Being Debby Downer today ... (sorry)

As much as I love the holidays, this time of year is always touched by a bit of sadness for me. My mom died 10 days before Christmas in 2000, and it's generally unavoidable for me not to be thinking of that starting sometime in November. I remember the last conversations I had with her, how Jerry and I had just bought our first house and how excited she was to come see it (she never got to), and then I remember that call from my father, how I'd never heard him like that before ... how it was so clear from his voice that her illness was serious. How I went to my company Christmas party that night (I'd booked a flight out the next morning) and tried my best to put on a merry front, but failed so miserably.

Enough of that. This could quickly turn into a downward spiral.

So yesterday, a bit of this was on my mind, and a realization hit me. She's been gone almost 10 years. I'm almost 40 (well, 39 on my next birthday). That means I've lived almost a quarter of my life without her. I mean, it should have been obvious, given the simple math ... and perhaps the fact that I've gotten married, bought two (soon three) more houses since that first one, had two of her grand-kids since her death ...

But I'd never thought of it in that way. A quarter of my life. That seems like such a big chunk. A heartbreakingly big chunk.

I just miss her. All the time. But more this time of year, given the timing of her death and how much she loved the holidays herself. She'd be in her kitchen right now, cooking like crazy in her sweats and an apron, probably, if she were still alive.

Well, anyway ...

If you are spending part of your Thanksgiving holiday with your mom (dad, grandparents, anyone you love and can't imagine not having in your life anymore ...), give them a big hug. You really, truly never know when it'll be your last chance.

The making of lemon chess pie

Got our Thanksgiving pies made today, too, and BONUS! The batter made for two pies -- not one as the recipe said. Woot! BONUS PIE!!

Not sure if they taste good, but they smell and look pretty, as Hunter would say, "deewishus!!"

The fixings await ...

That handsy, sample-happy sous chef strikes again!

Ta-dahhhhh! (Now let's all pray they taste decent ...)

The chronicles of cranberry sauce

Thanksgiving has begun at my house, which, in essence, means that I have to start cooking a couple days early so that, come 4 p.m. on Thanksgiving day, I don't have to shake the flour out of my hair, crack open a bottle of bourbon and sink down to the kitchen floor in a puddle of tears and pity.

This year, much to my delight, I'm hosting my Denver-based family, which means I'll be cooking for 9. Of course my lovely siblings will be bringing side dishes (you GO Jay with your big, bad relish tray self!!), but I'm roasting the turkey and throwing in a bunch of other sides and desserts because, well ... because I'm masochistic?

No, actually, I love making a big holiday meal, even if it does usually mean a lot more stress than I bargained for. And it is particularly sweet this year since we're back where we belong. Now I'm just hoping for big, big snow on Thursday.

Anyway, back to today: My sous chef (also know as Wilder) and I made Triple Cranberry Sauce, something I've made every year for about the last seven, I think (and gratitude to my awesome mom-in-law, Teri, for the recipe). I decided to take some pictures because this is really the first year Wilder has been able to help me cook the big meal. He's an awesome sous chef ... a little liberal with the tastings, but great nonetheless.

Here are some photos:

The berries begin to pop ... my favorite part.

My sous chef, hard at work ...

Busted!

Seasonings, etc. await ...

Ready for the dumping ... and ...

There we go!

Wilder gives it a good final stirring.

And voila! The finished product.

Give me five, sous chef!

Our morning project

I'm not one of those crafty moms. But this morning something came over me. Maybe it was the knowledge that, if nothing was done, I would be asked approximately 1,726 times over the next month and a half this question: "MAMA????!! HOW MANY DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS?!!?!!?"

So, behold ...

The Scott Family Christmas 2010 Countdown Calendar:


Now I should only be asked that question 876 times, at which point I will simply point to our 3-foot-long, 18-inch deep crazy creation and say: "Count."

But, in all seriousness, it's cute, no? Construction paper just my be my medium of choice from now on ...

Proud mama

Just got home from having a parent-teacher conference with Hunter's teacher. Yes, he's 2. No, it makes no sense. And honestly, as I was sitting there waiting, still somewhat sick, wishing I was at home on the couch in my robe and fleece pants, I was thinking what a total waste of time it was going to be.

And, pretty much, it was. She handed me a folder of his artwork and a checklist of his skills and a few anecdotal incidents of him being sweet to his fellow students. And I didn't learn anything I don't already know. Which makes sense, of course: He's my kid.

But I did leave there pretty proud of him. Miss Naoko, his teacher, told me again and again how wonderful his social skills are, particuarly his ability to feel empathy for his friends and fellow classmates. "We don't see this level of social interaction in 2-year-olds, hardly ever." she said. Sometimes it takes someone else's angle on your own kid to remind you that there is something special there. I mean, I know Hunter is an exceptionally sweet boy, but I don't walk around all day thinking about it.

She asked me at the end of our meeting, half joking: "Maybe you can share with us how you raise him?" And I told her what I genuinely believe: That kid came out of the womb like that. It's not that I don't think I'm a good mom (sometimes), but I think those who know Hunter best, like me, will agree that he was just born that way. He's got a certain way of looking at life that involves equal parts mellowness, kindness and humor.

So that's all I wanted to say: Hunter is pretty damn great. (And Wilder is, too, but his p-t conference isn't for another couple weeks, so I'll brag on him then.)

/bragging

Can you smell that smell?

Me, to Hunter: "Wouldn't you rather just admit you pooped than have people think you just smell like poop as a natural state of being?"

Hunter: (Pause ... grins) "Yeah."

Me: "So then you pooped, yes?"

Hunter: "Nope!"

Sigh ...

Thoughts on "Babies"

Just finished watching the documentary, "Babies," which is one hour and 20 minutes of nothing but footage of the lives of four babies from around the world, covering birth up until they turn 1.

It's an OK movie ... in terms of having a message, there's not much there, but that's kind of what's cool about it, especially in this hyper-helicopter parent culture where we all sit around and secretly judge each other's parenting techniques and skills. It lets you draw your own conclusions, and I like that.

The babies are from Namibia, Mongolia, Tokyo, Japan and San Francisco, and one of the coolest parts of the film is watching the cultural differences. For instance, I was amused as all get out at the Namibian baby, who spent his first year in the dirt, sucking on rocks, old bones, sticks and drinking from the local gulley wash (or whatever). I could not help but think of the father I saw at the park on Friday, who was having repeated freak-outs every time one of his kids -- a son and daughter I estimated to be about 6 and 3, respectively -- would touch the sand at the playground. He looked exasperatedly at one mom and sighed, shaking his head: "The other playground does not have sand." He kept fussing at them about being "dirty" and getting sand in their shoes.

Dude, those kids are going to have some issues if he doesn't lighten up. I kept picturing him watching that little African boy picking an old bone from the dirt, or sitting six inches from the carcass of some animal his mother was skinning and gutting. I bet he'd break out in a sweat and have to shower or something.

The funniest part of the movie, probably unintentionally, was when the Californian kid was at some kiddie music and movement class with her father, and all these liberal white people (I am a liberal white person, so I can poke fun with impunity, right?) were chanting in some other language and then following that up with another verse about how Mother Earth will provide. It was all very Kumbaya-esque, and therefore giving me great fits of eye-rolling. Anyway, the kid, Hattie, gets up and makes a beeline for the door and starts shaking it, like she's trying to escape the hippie drum circle.

Hilarious.

I was a little worried that watching the movie would make me have pangs for another kid. But no ... I checked my exhaust-o-meter and it still reads that I'm pushing 40 and not getting nearly enough sleep as it is. So a family of four we shall remain. Although, if I could get my hands on that little Mongolian kid, I might adopt him. Seriously ... that kid, by the end of the movie, is right up my alley. Equal parts mischief, cheeks and nerve. Almost edible, that one.

Because the blog can't be all allergy bitching ...

A few more pics of Wilder's birthday night. And stay posted for more pics, later today or tomorrow (depending on how long it takes me to sleep off this medication), of a hike the boys and I took yesterday.

Evil, wicked meds

What's that? You didn't get enough of me talking about my allergies in the last post? Oh, well, good. Because I have more to say.

In essence, it's this: The allergy medication I'm on is EVIL. I noticed the very first time I took it, back when Jerry and the boys and I took a trip to Beulah and our doctor friends gave me a pill. A couple hours after taking it, we were at a party with a bunch of strangers and I could literally not get out of there fast enough. It's not that the company was bad, or the music was awful or the food tasted badly (exact opposite on all fronts) ... it was that I literally felt like a lobotomized, exhausted zombie (or at least how I imagine them to feel, having contemplated these things ad nauseum). I could not look anyone in the eyes, much less carry on an intelligent conversation.

So, when I was prescribed the very medication by my allergist, it was not without some reservation that I agreed to take it. Then I found out how much it cost and that wasn't pretty, either.

So I've been on it for two months now, and I've been taking the pills before I go to bed, because of the zombie-like fatigue. Let me state for the record that it does mask my allergy symptoms quite well, and for this, I would gladly shell out for the exhorbitant co-pay. And, for a few weeks, it also was helping me sleep.

But then, the last week ... OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH the last week. The. Last. Week.

See, it's not like I'm normally an exuberant, cheerful person. Or at least not consistently. I'm am given to certain amounts of what could be kindly coined "moodiness." I am also the mother of two small boys, boys who do not feel an ounce of guilt about sitting in their beds at night loudly singing, hollering, caterwhauling, etc. about not wanting to go to sleep, boys who routinely (and falsely ... and here I'm looking at YOU, eldest child) claim to have nightmares, which from what I gather is a dream not involving unicorns shooting rainbows out their ... ahem, horns). So, yes, I have bouts of tiredness.

But, I am also an adult woman who realizes my limitations and eccentricities and, for the most part, I try to keep them to myself. If I'm moody, you will most likely find me tucked away in my own corner of the house keeping quietly to myself so as to not inflict my mood on anyone else. If I'm tired, I just put on a good front and power through.

But this last week was different. I woke up feeling like I hadn't slept. Hadn't slept in, like, 1,000 years. I looked in the mirror and, not for the first time, realized I'd put on close to 10 lbs. very quickly. I started having disturbing dreams, the most recent involving my mother being in the hospital again. And, if you know me very well, you know that A) I almost never dream about my mother and that makes me sad, and that B) having my mother suddenly appear in my dreams but (and this is a big BUT) having her appear so from a hospital bed ... well, that made me very, very upset indeed. As in, I'm almost bursting into tears again just writing about it. There were other details that made this dream even worse, but I'll spare you those, as I'm already blocking them out of my own consciousness.

So, yes ... the allergy drug I'm on ... well, let's just say I'm no longer on it. Last night was the last night. You see, I want my children to like me, and I want my husband to want to stay married to me, and I want my house to not look like the house from "Grey Gardens," and I want to do all that and have all that with 10 fewer pounds around my midsection (well, really, closer to 20-25, but that last bit's on me).

Oh, and I want to sleep. I want to sleep for days, and then, I want to wake up, evil-allergy-med free, NORMAL again.

Me time (with needles!)

Things I don't like about living in Colorado: dry, dry skin and allergies.

Things I like about living in Colorado: everything else.

Yep, that pretty much sums it up. And on that note, I finally began my allergy injection therapy this week, which is a fancy way of saying I get about 10-12 shots every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. After each shot, I have to wait 20 minutes for the next one, and then 30 minutes after the last one, before they'll let me leave. They're waiting to see if, at best, my shot site gets itchy and inflamed (so far, so good) or, at worst, my throat closes up on me (so far, so thank the lord that hasn't happened).

So, yes ... it's kind of a pain in the butt that, in the middle of my very busy life, I have to go into some allergist's office three times a week -- and two of those times sans boys -- and sit there for an hour or two.

On the other hand, I can bring coffee, a magazine, a good book, my iPod and/or my phone and do what I almost never get to do, which is sit there on my butt and read or just chill. It's an opportunity to slow down a little, which happens so rarely these days between work, Wilder, Hunter and the mountains of laundry, dishwashing and other assorted household tasks.

So, yeah, go ahead ... stick needles in my arm and I'll get back to my good book (this week, at any rate, it's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," by Barbara Kingsolver).

And speaking of being busy most of the time, we just ended what it one of our most frenetic times of the year, when Wilder's birthday, Jer and I's wedding anniversary and all assorted Halloween-related events align in the same week.

For W's birthday, we had a swim party at the Westminster Rec Center and had a really good group of folks join us. I made three dozen chocolate cupcakes decorated with French buttercream icing and M&Ms and rainbow sprinkles ... it was the first time I attempted something like that (normally I buy our birthday cakes from the grocery store), and I think they turned out pretty awesome. And, since I made them over two days, I didn't lose my mind.

So yes, Wilder had a great birthday. And other than the fact that he's calming down some, the only change in his new, 5-year-old existence seems to be that for some reason he thinks that being 5 means you can wear socks to bed. He's quite adamant that Hunter cannot, and he also told me this morning that when he's 6 he'll be able to wear his shoes to bed. I only look at him quizically and wonder how in the hell his brain works.

His brother, on the other hand ... well, I think I know all too well how his brain works. And, in essence, that means it works just like mine. He is equal parts curmudgeon and comedian (sound familiar?) and, for the most part, equal parts exasperating and entertaining. He will be kicking me out of his room, post-nap, one minute and killing me with some rollicking good physical comedy the next.

I think that, given that they mirror Jerry's and my personalities so completely (Wilder is mini-Jer and Hunter is mini-me), they are destined to be the best of friends, just like Jer and I. I hope so anyway.

Have to wrap this up as it's nearing time to go pick the boys up from school, but our busy, busy October was great. AND I'm glad it's over. I posted some photos on Facebook, and I'll try to post some extras here later. Now, onto Thanksgiving menu planting (oh, and voting ... don't forget to VOTE!!!)