Hummingbird

It's been a complicated day. 

The kids wake up too early, just like every other morning. I conduct the same old morning song and we prepare for the day. As I help my oldest with his math homework, something catches my eye. A small movement outside of the sliding door. "Look, baby, a hummingbird!" We both stop and watch the small bird hover in one spot, inches from our window.

Then, back to our song of morning -- Hair, teeth, lunches, forms. Wait, is that yesterday's underwear? Just let me finish this last email, then I promise, I'll help you. Please, get your shoes on. Get in the car. I'll be right there. I promise.

In the car, the song continues -- To my oldest child: No. No. Maybe. I don't know. Remember, today's a bus stop day. I'll see you there sweetie. Don't forget to turn in your forms. Youngest child: Nope not today, preschool is over. Today's a home day. Oh love, it will be fun. I promise.

There's a pause and we all become aware of the radio. "Anthony Bourdain is dead at the age of 61. He's taken his own life while on location in France."

The car is stopped. We're here. But, I can't quite open the door. I don't know him of course. I haven't even seen that many episodes of Parts Unknown. But I'm sad. I'm really, really sad.

We sit for a moment or so. The kids ask questions. I don't know how to answer. I tell them and myself that we'll talk more about it later. Time to go. Hurry, hurry. As I step on the sidewalk, something catches my eye. A small movement on the ground. It's a hummingbird. It's alive. Breathing, moving, chirping. But it can't fly. It's body is not quite as it should be.

Oh my God. I can't. But I can't not. It's so small on this big open sidewalk and it's starting to rain. I find wonderful grown-ups to distract my children and a half-used box of Kleenex. I lean over this little struggling body. I'm terrified that I'll hurt it more. But I hold my breath, and as gently as I am able, scoop this tiny creature up. I'm astonished by the lightness. Logically I know that hummingbirds are small, but I expected even the littlest bit of heft. It's like lifting a cotton ball. I place her in the box, she rights herself and looks at me. I cry on the inside, but not on the outside -- there are things to be done.

I find a veterinarian who also happens to be licensed in wildlife rescue. I put this little bird in the front seat and my children in the back. We go to the vet.

They are not supposed to give me updates. The vet just successfully rehabilitated another hummingbird last month. I know she is in capable hands. I am so thankful that there are amazing people that give their time and resources like this. But she's been in my head all day.

Every night I sing "Blackbird" to my kids at bedtime. Tonight I couldn't get through it without crying. Every line felt so heavy with meaning. I thought of our hummingbird. I hope she'll be okay.

I cannot, will not, make any overt connection in this post to Anthony Bourdain and my hummingbird. But, I can tell you this. I will never again look at a hummingbird and not think of Anthony Bourdain.

I also can tell you that I believe we're all more connected than not -- skin, fur, or feathers, we all just want to find a safe place to land.

From Preschool Regrets to Boxed Wine: A Working Mother's Late Night Diatribe

My youngest child graduated preschool today. It was a simple, heartfelt affair with cardboard hats, scrapbooks and posed pictures in front of butcher paper. At the end, I started to think about the fact that I'm toward the end of my "mother of young children" phase and then my eyes got prickly. But I sucked those asshole tears back in, because even though our children spent a year together, I don't really know these other parents and I can't be the crier. I can only cry comfortably when I feel known.

And maybe I'm the asshole because I don't think I can even match up all of the children with their parents. There are a lot of blonde children around here. I don't know who goes with who. And honestly? I didn't take the time. I flew in to drop-off every morning, hastily kissing my daughter goodbye so I could catch my next meeting or teach my next class. I rolled into drop-off late enough to avoid small talk and cajoled my daughter back into the car so we could grab a quick bite before I got back on the computer to work.

I'm writing this, tears rolling down the sides of my nose, wishing for a do-over. And guess what? There is no fucking do-over. I poured (and drank) a large glass of wine earlier, so it feels apropros to quote Anna Nalick (Breathe, 2005) now: "Life's like an hourglass glued to the table." Anna may or may not have been a tired working mother post-preschool graduation when she penned that, but she clearly knows what is up.

I don't know what my objective is here. I have not written a single post for years. The only thing I wrote that ever gets a single hit is the one about Ryan Gosling's beard in The Notebook. I don't have social media. Not because I'm too cool, but because I'm too weak. Too weak to not scroll through feeds when I should be doing literally anything else. Too weak to not get completely destroyed when reading articles involving politics, puppies, Teflon, and/or honeybees. Too weak to not feel jealous when everyone else seemingly has their shit together in a more visually pleasing manner than myself.

And why am I even talking about social media? Oh yes, that's right. To prove the point that this is the most rant-y self diatribe ever that will not be read by anyone. I cannot and will not post the link to this article on social media. (Because remember, I don't have it.) So, since people only seem to read things via social media, this post is essentially invisible. I may as well be writing in my personal diary.

Since no one is reading this, I'd like to return to the wine. Remember, drinking wine and quoting Anna Nalick? Jesus God, that song really spoke to me in 2005. But the wine. After preschool graduation, all of us ladies (the 5 year-old, mother, and grandmother) popped into "Total Wine and More" for some gift cards. Because that is where you should buy end-of-year teacher gifts. I know this because I am a teacher. So we got the gift cards, then mom and I dragged the five-year-old to the back of the store where they store the boxes. We like boxed wine. Not Franzia or similar (because we have some taste), but mid-grade boxed wine in natural cardboard with agreeable fonts. We cooed over the reasonable prices and selection. We each grabbed two boxes and felt quite pleased with our purchases.

As we walked back to my car, joking about boxed wine, with my daughter wearing a scowl and a tutu, I felt pretty great. We should all be so lucky to have a mom to discuss boxed wine and parenting with. And a daughter who already know how to sigh, roll her eyes, and say, "this is so boring. When are we going to talk about unicorns?" Then, I get to go home, drink that boxed wine, and have an ugly cry in front of my computer. The tears dry, I write another paragraph, and now, instead of lamenting what could have been, I'm smiling as I remember my tiny mother lugging two boxes of wine across the parking lot. I don't know. I could have been better this year. I suppose we all can be better. But this it. And it's mostly great.

Thank you boxed wine.

Letter to my Husband

Dear husband,

You mentioned (on several occasions now) that I never write to you. I don't. That is absolutely true. I brush you off, citing the many (I think, valid) reasons why I don't write you letters.

1. You are sitting next to me on the couch. It seems horribly inefficient to write out the sentences I could quickly whisper in your ear. Shall I pen you a sonnet and send it your way via carrier  pigeon? Come on honey, the sink is full of dirty dishes and our daughter just pooped her pants. Which leads me to....

2. We have jobs, small children, Labradors, a cat with a gross skin disorder. Sometimes I just want grab handfuls of my hair and scream, "THERE'S NO TIME!!! THERE'S NEVER ANY FREAKIN' TIME!!!" But I don't. There's no time for such dramatic displays.

3. We met in 2000. Our relationship is 16-years-old. Our marriage is 10-years-old. Love letters are for new relationships. All shiny and sweaty and unfamiliar. Right? 

But I read this list over and I know that they're excuses. They're true, but excuses nonetheless. Marriage is this complicated journey with complicated emotions. This dance of give and take, push and pull. It's easy for me to sit down and write about my love for our children. It is not that complicated. They take. I give. That's the relationship. With you? It's constant revisions and compromises -- two captains working to keep the boat afloat. That letter is not simple.

Here's the thing though. We've come so far and maybe that does deserve a love letter. Some confirmation with the written word. There was a time when I really believed our boat would sink. It was so, so hard and I think we're both still healing. But we stayed on that sinking boat and bailed out the water with our bare hands. (Sorry babe, I'm really into this boat analogy.) 

I am so proud of us, and especially you. You weathered a lot of storms (Argh matey. I can't stop!) but you didn't give up. You work so hard to make me happy and sometimes I don't even deserve it. I come home to clean dishes, mopped floors, and empty garbage cans. You bring me mugs of ice cream while I watch trashy television. You tell me I'm beautiful. All the time. I'm so blessed and I need to remember that.

A week or two ago I was rocking our daughter while we all watched a movie. I was singing a little song in her ear when I felt your eyes on me. I looked up and saw the most amazing look on your face. A look I wish I could bottle up and keep for the hard days.

A night or two ago I was in your arms and felt completely safe and content. There was nowhere else I wanted or needed to be. A feeling I wish I could bottle up and keep for the hard days.

I know that if we keep creating and bottling these amazing memories, we will always be okay. The boat will (mostly) sail straight and strong and true. (I had to bring it back to the boat.)

I love you.

No-Poo Resolution

UPDATE: It is almost one year after writing this post and I jumped off the "no-poo" bandwagon months ago. I tried. I really did. For more than five months. But, here's the thing. I developed dandruff. My scalp started to itch like it was infested with fire ants. One of my students came to school with lice. I was convinced that I had contracted the little buggers. I made my husband check my head. All the time. He begged me to leave him alone, "I don't know what the hell I'm looking at honey! Please stop making me do this." I sat in front of the mirror with a fine tooth comb and studied my hair for hours. Is that a nit egg? Dander? Baking soda residue? Glitter? Only God knows. Anyway, I decided to wave the white flag and buy some good old fashioned yes-poo. Problem solved. I did not have nits. Just a sensitive scalp and hypochondria. 

Original post date: January 9, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My suspicion of the ingredients in many commercial foods and products is nothing new. But my recent zealotry with DIY beauty products is new. In fact, I had this idea to replace EVERY health and beauty product I own with its all-natural DIY equivalent throughout 2014. A resolution of sorts. Fun, right?

Here's where I hesitate. Mascara. I love that stuff. I love the way my lashes look curled and painted. I love the way I can't close my mouth when I apply it. I love the way it documents the tracks of my tears. (I know, I'm in a super weird mood right now.)

But I can cross that bridge later. For now, it's time to forge on with my homemade deodorant. It's been a couple weeks now and I'm still on board. I think it kind of loses it's steam in the afternoon, requiring occasional reapplication, but that's not a biggie. I've also discovered that game-changer--lavender essential oil. A couple drops of lavender in my deodorant and... bam! I'm on the floor taking a nap! JUST KIDDING! Like my children would actually let me sleep!

I'm also trying that no shampoo thing. You've probably seen it on Pinterest. Instead of shampoo and conditioner, I'm using baking soda and apple cider vinegar, also known as ACV to the cool kids in the know.

So I mix baking soda and water together and rub it all over my scalp. Then I rinse. Then I douse my hair with a mix of ACV and water (3:1 ratio) and rinse again. I thought that vinegar would make my hair smelly and tangled, but the smell rinses out and it actually makes my hair softer.

But here's the thing, my hair looks pretty greasy. If you saw me right now you might be inclined to say,

"Hey friend, maybe you need to lather, rinse, and repeat."

And I might respond with,

"This is my personal journey for 2014. This is me walking away from parabens and phthalates and walking toward a toxin-free beauty product nirvana. This is me embracing a homesteading hippie lifestyle and fighting the cosmetic man. This is me paving a healthy lifestyle for my offspring and teaching them that there are few problems you can't solve without a little coconut oil and vinegar. This is me..."

At this point you've already walked away and I am ranting to myself.

The organic mommy blogs reassure me that this greasy phase is simply that--a phase. My body needs to detox and relearn how to produce my natural oils at the proper rate. This phase is supposed to pass and from it I will emerge--a clean, shiny-haired phoenix, startling the world with my lustrous locks, bouncing in the breeze.

In the meantime, I kind of look gross.

So this is it. My resolution. Goodbye drug store and hello goat. I am going to milk you and carefully craft soaps and lotions from your life-giving manna. Then I will gently brush you and sing you Cat Steven's songs to thank you for your contribution to my life.

Maaaaaaa. Happy new year.

Pic from www.liveleak.com, because let's be real, I don't actually have a goat.

Letter for My Four-Year-Old

Original post date: February 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I wrote emotional birthday letters to my son for his first and second birthdays. Then his third birthday passed. I was pregnant, overwhelmed at work, in the process of selling the house, etc. etc. There was no letter for that birthday.

Now, quick as a wink, he's four. I think I want to write him another letter.

Dear Little JAR,

You turned four last month and I'm pretty sure motherhood has turned my life into an evil time warp with the clock moving faster and faster. It's funny, because the time between Christmas and your birthday felt so long to you. Ages, eons, practically centuries. For me? A moment. Either way, it happened. You're four.

Most traces of baby are completely gone now. Your feet are strong with arches and you have visible knuckles instead of dimples on your hand. Your once round baby belly is mostly flat. You still have your baby curls because you're not old enough to beg me for a short haircut. I'm sure it's coming.

This year was full of change and you don't like change. Your baby sister was born in April and we moved to a new city and house in June.

I will never forget the moment you met your sister. We carefully planned it, putting the baby in your Auntie's arms so you wouldn't feel too jealous. I sat alone in the hospital bed, my arms wide open, waiting for you to dive in. You ran right past me, straight to your sister, and just stared at her with big eyes. You adored her from that moment on. Learning how to share our attention was not easy for you, but you never blamed your sister for  it. Ten months later and you are still excited to see her every morning.

I will also never forget moving. I brought you, at nap time, to the new house to drop off some plants. You sat on our new deck and sobbed. "This is not our house. Our flowers don't go here. I don't want to move. Don't make me move!" Then your sister blew out her diaper and I cried too. I'm sorry I wasn't better for you then.

But time is the universal salve and we settled. We spent the summer in our new backyard, dipping our toes in your wading pool and talking about life -- the butterfly life cycle, the food chain, where your sister came from -- you are so curious. I hope you always ask questions and continue to learn.

You are the funniest person I know. It's amazing to watch you develop all of these ideas and opinions. You love to eat dark chocolate and bowls of feta cheese. The doctor thinks you have a dairy allergy, so that's a bummer of a lifestyle change. We're in the middle of your dairy elimination diet/test and you're pretty hilarious. Food allergies/sensitivities are pretty much the norm these days, so while you miss your cheese, you also think it's pretty cool to be in the "allergy club." You clutch your pirate lunchbox and proudly exclaim, "I have a special lunch because I'm allergic to dairy!" It makes me laugh.

I used to worry because you didn't like to play on your own. That worry (like most of them) was unnecessary because turning four has really ignited your imagination. You play all day long and I love it. My participation is required for important guest roles, such as exhausted mama polar bear -- my favorite role, probably because I just have to lay in my den and wait for you to feed me penguins. I love to watch you. You get excited and pace around the room, waving your hands for emphasis.as you break it down. "Mommy, I'm the brother polar bear and I have to go on a trip to catch baby penguins and you're the momma, so you get the picnic ready. Okay? Okay?!" (Last night, you threw a blue blanket on the floor, put on your swim trunks and a ski cap, and practiced diving from the top of your Sit & Spin into the "water." So cute. You also carefully arranged a bunch of rocks and sea glass on "shore," but then your sister crawled over, stuck sea glass in her mouth, and that was the end of that. Thanks for your patience. I know it can be hard buddy.)

You are also testing your limits and trying on a bit of an attitude. Daddy says that you scowl just like I do. You love your baby sister, but you still miss being the exclusive center of our universe. Your attention seeking behaviors are unique and always effective. One morning, you took about twenty picture books off of the shelf and arranged them in a path leading from the kitchen back to the shelf. You grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy! Follow the path to my bad choice!" So I followed the path to the bookcase, now covered in carefully drawn curlicues and J's -- on EVERY exposed surface. I swallowed my laughter and sternly handed you a sponge to clean up your mess. (The truth? I was kind of proud of your creativity.)

Jackson, you are such an amazing little person. Every day, I thank God for picking me to be your mama. I love you. Forever, for always, no matter what.

Mommy

30 Day Internet Cleanse

Original post date: January 21, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My constant access to Wi-Fi is making me insane -- a fact that we established with my last post. So instead of whining about it again, I'm going to do something about it.

I quit.

You hear me internet?! I quit!! (For 30 days, with stipulations and exceptions, because I'm not a complete caveman.)

Here's why:

1. I love to read. I was the kid that stayed up way too late squinting in front of her nightlight, trying to finish Little House on the Prairie before dawn. But since iPhone came into my life, I'm reading less and scrolling and tapping more. Unacceptable.

2. Facebook makes me feel weird. I'm too neurotic and too much of an overthinker for this stuff. Like, "Hey, I think we're friends in real life, but how come we're not virtual friends? We haven't asked each other yet, is there a reason for that? Maybe you have pictures of your cat that you don't want me to see? That's cool. I respect your privacy, but is it weird that we bump into each other via the comments section? Should I just click "add friend?" I don't know how to handle myself in this complicated social arena!!!!" (That said, there are some lovely people that I just love, love, love and facebook is our main vehicle for communication due to distance and/or busy lives. Tricky.)

3. My four-year-old pulls his "tricks" (you know, jumping up and down, going into downward facing dog and then waving one leg in the air, jumping off the back of the couch, etc.) out the "app store in his foot." This probably isn't a real problem but it does remind me of our vast generational gap, made larger by the time warp that is technology.

4. Pinterest. Oh Pinterest, you evil seductress with all of your life-enhancing possibilities. Crockpot meals for $2.00? How to get shiny hair in 5 minutes? The perfect sensory dough to occupy my child for hours of screen-free engagement? Yes please. Here's the problem. Pinterest also reminds me on a daily basis that:

a. My crafts always look mediocre. b. My cakes typically sink in the middle. c. My outfits are never that put together. d. Nothing in my house matches except the dirt.

So, my dear Pinterest. I will no longer let you set the bar for my perceived level of awesomeness. My cakes might look like crap, but they are so delicious. We need a break, because, at this point in my life, I feel better without you. (However, I would like to thank you for DIY lotion bars, DIY baby wipes, and Ritz crackers with Rolos melted inside. Life changing.)

5. Breastfeeding. I often find myself breastfeeding while balancing my iPhone on my sweet baby's head. Enough. That is simply enough.

So for 30 days I will quit facebook, pinterest, google searches (unless work-related), basically everything online, with the exception of:

-Email (because my boss wouldn't find my technology cleanse amusing)

-My articles (because they pay me, duh)

-This blog (because going tippity-tap at the keyboard soothes my soul)

It starts tonight. Goodbye internet.

Parenting in the Age of Information, Or Google Exacerbates My Neuroses

Call yourself a good parent? Click. Click. Sucker. I'll show you. Click. Click.

Original post date: January 13, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

With the click of a mouse I can access immediate information on virtually any topic in the world. I no longer feel the need to ponder or wonder. Google can answer all of my questions. They say that knowledge is power and I personally feel like I have heaps of power, pressing down on my shoulders, watching my every move. This adds an interesting burden to my life. A burden I couldn't have imagined in 1993, as I happily purchased bags of flour and extra wagon wheels on the virtual Oregon Trail. (That was the peak of technology as far as I'm concerned. We should have stopped there.)

More specifically, this burden of knowledge has turned me into "neurotic mommy" or "the mommy who knows too much" or more accurately, "the mommy who has mere surface knowledge of many topics, turning her into a terrified, ranting maniac."

Observe.

1. Dropping my three-year-old off at school.

Me: "Bye honey, I love you. Be good. Listen to your teachers!"

Google: Wrong. What is the matter with you? Are you trying to get your child abducted? Telling your child to "be good" and to "listen" implies that they should blindly comply with all adult directions, making them more susceptible to potential pedophiles, creepies, and villains in general. Come on now!

Me: "Um, okay, don't be good, be um, assertive and discerning and watch out for weirdos in vans? Forget it. Just have a great day."

Do. Not. Get. Into. Van. Ever.

2. Feeding my baby solid food.

Me: "Kootchie kootchie koo, baby girl! Do you want some yum-yums? Yes!! You want yum-yums!! Mommy getchyou yum-yums!

How about some yummy, yummy rice cereal?"

Google: Nope. Rice is teeming with arsenic. Carcinogen. Try again.

Me: "How about some yummy chicken? Protein!"

Google: Okay, super-mom. That cutlet is laced with antibiotics and hormones. Do you want her to grow breasts in time for kindergarten?

Me: "Um, okay. How about a banana? That's not even on the Environmental Working Group's Dirty Dozen list."

Google: Sure, the thick peel may protect the fruit from most of the pesticides, but did you ever think about the 8-year-old Ecuadorian child picking the fruit as she is working the fields, getting doused with said pesticides? It's not just about your baby, ya selfish Sally. Think globally.

Me: "Christ almighty! I'm exhausted. Let's just have a nice, cool glass of tap water."

Google: Idiot.

3. Cleaning my house.

Me: "Well, I only clean my house with vinegar, baking soda and essential oils, so I'm sure that I'm getting this one right."

Google's BFF Pinterest: You're going to clean your house instead of chasing rainbows with your precious children? Monster.

Me: "But, but, but... Have you seen my house?"

These are really my dishes. This is what my sink looks like. Right now.

Google: Sure. Wash those dishes. But soon you'll be a lonely old woman with an empty womb in an empty house. You can just sit in your rocking chair and remember washing dishes. Alone.

Google: Alone. All alone. With just your memories of dishes, laundry, and baking soda in the toilet. But go ahead, don't let me stop you.

Aren't you glad you neglected your children so you could wash those dishes?

Me: "Oh God." (Sobbing quietly.)

4. Reacting to my son's tantrum. 

Me: "For the love of God buddy. You're being ridiculous. This cup is too yellow? Is that even a thing? Give me a break." (Sigh loudly. Look longingly at wine bottle. Remind self that it is 10:30 in the morning.)

Google: Nice job. You're probably creating a future sociopath. Belittling his problems. Failing to really listen and empathize. Research shows that an effectively empathetic response to his tantrums now will reduce the frequency of tantrums in the future. Furthermore, his prefrontal cortex (that little part of his brain that controls social behavior and regulates emotions) is not yet developed at this age. Are you really chastising him for his typical development? Hey, hey! Are you even listening to me?! Focus! Quit looking at that wine bottle!!

Me: Glug, glug, gulp.

So. As you can see, the Internet has turned me into a raving lunatic who may or may not drink wine before Sesame Street is over.

Screw you Google.

Live the Dream. DIY Deodorant.

Original post date: December 29, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

Like many, I share the new American dream. You know the one? The one where I live in a beautiful cabin in the woods with Wi-Fi and an expensive coffee maker. I wear adorable Fair Isle sweaters and galoshes while I milk my goats and gather eggs from my chicken coop. I never go to Winco or Albertsons, cause girl, I grow my own damn tomatoes. They're organic. They're delicious. I even grow them during winter in the greenhouse my sexy husband made me. He has a beard (true). He writes poetry about how cute I am in my sweaters (false).

Anyhoo.

The dream is not quite realized, but I'm working on it. My latest revelation is... wait for it... get ready...

HOMEMADE DEODORANT!!!

It's natural. It's aluminum-free. I made it in my kitchen while drinking cheap wine. And best of all, it actually works! For real.

I put it to the test on Christmas Eve and Christmas. I figured if it could stand up to the rigors of frantic present-wrapping, Santa impersonations, late-night meltdowns, hours of cream-based casserole cooking, in-laws, and our Christmas day relay race through Western Washington, it was a winner.

And it is. A winner.

In fact, I think it works better than commercial deodorant.

Want to try it? Of course you do.

1/4 cup coconut oil

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 1/2 tablespoons baking soda

Essential oil if you so desire

I globbed a quarter cup of coconut oil into my small glass jar. (This jar used to house Hot and Sweet Pepper Jelly which is probably one of my favorite things to eat with cream cheese.)

Be sure to write "deodorant" and draw a smiley face somewhere on the jar, lest you become confused and smear it on a cracker.

I put the lid on, threw it in a saucepan of water, and heated the water until the coconut oil melted. Then I threw in the cornstarch and baking soda and stirred until smooth. I added a few drops of peppermint and vanilla essential oils because I love to smell of candy canes. I gave it a couple hours to solidify and... that's it. Deodorant!

Now, I just dip my finger in the jar, smear a bit onto my underarms and I'm ready to milk a goat! Super easy.

Thanks to my extensive research (poking around Pinterest while nursing my baby), I know that some people can be sensitive to the baking soda. If that's the case, just reduce the amount a bit. I've personally had zero issues, but you never know. Maybe I'm just insensitive.

This Cobbler is Delicious.

Original post date: August 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I ate an entire 9 x 13 pan of blackberry cobbler in less than 24 hours.

It was that good. Chewy, buttery crust, gooey blackberries...

In the mood to binge eat the world's best cobbler? You too can eat yourself into oblivion by following a few simple steps.

1. Pick a bowl of wild blackberries with your 3-year-old. Talk about pollination, the meaning of the word jealous, and whether or not Spiderman has a penis. (Really, I am not equipped to handle the questions of a 3-year-old.)

2. Put the baby on a blanket in the grass and watch her wave her chubby fists at the sky and talk to trees. Make goo-goo noises and cluck your tongue at her.

3. Bring berries and children inside and turn the oven to 350.

4. Put a stick of butter in a 9 x 13 pan and put butter and pan in the heating oven.

5. In a large bowl combine 2 cups self-rising flour, 2 cups white sugar, and 2 cups milk. Stir until combined. Will be lumpy.

6. Take the 9 x 13 pan out of the oven when the butter is melted. Pour the lumpy batter on top of it. Do not mix them together.

7. Feed your 3-year-old blackberries in manner of mama and baby bird. He will reciprocate and laugh maniacally when he feeds you a blackberry with a little spider on it.

8. Pretend that you don't care that you just ate a spider.

9. Sprinkle 3-4 cups of blackberries on top of the batter.

10. Bake for 50-60 minutes, until golden brown.

Enjoy! I recommend eating it directly out of the pan with a spoon while small people pull at your yoga pants and demand things. Delicious.

Three Best Reasons to be a Teacher: June, July, August!

Original post date: August 21, 2013 (I'm moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I have a confession to make. I accidentally/on purpose stole this mug. It used to live in the staff lounge. Then I used it for coffee and it moved to my classroom. There it lived, buried behind the Jack-o-lantern bowl and paintbrushes for a few months. Spring cleaning unearthed said mug and I decided to borrow it for the summer. Kind of like taking the class hamsters home over vacation. (Speaking of, I won that lottery in 1989. I felt so lucky. I felt even luckier when the allegedly female hamsters had a baby together and my horrified mother agreed to let me keep it. I named the baby Squeaky. This was a clever name because it squeaked a lot. In retrospect I think something was terribly wrong with it. We went to the grocery store and when we came back Squeaky was gone. Vanished without a trace. That was a difficult time in my life. Filial cannibalism is a hard concept for a second grader.) Anyway, I told myself I'd return the mug in the fall but this is my second year with it and I can't seem to let go. It holds my life-sustaining coffee every morning. It holds cheap red wine on sunny afternoons. I like to sit on the deck with my mug of wine and sing songs from high school. "Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you."

All that to say, I love my stolen mug.

The mug is kind of ironic, so that makes me feel hipster-cool. It's also kind of true, so that makes me feel authentic. These are good feelings. The truth in the mug is that summer is a really good time for me. The only kids I have to worry about are mine. That streamlines things a bit. I like streamlining. So now, August is quickly ticking by and I am in my end of summer mourning period. It's worse this year because I have a new sweet baby. She smells like milk and she looks at me like I'm the sun. Tell me. How am I supposed to leave this?

Another Birth Story. Because the Internet Needs More.

Original post date: July 19, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I had a baby. Her initials are not JAR. This is bothersome because it breaks the pattern. However. I refused to name her Jessica or Jezebel. So she's baby DLR? Not catchy. But the truth often isn't. No matter. She's a keeper anyway.

So baby DLR was born three months ago. Already, the memories of pain and suffering have diminished with time. I can nuzzle my face in the nape of her neck and sigh, "it wasn't so bad," her heady scent rendering me drunk with new baby love. Those mommy hormones don't mess around.

But if I really concentrate, I seem to remember hours of searing pain, intense vomiting and wishing that someone would punch me in the back. (That seemed like a great solution at the time... a sort of counter-pain? No one was willing. The nurse seemed to think it would be some sort of liability. Modern medicine. Puh!)

I'm not really interested in writing about all of the details. Centimeters, effacement, contractions. Boring. What I really remember are just a handful of moments. Moments I hope to hold on to forever.

My daughter took twice as long as my son. We all expected her to arrive in the car or parking lot with lots of screaming and excitement. That's not her style. She took her sweet, sweet time. What's that phase of labor that comes right before pushing? The really terrible one? Transition or something? Well during that phase I remember bending over the hospital bed pressing the side of my face into the mattress. The back labor was excruciating. I had to completely succumb to the pain and try not to die. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. I just stared vacantly, drool trickling from the side of my mouth.

Big JAR says to my mom, "oh look, she's sleeping."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, her eyes are twitching."

They stare at me tenderly. Poor, exhausted thing.

I must be suffering from temporary locked in syndrome. I can hear them, but I can't respond. I want to scream. "I'm awake you morons! Who on God's green earth could sleep through such shattering pain?! Of course I'm twitching!! My bones are separating to make room for a freakin' person!!! " Instead this comes out as a soft whimper and my husband rubs my back lovingly. Whatever. Probably better for our marriage that I can't speak.

So that's a moment.

When it gets close to pushing time, I haul myself into the birthing tub. The water feels heavenly. I just bob around like mother Earth. I'm between contractions. I stretch out, close my eyes and feel completely present. My birthing mix is softly playing from my iPod. Moon River.

My midwife says, "you know, you really have a beautiful pregnant belly."

My mom says, "Venus de Milo." (Although Venus' stomach is actually pretty flat, I appreciate the sentiment.)

I don't care how much trauma my body endures. I still love a compliment. Even if it's bologna. Keep talking ladies.

That was a moment.

Now it's time to push. My husband sits behind me. My midwife sits in front of me, sipping a ginger ale. She tells me, "your body knows what to do." That's the extent of her coaching. I dig it. I do know what to do. My hips were made for this. I am Ixchel, Lucina or any other fertility deity. So I push. While I push, I scream. Like a maniac, banshee and/or wounded animal.

Once I can feel the top of her head, I shift my inarticulate shrieks into a two-word mantra -- "my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby" until she arrives. Slick with vernix, red and screaming, absolute perfection. I hold her and sob with joy, relief, and ferocious love.

That was the moment.

I Did Not Get To Fill a Box With Pink or Blue Balloons

November 19, 2012

Tomorrow is the day. The day I find out the gender of this little, kicky baby in my belly. I woke up at 3:30 in the morning and am still awake, so I think I'm pretty excited about it. I keep trolling around Pinterest, looking at all of the big, showy ways I can make the pink or blue announcement. Attractive couples in pea coats kiss each other over boxes brimming with blue balloons. A glowing mother lovingly gazes at her slice of pink cake with tear-brimmed eyes. A woman with absolutely no body fat and a perfectly round, toned pregnant belly, wraps her naked torso in blue ribbons. What. Ev. Er.

I like a production. I like big events. I like attention. I also li...

..............................three days later.....................................

November 22, 2012

I never finished this post because I had go brush baby JAR's teeth, put on pants, take out the recycling, go to the grocery store, etc. etc. etc.

And now, instead of processing the gender of my unborn child, I am processing a car accident. A car accident with highway speeds, a semi truck, a concrete median, and me and my two precious babies.

Typically, car accidents are not funny. Unless it's a fender bender in a parking lot involving a clown balancing a stack of banana cream pies and an overweight streaker, fresh from a nearby football game. Maybe throw in a street performance artist with a couple hula hoops. That could be funny.

My car accident lacked clowns and nudity. It was not funny. So, this post will be a purely selfish, let me process my emotions through my keyboard, dear diary, type of story. I will probably cry. Good thing you can't see me. I cry like a two-year-old.

On the afternoon of our ultrasound appointment, I picked up baby JAR from daycare, and headed down the highway to meet my husband at the midwife's office. We live in a place that rains all of the time. We're kind of known for it. Real locals don't carry umbrellas. We just absorb the moisture through our sun-deprived pores. So, of course it was raining. Not heavily, but it had been raining for several days. This is nothing new or out of the ordinary.

I happily puttered down this 55 mile per hour highway, which happens to go down a very steep hill. Baby JAR was in the back, quietly looking out the window, thinking quiet two-year-old thoughts. I rounded a curve and immediately noticed a giant puddle (more like a pond or small lake) of standing water, directly in front of me. I did not want to go through the standing water. On my right was a semi truck. On my left was a concrete barrier. So I went through the standing water.

My car is small. It is low. It does not have giant tires or magic flying capabilities like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  And it just told me that it hates god damn puddles. In spite of this, it bravely attempted the standing water, completely lost contact with the road, and hydroplaned into the trailer of a semi truck. It bounced off the side of the semi truck into the concrete median. It spun around, down the hill, for what felt like two weeks and then landed in the concrete median again. Facing sideways, blocking the highway. Then it died.

The worst part was having no control of the vehicle as it spun and bounced around like a pinball. The worst part was when I thought we were going over the median into oncoming traffic (which thank God did not happen). The worst part was the seat belt and it's unforgiving pressure on the home of my unborn baby. The worst part was baby JAR crying in the backseat, "mommy, make it stop, make it stop mommy."

We are all okay. I am so thankful, grateful, stop and cry with relief joyful. I am also terrified. Life is so fragile. Things have the potential to completely change in seconds. My happiness and sanity completely depend on the health and well-being of two small people, with precious little bones, organs, and beating hearts. If you are a parent, you know that I am not being dramatic when I say that I would simply cease functioning if something happened to them.

More than 24 hours later, I am stiff, bruised, and sore, but the baby's heartbeat is strong and it looks like he/she will be just fine. Baby JAR has two small scrapes on his shoulders from the car seat straps, but is in otherwise perfect condition. Big JAR is in a state of heightened stress from the thought of potentially losing his family and having no power or control to change the unchangeable. I encourage him to work through his complicated feelings by massaging Bengay into my whiplashed neck and shoulders.

So happy Thanksgiving. This holiday means more to me now than ever before. I am thankful for my healthy family, amazing car seats, kind paramedics, and the soft cushion of amniotic fluid. I wish everyone a happy, healthy, and safe season with the people they love.

(We of course missed the ultrasound appointment, but I got an ultrasound in the emergency room. After ascertaining that my baby and placenta looked fine, they checked the gender for us. Baby refused to move his/her foot, so we were given a best guess. There's a "75% chance" that it's a...)

Boy or girl? We're not telling yet...

Dear Nan

Dear Nan,
Even though your blog is anonymous, I have a feeling that you're a really stylish and "put together" woman. What's your secret?
Signed,
Washed Out in Wenatchee

Dear Washed Out,

What a dear you are for noticing! Well, it just so happens that I am very put together, all parts intact and beautifully coiffed. It may look effortless (i.e. like I just rolled out of bed), but it in fact takes a lot of time to look like me.

I recommend waking up at least two hours prior to your estimated departure time. This gives you ample time to examine your pores and pop over to Pinterest for a mo. Giggle over a clever E-card. Maybe wake up your husband to show him the hilarious card. He won't mind. He likes it. Take a minute to throw together 17 pounds of crockpot meals for the freezer. Pull out your miter saw, empty thread spools, egg cartons, and IKEA furniture and throw together an upcycled activity table for your toddler. Don't worry, you have plenty of time because you are a stylish, put together machine of efficiency.

Catch up on important current events through your Facebook news feed. Giggle over another clever E-card. How do they come up with this stuff?! Try to wake up your husband again except now he's locked the door. Too bad. Back to Facebook. Cluck your tongue and sigh in sympathy when you learn that one of your former high school classmates is "having a bad morning... can things get any worse?" Consider "liking" but don't because of confusing connotation. Is it bad manners to "like" another person's pain? Ponder the evasiveness of her status update. What in fact makes it a bad morning? Did her dog eat her night guard? Does she have a weird ingrown hair on her eyebrow? Did her DVR only record 6 minutes of last night's 30 Rock? Accept that you may never know.

Look at the clock and realize that you have approximately 7 minutes to do your hair, makeup, and get dressed. No matter. You can totally do it. Strategically arrange your bizarrely shaped and frizzy bedhead to look like sexy beach hair. Or just got out of a convertible hair. Or just rode in a barrel over Niagara Falls hair. Whatever you can manage really. Get out your makeup bag. Apply your powder foundation, which is hilariously named "well rested." Then put blush called "orgasm" on the apples of your cheeks. Blend. Now laugh and laugh. Because really. Talk about false advertising. Damn you Sephora.

Now get dressed. Try to be a medical professional so you can wear scrubs or something. If that doesn't work, dress appropriately for your specific profession. Now I happen to be a teacher so I wear Dansko clogs, high waisted jeans, a turtleneck, seasonal vest, and dangly seasonal earrings. Oh shit, I forgot my jack-o-lantern socks... be right back.

As I was saying, dress for success. Whatever that looks like. Now you're probably right on schedule, so pat yourself on the back and head out the door sister, you're ready for anything!

Best wishes,

Nan

Crockpot meals in the freezer, seasonal socks on the feet, and orgasm on the face...
How did you spend your morning?

A Very Genuine and Possibly Genius Pregnancy Advice Column

Dear Nan,
How do I survive my first trimester of pregnancy when even brushing my teeth feels impossible?
Signed,
Nauseous in Nisqually

Dear Nauseous,

Luckily for you, navigating the first trimester of pregnancy with style and grace is something I happen to do naturally. Lesser women may just want to lie down on the couch, eat applesauce with a wooden spoon, and pass gas. But not me. Time is a gift. I use every moment to maximize my potential and work toward becoming my best self.

How? You are probably wondering. Well, let's try a little "day in the life of..." because elegance is learned, my friend.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wake up to toddler sitting on your chest. Nod in agreement when he tells you that "it's a great day, the moon is gone, and it's time to wake up." Fall back asleep.

At some point shuffle to kitchen in sister's ex-boyfriend's sweats. (Thank you Brandon, you can have them back when I'm dead.) Eat yogurt. Make vomit-like noises/gaggy face but don't actually vomit because that would be a sweet release from the pain of never-ending nausea, and you are a Spartan warrior. Pain is what keeps you alive.

Watch online videos of stray dog rescues. Cry. Watch online videos of children with cancer singing uplifting songs. Cry harder. Watch online video of that guy's proposal where everybody dances in unison to a song about love. Lie down on the floor and weep. Become angry that you married the kind of guy that will never participate in song and dance numbers. Imagine leaving him for a man that dances. Stop crying when you realize that you don't want to be married to yourself. If you're both singing and dancing, who's the damn audience? You need an audience.

Get off the floor and get a hold of yourself. You're a mother. Your toddler would like his unborn sibling to revoke his mommy's passport to crazy town. Laugh a little when you imagine a tiny little fetus stamping passports.

Think of games to engage your toddler while you burp up prenatal vitamins.

"Doctor"
-Toddler: Use fine motor skills to manipulate a variety of pretend doctor tools. Use language and social skills to give mommy a pretend check-up. Wear hilarious plastic spectacles that come with doctor kit. Sing "Old MacDonald" while checking patient's temperature because that's what mommy does. Basically, be adorable.
-Mommy: Comatose patient (i.e. lie down on the floor).

"Swim Lessons"
-Toddler: Use gross motor skills to leap off of toddler bed onto mattress on floor. Continue to use large muscle groups while pretending to swim in the "pool" (mattress). Shriek, "I'm swimming like a shark! I'm at swim lessons!" Ask for your life jacket because your mother has convinced you that flotation devices are necessary for all bodies of water, including puddles, or even imaginary pools.
-Mommy: Dead man's float (i.e. lie down on the mattress).

"Dance Party"
-Toddler: Absolutely rock out to favorite jams (Lion King soundtrack, Caspar Babypants, and Michael Franti, which is another story altogether). Use spoons to play percussion on the kitchen floor, play "guitar" with a pillow, kick your feet, and do three-legged dog yoga poses.
-Mommy: Do "The Worm" without moving arms or legs (i.e. lie down on the area rug).

Pat yourself on the back for being a great mother. Now take a nap. You've earned it, sister.

So, Nauseous in Nisqually, as you can see, balancing your home life while a fetus the size of a peanut sucks the very marrow from your bones (metaphorically speaking, of course, I don't think that actually happens, but it might... maybe ask your OB at your next appointment to be sure, you might need marrow supplements or something) is a delicate, but definitely doable dance.

Best wishes,
Nan

How to Increase Web Traffic or Blowing Kathie Lee's Mind

Like my teaching career and pretty much everything I do, this blog is an emotional investment I make purely for myself. I don't want to "sell out" with ads, book deals, or even regular readers. Unh-uh, that's not for me. I'm definitely not the type of person who edits her diary, imagining it to be discovered posthumously and published. Just like Anne Frank, minus the persecution, authenticity, and innocence, of course.

I certainly never daydream (instead of writing) that this ridiculous blog will shoot out of obscurity to one day be featured in a segment with Kathie Lee and Hoda.
 
Hoda: Now, have you heard of this blog, "House of Jars?" It's a blog written by a mom! A mom blogger! Isn't that innovative?! A mom who sits in front of her computer and writes little anecdotes about diapers and homemade baby food! Incredible! Who'd have thought?

Kathie Lee: (Chokes on her wine in amazement.) A mom... blogger!?!? Get out of town, Hoda!!

I like that my mom and my grandma make up the bulk of my readership. I'm fine with it. It's cool. But just for funsies, I googled "how to increase blog traffic." Here's what I learned:

1. "Titles that are short, snappy, on-topic and catchy are imperative"(from The Daily SEO Blog).

Super. Let's take a look at my titles. We have Real Adults Don't Buy Fast Food Breakfast With Dirty Coins and Mommy Cry it Out Sleep Training or How Long Does it Take to Boil an Egg? Or what about my personal favorite The Very Expensive Stomach Flu or I Swear I Don't Have Munchausen Syndrome? Short, snappy, on-topic? Absotootinlutely.

2."Leave comments on other blogs to drive new traffic... It's important to make sure you leave meaningful comments that are likely to invite people to click on your link to read more" (from About.com Blogging).

So I strolled down the information superhighway to find blogs and leave a few comments:

"I like the pictures of all the crap you bought at Walgreens for $9.89. I am however curious about what you will actually do with 76 boxes of scented pantiliners. One time in high school my friend and I wrote a note on a Maxi pad and stuck it to a boy's car. It was so funny. We laughed and laughed. Read my blog."

"IMO it's so nice that your DH and DS and DD were in cahoots with your MIL to make you a nice breakfast in bed and wash all the CDs since your visit from AF made you one irritable SAHM. BTW read my blog."

"I don't actually give a shit about your amateurish attempts at photographing your child's feet in a pile of freshly fallen leaves. Read my blog. Look at my amateurish attempts at photographing a puppet of my father."

3. "Inform search engines and aggregators like Technorati (using the ping functionality) when your blog is updated, this should ensure maximum traffic coming from those sources" (from Blog Project: 30 Traffic Generation Tips).

I. Don't. Understand. These. Words. (Yawn. Sip wine. Shake information from brain.)

4. "Posting new and unique content on a regular basis to your blog is crucial to success" (from Increase Your Blog Traffic). 

Let's see. Since the start of the 2011-2012 school year, I wrote a grand total of 4 new and unique posts. That's an average of 0.6 posts per month. That's dedication. Blood, sweat, and tears on the keyboard my friends.

5. "Finally, and maybe the biggest key to increasing blog traffic is to write interesting and excellent content" (from Increase Your Blog Traffic).

Bwahahahaha! (Wiping away the tears.) Of course. Excellent. Interesting. Who's interested in vomit, runaway Labradors, Popsicle stick puppets of my father, emu oil and bearded lovers? Where's my niche? I'd probably be better off deleting this linguistic hodgepodge and starting a couponing blog. But I can't. Multiple transactions cause me extreme anxiety.  I don't understand what a doubler is. And .14 cents a box doesn't make me hate Hamburger Helper any less. 

Letter For My Two Year Old

Dear Baby JAR,

I'm fairly certain that I just wrote a letter for your first birthday, so I find it baffling that we celebrated your second birthday this month. Nothing speeds the clock like motherhood apparently. It's also baffling that I loved you so much at your first birthday, when of course I now know that I couldn't possibly have loved you as much as I do today, right now.

You are such a remarkable little person. I am completely charmed by your toddler grasp of the English language. I love that you call your diaper rash, "ouchie pokies." I love that you carefully arrange your blocks in a row and screech, "all aboard everybody!" I love that you say "mommy" more than any other word or phrase. I love that you speak in the third person when you feel very strongly about the topic. I love how you announce your actions with joyful pride, "I run, I run! I laugh, I laugh! I jump, I jump!"

Your feet are still sweet little sausages without arches or ankles, retaining that baby look that I adore. How amazing that you can tell me what you want for lunch, but you still would rather nurse before naptime. That you can put on your own rain boots, but still wear footie pajamas to bed. Or that you can pedal a tricycle with feverish abandon, but still nestle your downy head into the crook of my neck when you've had enough.

You are such a happy child. I treasure your smile and I feel so lucky that you share it with me and the world so frequently. Keep giving that smile away, whether or not it is reciprocated. You have a limitless supply that only increases its strength and power with use.

When the house becomes suspiciously quiet, I know that you are either engaged in toddler hijinks (putting plastic hot dogs in the fish tank, coloring the cat with markers, riding Mabel, or carefully applying eye cream to your bellybutton) or you are sitting on the floor with a book in your lap. I love to watch your brow furrow in concentration as you pore over the pictures, quietly muttering to yourself. I hope you remain a reader. The escape provided by words cannot be duplicated with electronics. And readers have interesting opinions.

I'm your mom, so I love to give you advice, count your vegetable intake, and imagine you reading these letters as a well-adjusted adult. You will probably wipe away a little tear, pick up the phone, and thank me for my love, guidance, wisdom, and... control issues? Maybe I should thank you too.

Thank you for teaching me to ignore the steaming dirty diaper hamper and sit on the floor to build, play, or read. Thank you for reminding me to dance at least twice a day. Your slightly demanding, "mommy dance!" never fails to bring a smile to my face and a shuffle to my feet. Thank you for helping me stop, slow down, and take the time to find the perfect leaf in the giant pile of nearly identical leaves.

You're amazing. I love you every inch of you. Forever, for always, no matter what.

Happy 2nd birthday.

Mommy

                                                 

Today I Did Not Win $350,000

Cheap wine in a Mickey Mouse mug. Torn flannel pajama pants. Heavy heart. Check, check, checkity-check!

It is time to review a few of my life's disappointments thus far.

1. The moment I realized that my first love had a second date waiting in the wings on his senior prom night. (May 1997)

2. The moment I realized that my date wasn't ever going to pick me up on my senior prom night. (May 1999)

3. Losing the eighth grade student council election. I made an Acrostic poem with the letters of my name and everything. I'm still baffled by the loss. (October 1994)

4. Realizing that I would have to return to work, leaving my son in the care of someone other than myself. That one really hurt. (August 2010)

5. The day I found myself on a local television talk show as one of thirteen finalists in a contest to pay off your mortgage up to 350k. The man sitting next to me won. I sat in his residual confetti and wept silently with a television camera in my face. That was today. Today I did not win a contest to pay off my mortgage. Today I did not find a way to magically eradicate my debt, fix my oven, fence, or hole above window that lets in the rain. Today I did not receive the miraculous gift of financial freedom, thereby allowing me to spend more time doing the thing I love the most--being baby JAR's mom. Today I did not get to sit on the couch and describe my feelings to the television viewers of our region. I did however win tickets to a "lusty ghost tour." (October 10, 2011)

So... let's review.

I was never meant to partake in the joys of high school prom. Politics are clearly not my thing (though Acrostic poems definitely are). Leaving my child in the care of someone else will never be easy for me. I should only spend one evening drinking and mourning the loss of a yellow pages sweepstakes. And of course, I'm pretty damn lucky to have such a short list.