness). It's a more practical decision. Money's going to be tight for us when Baby2 comes along -- has anyone priced the cost of multiple children in day care lately? As a way of generating a bit of extra income, I am looking into getting certified as an SAT tutor through the Kaplan test prep people.

It's a pretty rigorous process involving auditions, training, and...yup...re-taking the SAT. Not only do I have to take the test, I have to do really well. Understandably, they want their tutors to have themselves been successful on the test. So I have to score in the 90% percentile on all three sections: reading, writing, and (shudder) math.

High school math. Lord have mercy. I took a practice test the other night and have rarely felt so inept in all my life. And let me be clear -- I was great at math. I was in accelerated programs my whole life and even Calculus couldn't slow me down. But that was then. As in, more than a decade ago. And despite the claims of math teachers everywhere, you don't actually continue to use much math out in "the real world."

You need to know basic addition, subtraction, some fractions, and the occasional percentage. And honestly, that's it. I can say with absolute certainty that I have yet to face a situation which called for speedy recollection of the quadratic equation or how to calculate the slope of a line.

So I'm hitting the books and hoping to revive enough brain cells to get through. Happily, the Writing and Critical Reading sections shouldn't be a problem, if the practice test is an accurate predictor.

One More

Oh, lord help us. She's learned the end-all-be-all of stalling tactics. "One More...."

That's right. Whenever it's time to end an activity, Miss Mouse suggests that perhaps just one more would be best. One more story. One more sticker. One more cracker. For some mysterious reason, she also points to one cheek with her index finger while making her request.

Now, demands for more stories and songs and food are one thing. I can say no without too much trouble. But I defy you to deny the small winsome creature who stands in her crib, holds out her arms, and says plaintively "one more kiss" as you're trying to leave the room.

Of course I went back.

My next escape attempt was met with "one more hug!" Then she went back to "one more kiss" but by then I was prepared and I blew her a kiss from the doorway. She grudgingly accepted this compromise.

Preacher Woman

So, as I mentioned, I was the "guest preacher" at church on Sunday. We're in the midst of a stewardship campaign and my husband pressed me into service so that it wasn't just his voice exhorting our sheep to give more.

I've never been one for false modesty so I'll just say it -- I rocked! At least, I think I did. My sermon was on making God a financial priority in one's life. My basic point was that how you spend your money says a lot about what you consider to be important in life. It's something I firmly believe is true. The message was short, to the point, and peppered with human-interest examples drawn from my own life. (The title of the sermon was God Before Starbucks and I highlighted my own proclivities toward iced chai lattes.)

But man, oh man. As much as I enjoyed the chance to get up and talk for a bit, the experience really made me appreciate what a demanding job my hubby has. It took me about a month to prep that sermon. He does it every week. And now that I've preached my one good sermon...I have no further inspirations at the moment. How he comes up with something relevant and thought-provoking to say each week is beyond me.

Then there's the physical realities of preaching. In the summer. In a church with no air-conditioning. While 7 months pregnant. Okay, that last one doesn't apply to Josh, but it sure as heck applied to me. I thought I might perish.

I had selected my outfit with an eye to the weather -- capris dress pants and a sleeveless collared top. What I had failed to consider was the color of the top -- dark teal -- and its tendency to show sweat stains. Mercifully, it wasn't until after I sat down that I noticed the shockingly visible wet rings beneath my arms...

The Trouble with Sundays

The trouble with Sundays, other than the obvious fact that they are followed by Mondays, is that Sunday is our Productive Day at home. On Sundays, we Get Things Done. Like yesterday, during the course of which:

• We all went to church. I preached (more on that later), Josh took care of everything else liturgical, and Miss Mouse rammed up and down the halls on some sort of push tricycle (no, not during the service).

• Josh visited a sick parishioner in the hospital.

• I took a practice SAT math test (more on that another time).

• Josh and Miss Mouse took the dog for a walk.

• We all went grocery shopping.

• Josh mowed the lawn.

Huh, when you write it all out, it doesn't actually seem like that many things. But it is all we accomplished yesterday. Which is fine - they were all necessary and important things and I'm a happier person knowing that I have food to feed my family -- but I can't say that our Sabbath was particularly restful.

And then, wham. It's Monday and a new week begins. The great blessing of the day was that Miss Mouse slept in. I had to poke her sleepy butt at 9am in order to make it to church on time. The flip-side to that is that she then did not nap. But we had too much to do to take time out for baby naps anyways!

Dinner Tonight

Yes, it's a fuzzy winter hat with bear ears. Yes, other than her diaper, it's the only thing she wore to dinner tonight. Yes, wearing it was her idea. No, I have no idea why.

Chubby Baby Thighs

It turns out that I am (apparently) a bit of a prude when it comes to baby apparel. Despite the trends of popular culture, I am just not that comfortable dressing my two-year old in flesh-baring outfits. There are few things more horrifyingly inappropriate to me than a toddler in a triangle string bikini. I mean seriously, people. There's plenty of time for outfits like that when your daughter is 18 years old. Do we have to start at 18 months old?

Although less vigorous, I've also maintained a slight aversion to tank tops, shorts, and dresses without pants. I think babies just look so vulnerable in tank tops with their tiny shoulders exposed to the world. Likewise, I am unimpressed by the little bloomers that come with baby dresses, and last summer, tended to outfit Miss Mouse with a nice sensible pair of capris or leggings under her outfits.

Like this.

Then, on a whim, I bought her a pair of athletic shorts this summer at Walmart. I almost didn't get them because they seemed so short. But then I tried them on and it was love at first sight.

That's right -- I have fallen madly in love with the sight of chubby toddler thighs. I can't get enough of them. I just want to grab her and gnaw on those chunky legs every time I see her. Is that wrong?


Miss Mouse now has multiple pairs of shorts and is also permitted to run free in dresses-sans-leggings. I'm still not impressed by the bloomers, but her cloth diapers are so cute that I don't mind if she flashes a peek of those to the world at large.

And I've come around somewhat on the bare shoulders, too. Last weekend it was just too hot to insist on a t-shirt underneath the 4th of July dress. And the result was quite charming...

The Musical Mouse

Miss Mouse is cultivating her inner musician this summer. She's been on a serious music kick for the last few weeks. The video I posted of her singing the alphabet song is really just the tip of the iceberg. She also does a bang up job on "Wheels on the Bus" (with many hand gestures) and "Five Little Monkeys".

The latter song was one of those great revelations I enjoy so much. We were hanging out upstairs in my bed the other day and Miss Mouse started bouncing up and down and chanting "monkey, monkey." It took me a while to get it, but then it clicked. "Miss Mouse," said I, "do you want to sing the monkey song?"

Yes indeed. She struggles with the verses, but comes in strong on the "No more monkeys jumping on the bed!" edict from the doctor, complete with very stern finger wagging. A video may be forthcoming if I can capture her in the act.

I think this surge of musical interest has been brought on by her weekly music lessons at school. As a special gift from my mom, I enrolled Miss Mouse in a series of "Music and Me" lessons offered by KinderCare. So each Friday, MM and four of her little friends from school spend time with the music teacher singing, dancing, playing instruments, and generally being musical. According to her teachers, she's in heaven.

They send home CDs of the music they listen to in class and I play them for Miss Mouse in the car. This is a great testament to my love for her because they grate a bit on a grown-up ear and she tends to get stuck on a single track and request it again and again and again for entire car rides. As soon as I strap her in, she starts squeaking "Mousie music! Mousie music!" from the backseat. Except she has trouble pronouncing "music" and it sounds a lot like "Mousie magic."

Which is a pretty astute observation, actually. Music really is magic!

A Singing Mouse

Look, I know I'm her mother and therefore biased. And I realize that Miss Mouse is my first child and I thus have no frame of reference.

But all that aside, can I just say for the record that I think she's astonishingly bright? Not to mention shockingly cute.

(Side note: despite appearances, she is not actually naked in this video. There's a purple diaper hidden beneath Dad's arm. This was taken right after dinner and my child isn't allowed to wear clothes while consuming real food. We made that decision as an act of mercy to the washing machine.)

Happy Daddy, Seven Eight

One of the things that's wild about having a child in day care is that she learns things without your realizing it. Then suddenly, she springs this new knowledge on you. She did it twice this weekend and was very proud of herself both times.

On Saturday, when Josh woke up, Miss Mouse and I came to give him hugs and I encouraged her to "say Happy Birthday to Daddy!" She responded by singing an off-key, but recognizable, bar of the Happy Birthday Song. I was very impressed.

For the rest of the weekend, she would chirp -- "Happy Daddy!" whenever she was prompted to wish him a Happy Birthday. Works for me.

Then, while taking her bath, Miss Mouse was chatting with her rubber duckies when I realized that what she was saying was numbers -- and they were in the right order. So I asked her to count to ten with me. She had one through four down pat, skipped five and six in favor of moving directly on to seven and eight, and seemed unaware that there were numbers above eight.

I fear that that first time through was our best attempt, though. In subsequent counting episodes, Miss Mouse's enthusiasm for Seven and Eight began to take over and she kept moving them up earlier and earlier in the sequence until she would go straight from one to seven and never mind all those other numbers.

In Which a Nervous Breakdown is Avoided

My husband kicked me out of the house this afternoon for some much-needed "me time," sans toddler. We had just gotten her down for a nap (with many tears) and I was listing off the things I needed to accomplish while she slept. He looked at me for a minute, then gently replied - "honey, I think you need to get out of the house for a few hours."

And so I did. I headed over to my parent's empty condo with a good book and spent a couple hours reading and chatting on the phone with a good friend.

I also spent a fair amount of time sobbing hysterically.

My husband's generous gift of time to myself unleashed in me two simultaneous emotions: overwhelming relief and a sense of abject failure. I found myself utterly devastated by the fact that I've been having a hard time "doing it all" lately -- and that someone had noticed my inability to seamlessly juggle the demands of work, parenthood, and domestic life. Even though I know in the rational part of my brain that my own standards are impossible to live up to, I'm still crushed when I fall short of my own goals.

But, good lord. Nothing you read, nothing you experience, and none of your friends' stories can adequately prepare you for the sheer emotional exhaustion that parenthood brings with it. The sleep deprivation of the newborn weeks is nothing compared to the self deprivation of the toddler years.

It is immensely wearying to battle nine rounds over tooth brushing without blowing a gasket. To sing the alphabet song for the 89th time with enthusiasm. To gently explain (again) that the doggie doesn't particularly like having fingers poked into his eyes. To have someone follow you into the bathroom every time you go (which is often, when you're pregnant!). To have that same someone hang off your legs and chant "up up up" as you're trying to cook dinner. To breathe deeply when the dinner you make gets flung to the floor.

There's so little time for yourself when you're a parent because your life is about someone else. You have to make time, carve out a moment in your schedule to read a book, or talk to a friend, or work on your knitting. Because if you aren't intentional about it, it doesn't happen. And eventually, the strain of being Super Mom starts to build up, and your temper gets shorter, and you take less joy in the experience of parenthood until -- if you're lucky, like I am -- your partner in all of this takes the reins for a while and sends you away.

Two and a half hours later, my husband and my daughter showed up at the condo for a late-afternoon dip in the pool. And I was ready to hug them both, pick up my girl, and spend the next 45 minutes sweetly encouraging her to not drink the pool water, leap into the deep end, or clobber other children with her plastic buckets.

Baby Mama

Josh's aunt recently gave Miss Mouse a "you're going to be a big sister and isn't that awesome" present. A baby doll stroller. It's bright purple, green, and pink and has a little removable cradle.

The stroller is Miss Mouse's newest favorite thing in the whole wide world. We assembled it this afternoon (which was its own fun adventure) and she spent the rest of the day marching purposefully around the house pushing an assortment of her "friends" including a baby doll, a stuffed sheep, and a stuffed penguin.

Our house is conveniently arranged to allow for a broad loop from living room to dining room to kitchen and back, and Miss Mouse made many laps, pushing her stroller proudly before her. Each time she completed a lap, she'd check on her passengers, then announce "walk!" cheerfully before setting out again.

It's pretty much the cutest thing ever, although there was some major trauma at bedtime when we told her she had to put the baby to bed (and not her bed). Oh the tears. Oh the sorrow. Oh the utter desolation of a toddler parted from her doll stroller.

Inside Joke

As Miss Mouse talks more and more, it's fun to see what all she is able to repeat (even if she doesn't understand it). We often play the -- "Mouse, can you say....?" game which she also appears to find endlessly amusing.

The other day, Josh asked her to say "unbelievable."

She paused for a moment in thought, then very deliberately pronounced -- "waffin".

Yup, waffin. Like a cousin of waffle.

And, instantly, a family joke was born. Whenever something is particularly unbelievably awesome, we say it's waffin. Like in Josh's birthday card from Miss Mouse. "She" wrote that she hoped his day was waffin.

Ha ha. Okay, it's possible that you're not actually laughing. It may very well be one of those "you kinda had to be there" things. But, after all, I did title this post "inside joke."

Water Baby

I think the highlight of the weekend for Miss Mouse was probably our trip to the local Aquatic Center. And my, oh my, it is quite a place. There are water slides and a lazy river and diving boards for the big kids, and a huge decked-out baby pool called The Pond for the little ones. And the price of admission? $1.50 for the little ones, $5 for a grownup. Let's contrast that with Pittsburgh's main water attraction which charges a whopping $29.99 for the privilege of cavorting there.

In any case, my little water baby took to The Pond with wild enthusiasm. Her favorite thing was a kid-sized (though still big!) water slide in the persona of a giant beaver. Up into his mouth you climb and come sliding down his back amidst a spray of water. Once she got up the nerve to go down the first time, there was no holding her back.



She also gamely mounted the steps for a much larger, spiral water slide (and loved it), but the only route up to the slide involved going under a waterfall and my parenting conscience wouldn't let me keep taking her through that because she didn't have ear plugs and -- as an ear tube baby -- she's not supposed to get water in her ears.

We took a million pictures, but sadly many of them were marred by the persistent presence of a whale in black swimming suit, towering blubberishly over the small and nimble toddlers. Sadly not even the ever-fashionable little skirt ruffle on my swimwear could mask the immensity of my thighs. And because this is my blog, I retain the right to not post pictures in which I appear to be the size of a small country. So there.

Anthropology 101

Though I am now a fundraiser, my background is in Anthropology. And there's nothing like a large family gathering to rekindle the old anthropological zeal. Kinship, its ramifications, and the behavior of relatives is an endlessly fascinating subject.

For example: here's one interesting tidbit about my family. The gender makeup of each generation tends to be highly off-balanced.

Exhibit A: My mom's one of five siblings -- four girls and a boy (generation: 80% female).

Exhibit B: The grand children consist of 7 girls and two boys (generation: 78% female).

Exhibit C: The great grand children to date number six boys and one girl (generation: 86% male).

My grandpa has definitely always been the pater familias of our clan, but perhaps it's no surprise that, given the prevalence of girls in the next generation, a matriarchy has risen. My poor uncle grew up smack in the middle of a horde of (very) strong-willed females. He's started to take a more dominant role in group dynamics in recent years, but for most of my life it was definitely a Girls Rule kind of family.

And we Clan Women tend to reinforce our position through marriage. Though this is not 100% true, the general trend has been for the Power Women in my family to marry gentle-and-laid-back menfolk. Particularly at big family gatherings like the shindig last weekend, the men of the family (wisely) tend to stay out of the planning madness and are content to sit back, go with the flow, and watch the women race around like maniacs. Which is not to say that they're not helpful. No, no. We couldn't live without them. It's just that they're supportive in a highly Type B way, which contrasts starkly with the prevalence of female Type A personalities.

All of which explains why my always-wonderful-and-infinitely-mellow husband fits in so well with my zany family. He's just such a good sport when the matching t-shirts come out...

Apple Walnut Coleslaw

I'm going to return to the theme of the family weekend shortly, but I did need to pause here to brag about the fantastic coleslaw I made tonight. I should preface this by saying that I hate coleslaw. I really do. There's something about the soggy mass of overdressed nastiness that just makes me recoil.

But today there was cabbage in the CSA I'm babysitting and -- in what I must assume was a third trimester craving -- I immediately visualized and mentally tasted a fabulous light summer coleslaw. And, given that it's still a million degrees here and there was no way I was cooking tonight, I decided to go for it.

So here it is. Kate's Awesome Slaw for Those Who Usually Hate It.

4 cups of chopped cabbage
1 large apple of your choice (I used Gala), chopped
A couple generous handfuls of walnuts
A generous handful of craisins

1/4 cup light mayonnaise
2 T brown sugar
4 tsp vinegar
Salt to taste

Mix up the dressing and fold it all together. Enjoy!

I suspect that one could make this into an entire meal with the addition of cooked chicken. But I didn't have any and it was (as I believe I've mentioned) too hot to cook.

The Clan Gathers

This weekend, Josh and Miss Mouse and I made a pilgrimage to the land of my roots. (Josh points out that I've never actually lived in Iowa, but I dismiss this as irrelevant). The reason for using my only vacation of the year to schlep to the middle of a cornfield was simple: my People were gathering.

That's right, all of my extended family on my mother's side came together to celebrate a momentous occasion: my grandfather's 90th birthday.



Can I just pause here for a moment to say how absolutely amazing my grandfather is? I won't even regale you with his stories about growing up in India (though I could -- you just say the word and the snake-and-tiger-stories will flow...). I'll just focus in on the fact that, at the age of 90, my grandfather still:

• Drives
• Rides his bike regularly
• Takes and develops photographs that would make Ansel Adams gnash his teeth with envy
• Performs with a well-respected symphony orchestra

That's right. I think it's safe to say that he's in better shape and is more active in his community than I am. It's simultaneously embarrassing and inspiring to come to that realization.

And thus, to celebrate the man that is my grandpa, all of his progeny (and their spouses) got together for the weekend. The generational breakdown went like this:

1 awesome grandpa
5 children
3 spouses of said children
9 grand children
5 spouses of said grandchildren
7 great-grand children (if you count two in utero, which we do)

And yes, we wore matching t-shirts.

Heat Wave

Immediately forthcoming will be a series of blogs about our 4th of July trip to Iowa. But first, I need to pause for a moment to whine piteously about the fact that today -- the hottest day of the year -- the air conditioner at work was broken.

It was 93 degrees in my office.

That's an actual temperature reading from our office thermostat, too, not one of those "exaggerated because it's funnier that way" statements. Oh no. The actual temperature when I arrived this morning at 7am was 89 degrees and it got worse from there.

Have I mentioned that I'm pregnant? We gestational types do not appreciate the heat. At all. I suspect a large part of the problem is the stretchy pouches of fabric that cover your entire belly region -- up to the armpits -- when you're pregnant. Not exactly breezy.

So I pointed a fan directly at my head and sweatily went about my day, pausing at one point for a much-needed trip to Whole Foods which yielded some fruit and an individually-sized cup of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. It had to be done.

An Invention Request

Let's be honest. We live in the era of too much baby stuff. There are more gizmos, gadgets, and "must-have" baby gear items on the market than anyone could possibly need.

And yet, and yet. I find myself on the hunt for that which does not appear to exist. If I were the inventing type, I'd create this item myself and make a bundle. Since I'm not, I'm going to hope that a bright and noble inventor reads this post, creates the item, and generously sends me 1 million dollars for the good idea.

Travel Cracker Containers

Yes, that's my big idea. I want someone -- anyone -- to come up with a good way to travel with crackers. If you, like I, am the mother of a toddler, you do not leave the home without snacks. Like graham crackers. Or saltine crackers. Or Ritz crackers. You get the idea.

If, however, the small hungry creature you are traveling with ends up not being hungry, (Or if your allegedly-vegetarian daughter suddenly opts to devour the fried chicken wings available for sample at the super market instead of her graham crackers), you inevitably wind up with a mangled baggie of cracker debris in your diaper bag.

I want a hard-sided carrying case for my crackers, please! One for each type of cracker, actually (hence the broad money-making potential of this invention).

As I wait for my inventor on a white horse, I have created a substitute graham cracker case out of a travel baby wipe container. It's not bad. It's going for its maiden voyage tomorrow as we fly to Iowa. I'll let you know how it works.