Peeps Must Die

We are a family of intelligent people.  It is shocking, then, to realize how long it took everyone to figure out how Bunny Day should really run when the ratio of grandsons to granddaughters is 3:1.  (I'm not the only one raising a litter of pup . . . er . . . boys)

Back up the boat, you say.  Bunny Day? Did I miss a memo on the list of holiday options? The answer is, "Possibly, yes." It stems from the basic childhood question: Which came first, the bunny or the egg?  And how does Jesus fit in the whole Easter egg thing? 

A recent conversation between Jonathan and Matthew shows the mental confusion that happens with the convoluted elements of this holiday. 

Jonathan: "So the Easter Bunny lays eggs?"

Matthew: "No, the Easter Bunny lays jelly beans."

Jonathan: "No, the Easter Bunny poops jelly beans."

Matthew: "Well then who lays easter eggs? Santa?"

Jonathan: "That's just dumb."

Ya, but Easter Bunnies pooping jelly beans isn't.  And I think my taste for jelly beans has disappeared.  Odd.

Anyway, we just made two different holidays out of Easter.  Saturday before Easter is Bunny Day -- spring, egg hunts, gobs of candy, the works.  Sunday is Easter.  Yes, I know nearly everything about the configuration of Easter stems from pagan history, spring equinox, phases of the moon, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.  The point of Sunday is Jesus, no matter how you configure the day on which Easter is celebrated.  No wonder my kids can't remember that Christmas is always December 25.  That's just waaaayyy too easy.  You don't even have to factor in Leap Year.  In fact, I think someone should author some legislation here.  The Holiday Reform Act.  All holidays happen on the 15th of the month, no matter what.  No more of this 4th phase of the moon except if it's a Sunday then we add a day and skip the third Wednesday and whateverrrrr.  And some months are getting too crowded so SOMETHING has to get moved to August, except that that is kinda the unofficial Vacation Month, so we might not want to mess with that.  Hmm.  I sense I might be slipping from the point . . .

Ahem.

Grandma had a BRAINSTORM last year.   Recall the grandson to granddaughter ratio.  Also, there was the burgeoning number of pre-teens/actual teens to consider.  Standard candy hunts were soo 5 minutes ago.  Snooze-errific.  Dumb. Thus, the PEEPS WAR was begun.

Peeps, the ultimate Easter Bunny poo of candy.  It's processed chemical sugar covered by granulated sugar.  And they look like neon dog turds.  But add three dots for a face and PRESTO! It's a Peep.  Even as a kid, I didn't like them.

And now, once each year, the fruit of my loins straps on their (nerf) armor and does battle with the fruit of the sugar conglomerate industry's loins.  Somehow, that just sounds . . . wrong.

To continue.  Roll film . . . (There might possibly be some artistic license at play here. Just a little.)

It generally happens around mid-afternoon.  As we play with our delightful children in their perfectly clean and pressed walking outfits, identifying flower species and cataloging bird song in the realm of grandmother's backyard, the first shot is taken.  WE never start the war.  It's always the Peeps.

A malted robins egg is thrown and hits my sister's youngest! A cowardly act, going for the young and the weak.  But what else would you expect from a Peep.

Our manly sons instantly answer the call and take up their positions in defense of their mothers.  Sniff.  So proud!  And the battle begins!

Artillery sprays of M&Ms barrage the young men, who answer with round after round of nerf darts.  Marshmallow egg grenades fall heavily and our wounded, sticky from the blast, seek safety in the baby pool.  The boys break out the mini mallow shooters and the snipers go to work.  Yellow and pink globs fall to the ground, but they aren't surrendering yet!

We can feel the tremors in the ground long before we see the ranks marching up the hill.  The chocolate bunny brigades!  And they have the bite-size candy bar bazookas.  I can smell fear creeping in the ranks.  We must be strong now!  This is no time for hesitation, we bring out the big guns!

THE POTATO CANNON.  King of the boys, Uncle David strides into the line of fire, the bulk of the weapon strapped to his shoulder.  One swing and the cannon is steadied and ready to fire.

But wait! A scream rises from inside the house!

THE PEEPS HAVE TAKEN GRANDMA HOSTAGE!!  Unbeknownst to us, the Peeps have forged an alliance with the stuffed animal menagerie!  And now they have captured the queen!  She lays bound by their chains of oppression (ignore the snoring, I swear she is oppressed) awaiting rescue!  Wo wo is us!

But hark!  Heavy is the tread of justice!  For here comes GRANDPA!  He fears no candy, stays no hand of snacking in the rescue of his queen!  With one great motion, Grandma is freed ("Sarah, wake up, the kids want more candy") and Uncle David frees his wrath up on the Peeps!  We are saved and the Peeps are defeated!

Or something like that.  Till next year folks, snack strong!

The Zen Art of Flatulence

There are many elements of human existence that seem to have "built in" rules.  Some how, there is a basic human understanding that some things are simply done certain ways.   People should not be underwater and fish should not be on land would be a good example.  The same rule would apply to people and high altitudes without the benefit of land underneath. Other basic rules include "Rocks are not tasty" and "Blood should be on the inside of the body."

Similarly, cosmic harmony insures most cultures discover the great truth of the 10 Second Rule (variations include the 30 Second Rule, the 10 Minute Rule, and Don't Waste That Food You Ungrateful Brat Eat It Now) as well as the ill-advised nature of speaking aloud your good fortune: "Knock On Wood," "Salt Over the Shoulder," or as with the Bushmen of Africa, "Wail, Wail, Now We Will All Starve." (No lie, look it up.)

There is an entire world of rules, however, that favor only the male of our species.  I speak of the Zen Art of Flatulence.  Growing up female in a predominately female house, I, of course, had no knowledge of this hidden realm.  I was familiar with the bodily function, but had been properly taught by my mother and grandmothers that this was an act of shame which must be hidden and denied, even unto death. 

With great dismay and abhorrence, I discovered shortly after my marriage that men do not take the same approach, although some subspecies are correctly taught that this is an act solely experienced by men.  Women Do Not Fart. (I wish.) Men Do.  Boy Howdy Do They.

Not only do men fart, there appears to be an entire underworld of farting rules and farting etiquette quite foreign to women.  My research thus far has pieced together these hypothesized constructs on the nature of male flatulence:

1.  The older the man, the greater the leniency given to place ownership on the fart.  Young boys may only blame other young boys, but an old man can blame the dog, a spider, the chair, or any odd weather pattern currently passing by.

2.  If there is no possibility of blaming the fart on someone/thing else, one must call out "Safety."  If one does not do this, all other males in the room are free to smack the offender.  Generally, the next closest male does this.  My research has not yet discovered the nature of the ascendent hierarchy involved in determining who the "Smacker" will be, but there is some evidence indicating that this has something to do with the percentage of odor received in the Smacker's nostrils.  Just a guess though.

3.  If the Farter does not say "Safety" BEFORE another nearby male smells the offense, the one smelling the fart can then call out "Doorknob."  The farter then must rush to touch a doorknob as quickly as possible.  All males are free to punch the farter as many times as possible until the doorknob has been touched.

4.  Rules 2 & 3 are invalid in the case of excessive incidences of farting or extreme pungency of a particular fart.  All males are free to punch without ceasing in these cases, although often the largest and most dominant male will take it upon himself to enact the punching.

5.  Seriously.  You think I'm kidding but I'm not.

6.  Punching Mom under any of said conditions is a certain Death Wish. Mom DOES NOT FART.  Any evidence is to be denied and ignored.  Any suggestion that such an event might have even possibly crossed your mind is to risk Banishment To Room. 

7.  Repeat Rule 5, but with regard to the highly suicidal notion of Punching Mom After (nonexistent) Fart.

Most baffling to my female mind is that it has taken me the better part of 19 years to understand these rules.  My youngest boy, age 7, seemed to know them right about the same time he mastered the art of drooling.  This leads to the next part of my scientific query: Is there a genetic component to male toots?

I have, on many occasions, witnessed my sons farting at will and on command.  This would seem to fly in the face of my personal experience.  You all know what I mean.  You are in a meeting.  Everyone is listening with respectful and rapt attention (read: sleeping with their eyes open) to the boss explain the brilliance of his/her newest plan of success.  You suddenly become aware that gurgling is happening.  The rumbling and roiling.  IT is going to happen.  You shift position, squeeze this and that, adjust hither and yon.  But there is no stopping IT.  IT is inevitable and as gaseous as your promotion opportunities have just become.

And yet, AND YET my sons can control this.  Nay, not only control it, but USE it as a weapon and a tool.  I have seen, well no, not seen, but heard and smelled farts perfectly controlled and detonated: as a response to a question, while sitting on a younger brother's head, as part of a song (the chorus, and thus repeated both in time and on tune), as part of a video game attack, as the ending punctuation of a sentence, for the purpose of being first in line for cake, and as a means of removing everyone else from the prime couch "spot."

I assert, there is an Art to the Fart.  And women just don't got it.  THANK GOODNESS.

(Plllbbtttthhh.)  Excuse me.

"We're Having An Adventure!"

I'm going to take a moment to expound ($$ vocab word -- college tuition at work) on the second half of the blog title.  I added it because, along with the quote from Marjorie Hinckley on the "About Me" page, it is has been a guiding concept of my life and one I learned from my mother.  It has been her life motto, probably since she was born and before she knew what a "motto" was.  And largely because she is rather prone to getting herself and anyone around her stuck in "adventures."

 Driving would be the top of the list.  My mother is not a "bad" driver, per se.  Granted, she has actually rear-ended my dad, damaging both family cars in one "adventure."  And she has yelled at me for locking the car doors when we had arrived at our destination, parked, and exited the vehicle.

"Jennifer Ann! Now I'm going to have to UNlock the doors when we get back!"

"But we're in downtown Portland.  Under the freeways.  The car will get stolen."

"I KNOW!  Then I can get a new car!"

Ok, that's not actually a driving situation.  But it does help aid understanding of my mother's relationship with automobiles.

The main issue she has with vehicles is that they cannot, in fact, read her mind.  She sees this a major design flaw.  They consistently take her where she drives the vehicle, rather than taking her where she intended to go.  So unreasonable of the, you know, non-sentient vehicle . . .

It was a given, as we were growing up, that upon entering the station wagon (just aged myself, didn't I?), that we would end up at one of three locations: the grocery store, the high school, or the church.  It did not matter what was the intended location.  We would end up at one of these, randomly selected from the three-slot roulette wheel operating in the "destinations" lobe of her brain.

This was taken in stride, as we all knew that as soon as we got to whichever slot the ball dropped into, we would then be happily on our way to where we actually wanted to be.  Very occasionally, we would get there first time around!  Much merriment would then commence.

It was a different matter, though, when the intended destination was somewhere she had never been before.  Directions and My Mother, you see, had not been on speaking terms for many years.  Truthfully, I think it was more a matter of not speaking the same language.  Directions speak a very precise sort of language.  Very rigid and inflexible.  They can be just so picky, you know?  They really mean turn on THIS street, the next street or two won't do.  And so harsh with their insistence that a mile really is 5,280 feet.  They just don't allow for the variations of "a mile," such as "a ways down the road" or "just drive for a bit."

Here is the dialect of my mother's "direction language": (these are actual directions she gave me when I was about 18.  I needed to find a particular church building I had not been to before.)

Mom: "Take I-205, exit Mill Plain, and then just wiggle around till you get there."

Me:  "..."

In all fairness, it was just two turns and about two blocks from the freeway.  And I did find it after a bit of "wiggling."  But still.

The worst episode happened when I was about 13, I think.  As I recall, we need to go to the east Vancouver area.  We lived in north Vancouver.  This is, at most, 20 minutes driving slowly.  Same town, same state.  Our first clue we were not, possibly, headed in the right direction was when we crossed the big, big bridge over the big, big river.  You know, the one they call the Columbia.  It's 2 miles across.  Tough to miss. That meant we were in Oregon.  Wrong state.  Then another bridge.  The one that crosses the Willamette.  Wrong city.  And then some more bridges (ok, honestly, this is easy to do in Portland.  No less than 238 bridges (not really, more like 10) split the city, and nearly all of the roads are one-way, with occasional "Buses Only" roads thrown in for added fun and laughs.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha.) until we pulled over and stopped.  In southeast Portland.  It had been nearly two hours since we had left the house.

My mom started to giggle.  So did we.  And then we were all laughing and the ridiculous situation we we were in.  She turned her head and grinned at us: "We're having an Adventure!"

This event dearly came back to my mind about 5 years ago when I, in my mad rush of Brainstorm, decided I should take my kids to see the 3D playing of the Polar Express, shown at the Evergreen Air Museum every December.  This would normally be a 90-minute drive from my home.  Genius that I am, I chose to go the day after one of the worst snow storms the northwest has had in years. (What? The storm was done, danger over. Right?) There wasn't just a little snow.  There were PILES of snow everywhere. The roads were more than a foot deep.  The wheel tracks were 18 inches high. The side roads were more than 2 feet deep. This is because the PDX Metro area has 1.8 snowplows to go round. They have arm wrestling contests to see who wins and McMinnville apparently lost and ended up with the .8 of a snow plow.  It hooks up to a Prius.  (Enviromentally savy, eh?)

Anyway, as we were riding Mr Toad's Wild Ride down all the back roads to the museum, jostling and slopping past stuck car after stuck car, the thought crossed my mind: "Perhaps today was not the right day to go.  Hm."  But then I heard the back seat, as we bumped and slipped across two lanes and slid in to the next open lane, "Wahoo!" "Whee!" "This is better than Disneyland!" (Mental note to self: cheap vacation option for next year, plan tribute to snow gods in early October . . . )

My kids were having a ton of fun.  They didn't care we had been in the car for over 3 hours by the time we made it there.  And when we walked up to the museum's front doors and saw "Closed," we all burst out laughing!  Of course it was closed.  And it had JUST closed.  So we found a Red Robin and got 4 helpings of endless fries and milkshakes.  We were having An Adventure!

I dearly love my mother for teaching me how to laugh when things do not go according to plan.  When she takes a nap and does not want to be disturbed (this is every day), she puts the phone in the freezer.  Do not ask why.  But it does work.  When oatmeal for breakfast does not sound appetizing, she has a hot fudge sundae.  ("It's basically the same number of calories.") If the garage is cold, she will bring her mitre saw into the living room.  When she thinks blue would be a better color for the living room, she starts painting.  Now.  In whatever she's wearing and whatever else is going on. (read: church dress, middle of Thanksgiving Dinner). 

Take it from Sarah: Life was meant to be lived and enjoyed.  We're having an Adventure!

The Cliffs Of Despair: A Cook's Lament

I place my cast iron dutch oven on the stove and set the burner to a medium-low heat.  A nice slosh of olive oil (I will NEVER say EVOO, sorry) follows, accompanied by a handful of perfectly minced onion and garlic.  I let this saute for a moment, then add a diced, roasted red pepper (roasted in my own oven, 500 degrees, 10 minutes), a bay leaf from my own bay tree growing by the front porch, and sliced crimini mushrooms.  As it simmers, a wonderful aroma fills my kitchen, along with a little surge of happiness and pride at knowing this meal is made with some serious skill.  I am a good cook, and I know it.  Homemade chicken stock follows, cream, and diced chicken from last night's dinner -- I thought ahead and roasted two chickens so I would have some for tonight (2 free range chickens stuffed with lemons and onions, basted with wild honey, olive oil, and fresh lemon juice).  It all goes into the pot. A sprinkle of imported sea salt and a few twists of the pepper grinder finish the dish. The aroma would bring my dead grandma out of her grave just for a taste.  I have skill, oh yeah.

"What is that disgusting smell?!"  This is followed by actual sounds of actual gagging.

And this is where my day dream ends.  Jonathan, age 9, stands there, hand over his mouth.  I know what he is referring to, but one last little pathetic string of hope holds on.

"I don't know," I say.  "All I can smell is dinner and I think it smells wonderful!"

He inches a bit closer, nose uncovered by mere millimeters.  He takes a sniff.  "YUCK! It's whatever is in that pot!" This is followed by more gagging.

Really?

I mean, really?  But I should have expected it.  I should have.  I blame William, my 19 year-old son. It's not nice to point fingers, especially at your own children.  But too bad.  He started it.

Let's get in the Way Back Machine.  The year is 1994.  It was spring.  We lived in Houston, Texas in a tiny apartment.  At that time, I had two adorable children, a girl and a boy.  (Incidentally, why on God's green earth do people think it's ok to say things to young moms like, "Oh you're so lucky.  You got your girl and boy first try! Because everyone knows children are like a set of china and the goal is to complete the set? Sheesh.  Anyway.) I was, even then, a good cook.  I am not a picky eater.  My husband is not a picky eater. My daughter is not a picky eater.  And up till then, William would eat anything and in huge quantities.  He was 2 and had the most infectious and amazing grin.  You know I'm going to add a photo now, don't you ;D

I had made a batch of walnut chocolate chip cookies.  Of all the things I can make, chocolate chip cookies are the top of list.  Seriously, I brought them to a church meeting once and one man nearly broke down and cried after two bites.  He ate most the rest of them and didn't take a single note from the meeting.  They are that good.

William sat at the table, in his little blue and red booster seat, chubby little rounded legs sticking out, singing some happy song in 2 year-old language about eating cookies.  You have to remember and treasure moments like these to combat the upcoming days when they're a foot taller than you, smell like something 3 weeks past the sell-by date, and only speak in the universal teenage boy language known as GruntMumble.  I should write a lexicon on that . . . hmm.  Project for another time.

The happy babble stopped suddenly.  I turned to look at him, wondering what had happened.  He sat, holding one hand in front of him, staring at whatever he was holding in that hand.

"dewza nuh ib mekughy!"

I should mention that William was not a very clear speaker.  Ahem.

What he said was, "There's a nut in my cookie!"  And he held the offending item out for me to see.  Sure enough, in the 3/4 chewed mouthful of cookie he had removed from his mouth, there was a nut.  There were always nuts.  I made a POINT of adding things like nuts so that my kids would not be picky eaters! I grew up with a whole rabble of siblings who were picky eaters and MY KIDS WOULD NOT BE LIKE THAT!  Or so I thought.

He held it out as though I had put a chunk of arsenic in his cookie, complete with all the moral outrage a toddler can muster -- which is actually quite a lot.  And it was all down hill from there.  After nuts, peas were banned.  Then sweet potatoes.  Then anything green.  Then mixing ingredients (read: casseroles).  Then sauces of any kind. 

What I did not know then, was that William's pickyness would not even hold a candle to Jonathan's.  We refer to Jonathan's diet as the "white diet." This is not an ethnic reference of any kind.  It is a color reference.  At one point, Jonathan's entire accepted menu consisted of: plain white rice, plain pasta, toast, vanilla ice cream. Um.  That's it.  The one exception to the color requirement was Chocolate Milk.  It deserves the caps.

Chocolate milk (aka: gokgik mok, choca mok, chocolit milkie -- we remember all the variations as Chocolate Milk has been like a 9th family member in our house) is the Holy Grail of Jonathan's diet. Truly, and it pains me to say this (not really), he's an addict.  He's whined for chocolate milk while actually holding a glass of chocolate milk.  When he's falling to pieces in great, sobbing waves of grief (because I put the right lego hand in the left lego arm on his lego guy.  Did you know lego guys have rights and lefts?  You do now.) all I have to say is, "Would you like some chocolate milk?" And the sobs stop.

We negotiate every meal.  No chocolate milk until you eat three beans, 4 pieces of chicken, and all your  noodles.  This takes 2.7 hours.

As Hercules said, "WHAT'S THE POINT!?" I mean really! Why bother with beautiful, perfectly cooked culinary masterpieces when it will all go down the garbage disposal in favor of a hot dog and a box of day-glo orange mac-n-cheese?!

The answer came when William was about 14.  I had made spaghetti.  This is our fall back meal.  Everyone will eat spaghetti in some form: Jeff, Alex, Jacob = sauce on the side. Me, Lauren, William = sauce on top.  Jonathan = no sauce, don't even mention sauce, please stop crying, I promise you don't have to eat sauce.  Matthew = 4 large helpings with lots of sauce all mixed in and all chopped up in one inch pieces because he WILL feed himself.

Because it was a Sunday dinner, I had also added a salad and a loaf of french bread.  Instead of making garlic toast, I opted for goat cheese to spread on the slices.  The kids could lump it, I wanted something I liked.  William, the one who started it all, was willing to try it.  Jeff and I sat, mouths hanging open, as William, all on his very own, picked up a slice of bread and spread some goat cheese on it.  Delight dawned on his face.  "This is good!"  He ate the whole container of goat cheese and nearly all the bread.

Goat cheese.  GOAT CHEESE?!  This was the answer to the picky problem?  Eh, whatever works.  The ravenous pangs of sure starvation suffered by every teen boy at every moment of every passing day will conquer the Cliffs of Despair (like the ones in Princess Bride) in the land of Picky.  And that means . . . I CAN COOK AGAIN!!

 

Studies in Ethical Considerations: Laundry

In the midst of life, it behooves us (yes, I'm going to use words like "behoove." My college degree has to show up somewhere, dang it.) to step back and consider the ethics of our actions each day.  With increasing intensity, the querulous thinkers of our age ask the questions, "What are we doing to protect our environment?"  "Where is the responsibility of humanity to manage the resources of the earth?" "What right does mankind have to use the planet as it sees fit?"

These questions fill my mind as I am presented with this ethical dilemma each morning.  It generally happens like this:

Me: "Please go put on clean clothes for school."
Matthew: "These are clean! I just put them on three days ago!"

(PS -- the photo is of Jonathan, not Matthew.  But I like it :D)

Several considerations come to light.  Please consider:

1.  Excessive washing of my children's clothes may in fact be a waste of water and power.  This is true.   There are limits to our resources.  Am I being greedy by using more than my fair share?

2. Does present-day America have exaggerated expectations of cleanliness?  There has been a return to making sure homes are not "too clean," thus preventing a child's immune system from building up sufficient anti-bodies to ward off common illness.  There is a basic need for good germs, which allow the human immune system to function effectively.  Am I destroying that by insisting on too frequent washing?

3.  By day 3, the condition of Matthew's underwear (life motto: "TP is for chumps") does not bear close examination.  Washing may no longer be an option.  We may have to burn them, which causes air pollution, and then purchase more underwear, increasing consumerism and excessive packaging.

4.  But this would increase employment opportunities.  As we consume goods, we create a need for more goods, which creates jobs.  This allows people to have stable lives and increases their standard of living.

5.  But the underwear are probably made in China with human-rights prison labor.

6.  Am I, though, squelching his independence by requiring him to change his clothing on my time table?  Am I damaging his future ability to make choices on his own?

7.  If I grant independence before he's capable of making wise choices, am I only setting him up for frustration and disappointment by setting him up for failure because he does not yet have the emotional resources for an independent life?

8.  However the condition of his shirt presents more issues.  It is quite possible that the combination of snot, food, more snot, and just plain dirt are, in all probability, the building blocks of primitive life.  Am I essentially killing new life if I wash the shirt?  Am I causing a species to become extinct before it ever fully realizes its potential?

9. Or would this actually be introducing an invasive species?  Would I be the harbinger of the next Zebra Mussel or Kudzu?  Do I have an obligation to wipe this species out before damage can be done?

10.  Then again . . . holy flying catfish, what is that smell?

Dilemma solved.

When one is parenting boys, do not over think the issue. If the smell creates a whole new world of existence all on its own, the clothes must be changed.  Now.  And probably burned, but that can't be helped.  Ethics will have to deal.  But no kid of mine is going to school smelling like THAT.