Peter Pan

Lest you were thinking otherwise, we have now determined that the baby has no magical powers of flight, nor has he mastered any Jedi tricks involving levitation.

For about three minutes after dinner last night, all three of my boys sat on the floor with a blanket over their feet watching President Obama's speech. I've promised Slim that I'll be less effusive with my Obama-praise, which is a good thing, but I will say today that I really like how in control and in charge he seems. Whether you agree with his ideas or not, I think it is really hard to question his sincerity or his intensity. I was moved to tears when he announced the volunteerism bill jointly sponsored by Senators Hatch and Kennedy. These men, with their intense and genuine friendship have truly exemplified that to disagree does not mean to be disagreeable. Little Jedi looked up at me and said, "Mom, I'm wondering, what can I do for my country?" Wow. Can America fail if there are children like him? Like yours? Like that determined little gal who stood next to Michelle Obama and took the praise of a nation for her plea not to be given up on? I think not.

But I digress: we were discussing the Youngling's weakness for gravity.

When the three minutes of sitting quietly were up (which might actually be some kind of record), the big boys ran off down the hall on some rendezvous with a sword fight. Youngling followed, squealing, because he wants to be just like them. There was a fair amount of noise coming from their 11 x 11 bedroom which contains a crib, a set of twin bunk beds, a fairly large dresser, a basket for balls, a beanbag that has evolved into the naughty chair and a small trash can. It gets crowded and crazy when they are all in there together, but that pretty much describes my whole life.

I figured that Youngling was climbing up and down the bunk bed ladder, which he taught himself to do last week. (Last Wednesday I walked in the bedroom, scenting out the baby to change his diaper, only to see him sitting on the top bunk with a smug smile that threatened to split his mischievous little face. I asked Padawan how long Youngling had been able to do this and could he get back down? The answers were "For a couple of days" and "Sure!") I've seen him go up and down the ladder several times and saw that he really was proficient: just because my heart nearly stops every time I see him do it doesn't mean he isn't capable, right?

Further, when he sits on the top bunk, he just sits. Or he pretends to sleep after begging for someone to throw his blanket up there. Or he bounces on his padded little tushy. He acts like he is very aware of how high he is. Until last night, it seemed apparent that his new skill was much more about the journey than the destination.

Five minutes before the end of Mr. Obama's speech, there was a lot of extremely loud screaming that erupted all at once from the bedroom, followed by much running down the hall as I jumped off the couch. Youngling had not slipped coming or going on the ladder, nor had he accidentally fallen off the top: by all reports (by which I mean TWO, one from a 4 year old, the other from a 7 year old, so who really knows?) the Youngling deliberately stepped off the railing onto the floor and belly flopped on the carpet.

Before I knew the details, however, I only heard the screaming and so I completely disregarded all of my mediocre first-aidy skills. I did not ascertain if he had fallen on his head. I did not check for broken bones before I moved him. I did not clear the space. I did not order any one to call 9-1-1.

I picked up my dear baby who was crying harder than I have ever heard him cry. His wails were cat-like and high, just like a newborn's. Very scary. It took nearly fifteen minutes of walking and rocking to finally calm him down, and then when we did he was unnaturally still. He lay on my shoulder, hardly blinking, and then sat on my bed sucking his thumb and acting properly dazed. Plantboy said the two most horrible words for a mother, "Emergency room," but I just shook my head and insisted that it didn't do me any good to have two nurses (mom and sister) and a doctor (brother) in the family if I couldn't get some feedback about concussions and internal bleeding before rushing into the emergency room.

It turned out to be my dad who was able to give me the best concussion information. It seems that he was once clocked with a baseball bat. I get waves of nausea just thinking about it. And sis was the fount of knowledge about internal bleeding--incredible pain and puking up blood. Lovely.

The baby perked up by bedtime and seemed mostly back to his normal self, if a little bit resentful. His way of telling me about an injury (real or otherwise) is to point at the thing or person that hurt him and scream, then touch the injured part and make a hilariously pained face. Last night he kept pointing at the bunk beds, keeping them at a safe distance from himself in the other room, and jabbering a whole string of what I can only guess were profanities.

Anyway, I pushed, stretched, poked, wiggled, and prodded him all over and he seems to be doing fine, other than a little bit of resentment over how much of his personal space I chose to invade. Mothers can be so annoying like that. I wonder how he is going to take it when he finds the bunk bed ladder in the garage. . . .

18 Clues

On our computer, my side of the Internet is not working, and hasn't been for several months. I can pretty much trace back our computer troubles to when I downloaded Blurb and pretty much opened the porn portal to hell in my computer. Granted, they may not be related, but free software is often free because they load a bunch of other spyware stuff on your computer at the same time so they can open ads for things you REALLY WANT.

But I digress.

I started this long and pointless story merely to explain that I have been using Plantboy's side of the computer. Not being the discerning news reader that I am (ha ha), he has homepage set to MSN which basically considers Hot Celebrity Gossip to be "the news." I'd like to say that I never click on their stupid headlines, but I surprise myself by acting human sometimes.

There was one today called, "18 Clues He's Still Crazy About You." Feeling like I'm part of a normal, stable relationship made me, of course, want to see how Plantboy and I stack up against other couples who think they've got it figured out. It is a competition after all. If nothing else, I figured the list might be some snarky fun. As it turns out, the list was neither interesting, universal or even that funny. It reinforced to me that just because you CAN publish anything on the web, it doesn't mean you SHOULD. (Blogging is a perfect example of this.)

What probably bothered me the most about the list, however, is the assumption that men are pretty much useless lumps who occasionally do something nice. Take numbers 8 and 9 for example, " He doesn't try to guess what to get you for your birthday; he asks your best friend," and "he is incapable of putting dishes in the dishwasher; he has, however learned to stack them in the sink." This kind of thing makes me crazy. Lots of men are good at buying gifts--Plantboy pays better attention to needs and wants than I ever do.* As for the second, it is just so lame. How is it a sign of love that significant other won't load the dishwasher? It is a bit like saying "He still hasn't learned to brush, but oh, boy, does he know how to floss."

Could I come up with 18 highly entertaining or useful evidences "he's still crazy about you" on my own? Probably not. After all, I'm not writing for the very literary Good Housekeeping, but I thought it might be fun if we did this together. I'll put a few here, and you each add one or two of your own in the comment section. Don't have a current beau? No problem. Just put down your ultimate romantic fantasy. Our composite man will make Mr. Darcy look like a villian.

1. After being gone all afternoon and into the evening, you come home to kids fed, bathed and tucked in. When you give hubby nothing more than a kiss for all this effort he says, without a trace of irony, "I'm so lucky."

2. When you sit down to tackle the mountain of clean laundry that has reached a critical mass over the course of three days and 7 loads, he sits down next to you to help without being asked and even consents to watch the show you picked.

3. After a rather long and stressful week, he lays his head on your shoulder and says, "When are we going to get a date?"

4. He honestly thinks the braids are cute and even says, "Weren't you the centerfold in last month's REI catalog?"

5. When you are at Costco he walks you past the black Tahitian pearls and asks you which ones you like best, even if you are too impatient or practical to play along.

All right, all right, and now I see my list is really no better. I guess I just like it because it is my own and doesn't give my man any backhanded compliments. (GH's #5: He tried — unsuccessfully, but he tried — to clean the rust ring his shaving-cream can left on the sink.) Still, it is still February for another week and a bit, so bring on the love.

*Which reminds me; when cleaning the garage yesterday I found an unopened Nerf gun of the same type I gave nearly everyone for Christmas. Now I'm wondering--did I buy an extra? Forget to give one? Miscount? Anyway, if I had your name for Christmas you were probably supposed to get a Nerf gun. If you didn't, I'm sorry: you won't get it now either. It has entered the growing arsenal of weapons here at our house and I doubt it will ever be liberated.

Easter Isn't For Two Months, People!

I was all set to post this morning about the luscious steak, roasted yams, asparagus with almondine sauce, chocolate-dipped strawberries and bruschetta I served for Valentine's Day dinner. Or at least about the wonderful day we spent just an hour north of Crater Lake snowshoeing, relaxing and snowball fighting in the mountains for President's Day. Or about speaking too soon about not having any illness since before Thanksgiving and waking up to a coughing baby several times last night. Or about how (most of) my letter was actually published.
But, alas, more pressing matters occupy my thoughts now.

I was at the grocery store very early this morning, thinking how grateful I was that the only Valentine's Day paraphernalia remaining are four day-old brownie bites that look extremely disgusting, and how I might actually be able to stay away from the chocolate now that the New and Improved holiday season is over. (You haven't heard of this holiday? It is called Hallothankschrisnewval Day. What it celebrates, apparently, is copious amounts of festively wrapped chocolate and special edition Hershey Kisses and the gaining of 10 pounds. )

And then I saw them.

Box after purple box filled with "big" bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs. "Big" must be Cadbury's subliminal marketing campaign this year. The bag, in fact, appears to be half the size of last year's and costs at least a dollar more. I walked past the display three times, repeating to myself, "Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it." You see, if I get them then I will eat all of them. Plantboy doesn't like them (I know, I know he's hardly human); and the kids, well, it doesn't seem right to share with them when they honestly believe the Mini Eggs are just funny shaped M & M's.

And then, oh then, I saw the tiny bag. $.52. I picked it up--dare I say reverently? It was so light; what are they, a nickel apiece? I stared into my cart full of fruits and vegetables and whole wheat English muffins and low-fat yogurt and two kinds of beans and skim milk and uber-lean meat and I knew I had to have them. I threw the little bag on the top of the righteous groceries and practically ran to the checkout, as if I had stolen something, forgetting the remaining three items on my list in my haste to be away.

As I bagged my groceries the tempting purple pouch came closer and closer. "Just bag it with the rest of the groceries," I told myself. I continued repeating such until I slipped it into the side pocket of my purse. I had to; the well-behaved purchases didn't seem to want the dangerously tempting Mini Eggs anywhere near them.

I loaded the car and sat down, staring at the purse telling myself, "It isn't even seven in the morning yet; it is really not the time for chocolate." And I swear I heard a seductive whisper from the depths of my innocent-looking bag, "Oh, STM, it's always time for chocolate. Especially this chocolate."

Just one, or maybe two then. Three is a nice round number; no, wait, FIVE is better.

Half the bag was eaten before I made it out of the parking lot. I folded the top over carefully, vowing to save the rest of the chocolaty goodness for later. . .

Half a mile up the road is later. It is. And it was really such a tiny bag.

I am so going to look like the Easter bunny in two months. I mean, except I won't be completely covered in hair or have really big ears.

Anticipation and Memory

There was a man who taught English at my high school named Thomas Moore. Really. And though he was not British, he never corrected any student who called him Sir Thomas. In fact, I think he rather liked it, and it may not even be too out of line to say he encouraged such address. There was an air of mystery about Sir Thomas as well, though over time enough details surfaced to make his life the envy of any small town person aspiring for romance. He graduated from BYU at age 20, having been something of a wunderkind. He met his wife there, and though he was a couple of years younger than she, he fell madly in love at first sight: he was even able to tell you down to the handbag what she was wearing when they first met.

She was an Eccles. If you are from (way) Northern Utah, this will mean something. If not, think "Huntsman" or "Marriot" and you are getting in the ballpark of the money this family has and the number of buildings sporting their name. She was loaded. They bought an old mansion in one of the very few aging-gracefully neighborhoods in Ogden and spent tens of thousands in restoring it. But not perfect restoration: he once spoke with great vehemence about berating a contractor for trying to fix a squeaky stair railing. "I bought this house because of that squeak!" Only Sir Thomas could say such a thing and make it sound noble, as if he alone was battling callous modernization. It was rumored that he taught at our school as a hobby, and that he was not actually paid.

Besides the house in Ogden, there was a flat in London. Every year, for several years, he had taken a student or two with his family for two weeks in the winter. These blessed students were hand-selected from his classes and were always the best of the best. My friend's older brother went and Sir Thomas paid for everything. Times changed and Sir Thomas was probably not unaware of the questions of propriety in taking selected students with him. In addition, teaching all AP prep English, he ended up with loads of fantastic students, many of whom wanted to go on the trip. The year I came to high school, he began opening up the trip to anyone who could afford to go. The itinerary was enough to make one drool: museums, 7 trips to the theatre and Windsor Castle. He said that if too many students signed up his flat would be too small, and so students would stay in a variety of apartments around Kensington station. These other flats were owned by Sir Thomas' friends, one of whom was the CEO of Payless Shoes.

I was not in Thomas Moore's class. I had The Rat. (The only place she ever went was to the hairdresser each week to have her hair teased into a modified beehive in which she usually lost a pencil or two. Tuesday was her appointment and by Monday she always looked a little bit disheveled.) My best friend, however, was in Sir Thomas' class and we poured longingly over the trip information. It was agreed--we would approach our parents and she would tell her mother that I could go if she could; I would tell my parents that she could go if I could.

Remarkably, beyond any expectation my life to that point had given me, my parents said yes. And so did her mother.

Then began many long months of anticipation. We wrote at least three notes a day to one another, trading them between classes at our adjoining lockers. Kate was a writer and her notes were wonderful. I still have them saved in a decorated shoebox somewhere, unwilling to throw out the evidence and documentation of what was easily the most important friendship of my teenage years. But in the all the voluminous correspondence passed over the years, there is only ONE line from ONE note that I memorized. Less than a month before our departure for England, she paraphrased a discussion from Sir Thomas' class thus, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are better than the holiday itself."

The memorable things in our life tend to be long looked forward to, but the event themselves are short-lived--a concert, a first date with someone special, seeing a convert baptised, holidays, vacations, birth, a wedding day, for example. But how many hours of enjoyment come from re-telling the stories of these events? How many lessons are learned as we walk away from, digest and assimilate our experience? And how many lives are shaped by the perception of what happened in the past, rather than what actually happened?

Anticipation gives us something to look forward to. It helps make the mundane tasks of day to day seem a little bit more bearable; and, perhaps, a little bit more meaningful. Memory gives us something to hang our lives on. It gives us "June roses in the December of our lives."

Plantboy and I will be married ten years in June and we have only taken an anniversary trip once. (For our 5th anniversary, thanks to Forecast Calls For Rain and husband.) Nearly two years ago, we vowed that whatever happened and however we had to make it work, we would do something big this year.

And we are.

Though our anniversary is in June, the best time for us to get babysitting for several days is in April. The best place for us to get babysitting for several days is in Utah. So to Utah in April it is, but Plantboy and I are going to go places neither of us have been for years and destinations we've never been together. We are going to spend several days in southern Utah hitting as many national parks as we can. We will do a combination of camping and staying in bed and breakfasts. We will hike and whatever else strikes us as interesting. (I'm going to really strive to be spontaneous, outside of the advance bookings that are necessary.) Mostly we will enjoy the deep quiet that comes in wide open spaces where there are no kids begging to have their every need met. I think I'm looking most forward to Capitol Reef, which seems to be in the middle of nowhere and there is nary a picture with a living soul in it.

I know that to many of you, such a vacation, even sans kids, seems more like a punishment than a getaway. But you can have your cruises and your outlet malls and your airports and your theme parks. . . give me a tank full of gas, a sleeping bag and, mostly, solitude, then I can find my bliss. The anticipation is high. I hope the memories will sustain us through the next ten years.

Since my friend's note all those years ago, I have found the following quote by Flaubert, "Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory." I wonder if perhaps that was the springboard for the discussion in Sir Thomas' class? But I think I like Kate's way of saying it best--that the anticipation and memory are actually better than the events themselves. In the end, we only have the sum total of what we have learned from our experiences with which to leave this life. What are you looking forward to this year? Or even better, what is your favorite memory from years past?

Hey, It's Something, Right?

In January, The New Yorker published this piece, titled "Baby Food." It is about breast milk; or, more specifically, the history of breast feeding in the United States. The article is interesting, but near the end she makes a rather pointed critique of our culture too: many places have begun providing almost lavish amenities for working mothers who wish to pump at work, while simultaneously making it more and more difficult for them to actually be HOME with their babies. Her criticism is not levied merely at employeers, however. She is equally dazed and confused by mothers who will take an extra hour's worth of breaks to pump rather than formula feed and spend an extra hour with their babies. She laments, "When did women's rights turn into the right to work?" I couldn't agree more.

I really like this author. Her way of viewing the world is honest and blunt, but with the barest whisper of humor that makes you realize that she doesn't take herself to seriously. Her last few paragraphs read thus,

"Pumps put milk into bottles, even though many of breast-feeding’s benefits to the baby, and all of its social and emotional benefits, come not from the liquid itself but from the smiling and cuddling (stuff that people who aren’t breast-feeding can give babies, too). Breast-feeding involves cradling your baby; pumping involves cupping plastic shields on your breasts and watching your nipples squirt milk down a tube. But this truth isn’t just rarely overstated; it’s rarely stated at all. In 2004, when Playtex débuted a breast pump called the Embrace, no one bothered to point out that something you plug into a wall socket is a far cry from a whisper and a kiss. . .

"It appears no longer within the realm of the imaginable that, instead of running water and a stack of magazines, 'breastfeeding-friendly' could mean making it possible for women and their babies to be together. Some lactation rooms even make a point of banning infants and toddlers, lest mothers smuggle them in for a quick nip. At the University of Minnesota, staff with keys can pump their milk at the Expression Connection, but the sign on the door warns: 'This room is not intended for mothers who need a space to nurse their babies.'

"Pumps can be handy; they’re also a handy way to avoid privately agonizing and publicly unpalatable questions: is it the mother, or her milk, that matters more to the baby? Gadgets are one of the few ways to “promote breast-feeding” while avoiding harder—and divisive and more stubborn—social and economic issues. Is milk medicine? Is suckling love? . . . Medela’s newest model promises [that it]. . . 'works less like a pump and more like a baby.' More like a baby? Holy cow."

After reading her excellent piece, I wrote the following letter to TNY's editor:

Ms. Lepore's article is a fantastic voice of reason in a baby culture gone mad, and will no doubt be raked across the coals if for nothing else than her statement, "When did 'women's rights' turn into the 'right to work'?" I had my first of three babies just over seven years ago. I have worked full time, part time and also stayed home full time. I have nursed, pumped, formula fed, counted days until I could supplement my ravenous boys with mush and told countless lies to pediatricians from Houston to Eugene. I have friends who home school, nurse their children on demand day and night into their third year and think bottles are akin to child abuse; at the opposite end I have friends who would never consider nursing, feel repulsed by the whole exercise and think there is nothing more appalling than a woman nursing in public; not to mention all the women in the middle. And, truthfully, I think that every one of us is just doing the best we can. No modern convenience can ever change the simple fact that parenting is just plain hard (punctuated, of course, by moments of wonderful).

I am young enough that the battle over ERA is a distant echo from my childhood, yet am in the first generation of women to live an entire lifetime in the post-feminist era. To me, the great gift of feminism is that I can choose the kind of life I want to live. It does not mean that because I can have it all that I am less of a woman if I do not want to have it all. It also does not mean that I am free from the consequences of my choices, nor is society at large. In not too many more years, an entire generation of children raised on a steady diet of text messaging, video games, day care and fast food will come of age: I am with Lepore in asserting that all the breast milk in the world, pumped or otherwise, cannot counteract the effects of all else they have been fed.

Sincerely,
Science Teacher Mommy
Oregon

Well, well, STM, that is all very nice, you are thinking. I've written letters to the editor before and they never get published, so I was mostly hoping that Ms. Lepore would see my response. I'm just needy enough to think that all writers are just like me--they MUST have feedback or feel like failures. Then, today, I opened my email to find out that they are actually going to publish my letter in next week's issue. A fact-checker is going to call me tomorrow to confirm a few details.

I know, I know, I could get published in the flippin' newspaper every week if I wanted to, but the letters generally published in TNY come from professionals in their fields with 12 letters after their names and titles before them. To even see my name in print in this magazine pretty much makes my whole day. Or maybe my week.

A Romantic Dinner IN

I have to admit that the best Valentine's Day I ever had was in the third grade. We did the typical class exchange of the paper valentines in the hokey decorated shoeboxes. This was back in the day before chocolate was marketed by the truckloads in garish shades of pink and purple for purchase at the grocery store. When I was in the third grade, if you got a Valentine with a sucker in it then you were awesome. Anyway, a beautiful boy with black hair and tan skin, presented me with a full-size chocolate bar, the little card AND sucker taped to the back. (This boy's name was Rhett--could anything be more luscious?) It wasn't as if he was a secret crush or anything: he was my true love from the first grade until the end of the fourth. At which point I started growing up. He did not, and never did in all the years I knew him. I've sometimes wondered if he ever did.

I mean, honestly, after enjoying a brief sojourn as the Naked Mole Rat of Mrs. McColley's third grade classroom, what could compare?

The years I actually HAD a boyfriend-like person in my life over VD were almost worse because there is some kind of expectation. February 1992 and February 1998 come most prominently to mind. The latter is somehow all mixed up in my head with the only time I have seen Titanic--I am not certain if I actually saw it that night, but there are a couple of weeks that month with such a blur of embarrassing memories that it is all the same.

Plantboy and I have seldom gone out on Valentine's Day. This wall-flower attitude is for a variety of reasons: VD on a weeknight, availability of babysitting on a day when lots of people go out, finances, and a reluctance to make the day into all that big of a deal. Still, I do like to make an effort to acknowledge the day: I usually make a nice supper, decorate the table, give tiny presents at each plate, etc.

Two weeks ago we went to Olive Garden which has a special dish this month they are calling "Four Cheese Stuffed Mezzaluna." I subbed shrimp for chicken. It was very, very good. Then, last Saturday I got a bee in my bonnet to re-create it. I did; and while I am sure that it would be very easy to tell the difference in a taste test, I am not at all certain that mine would lose a head to head contest. My picture isn't quite as pretty; I need to take my food shots on white plates and white linens in the sunlight. Still, the result is divine and your special someone will think this is even better than a big candy bar.

I have no idea what "Mezzaluna" means, so I will give mine its own name:

Ravioli in Sweet Cream Sauce with Basalmic-glazed Pork Chops

Heat 4 Tbsp high quality olive oil on medium high and add about half a head of garlic (I think I used six or eight medium sized cloves), roughly chopped, into the oil. Stir fry the garlic for about a minute and then add three Tbsp of flour. Sir continuously until flour is dissolved and no longer raw, about a minute. Reduce heat to medium-low. Then add 3/4 cream, 3/4 cup chicken broth and 1/3 cup sparkling apple juice. (I used Martinelli's; you have some choices for this third liquid ingredient--plain apple or white grape juice would be great or even the light syrup from a can of pears. I liked Martinelli's because the rest of the bottle is perfect with supper.)

Whisk the sauce together and keep over medium-low heat until bubbles break the surface and it becomes thick, stirring often. Stir in 4 oz. Parmesan cheese (I used the shaky kind, but fresh would be fine too.) Add white pepper to taste, or fresh ground black pepper. Taste and observe. If the sauce is too thick (which cream sauces tend to be) and too sweet, add another 1/4 to 1/2 cup chicken broth; if too thick and not sweet enough, add more apple juice, but only a tablespoon or two at a time. If not thick enough, add more cheese and cream.

Sorry the recipe isn't a little bit more exact--I tend to do a lot of things to taste or based on if they look "right." But what is right to you, may not be to me, you know what I mean?

When sauce is just right, turn it down to low, stirring every couple of minutes while you prepare the rest.

Put half a cup of balsamic vinegar with a teaspoon of sugar into a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook until it has a syrupy texture and coats the back of a spoon. Stir often. This takes about 20 minutes; I didn't give it quite enough time, and so it is a little bit runny on my pork chops in the pictures.

Put a pot of water on to boil.

Cook thin pork chops in a large skillet coated with olive oil and a little bit of salt and pepper. When they are browned on both sides they are done. While the pork is cooking, use the other side of the skillet to saute julienne strips of red pepper.

When your water boils, add enough ravioli to serve how many you are cooking for. I used the large ravioli you can buy at Costco, just the cheese variety, though there is a triangular shaped spinach-filled one that would be extremely delicious with this sauce.

Most store-bought ravioli tells you that it is cooked when it floats, so watch it closely. Drain when cooked.

To serve, spoon sauce over cooked ravioli and garnish with red peppers and fresh basil ribbons. Serve pork on the side with a generous drizzling of the reduced balsamic vinegar. We had a crusty sourdough baguette that was perfect for mopping up left over sauce and vinegar.

For dessert, I made custard-sized chocolate lava cakes. Here is the recipe:

5 ounces semi or bittersweet chocolate (I used bittersweet baking bar)

6 TBSP butter

4 eggs

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP sugar

1/2 cup + 2 TBSP flour

Heat oven to 350 degrees and grease 4 custard cups (or a LARGE muffin pan). Melt butter and chocolate in a double boiler, stirring frequently, until smooth. Beat eggs, sugar and flour together. Add butter/chocolate mixture to the egg mixture slowly while stirring. Bake at 350 for 12 minutes. Don't use a tester, the inside should be gooey. Serve hot.

Serve either with ganache (super rich) or cream (really rich). For ganache, warm 1/2 cup of heavy cream until steam rises. Turn off heat, add six ounces semi-sweet chocolate chips and stir until creamy and thick. The cream should be sweetened, but not beaten--it just melts when it touches the cake.

Turn out each cake on a plate on either a bed of cream or ganache. Garnish generously with strawberries or raspberries.

I have no idea what to tell you to do about the dishes; I know that is really the best part of going out. Maybe Significant Other will be so impressed that he will volunteer? After all, there are few things more attractive than a man doing housework. . . Happy Valentine's Day.

Not To Be Judgmental or Anything . . .

You know that when you hear someone say the above (or any variation of it), what follows is not going to really be a credit to either the speaker, listener or the subject. I've been quite self-aware, for some time, of my tendency to make snap judgments. I'm better at curbing this impulse now than I was, say, age 17, but it is still ridiculous how far I have to go with this particular weakness. Blogging has actually helped--because I write so much of what I think for others to see now, I believe I'm getting more careful about what I think in the first place.

Today.I.Just.Can't.Help.Myself.

Last week I read in the paper about octuplets born alive to a woman in California--seven were expected, but eight were born. The babies were quite early and a couple of them are extremely small, but so far all have survived. The paper was brief on details about the mother, apparently at her request. After I read the story, I felt very grateful that I was not in a position to have to make a decision about fertility drugs--either taking them or the many decisions that continue to follow the consequences of taking them. I also felt a measure of respect for this mother. Early in her pregnancy, terminating some of the babies had been presented to her as a desireable option, but she just didn't feel right about it. Also, in not disclosing her name I viewed her as a much more careful and concerned mother than, say, the John and Kate Plus 8 Harpie. Or maybe I should say Queen Harpie.

There was a follow up story today. A story that sickened and disgusted me.

Octo-momma already has six children, all of whom were conceived on fertility drugs. She also has no husband and her mother is pretty much raising the first six. She has a publicity agent who gave a majority of the interview. Every major corporation which usually donates to multiples has been contacted for handouts, but it seems that many of the companies are backing off of this one. There have already been talks with The Learning Channel about a program.

It was at this point that my head exploded. What would they call this show Just Kate plus 14? Or Eight is Enough So Who Wants the Other Six?

The journalist reporting went on to speculate that the hospital stay alone for these 8 preemies will be considerably over a million dollars. Nor could the reporter find any evidence of the woman having worked in the last two years.

Is there a nice, neat, reasonable explanation that paints all involved parties in their right minds? Perhaps. Perhaps she and her hubby were "just" going for number seven, and together had wanted a large family. Perhaps, her doctor had always believed her to be a stable, normal mother. Perhaps her mother was loving having a second chance at parenting and gladly took on all of these little ones. Perhaps Octo-dad freaked out and left only when it turned out his wife was having a litter and decided he just couldn't deal. Perhaps this mother had never even considered a career as a reality show star before submitting her body to a science experiment. Perhaps any number of babies over two necessitates a publicity agent--you know, like how the lactation consultant comes in to most mothers? Perhaps. . . perhaps. . .

Or perhaps SOMEBODY in the chain of "responsible" adults who have perpetrated this nightmare should have been a voice of reason and said, "There is no way a dangerously unbalanced, single woman who is only half a mother to begin with should have any business taking fertility drugs. And if she thinks somebody else should pay for it--either in the form of insurance or government or sponsors or concerned citizens or pro bono babysitting then she just needs to start signing the adoption papers NOW. And not eight sets. Fourteen.

Don't get me wrong, I am not pointing my (admittedly self-righteous) finger at the mother alone. Oh, no. I think there is loads of blame to go around: from the mother who has enabled her idiot daughter with her free daycare, to the deadbeat sperm donor dad, to the DOCTOR, for crying out loud, who agreed to this latest treatment, to the insurance company who very likely approved her round of fertility drugs. AT WHAT POINT DID ALL COMMON SENSE CEASE?

Years ago I had a colleague who had been married for some years; she told me once that she and her husband had no interest in raising children, though she thought it seemed weird sometimes to think about getting old and not having family around. She was not at all religious and tended to view things very scientifically. One day we discussed the brouhaha at the University of Utah (late 90's) over the gay professor and his partner who were suing the state for adoption rights. I was interested in her opinion because I knew that, if anybody could, she would reason through the situation instead of reacting with emotion. She said something I'll never forget, "I think there are a lot of reasons people have children, but it should never be for selfish reasons. For all that those men might make excellent parents, they have made their crusade so public that having a child now is more about the principal of the thing than the thing itself. It is like they haven't stopped to think how hard it will be for a child to be dragged into all of this."

Well said.

As I look at Octo-mom, yes, with a fair amount of distaste, even disgust, I can see plainly that she will be punished by her own choices. She will have to live with the consequences of her folly and selfishness. (And, yes, to do something so dramatic for attention is selfishness no matter how many hundreds of diapers she will change.) I guess there is no need to judge, the natural penalties of her decisions will take care of that, but I feel sick for those kids.

Their lives will be so affected, and therefore their choices limited, by their mother's actions. Their lives will be punctuated by poverty, scrutiny, the side-affects of premature birth, and a mother who clearly places a low priority on what is best for them.

One last thing before anyone reading gets their knickers in a twist: in case you have misunderstood my anger, I have nothing whatever against large families. Though I don't know that I'll have a very large one myself, my dad was the oldest of ten, my mother the oldest girl out of nine kids, and Plantboy is one of nine. (And, I must add, I would be hard-pressed to find a family anywhere that is greater than my hubby's.) One of my favorite readers is the oldest of 21 (or 22, Erma? I forget) . . . . what I am saying here is that I take serious issues with people who are STUPID. Especially when it comes to making their children pay the price for their irresponsibility.

Everybody Loves Pictures

So much to post, so much to post. I'm assuming, of course, that you are interested in whatever random minutiae pops into my head. I would love to post a lengthy response to Nem's blog post from today, but I'm thinking perhaps all has been said and then some. I'm also trying very hard to keep resolution #6. (You forgot? Oh, very well, scroll down to the bottom of the page and I've got them all listed so I can keep reminding myself. They say to post these things on a mirror, but I'm obviously here way more than I am in front of the mirror.) I also must post the recipe I made on Saturday because, I promise, it is guaranteed to get you some Valentine's Day love. I mean seriously, skip the meal out and cook this for your sweetheart instead. I am also thinking about . . .

Well, anyway, I think people mostly just like pictures, so rather than give you a lot of commentary I will just post pictures from our latest nomad adventure. If you have never taken three little kids snowshoeing then you have not really lived. Our day was wonderful in some ways, but the snow was a bit of a disappointment--pretty crusty and the snowshoes, well, the need for them was probably not great. Still, the big boys were troopers and went as far as they possibly could. We snowshoed a short trail to a big waterfall. Plantboy carried the baby down and back; I carried Padawan back up the hill. And in case you are wondering, oh, yeah, it was aerobic.

It is interesting to note here that my kids will not, for some reason look at the camera. Coupled with a slow shutter speed, this makes for some pretty interesting pictures. We tried the above shot five times. They weren't looking at the camera once. The waterfall, thankfully, held still for its photo.

Jedi Master says, "Look away, Mommy, or the camera will steal your soul." Honestly! What part of "Look right here until you are told to look away," is so hard to understand?

After the waterfall hike, we went back to the sledding hill. We tried a bunch of little hills first and then Jedi Master decided it was time to attempt the big hill. Remember, this is "big hill" by Oregon standards. Old Main would take one look at this hill and give such a loud guffaw of derision that it would cause an avalanche. This hill was mostly characterized by the attempts of older sledders to make it exciting. Hence it was much potholed and riddled with frozen jumps. All was going very well with the sledding until Jedi Master said, "I want to go down there." He pointed at a series of bumps that I had gone down while dragging my feet. (I don't crave the big air like I used to.) "Are you sure?" questioned Mommy in her most concerned voice while still trying to understand that boys will be boys.

"Oh yeah. I'm sure."

He was sure until the very last bump. Until then he had been giggling and screaming. But after the last bump caused him to fly into the air, landing his bony little tush on the frozen snow, he decided that the whole day was a bust.

Things looked up considerably after a trip to Dairy Queen.

The last shot here is a picture of the boys in the jammies that Colorado Grandma sent for Christmas. Aren't they cute? Well, okay, only Padawan is smiling, but in eight shots this is the only one in which they are all facing the camera. Look at Padawan's legs. Even mine aren't that white. Poor kid.