Shopping list

It's the holiday season (the holiday season), and some people are already done with their Christmas shopping. Those people are obviously killjoys and should be forced to stay home and babysit the children of the people who wait until the last minute to hit the malls.

I suppose I could be one of those people. I mean, it's not like my recipient list changes yearly, or someone changes the rules on what we can and cannot buy. Theoretically, I could be done Christmas shopping in July, if I were one of those (cough cough fun suckers) organized people. But what fun would that be? What's Christmas without rushing through the stores while on your cell phone, asking your sister-in-law's nearly deaf grandmother if she knows what size your niece is wearing these days. How can it be the holiday season if you're not frantically looking through the sweaters, seeking the one size that's always missing? How incomplete would the holiday be without a spousal argument in the middle of the mall because neither of you can figure out what to really get his mother, who has enough things to outfit a small third world nation? (For the record, the abovementioned scenarios are not theoretical.)

For me, holiday shopping starts in September, when I tell the kids to "put it on your Christmas list." See a toy you like? Make a list. Need designer shoes? Deal with the Kohl's brand and put the pricey ones on your list. Kids don't like this answer, but it's served many a mom during the fall months. A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I begin to form gift lists in my head. That means I look at sale papers and think, "Hmm, that would be a nice gift for Danielle." Then I promptly forget about it. Later on, I wonder how I could possibly forget such a great idea, because I remember it was a great gift, I just can't remember what the heck it was. As Thanksgiving draws near, I briefly think about hitting the Black Friday sales. Then I decide to avoid the (cough cough insane cough) Black Friday shoppers and sleep in.

Suddenly, it's December, and the only thing I've bought is a fleece vest for my dad, because we buy him a fleece vest every year. Now it's time to hit the internet. I might Google some ideas, such as "What is the best brand of socks for people who are so anal about their socks that they label them, in order to keep them in pairs?" Google spits out some answers, and I look them over. If one of the answers shows up on Amazon, I might even add it to my wish list. As a rule, I don't buy from merchants I don't know, because I live in fear of a gift that cannot be returned. Ditto on Ebay. Great deals, sure. But what if someone doesn't like their gift? To the best of my knowledge, Ebay doesn't take returns.

Then it's time to hit the mall. If I'm smart, I hit the mall during the day, when it's not so busy. Armed with coupons from Sunday's ads, I attack the stores. Let's see, I have an Aeropostale coupon for $10 any $50 purchase, so let's go to Aeropostale. Hmm, I can't remember if Emily's wearing a S or a M these days, and Becca insists she's still an XS, but I think she's probably a S. Let's wait on Aeropostale until I can drag the girls out and make them try on a few things. I meander through the mall, talking to nobody on my cell phone so that the kiosk people don't try to beckon me over to their wares. (I once paid something like $70 for a scented pillow thingie sold by an extremely cute and flirtatious salesman with a great accent.) Dad said he wanted a sweater. But my brother mentioned something he might want to go halves on for Dad. Granted, brother hasn't responded to the email yet, but I'd better hold off on the sweater. Ooh, maybe the nieces would like some of this body spray. I should buy some. No, wait, maybe they already have this body spray. Maybe they have the body spray and hate it. Maybe their mother doesn't want them to wear body spray. Better wait on that. I can't leave the mall empty handed, so I buy myself some expensive shampoo at the JCPenney salon using the coupon from Sunday's paper. Yay me.

As the days draw near, I begin to feel a wee bit of panic. Should I go ahead and move things from my wish list to my cart at Amazon? If I buy the nieces the body spray, what if I find something they want more? Why can't I find the one Transformer that my nephew asked for? I can't risk buying him a different one, because he has an extensive collection, and I'd probably buy him something he already has. My husband said he wants an air compressor. Does he really need an air compressor? Can't we rent an air compressor?

Then the e-mails start coming in. "THREE MORE DAYS OF FREE SHIPPING IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!!" OK, if I don't do something soon, I'm going to end up at Walgreen's on Christmas Eve, buying Chia Pets for my nearest and dearest. Finally, about two weeks before Christmas, I start to buy. I buy the blouse that is almost like the one I liked in November, but that one is long gone. I buy a bunch of little gifts to complement the expensive gifts for the kids, and wind up spending at least twice my budget. I check out the "gift book" table at Borders, because it's bound to have something my brother can read in the bathroom. By the Sunday before Christmas, I'm nearly done. On Monday, I'm finished. On Tuesday, I'm buying "just a few more things." I've been burned before, when I was up Christmas Eve looking for last minute deals online, because I was convinced we hadn't bought enough for my in-laws. On Wednesday, I'm swearing that I'm done, really, except for the one little thing I really want to get the kids. On Christmas Eve, I'm running to Walgreen's because I just counted the kids' presents and they seem uneven. Christmas Eve. Finally, it's Christmas morning, and I can enjoy the lights and the carols that have been playing for the last two months. Then I wonder where the season went.

Once again, I'll say that next year will be different. I'll plan better and do the shopping by Thanksgiving, so I can spend the season baking cookies and listening to Christmas carols without guilt. Who am I kidding? Chances are, you'll find me at Walgreen's on Christmas Eve. I'll be in the Chia Pet aisle.

 

Clean up

Anyone who knows my husband knows how much he prizes a clean house. Alas, I do not place quite the same priority on cleanliness. If cleanliness is next to godliness, I’m somewhere between purgatory and hell. Unfortunately for my husband, our kids have inherited my tendencies and not his.

But I do know when the house crosses the line, and I do try to keep myself closer to purgatory than hell in the clean house department. Consequently, I’m not a big fan of messy projects. I don’t like things that might involve serious cleaning up time, and woe to the child who wants to do something that might result in dragging out the floor cleaner or other appliance. That’s what art class is for.

Anyhow, the 10-year-old wanted to make Puppy Chow. Puppy Chow, or Muddy Buddies, is basically Corn Chex coated in a chocolately, peanut butter coating and topped with powdered sugar. It’s a shame that something so good has to be so messy.

I was feeling benevolent, though, and said sure, let’s make it. I carefully heated up the butter, peanut butter and chocolate chips, and poured them over the Chex cereal. Then I scooped the cereal into a Ziplock bag, trying hard not to spill the chocolate covered mixture over the side. Finally, Emily and I added powdered sugar to the bag. I closed it and gave it to Emily to shake.

Mission accomplished, with only a few dirty bowls that would clean up quickly. As Emily started shaking, I reminded her to be careful and make sure the bag doesn’t open. Famous last words, right?

The moment I turned, I heard the words every mother dreads: “Uh oh.” The bag had opened, and the floor was covered with Puppy Chow and powdered sugar. The dog had been lying on the floor in the kitchen, and she, too, had a streak of powdered sugar in her fur. If you could read dog minds (which I can), you’d know she was saying, “HOLY COW. THIS IS GREAT. I LIE DOWN AND ALL OF A SUDDEN LITTLE CHOCOLATE GOODIES ARE RAINING ON ME. WOO HOO, IT’S MY LUCKY DAY!”

My typical reaction began to form. Didn’t I tell her to be careful? Holy moly, there’s a huge mess on the floor. This is why I don’t like to make snacks, because something always happens. Now I’m going to have to drag out the vacuum, and the floor cleaner, and we have to clean up this mess before the dog eats it and throws up on the carpet in an hour. I saw Emily’s face, waiting for the inevitable parental meltdown over the mess.

Then I looked at my powdered-sugar-covered floor and the dog who was happily munching. I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh. And as I laughed, I watched my daughter’s face change from trepidation to relief to laughter, as she joined me in laughing and cleaning up the mess. That's when I had a parental learning experience. Sometimes it's easier to clean a floor than rebuild a crushed spirit.

Pass the Puppy Chow.

Taco soup - everyone should have this recipe

I just mentioned on Facebook that I'm making taco soup. Honestly, everyone should make this, especially on cold, rainy days. You can tweak the recipe to your taste - add different types of beans or sausages, or make a meatless version.

Be prepared to share the recipe.

Taco Soup

2 lbs ground beef or sausage (I did just one pound the last time and added an extra can of beans)
1-2 envelopes taco seasoning (use whatever "strength" you prefer)
1 pkg dry ranch dressing mix (do NOT use low-fat)
2 cans Mexican-style stewed tomatoes
1 can green chilis
2 cans of black beans, pinto beans or one of each
1 1/2 cups frozen corn
Fritos
Shredded cheddar

Brown the beef. Drain and rinse under water to minimize fat. Return the beef to the pot and add the rest of the ingredients, except the Fritos and cheese. Add four cans of water. Simmer for at least 15 minutes. The longer you simmer, the better it tastes. Serve over Fritos and top with the cheese.

This is so incredibly yummy! I throw the tomatoes in the blender before I add them to the soup, because we don't like tomato "pieces." My SIL, who gave me this recipe, says she takes the leftovers and rolls it up in a tortilla. This recipe freezes well and tastes even better the second time you heat it up.

A prayer for mothers

When I was pregnant, I had this prayer/mantra that I would repeat to myself all of the time: Dear God – please let this baby be healthy, safe and normal. And if not, please let me be the parent this baby needs.

I never felt quite right praying for a healthy, safe, normal baby. Who was I to ask for the easy route? Besides, I knew many people whose children deviated from the healthy, safe and normal route, yet those folks felt no less blessed than the ones whose kids were deemed healthy and normal by medicine and society. Hence, the second part of my prayer. If God was going to choose to send me a child with special needs, then I hoped he would give me the strength to meet those needs.

When my kids were born, I rejoiced that they came into the world safely, and were pronounced healthy and normal. Thank you, God. Life kicked in and I forgot to be grateful, unless I caught one of those specials on Discovery Health about children with severe issues. Then I'd look at my husband and say, "We've been blessed."

Lately, though, I've been wondering if I need to resurrect the second part of that mantra. Raising two 'tween girls can be a befuddling, frightening, exciting and awesome experience. I used to think I'd be up to any challenge a kid could throw at me, but lately I realize how utterly unprepared I am. Let's face it. I was up to the challenge of raising a kid like me: a gawky kid who liked books over boys, a klutz who considered hide-and-seek to be an organized sport, a kid who feared the parental words, "I'm disappointed in you." Instead, I'm dealing with these gorgeous, athletic kids whose interests are completely different than mine were, and the words "I'm disappointed in you" seem to carry no weight.

Now more than ever, I find myself asking God to give me the strength to be the parent these girls need. I'm stunned and scared by the fact that there are no do-overs in parenting. Sure, we joke that some of the things we do are going to land our children in therapy for years, but I don't really mean it. I want to get this one right. I'm thrilled that they're healthy. I pray they remain safe. I hope they discover a normal that works for them. But mostly, I hope God can help me be the parent they need, because I don't think I can do this one alone.

Maternal mind changers

Last night, I attended the annual back-to-school night at Emily's elementary school. The assistant principal, who looked to be about 24 years old, went over the attendance policy with us. He stressed the importance of attending school regularly, and went over the school's policy for calling in sick kids or taking a planned absence.

"Those of you who are planning to go to Disney World, well, shame on you," he deadpanned.

Cue nervous laughter from the parents, especially the ones who like to go to DW in November.

"I'm just kidding," said the young 'un in the tie. "I just wish you had been my parents."

No kidding. I wish I had been my parents, too. My parents subscribed to the "You must be dead to miss school" policy. My parents weren't afraid to let you know about those parents who kept their kids out of school for a mid-winter beach vacation. For instance, when I lived in Florida, my parents visited every February. (They were well out of school and didn't need to fill out any prearranged absence forms.) Still, my father got his swim trunks in a wad when he'd see 8-year-olds frolicking in the sand.

"I wonder what they missed in school today," he'd muse. "I wonder if they're going to ever get another chance to learn that."

I tended to agree with him, remembering the days when I'd struggle to make up homework for a mere two days home with the flu. School trumped vacation. Period. I'd say that only funerals trumped school, but my parents sent my brother and me to school on the morning of my grandfather's funeral, only allowing us to come home at lunchtime to attend the mid-afternoon service. Family vacations during the school year were high on my list of things I'd never do as a parent. The list also included parking the kids in front of the TV, letting them stay up until midnight on any day except New Year's Eve, making them pay for every luxury item they crave so they'll appreciate them more, and taking them to church every Sunday.

Truth be told, though, I've fallen short on most all of the abovementioned things. We've done a couple Disney trips in January, although I will argue that they were prompted by a soccer tournament that happened to fall in January, and we planned the trip to minimize the time away from school. I even sent the girls to school for half a day when our flight didn't leave until 2:30. I've let them stay up as long as they darned well pleased this summer and over Christmas break, as long as they didn't bug me after I went to bed at my normal 11 p.m. The TV is on all the point, to the point where Spongebob is part of the normal background noise of our home. As for luxury items, well, we kind of missed the boat on that, because our kids don't have money. We screwed up the whole allowance thing, mostly because we couldn't agree on what chores were necessary to earn the allowance. And church, well, we've recently recommitted to going each week, as long as we're in town and healthy. This time we mean it.

I'm not giving up, however. I still have a list of things I am going to stick to. These include:

• No dating until 16. I predict this will be the source of many headaches during the next four years. Dating will be defined as boy/girl, no chaperones, no other people. I'm not sure of the group date thing. Maybe 15? Already, I'm hearing ideas of going to the movies with a girlfriend, and a boy just happens to be there…. Gah.
  
• The first car will be a clunker. I'm thinking that a nice 1996 Toyota Corolla will be a good find in another four years. Maybe I'll splurge and get a 1992 Camry. Insurance must be subsidized by the driver.
  
• No parent-free spring break trips. Sorry, kids. If you don't want to hit the beaches with Mom and Dad in April, you're not hitting the beaches. I've seen too many "Girls Gone Wild" commercials.
  
• No ridiculous amounts of money spent on sports. I'll get back to you on how that goes in a few years.
  
• No computers in the bedroom. I want to be able to sneak up on them when they're AIMing.
  
• College must be subsidized by the student. A part-time job must be procured by senior year of high school, to start contributing to college expenses.
  
• No pets smaller than a cat. I re-instituted this rule after the last of 11 carnival goldfish went to the great fishbowl in the sky a few months ago.
  

I'd list more, but I hear my 12-year-old's cell phone ringing. Yes, that would be the cell phone she wasn't going to get until high school.

Guys: Don’t read this

If you're a guy and you're reading this, come on. Can you not read? This is not a blog post for guys. The subject matter contained within has been known to cause grown men to put their hands over their ears while they sing "La la la la I can't hear you."

Yes, I'm going to talk about female things. You've been warned.

Guess what? I have a circle in my breast. Yes, I'm sure you've all been wondering if Lori has a circle in her breast, and the answer is yes. An almost perfect little hollow circle, about the size of a pin head. How do I know this? Because this evening I had my annual mammogram, also known as the beginning of the most vulnerable, nerve wracking couple of days women go through each year. You can go into the office feeling fine, and then you pick up a copy of some health magazine and read a story about Sheryl Crowe. Suddenly, you're thinking that she's gorgeous and fit, and she had breast cancer, so what right do I have to hope I'll be spared?

Anyway, back to my circle. I go down the hallway, put on the gown and go to the imaging room, where the nice lady puts me in place and lets the machine do its job. I'm recovering from the first squish when she says, "Have you had any surgery on your breasts?" I look down and think, "Lady, does it look like I've had surgery here? Because if I did, I want my money back." Instead, I say no, and she beckons me over to the screen. "Look here," she says, pointing to a perfect little circle on the image. "That almost looks like a piece of metal or something."

Being Lori, I say, "Do I need to freak out?"

"Oh no," she says. "It's probably just a calcification. They're not usually perfect circles, though."

Fortunately, I remember having been diagnosed with a calcification some years ago. I had to go back for a mammogram every six months to see if it changed. After three mammograms with no changes, I was given the OK to go back to annual exams. The nice lady suggests we do the second image from a different position, to see if it shows up again. Sure enough, there's the little circle, in the same place. Again, she tells me not to freak out. We finish the other side and she takes me down to a computer room where she can pull up last year's mammogram. Sure enough, there's the circle. A perfect circle. Same size. Same place. In a freaking out way, it's almost kind of cool.

Why do I share this story? Because those of you who know me know how much I freak out whenever I have a headache that won't go away. Those of you who know me know that I'm going to fret over the circle for the next few days, until I get the call of "all clear" or (gulp) "come back for more pictures." As I said above, it can be a horrible few days for women. It's almost horrible enough to put it off for a while.

But I don't. Again, those who know me know that one of my best friends was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. I lost an online friend to the disease a couple years ago. So if my circle story serves as a timely reminder to someone who's reading this and thinking maybe, just maybe she should go ahead and schedule her annual mammogram, then I'm glad I shared this story.

And guys, if you've completely ignored my warnings and read through this, do me a favor. Tell the woman you love to make sure she gets hers, too.

It’s called underwear, not outthere

I took my almost 12-year-old shopping today. Tomorrow is her middle school registration, where she'll get her schedule and her locker, and she'll sit for a picture that will double as an ID photo and school photo. She pointed out that she didn't have anything new to wear, although her T-shirt drawer can barely shut these days because it's so full. But I remember being 12 and wanting something new for the school picture, so we headed to the mall.

I figured she wanted a cute T-shirt, preferably one that advertised Hollister, Aeropostale or Victoria Secret's Pink line, a marketing tool designed to lure 12-year-olds into what used to be a decidedly adult venue. No, she wanted a poofy tank top that she could wear over a white T-shirt, because spaghetti straps aren't allowed in middle school. Nothing like a specific need when you're shopping with a mom who likes sale racks. We scoured Aeropostale, Hollister and Vic's Secret. No luck. On a whim, I said let's check out Delia's, even though I usually gasp at the prices. (I'm talking $26.50 for a T-shirt. Yes, they're often "buy one, get one half off," which translates to roughly $19.88 a T-shirt. When you're used to Kohl's prices, that's pretty steep.) She immediately found a top that worked. I decided to be generous mom and let her try it on. It looked adorable on her.

"OK," I said," "Let's walk down to Justice and get a plain white tee."

"That's OK," she said. "I don't need a T-shirt for the picture. I'll wear it like this. I just have to wear a T-shirt underneath when school starts."

Now, my almost 12-year-old follows a trend that I find a little unsettling. She wears cute little camisoles over her cute little bras, and she lets the bra straps peek through. I admit, as someone who went to great lengths to ensure that a bra strap never even peeked out of a sleeveless dress (ill-fitting strapless bras, anyone?), I had a hard time getting used to this look. I don't know why I'm surprised, when I'm almost always seeing the underwear of any wearer in the under-20 crowd. That's right. I know what color boxers the skater kid is wearing and what color thong the high school girl is sporting. And I've gotten to the point where I'm OK with the under-20 crowd flashing a bra strap, because they tend to wear cute little colorful bras with delicate little straps. I think that if you're going to flash a bra, you should at least have cute little bras to flash. The middle-aged mom, two-inch wide bra straps in white or cream just don't work.

But even though I've learned to live with the peeking bra straps, I really, really, REALLY didn't want to see them in my daughter's school picture. I brought this up in the Delia's fitting room, and she rolled her eyes at me. I used my "I hold the checkbook" veto power and said she had to find a solution that didn't involve sharing her bra straps with her grandmothers and anyone who happens to visit Grandma and look at the grandchild picture display on the wall. She begrudgingly agreed to wear a tank top or a T-shirt for her school picture.

I guess I should consider myself lucky. At least she's not flashing her thong panties, which she doesn't have and won't have until she's old enough to buy her own underwear. Which I wish would stay under there.