crazedparent

There's no place like home...

I'm back from BlogHer and like all the other blogalicious ladies who attended the conference, there's so many stories to share. From the incompetent taxi drivers who had no clue where they were going to seeing Lisa Ling at the W Hotel twice. And then there's the actual conference. Where to begin and where to end?

I can't do it all tonight, I'm just too tired. So I'll share one of my highlights: Meeting Elizabeth Edwards again. It's too easy to say she's amazing. She said she recognized me from the round table discussion she had with the SV Moms bloggers, which immediately made me giddy. But it's truly an honor to see her speak and this time, to have a photo snapped with her (Thanks, Dory).

As for the rest of the trip, I missed my boys (all three of them). The smiles on their faces when they saw me at the airport was just something I wish I could package up and carry with me every single day. Pure love and excitement. Five gave me the tightest hug. And when I looked at Q., it was one of the first times I really noticed how much he looks like me. It was so strange to see my face as a wee one. It's something that only happens when you are away from your kids for a few days, and you come back and discover how much they've changed in such a short time. But you know this already, I'm sure.

I'm also having Luna withdrawl. I'm counting the days until my puppy comes home. And she won't be so little, I'm sure. She's growing at a rate of five pounds per week. If my calculations are correct, she will come home weighing close to 45 pounds...and she's only four and a half months old. But dammit, she'll have manners now (in theory).

The upcoming week looks to be hectic on the home, work and personal front. And I received some sage advice from Jessica Ashley at BlogHer and I'm taking it to heart by doing a little opening of my hands to release some things causing me strife...and hopefully leaving them empty to welcome new goodness.

I'm so happy to be home (although I would have loved to bring a W Hotel bed with me).

Me, me, me...

No, that's not the phrase I keep hearing from my boys. This post...it's all about me. In ten seconds. The BlogHer 10 Second Meme.

Here goes:

I'm the youngest of four children (read: spoiled rotten and could get away with almost anything), born to a Salvadoran mom and Irish-English (go figure)-American dad. I married my high school sweetheart, have two handsome sons and a gorgeous new puppy named Luna (aka Luna Negra, Luna Lovegood, Looney, Luna Girl, Damn Dog and No Bark). I'm the editor of one of the coolest sites for parents on the web and freelance write for some other fun outlets. I love gin martinis but am allergic to juniper. And Rick Springfield? En fuego. (Did I mention I'm seeing him twice next week? That's right; the Summer of Springfield is back.) Oh, and I want to have my own performing rock band by the time I'm 40 (I didn't say we had to be good).

I could say this in ten seconds, especially after happy hour.

***

I get cranky when I have a good week of consistent posts here and  then they fall by the wayside due to "other obligations." We've been getting ready for BlogHer and it's been a little hectic around here. All will be back in order soon or, God help me, I'll start spewing something that's not acceptable.

Updates from BlogHer to come.

And safe travels to all heading to Chi-town.

The guilt, part two... (alternate title: Damned to hell...)

Another example of my Catholic Guilt parenting use, only with an unexpected twist.

I picked Nolan up from school and on the drive home, we had the following conversation:

"Mom, I know everything."

"You do? Wow. Because I don't know everything."

"Well I do, Mom. Everything. I know everything." (He paused on each word for emphasis).

"Mommy and Daddy don't know everything -- are you saying you know more than we do?"

"Yes, I know everything. I know more than you and Daddy."

"Nol, the only one who knows everything is God."

"Mommy...well...I am like God."

He's clearly on to my Catholic Guilt tactics. Or I gave birth to the next Messiah.

Either way, I'm screwed.

Oh, the Catholic guilt...

I was a Catholic school girl for 13 years. With a Latin Catholic mom and and Irish-American Catholic dad, plus my first 9 years of education at an Irish-Catholic school, you can say I'm very well versed in this thing called 'The Catholic Guilt."  Defined: feeling remorse for just about anything you do in life. I remember a high school friend telling me that her parents told her (did you get that?) sitting on a boy's lap was a sin because it would arouse him. So if she did, in fact, sit on a boy's lap, she would feel guilt not for arousing him, but for not listening to her parents. And that, my friends, is Catholic Guilt.

I became a non-practicing Catholic after high school for a host of reasons. I also was really, really tired of the Catholic Guilt and figured that by not actively being a part of the religion, this aspect would go away. But no, I felt guilty for not going to church, or for not getting married "in the Church." The guilt list goes on. (Except my Summer of Springfield, I never feel guilty about that.)

Over time I've since arrived at a place where I'm okay with being Catholic. I've embraced it enough that we're sending The Express to a Catholic school in the Fall. That was a big step for me.

This Catholic Guilt business, though, it stays with you for life. When you're a teenager drinking wine coolers before the school prom and hoping you don't get busted by Sister McGaherty and sent home to your parents who will then never let you leave the house, "the guilt" is such a drag. But when you're a parent, my does it come in handy.

Case in point: my afternoon lunch discussion with Nol today. I told him he needed to take five final bites of his meal before he could have a rice crispy treat. The kid's gotta' work for it, am I right? I left the room for a few minutes to check on a barking Luna, and when I returned, Nol had started on his sugar hit. Only his lunch didn't look all that different from when I'd left the room earlier.

"Nol, did you eat five bites?" I asked.

"Ahh, mmmhmm. Yes, I did," he answered, avoiding my eyes.

"Nol, look at me -- did you really?"

His eyes looked directly into mine and he said, "Yes, Mommy. I ate all five bites. Really! I did." Chomp, chomp, another taste of his rice crispy treat.

Apparently my subconscious went in the Catholic Guilt cavern of my youth because suddenly out of my mouth came words so dramatic, so good, that I was near stunned.

"Okay, cool! Hey - can I ask God about those five bites?"

Nol's response was equally stunning...and entertaining. Eyes wide, face serious, he said:

"Nooooooooo! Don't ask God! Don't Mom!"  He quickly ate the remainder of his lunch.

Catholic Guilt? I think I'm gonna' like it this time round.

To catch a thief...

Luna got a new bed today since the last one I bought ripped about two seconds after I walked in the door with it (and it wasn't worth bringing back). She quickly made herself at home, so I left her alone for a few minutes while I checked on Q. in the backyard. I mean, what's to worry when she's looking like this:

All sweet and cute, right? I returned to silence. And a missing puppy. Our house is small, it didn't take long to spot her. She had jumped on the couch (the first time ever) and was looking for booty to steal. She apparently had her eyes set on Mack Truck from Cars.

Wrong. She wanted some gear from Mr. Potatohead (and who doesn't?) Knowing she was being naughty stealing from an Idaho spud, she buried her muzzle into the corner of the couch to protect -- and chew -- her prize...his green little baseball cap. She turned her rump away from me in disgrace.

I confronted Luna, ordering her to "give." (I think my exact words were, "Give it up, girlfriend.")  She dropped that piece of plastic out of her mouth. But not without a pout.

And you wonder where I've been?

In the nutter house, chasing after my puppy and her criminal ways.

A little all-star first base action...

Nol spent Monday afternoon chilling with JT Snow at the DHL All-Star Fanfest in San Francisco. The former first baseman for the SF Giants was tossing out his tips to the kidlings looking to be future Rookies of the Year (now do you get the intended pun?).

Check out the full story at The Sandbox at Maya's Mom.

Can we agree that JT looks as good at almost-40 as he did back in his rookie days? The man is aging very well.

I was impressed with how he spoke to the kids. But I was more impressed with his pointers to the moms and dads in the stand.

"What does the umpire say at the start of the game?" he asked the little ones.

"Play ball," they all yelled.

"That's right. Play Ball," he stressed.

And he went on to remind them that baseball is about having fun. He emphasized this as he spoke to the parents too, and in a very civil, very professional way, basically told mom and dad to back the eff off when it comes to putting pressure on their kids to be the next home-run derby winner.

I love tough talkers.

The scent of sweet and lovely...

My grandmother was a baker. And a seamstress. And an artist. She moved to the United States from El Salvador in 1963, after my parents had their first babies (twins). I can't remember a time when she wasn't with us. She lived with us but traveled extensively. Even so, she was always around. Like a second mom.

Her name was Josephine, but we all called her Fina Linda. Beautiful Fina. She was gorgeous. When she died at 93, she looked no older than 70. Her eyes were hazel and sparkled with such brilliance when she smiled. She could make anyone laugh, and she was terribly gifted when it came to playing with her grandkids and great grandkids with her child-like heart.

In El Salvador, Fina had her own bakery. Growing up, she would take me with her all over San Francisco. Each day would bring a new field trip. Golden Gate Park. Shopping downtown in Union Square. To the Mission for our weekly purchase of fresh corn tortillas (and a candy heart necklace for me -- it would inevitable stain my neck as the dye from the candy bled into my skin). But the most special memories of my time with Fina were in the kitchen, cooking and baking.

Fina never used a written recipe. Nor could -- or would -- she tell you what her recipe was for a given meal or pastry, because it changed each and every time. You just had to watch...and learn. I was the one in our family to watch, and so I became her helper. We made dulce de leche, arroz con leche, platanos fritos, tamales, Salvadoran cookies, and of course, pupusas. Even my mom will admit that I am the only member of our family who can make pupusas like Fina Linda, and I take great pride in that nod of approval.

Fina made two special breads from El Salvador. One was called Quesadilla. Most people hear the word "quesadilla" and automatically think of a tortilla filled with melted cheese. I'd never seen that version of a quesadilla until I was in my late teens and went to Chevy's for the first time. Our version was a bread made of a parmasean cheese and other ingredients.

But it was the other bread that was my favorite, called Maquesote. As Fina got older, she stopped making it. And it was this recipe that I really wanted. The smell was sweet and lovely, of egg whites and sugar whipped together with flour. She'd hand me the mixing paddles after she was done using them so I could lick every iota of batter off. I remember eating the tiny puddles of batter that she purposely left in the bowl for me after she'd poured everything in the pan. When the Maquesote came out of the oven, the top was golden brown and cracked when you touched it. The top was the best part -- it tasted of hard sugar, like candy. But the bread was dense and still airy. Perfect with my milked-down coffee.

Earlier this week I was in charge of baking a birthday cake for my mother in law. Feeling ambitious, I decided to make a Tres Leches Cake from scratch based on a recipe from Sunset Magazine. As I was stirring the batter over hot water on the stove, a familiar smell tickled my nose. That sugary sweet aroma of sugar, eggs and flour. I quickly tasted the batter. I was elated. Could I really have discovered the recipe to my grandmother's Maquesote? Was it just a basic Tres Leches cake without all of the sauces? I wouldn't know until I baked it. If the top became the tell-tale color and crispness, I'd hit the jackpot.

And hour later, it was as if I'd channeled Fina Linda. It was her cake coming out of the oven. I felt like she had just sent me a gift from the heavens above. One to add to the many she'd already given me over her lifetime.

I wanted to taste the cake immediately. But I couldn't. It was for someone else...and it had to be a real Tres Leches Cake. I took great care in trying to make it perfect. A cake from my Fina Linda deserved as much.   

Finding this recipe made me re-think my cooking experience with the boys. We spend much time in the kitchen preparing meals. They watch and help. They have favorites. They ask for repeats. Will they someday smell something sweet and lovely in the kitchen and think of their mom's recipe? Smile.

Gracias Fina Linda. Cada dia coso con tus colores.

Summertime and chipboard distractions...

Summer makes me impulsive.

Summer also distracts me.

The hot weather, the blazing sun. The thoughts of beaches and sand and fruity beverages with alcohol. Such goodness. Except when you're a workin' mama.

When I was in the corporate world, I used to look at websites and read stories about writers and their summers. They were always talking about side projects, hobbies that would be interspersed with their writing days and work week. Bitches, I thought. I want that writing life. I guess I'm that bitch now. Tee hee.

Thus summer I have crafts on the brain. As I wrote at Job-Mom, I think my current lack of work/life balance and general dog and kid chaos is making me think about other areas outside of work. My hobbies, for example. And my inner crafty chica is calling out all new ideas all the time. It's dangerous, expensive and exciting.

I've been veering away from traditional scrapbooking (a la Creative Memories) and looking at some newer, more artistic types of scrapbooking for the past few months. And last week a little match lit my ass on fire to create an album made of chipboard based on one done by scrapper extraordinare, Ali Edwards. The only problem was that despite searching high and low, I couldn't find the album needed for the project.

I took matters into my own hands and ended up creating this little memory album for my mother-in-law's birthday. It's called the "Why I love Grammy" book, with a photo of each grandson and a journal entry that details about why, well, they love their Grammy.

I bought a heat gun to emboss the cover, which turned out like this:

Learnings:

-Heat guns are no fun. This particular bad boy made the embossing powder fall everywhere. And damn did  the house reek after I used it.

-Chipboard rocks. I can't wait to test out some new albums by Maya Road.

-Being crafty can be learned -- you don't have to be born with a "craftiness" gene.

-I love my life. I love that because I was so motivated to make this album, I could finish up my projects early in the week so I could focus on other fun stuff. And I thank my husband every single day for encouraging me to take this risk to pursue my life-long dream of being a professional writer and helping me make it happen. Because while it's summer, and I'm busy being mom, wife, wordsmith, dog-trainer and general crazy chica, I can still make time for me.

Almost guilt free.