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.

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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.