Moms are always telling me that they wish they had kept track of the adorable things their children said when they were just beginning to have real conversations. Sometimes we get so busy, we forget the most precious quotations of our little ones. I am glad I’ve kept track of ours.
The other thing moms always tell me is that even though my kids are little now, they will grow up and be gone before I know it. They say this as though I’m not enjoying the things the little boogers do, even when mothering gets irritating. I certainly get frustrated sometimes, but there isn’t a moment that goes by when I think “If I didn’t have kids, I would…” If I actually thought that, I wouldn’t be a stay at home mom. I’d outsource motherhood, call in the temps for the tantrums, and one day, be sad that I missed out on the precious events that happen every minute of every day.

There’s a Darius Rucker song making its way across the airwaves called “It Won’t Be Like This For Long”. I heard it on the country station today (yes, Hootie has remade himself Nashville-style) and I found myself tearing up in traffic. I love those little boogers- sometimes I wish I could re-do some things, but they’re still little and we have a ways to go.
listen for yourself

I’m terrified that someone is going to concuss, gash, break, splinter, sprain, crash, bust, tear, herniate, dislocate or otherwise maim themselves or someone else on a playground. My children like to stand at the top of the stairs and see how far they can fall before they sever their spines. Pencils are for stabbing into ear canals and q-tips are for shoving up your sister’s nose while she naps. They get all of this from their father, who still has battle scars given by unruly bathroom countertops and glass tables as he learned to “fly” at a young age. I, on the other hand, was perfect.

This fall (or shall I say autumn), our school board’s main goal is to plan and build a new playground. I’m on the board at the preschool. That means I help choose what equipment to buy and how high the children get to climb before they suffer certain head trauma. Eric gets to defend me in the resulting tort suits.

This article by NYTimes’ John Tierney states that kids are more fearful and less safe when they have no experience falling, breaking, crying and healing. I’m much more afraid of roughhousing than Eric, but he’s the one who has experienced jumping off the toilet and into the sink. I’m the one who got slammed on the see-saw as the hellion on the other end jumped down when I was 48″ from the ground.

Little jerk. I remember who you are.

Anyway, read the article. It’s perfect if you’re terrified that your kid is going to cripple himself on the jungle gym.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

If my girls had their way, breakfast would consist of cupcakes and chocolate milk. They wouldn’t nap. Bedtime would be whenever they passed out in front of the TV. Eventually CPS would take me in and all I’d have to say for myself was that I gave my girls everything they wanted. We’d all be a mess. No one would get anywhere, except maybe on the 5 o’clock news.

We all know we can’t parent like that. In fact, parents spend billions each year on products that we hope will encourage our children to reach their full potential. The irony is that we are so busy providing these little ones with books, activities, outings, classes, playgroups etc., we easily exhaust them. Without rest, a child can’t function, let alone remain alert enough to eat, learn, or play well through all of our well-intentioned plans. We need to start simple- by teaching them how to rest. It is a principle just as important to a healthy lifestyle as teaching them how to eat well. We don’t serve Snickers for dinner- we can’t let our kids whine their way out of a good night’s sleep. This book teaches exhausted parents how to do that very thing- from the day baby comes home until she reaches kindergarten.

I admit my kids don’t eat that well- but man, are they well-rested. Sure, they cried themselves to sleep for a few nights. I cringed in my room and made up for the distress by covering them in kisses as soon as they woke up. They know they are loved. They wake up beaming. Me too.

Read this book- and love your baby enough to teach her how to fall asleep and stay asleep by herself.

And don’t blog about sleep habits until midnight, dummy.
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I was trying to save money and time, but what is money or time when your hair is ORANGE? Time? Time to hide at home and don a ball cap if you dare to venture out. Money? I’m spending twice as much to fix my hair than I would have spent if I had just gone to the good salon in the first place.

I went to Hair Cuttery, (stifling groans) where I had previously enjoyed a great cut and highlights for under $100. Last night, my regular lady had someone in her chair and another waiting for her. If I waited, I’d be late for my sitter, and I have to respect her hours.

The lady who ended up doing my hair was nice. She spent an hour telling me about her relationship with her ailing mother and her desire for kids’ affordable bunk-beds. She complimented me, telling me that I listen so well, I should be a social worker.

Unfortunately, she also interpreted “partial highlights” as “full on, crown to nape, orange dye job.” If I were the client of a social worker with hair like this, I would go back to the dope. If my hair was reality, I’d want the hallucination. I stared in the mirror, eyes bugged out like poorly fabricated taxidermy.
“The color came out great!” she says.
All I saw in that mirror was a woman who had soaked her head in Tang.
I looked like an electroplated copper bust.
My head was swimming in Orange Crush.
This color did not occur in nature. It occurred in Napalm.

I hauled mommy booty to Target and bought some “bronze free” dye. No luck. Went from bright copper to green brass. Got some on my bumble bee bathroom rug. At least the rug turned out brown. Dammit.

This morning, I did what any other vain, formerly beautiful woman would do. I called my mother, hysterical. She has been there. She knows the pain of bronze and tarnished green hair. She came right over to watch the girls.

So here I am, in my regular salon. The fabulous man at the counter told me that like many hot men, such hair on a beautiful person is a genuine waste. I blushed a little. I knew I was safe here. The gentleman hooked me up with an angel named Sue.
A Korean Barack Obama. Hope. Change. I believe.

Do yourself a favor and learn from my “disastre de coiffure”. Never cut costs on hair color. If you care at all about your appearance, shell out for the master colorist. If you can’t afford it, stay natural.

Wishing you all golden highlights and lustrous tresses,
Agent Orange

I am not at all any sort of farmer, but I recently had my first grown-up gardening experience! I made a pasta salad from scratch. By scratch, I mean that I grew my own ingredients, “harvested” them, and used them in a recipe that my family not only ate, but really liked!

Here’s the recipe from Southern Living magazine, March 2001, adapted to my own tastes:

1 pound shell or orechiette pasta, cooked according to package directions
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon seasoned pepper (I used Montreal Steak Seasoning from Weber’s)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 garlic clove, pressed
3/4 cup olive oil
1 cup chopped fresh basil
1 tsp fresh chopped fresh oregano
1 (3-ounce) package shredded Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup chopped roasted almonds (I used packaged almond salad toppers)
16 oz. Cherry tomatoes, cut into quarters
Garnishes: gourmet mixed baby salad greens; small, yellow pear-shaped tomatoes

Prepare pasta according to package directions
Mix vinegar with next 5 ingredients
Add fresh herbs to oil, mix gradually with vinaigrette
Pour dressing over pasta, toss in cheese, almonds and tomatoes
Chill

Now if the Monarchs would just infest my milkweed plants (read: ginormous 8′ tall trees), my experiment au jardin would be complete.