A Recipe for Christmas Magic

Hanging on my kitchen wall is a handwritten recipe for chili sauce. I've never made this recipe, nor have I eaten this sauce. I found the recipe scrawled on and old slip of office stationary. The heading reads Pacific Elevator Company, Kansas City, Missouri. It fell out of an old cookbook I was looking through with my Auntie M one day.

I love old cookbooks. The terminology and techniques fascinate me. For example, this particular chili sauce recipe calls for "eight teacups of good vinegar".

So when my Auntie M decided we must have a Christmas cookie backing day this year, I scoured my old cookbooks. No way was I gonna grab pre-fab, refrigerated cookie dough from the grocery store. But I wasn't looking for something printed in those cookbooks. I was looking for a handwritten index card I had used as a bookmark for decades. If I could only remember in what book.

After nearly a half-hour, I found it. The Dieker vanilla wafer recipe.  Mr. Dieker was my fourth grade math teacher. His wife was this lovely woman whose house I remember was always filled with something good to eat and a lot of laughter. Their children were living, breathing recreations of every sweet-faced, blonde-haired cherub painted on old-fashioned Christmas cards or Gerber baby food ads. I remember summers at the swimming pool with them and snapping green beans and sucking on strawberries from a big garden we helped plant in their backyard. And I remember those sugar cookies.

Yesterday, my Auntie M arrived with festive aprons and a basket full of Christmas shaped cookie cutters. She opened a sparkly tin to reveal a dozen different kinds of sprinkles and toppings and edible glitter. I rolled out the Dieker dough. My kids, home from college, slipped into baker mode, and for the next six hours we cut and baked and frosted and decorated and sang and laughed.

As I mixed up a second batch, I marveled that there must be something magic in that dough, for I was transported back forty years to a snowy day in a small town where a little girl rolled up a giant ball of snow to make the bottom of a six-foot tall snowman that would have its picture in the paper the next day. I fell back to a Christmas eve when Santa, himself, knocked on our door and delivered our most desired toys right into our hands. Then, in a flash, it was Christmas morning and my little ones (whose college versions now joked over whose gingerbread man most resembled a muddy alien) chased their Jesse and Woody dolls around the living room. At the end of the day, we had created this beautiful mess and mess of merry memories, too. In my mind, the laughter and stories and disasters and secrets we shared with Auntie M around a table full of Christmas cookies emblazoned their love right into that faded little index card.


Yes, there is something magical about an old recipe. The terminology and techniques are quaint and quirky, but woven into the handwritten instructions is a secret code.

I've often wondered about that old chili sauce recipe--the one that calls for "a heaping peck of large, round tomatoes" and "one grated nutmeg". What special occasions and traditions happened around this pot of chili sauce? It's code will never be deciphered. It will remain a fun mystery hanging on my kitchen wall. The amazing magic in the Dieker Dough, however, has been revealed. I've promised myself to keep it that way.

In fact, I've done some digging. Dieker Dough isn't the only magic card in my kitchen. It seems I've got a whole deck. Watergate cake. Peanut Butter Pie, Grandpa's Steak Stew. Aunt Polly's Pink Champagne Punch. I have a feeling 2019 will have us picking a card, any card. I can't wait to see the magic unfold.

Parenting the Uni-mind

It’s completely my fault. They remind me constantly it’s how I raised them. 

They look like a couple of normal college kids, right?

Don’t let the image fool you. I’m pretty sure they have the skills to serve as top-secret espionagers.

Before my empty-nester days, I prided myself in knowing all the details of the secret lives of my four kids. Then two of them went off to college, and I felt more out-numbered by this younger duo than I did with all four. These two could get their story straight with barely a glimpse across the room. We call them…the uni—mind.

My empty nest has done nothing to diminish the outnumbered feeling. In fact, now that they are young adults living three hours away, the cahoots they’re in involves more than staying out after curfew or which one stole my secret Little Debbies stash. Now it includes covering up adult things—like surgery.

One innocent Thursday, I expected my two college kids home sometime in the evening. Instead, I received a call admitting a change in plans. “I won’t be home tonight, mom, because I’m having surgery in the morning.” What’s more, she didn’t need me to come. That would just be weird.

Uh…what?

It was a minor procedure to remove a small bone chip in her knee that had been bothering her for some time. I knew about the chip. I didn’t know about the surgery. Still, this Roaring Mom had a major freak-out. My son, at nineteen years old, would be going with her to check her out after and drive her home. Everything was taken care—except the huge taffy-pull on my heart that happens when your kids no longer need you for stuff that you need them to need you for.

I had a way around it, though. I called my son, one-hundred percent certain he wouldn’t want the responsibility. The call went something like this:

ME: So, what’s the plan tomorrow morning?

HIM: What plan?

ME: I need you to tell me what’s happening tomorrow.

HIM: (Hesitantly) I don’t know. What do you think is happening tomorrow?

It went on like this for five minutes.

The loyalty of the uni-mind is strong. Not even the I-gave-birth-to-you could crack it.

Apparently, however, what had worked (maybe too well) was my daily repeated mantra from their childhood: You-guys-were-born-16 months-apart-on-purpose-so-you-could-keep-each-other-entertained-so-go-play.

I’m continually blamed for their independence and strong will and opinionated voice. “You told us to be true to ourselves. You told us to be independent. You told us not to make decisions based on what other people think.”

It is mindboggling, satisfying and terrifying to watch them grow up. The surgery went fine, and I survived not being there for it. So, if this bit of adulting is my fault, I’ll take the blame.

But moms, even when they no longer need us for what we need them to need us for, we shouldn’t let go too much.  In the midst of my freak-out and my son’s assurance that they “got this”, he paused just long enough to let me know he’ll always need me for something.

                HIM: You should be proud that we are mature and responsible enough to handle this. Oh, and while I have you on the phone, can get twenty bucks for a haircut?

Roaring Mom Win! I think I set a speed record on Square Cash.

You know, if he’d been really smart, he would have asked for fifty right then.

Guess my work isn’t done after all.

The Blame for What's Wrong With America

Read carefully the following words. All of these comments were made within the last few months by teenagers in a school with a mostly white student body.

If I were sitting in a room full of ____________ and didn’t know them, I would be scared.

All that is wrong with our country right now can be blamed on ______________.

I was sitting in class, and they were talking about some awful part of our history and someone asked, “And whose fault is this?” Everyone answered, __________________. I was practically the only _________________ in the class. I felt so uncomfortable and awkward.

__________________ have had all the privilege and the power for so long, it’s someone else’s turn. We should just eliminate all of them. Yes, the world would be a much better place if all the ____________ were gone.

Fill in the blanks with the word or group of words you think were originally used.

Did you write in the word blacks? Did you write in gays? How about Jews?

Go ahead. Reread the comments and fill in the blanks with those words. Does it scare you? Are you concerned at all at the casual communications of our youth? I hope it scares you. It should.

Now, let me tell you the actual words originally used in the comments.

If I were sitting in a room full of straight, white males and didn’t know them, I would be scared.

All that is wrong with our country right now can be blamed on the straight white male.

I was sitting in class, and they were talking about some awful part of our history and someone asked, “And whose fault is this?” Everyone answered, the straight, white male. I was practically the only straight, white male in the class. I felt so uncomfortable and awkward.

Straight, white men have had all the privilege and the power for so long, it’s someone else’s turn. We should just eliminate all of them. Yes, the world would be a much better place if all the straight, white men were gone.

That last comment was said in jest, but I’m not sure it matters. Or maybe it does. Maybe the fact that we can casually joke about exterminating an entire race-based gender should matter a lot more than it does. Maybe that’s the problem.

How to Love Your Life

You know that friend you have who, when you ask her how things are going, spews all over you? I mean, that’s what friends are for, right? And if I didn’t want to know, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m all for love and support, but I gotta tell you about another kind of friend.

I am blessed to meet up with my friend Lori about two or three times a year. There comes a point during every one of our catch-up conversations where she looks me in the eye, displays a giggly grin and says, “Man, I love my life.”

She’s also tall and trim and beautiful and smart and funny. But don’t start hating her. Her life is not perfect.

If you knew her, you might be tempted to say...but she has a great husband. No wonder she’s happy. She has great kids (eight of them, I might add). She has a beautiful home. She never has to worry about finances. She doesn’t deal with disease. She doesn’t have the problems the rest of us have.

My answer to that---BULLSHIT!  (By the way, she has this terrible habit that is one of my favorite things about her. Let’s just say the swear word jar in her house is for the parents.)

She has a great husband because she married a great guy. In other words, she chose judiciously. Their marriage isn’t perfect. No one’s is. But they work on it. Sometimes together, sometimes individually.

She has great kids because she constantly reflects and seeks out better ways to parent. She struggles. They struggle. She tries and fails and tries again--just like every other parent. More than once have we mused on how we’ve scarred our kids--not on purpose, but because every parent does.

She has a beautiful home because they worked and saved and prayed for it. Then created it.

She doesn’t worry about finances? Ha! She has eight kids, remember? And we all deal with disease and illness and health...and death. And so has she.

So how is it that she never fails so exclaim, “Man, I love my life”?

Consider this. What if “I love my life” didn’t meant what we think it means? What if it didn’t mean I enjoy my life? Or my life is perfect? Or I have no stress?

What if we thought of love as an action verb? What if we “loved” our lives the way we love our pets or our children? To love another is to care for it, right? What if “I love my  life” meant

I seek out peace.

I’m open minded and humble enough to learn how to be a better parent or person.

I reject harmful people and substances and places and activities.

I actively seek out nourishing people and substances and places and activities.

I practice gratitude.

What if loving our lives meant taking care of our lives?

I wonder what would happen if we started all our catch-up conversations with “I love my life”? I wonder what would happen if we started every day that way?

Lori creates a life she loves because she cares enough about her life to nourish it. Even in turmoil and tragedy, she chooses to love her life. Love is a choice, and life is a series of choices.

Choose judiciously. Choose love.

How Do I Empty Nest?

When you have a parenting blog and all your kids become adults, you kind of run out of material.

You know, there aren’t a lot of parenting blogs even for parenting teens, unless it’s for troubled kids and how to get them to behave.

Maybe that’s because our teens are so intertwined with social media, we Mom Bloggers are afraid we’ll embarrass them. That is certainly the case for me. Once they became social media savvy, certain moments were off limits. I can’t count the number of times I heard “Don’t blog that” once they turned thirteen.

Well, thirteen passed a long time ago. I’m now an empty-nester. One of my kids is closer to thirty than she is to teenage. In fact, she has a kid of her own.

How do I suddenly not parent?

Remember when you first became a parent? Maybe some of you took those childhood development classes. Maybe some of you changed the diapers of your younger siblings. Maybe some of you ran babysitting services. I did none of the above. Suddenly having no children is just as unfamiliar as when I suddenly had a child. I have no clue how to do this.

You know all that stuff you wish your teen would share with you but they would rather cut their tongues out than tell you? Well, once they are adults, they start telling. And you sometimes wish they had cut their tongues out. There’s just some stuff you don’t want to know. But you can’t not listen. It’s your duty, isn’t it? Because they still need advice and encouragement and celebrations and shoulders to cry on. But they don’t need dinner. Or homework reminders. Or permissions slips signed. Or permission at all.

Last week I called my mom and asked her for some information that I knew I could find if I put forth an effort, but it was easier to call Mom. I’m nearly half a century old, and I’m still calling mom to bail me out and give me advice and encouragement and celebrations and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on.. It’s good to know as much as things change, some things never will.

And then I think back to when my oldest was five and learned how to tie her shoes. “Pretty soon you won’t need me at all,” I said.

“But mom, I’ll always use you.”

I hope so. I really do.

Why I am Working on Women's Day Off Wednesday

My oldest daughter played on one of those competitive youth teams that travelled all over the place. 

Do  you know much about those club teams? 

They are filled with drama--and only some of it is instigated by the youth. A lot of it comes from the parents and the coaches.

For a while, she had one of those asshole coaches who was trying to relive his glory days through a bunch of twelve year old girls. We stayed with the team because she liked the players, and we liked the parents. 

Then came Abby or Princess as she was eventually nicknamed. She was the coach's golden girl. She was a fairly decent player--not that much better than most of the other players--but pretty good. The coach, for some reason, obsessed over this girl. She could do no wrong. The parents saw it. The players saw it. Heck, the opposition probably saw it. 

As you can imagine, eventually there was a meltdown. We're talking Chernobyl level stuff here. Oh, the emails and the phone calls and the threats and the tears! We had to DO SOMETHING. We couldn't just let this favoritism continue. Finally, we were all asked to talk to our daughters to see if they felt that Abby was indeed the coach's favorite and what they wanted us to do about it. 

So I asked, and my daughter answered.

"Of course, Abby is his favorite, but what has that got to do with me? That's not going to effect the way I play or how I feel about this team."

Well, I was impressed. It was a pretty mature answer for a twelve year old. 

So I reported her answer back to the parent pack. 

One mom--that one mom on every team whose daughter isn't very good, but she thinks she's the next Alex  Morgan--responded with her voice all tight and teary, "Well, of course your daughter would say that. She's so secure in herself."

BINGO! I couldn't have said it better myself. 

And that is why I am working on Wednesday. 

More to Love

A couple summers ago I lost 25 pounds. It was one of the best things I've ever done for myself.

I teamed up with a coach, and she quickly became a friend. In our online group, I met a lot of other ladies also on the weight loss journey. We supported each other. We cheered each other. We challenged each other. Women empowering women!

I also learned to sweat for something bigger. On days when I didn't feel like doing the work, I worked out anyway for those who couldn't. It was a powerful emotional and physical journey.

Then I stopped sweating it out. I stopped meal prepping. I stopped drinking water and eating healthy. I bought the Dr. Pepper. I drank the Dr. Pepper. I'm still drinking the Dr. Pepper.

Can I make a confession? I enjoyed every aspect of that, too. I did. I wish I could say that I was racked with guilt and shame. I kind of feel like I should because I knew better and I didn't choose better. But I didn't feel guilt and shame. For the first time in my life, I did not equate my waist size with my worth.

So what am I saying? Am I saying I was wrong to meal prep and eat right and work out? No way! It was right. It was great. And, as I said, it was empowering. In fact, it was that experience that helped me lose something more important than 25 pounds. That experience helped me lose my body-shaming mindset.

I can honestly say that I love my body. I truly do. I love my jiggly thighs because they are part of a set of legs that hold me up and move me from place to place. I love my belly  because it works. I don't have some of the digestive issues and stomach problems that many of my friends suffer from. I love my arthritic fingers because they remind me of what my Grandma Nina still accomplished with fingers that hung from her hands like limp, crooked sausages. (As a young girl, that's what I thought they looked like.)

I love my body, but my focus shifted from it for a while. But isn't that life? It seems to be mine. I work on my mental heath and self talk for a while. I get it to a good place. Then the focus shifts. I sweat hard and eat clean for a while. Then my focus shifts. I Dave Ramsey the shit out of my finances. Then my focus shifts. I organize my desk like an anal retentive psychopath...wait, Nope. Never done the organizing thing. That one can't hold my attention long enough to separate a paper clip from a pad of paper. But, you see what I mean.

I don't know if anyone else's focus ebbs and flows like that. Maybe I've given up. Maybe I've grown up. I'm not sure what it is, but I have accepted that I don't have enough focus to focus on all of it at once. So, I'm keeping the fat clothes and the skinny clothes. I'm keeping the body love and the positive self talk. I'm even keeping the messy desk. I guess what I"m actually doing is keeping it real.

I know that it's time for my focus to shift again. I love my body, but I'm not crazy about the lower energy levels and the worry that the blood pressure might go back up. So, I'm pulling out the meal prep stuff and throwing out the Dr. Pepper. I know it will feel great, and I'm happy to do it. I like sweating for something bigger. I like losing the weight, but you know what else? I especially love what I've gained.

RIP Rant

             

RIP, Gary Marshall.

Seriously? That's all you've got? For the man who brought us The Odd Couple and Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and Mork and Mindy and The Princess Diaries and even had that part in Hocus Pocus, that's all you've got?

Come on! My childhood memories are full of him. My children's childhood memories are full of him. He brought laughter and smiles to millions of people, and all you've got is an acronym that sounds like a fart?

And what about this guy?

I suppose for Alan Rickman, maybe you have a POOP? Peace, Ovations, Obsequies, and Prayers?


For Mya Angelo, something more poetic might be called for.

We'll give her BARF. Benediction, Applause, Respect, and Fondness.

If you can't tell, I hate the RIP. Hate, hate, hate it. It's is the laziest manner of recognition ever created. You know who uses it? People who want to be the first ones on social media to acknowledge the death of some big name star. I wonder how many David Bowie RIP-ers could name more than one of his songs? What about Joan Rivers and James Garner and Robin Williams? If you enjoyed the lifetime of talent and hard work and dedication these folks shared with you, don't they deserve more than the gallant effort you put forth to type three letters?

You know what's worse? When I see social media posts where regular people post RIPs for other regular people. Especially when those RIP-ers are eagerly opening their apps to be the first. I have learned of the death of more than one acquaintance or former school mate from someone's over-zealous use of the Facebook RIP. Most often those RIPs come from other acquaintances or former school mates, not the close friends and families of the deceased. You know why? The close friends and family members are actually grieving, not rushing to FB to get social media attention for their ability to type three letters.

If you need to recognize the passing of a celebrity or loved one, how about sharing a memory? How about listing your favorite things about that person? How about asking others to share as well? Wouldn't that be a better tribute? If you can take the time to tell the social media world when you have a hacking cough or need a drink or how a driver cut you off or where your potty-training kid urinated today or what an ass your ex-spouse is, can't you take the time to offer a comment of appreciation for the dead.

In conclusion, let me ask this one thing of you. When my Maker calls me, I beg of you, please do not RIP me.

Guy Power

It's everywhere! Girl Power music, Girl Power movies. Girl Power memes and messages and mentors. As a mom of 3 daughters, I could not be happier for it.

As a mom of a son, I wonder where all the Guy Power stuff is.

My son is the youngest of my crew. The soundtrack of his childhood includes Hillary Duff, Kelly Clarkson, Avril Lavigne, and Cheetah Girls. Barbie and her Malibu house and jeep and massive wardrobe, who is employed as a CEO, a veterinarian, a teacher, an astronaut, and looks hot in a bikini, inhabited the play room. Even Blue from Blue's Clues is a girl.

I recently read one of those lists of 20 things every mom should teach her teenage daughter. It included things like "Pizza is always a good idea" and "your weight does not signify your worth". Maybe it's time someone made a list of 20 things every woman should teach her teenage son. If I made a list it might include the following.

1. Don't be afraid to open the door for her. If she gives you a dirty look because she can open her own damn door, try not to let it close on her.

2. Even though too many young ladies can't distinguish between kindness and "into her", be kind anyway. That's her problem.

3. Don't stress over the perfect Promposal that will look good on social media. If she's worth anything, she'll want to go with you just because she wants to go with you.

4. Check her Twitter before asking her out. If she airs everything to everyone (even passive aggressively), don't walk away...RUN!

5. Yes, guys are clueless (including you), but teenage girls are crazy. All of them. If you really want a girlfriend, choose your crazy.

6. It's important to hang our with your buddies without the girls. If she cries about it, let her cry. You deserve to have your own friends and your own time.

7. Regardless of the media portrayals, your muscle mass does not signify your worth.

8. Some teenage girls might fall all over themselves for attention from super athletic gym rats, but those aren't the girls you'll be happy with anyway.

9.  Confidence is attractive. Arrogance is not.

10. You don't need a girlfriend to complete you.

11. Yes, pizza is usually a good idea. So are grapefruit and carrots. Try them every now and then.

12. Life is expensive. Don't feel uncomfortable or embarrassed to discuss with your date who will pay for what. But if you invite her, be prepared to pay. If you decide to do an activity together, discuss the finances.

13. For most girls, sex = love. Don't do it unless you truly love her. Hint: You won't truly know you love her until you are willing to NOT do it for the health of your relationship. Even if she is willing, don't do it yet. You'll hurt her in ways you didn't mean to.

14. Don't kiss and tell. Just smile and make them wonder. In any case, defend her honor and your own.

15. You are enough. Just as you are. Your body, your face, your hair, your brain is all enough.

16. Guys think insulting each other is as funny as a soccer ball to the groin. Remember, a soccer ball to the groin is painful, too.

17. It is perfectly fine to appreciate beauty. And guess what else? It is perfectly fine, when you are with your buddies, to comment on a girl's fine ass and great rack and luscious legs. Don't let females fool you. We are doing the same thing regarding the guys.

18. Even though showing emotion is fine, it is also fine to "suck it up" and "be a man". Again, don't let us fool you. We like a strong man. We like to have a strong heart to fall apart on. Have you heard  "Break on Me" by Keith Urban?

19. Learn to cook.

20. In the history of the world, most of the great poets and musicians and entrepreneurs and military leaders and inventors and doctors and philosophers have been men. Don't apologize for that. They have made mistakes. So have the women in this world. But great men have done great things. Be proud to be part of that heritage.

I'm not sure this is an exhaustive list. I don't even know if it's a good list, but I did hit on some important parts. The biggest message I want young men to understand is really the same one we've been preaching to our girls. That is--don't give up your own power by believing belittling messages. Even if there is no such thing as Guy Power music or movies, create your own power. You are enough. You are perfect. You are Man, Hear you Roar. In numbers too big to ignore...

Wow. You guys really do need your own Power Music, don't you?

Recuperating from Grandma Camp

Ten things I gained in one month of living the three-year-old dream life (aka Camp Grandma):

10. A nasty cold that his mother gave me when she dropped him off. (Thanks.)

9.  A fist-sized bruise on my butt from the giant cracked slide that I would let him go down only on my lap. (So he wouldn't get a fist-sized bruise. Duh!)

8. A wounded handed that felt like a freaking dog bite from the same Monster Slide.

7. Elbow rug burns from wrestling on my carpeted floor.

6. A ferocious ear infection from having pool water splashed directly in my ear canal. (I might never hear right again.)

5. Two steps closer to senility because half of my brain now has the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song on permanent replay. (They're two. They're four. They're six. They're eight.)

4. Five extra pounds on my Roaring Grandmom's belly because every time I bribed him with ice cream, I rewarded myself with the same.  (He doesn't share food. Ever. Unless he's eating mine.)

3. A now neurotic cat who has developed a fear of anyone under three feet tall. 

2. The need for a new mattress. (I'm sure you can guess.)

1. A full heart.

After all, none of the rest matters.

In the Zone

Meet Joan. She's the beautiful one with the got-it-all-together look in the family vacation photo. Joan is the mother of a high schooler, a middle schooler, a grade schooler, and a two-year old. Joan is a Roaring Mom. Joan is a super hero. Joan is nuts!

She doesn't look nuts, does she? She looks calm and in control. But I know that's not possible.

I know because for the last month, my apartment has been Camp Grandma to my three-year-old grandson.

I've always said God gave me good children because he knew I wouldn't know what to do with bad ones. Same goes for the grandkid. He's a good kid. Polite (especially when bribed with ice cream). Potty-trained (mostly). Cooperative (sort-of). He's three, remember? His version of all these trait is quite different from the rest of the world.

Still, I'm sure there are more than a few folks who think I might be a child abductor. In fact, one man and his three kids followed me from the playground to the park restrooms while I madhandled the banshee-screaming toddler. I was only trying to keep him from pulling down his pants and peeing on the merry-go-round, but they didn't know that.They listened at the door while I promised all kinds of candy and cookies and and Dr. Pepper, if he would only cooperate already. I endured 30 more minutes of playtime with this man's skeptical eye on me. Can you even imagine this scene with a frustrated grade schooler, an annoyed middle schooler, and an embarrassed high schooler in tow?

At one time in my life, I had four kids under the age of seven. I don't know how I did it. I really don't. Was I on autopilot? Was I daily teetering on the brink of sanity? Did I ever accomplish anything other than getting from one hour to the next?

Some things have come back to me. The necessity of opera lunch. Did you know singing during lunch makes it magically more fun to eat?  Ice cream for dinner. If you throw some fruit on it, you've covered two food groups. Bribery without guilt. I will promise anything if he will just go to sleep or put on his shoes or leave the new toilet paper roll in tact. Examine Exhibit A. He came to Camp Grandma with three Hot Wheels cars. Three.

I know for a fact life was easier when I had four under seven, and I think it's because I was in that zone--that Teflon, ten-second-rule-believing, dirty-face-tolerating, Dora the Explorer binge-watching, Super Mom cape-wearing zone. For the past decade, I've been in the eye-rolling, dirty-shin gaurd-smelling, teen-drama-dealing, never-enough-food-in-the-house mode. I can't even imagine Joan's life. She's living in all four zones at once. I bow to you, Joan. (Nice job working that insanity camouflage.)

Shout out to all parents in every Roaring Mom zone. You're crushing it today. If all you do is get through the next hour, you're right where you need to be. Even if you had to bribe yourself with ice cream to get there!

How to Create Creative Kids and Other Life Lessons

I've told you before about how the time my daughter came home from school complaining that the only kid who understood her jokes was the class weirdie. Her sister, completely serious, said, "I thought you were the class weirdie."

It's true. My kids are kinda weird and it might sorta, kinda be my fault a little.

But maybe not entirely.
 Yes, I let them and all their friends play indoor hide-n-seek without many limitations, much to the demise of my linen closet and Christmas storage area. I also let them dress themselves--tutu over everything, kitty cat shirt under everything, and Tupperware bowl...uh, I mean improvised Buzz Lightyear Helmet...on the head everywhere.

I let them cover themselves in mud and talk to imaginary friends and dress up the cat. We wrote on the walls.The best kitchen utensils were always in the sand box.

We played soccer in the house. And sword fights. And tag.

My kids were the ones on the playground, teaching all the Catholic school kids Cheech and Chong's Sister Mary Elephant routines. They were the ones who got in trouble for chewing gum at school and when asked how their behavior was unChristlike answered, "Well, they didn't have gum when Jesus was alive." They were the ones trying to use mind power to blow up like a giant blueberry  the "stupid" teachers, just to see if it would work. (Think Willy Wonka's Veruca Salt)

But now that they are all adults, I have to admit I am not entirely to blame for their twisted, weirdie sense of humor and anything goes lifestyles. I had help--from Sesame Street.

Seriously! Did you ever notice how freaky those critters are? A giant yellow bird that carries around a teddy bear. A monster who steals everyone's cookies.  A mean grump who lives in a trash can. That two headed-thing and those other guys with honking horn noses. Then, there are these fellows:

Of all the strange things we feed into our children's minds, these guys are some of my favorites. They beat out the big purple dinosaur and his annoying whiny baby friend. They trump the colorfully dressed full-grown men who sing about fruit salad...yummy, yummy. They even surpass the dancing gumdrop-looking creatures with the TVs in their tummies who worship the giant toddler head in the sky. Those other oddities are just weird. These guys are cool.

And if you're gonna be the class weirdie, you might as well be the class weirdie cool cat. And that's that!

What's the weirdest thing you ever used to entertain your kids?

Sounds Like Life

My son is in the next room strumming beautifully on a guitar he didn’t even know how to play this time last year. His voice joins in harmony with his friend’s as they practice for an upcoming audition. She does this wonderful, improvised thing and he stops.

“Oh yeah! That’s great.”

I can hear the smiles.

It’s the sound of joy reverberating through my home. Joy and perseverance and belief and self-doubt and trial and error and passion.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The ball beats a passionate rhythm against the wall. My family room seconds as a soccer field. This is why we can’t have nice things—because I’d rather have a soccer field in my home than nice things. The thumping grows faster and harder, then a miss, followed by an expletive. Then the rhythm starts again. Slow and steady and sure. Then faster.

It’s the sound of persistence, consistency, determination, sweat, aches, pains, skinned knees and pulled muscles. It’s the sound of missed goals and trophies not won and championships celebrated and hard fought victories.

I stand outside my daughter’s bedroom and listen to her reminisce on the phone with her friends over last night’s dance. They already regret things they didn’t say, dance moves they shouldn’t have tried, and the photo they didn’t take of the three of them while their hair and make-up was still on point. But they laugh it off. There’s still time.

My son comes up behind me and tells me not to eavesdrop, that privacy is a right. “Not in this house,” I joke. “Never has been.”

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not eavesdropping. I’m not trying to listen in on a conversation. I’m only hearing the sound. I am breathing in the sounds of their voices and laughter and tears and lives.

There’s not much time. In eighteen months, my last two kids will have flown the coop. They will take their noises with them. They will also take with them their triumphs and sorrows and tenaciousness and doubt and faith. And my heart.

I’m not looking forward to the silence. 

I Told You So

I've often heard the parenting advice that we should never tell our children, "I told you so." I think that advice should actually be

You should never tell your children "I told you so" 

unless it's a really big freaking deal for which 

you totally deserve credit forever and all time.

That's my kind of parenting advice.

Ten years ago, I picked up my oldest daughter from another day of middle school. Another awful, sucky, aggravating day of middle school full of stupid mean kids that said stupid, mean things.

I had already tried all the nice, forgiving, Catholic school mom stuff I was supposed to say. None of it had helped. So I finally told her what I really thought.

Kate, don't worry about it. One day you are gonna be in California doing your thing and all those kids who made fun of you and made you feel unattractive or weird or not good enough are gonna be sitting on their couches in Wichita, Kansas, eating corn chips and watching some show on TV that you worked on. 

Today, I can say I TOLD YOU SO! Today, those Roaring Moms words come true. Today, in fact all this week, the productions she has been working on for months are entertaining the corn-chip eating couch potatoes!

While this post might seem like one big Roaring Mom Brag, that's not totally my intention. You all know how I feel about bragging on our kids. Yes and Always! My point, however, is more that it is perfectly fine to say "I told you so"! Sometimes our kids need to remember that we got it right. Sometimes. we need to remember that we got it right.

This morning, in that same church parking lot, I had a similar conversation with another child o' mine. I reminded him that sometimes the doors we want to open remain closed so that a better door can open later on. Had Kate been hired on with Facebook she wouldn't have still been looking for employment when the CBS job opened up. Working for Facebook would have been cool, but I'm not sure it would have been getting-paid-to-hang-out-with-Jeff Goldblum-cool!

What was cool was what happened when church started. The commentator explained the readings for the day. Simon had failed at fishing all day which left the door open for Jesus to instruct him to throw the nets again. Simon's failure had literally allowed him a chance to grow his faith. If he'd been hauling in the fish all day, he wouldn't not have experienced the opportunity for something greater.

I smiled at my son. I told you so!

If the Gospel backing up your Roaring Mom Words of Wisdom isn't enough reason to say "I told you so", surely Jeff Goldblum is.

Roar On!

Failing Forward

Fail Forward! Have you ever heard those words?

Those words make me cringe. When I hear them, I always imagine myself tripping up the stairs in front of important people at a Black Tie affair, breaking my shoes, ripping my dress, tripping the host—that kind of thing. Going forward, yes. Even going up. But it is not pretty.

Who wants that kind of embarrassment? It would take days to get past the humiliation of the fall before you even began dealing with the I’m-a-loser mentality that inevitably comes along with the failure. And have you noticed that the I’m-a-loser mentality is a mental magnet. The moment you ponder one failure, the rest come rushing at you! It can go something like this:

I forgot the grocery list, so I came home without buying toilet paper.

I also forgot to buy Valentines for my kids’ classrooms.

I didn’t work out.

I ate a donut five donuts.

I forgot to pay that credit card bill from Christmas for presents everyone has already forgotten.

I haven’t taken down Christmas and it’s Valentine’s Day.

I burned dinner.

My hungry, Valentine-less children hate me.

I am Valentine-less, too.

I ate six donuts.

I’m going to die alone. And fat.

I am going to die and I haven’t yet made my will.

And I haven’t saved for retirement.

So there is nothing to will to anyone anyway.

I have to pee and there’s no toilet paper. 

I have failed at life.

See what I mean?

A wise man (AKA, my father, the wisest man I know) sees failure differently. He says that failure is the common thread to learning and knowledge. Failure to recognize failure is the common thread of fools. Failure is the first step to beginning again. The opportunity to begin again is one of God’s gifts. He says he knows this because of the number of opportunities available. A new year, a new month, a new week, a new day, a new hour, a new minute.

If failing, the opportunity to begin again, is one of God’s gifts, who am I to want or expect something different? Even if the opportunity comes with embarrassment and humiliation? If you think about it, who wouldn’t want the opportunity to begin again? I mean, if you got it right the first time, beginning again allows you to repeat the joy of a successful experience. If you got it wrong, of course you want a do-over!

So what if your kids assuage their hunger with half a dozen donuts and you spend the last of their tiny inheritance on delivery pizza. So what if they were the only kids that year with homemade Valentines. And so what if you discover that too much aloe-infused Kleenex can clog a toilet? The next day is a do-over. The next week. The next month. The next year.

God is good. Life is good. And so, it seems, is failure.

No Elves on this Shelf

I can't think of a creepier concept than telling your kids that you've invited some big-headed, lanky

armed freaky thing into your house to stare at them...for Santa. It's bad enough that we threaten/bribe our kids all year long with a promise that some big, bearded guy won't crawl down the chimney in the middle of the night if they don't behave. Now we are adding the Elf on a Shelf.

If you notice, it's not even enough to hide him around the house. Now people have to  be creative. He takes selfies with kids' phones when they aren't looking. He has tea with Barbies.
 He even gets crazy with the baking supplies.

As creepy as the little guy..girl...creature is, the real reason I celebrate the fact that the Elf wasn't added to the list of holiday lies we tell our children until after mine were to old for it, is this-- Elf on a Shelf would have simply been one more Mom Fail for me.

Case in point: The Tooth Fairy

When I was a kid and I pulled a tooth, I placed it in the "tooth glass" (a.k.a Dad's shot glass) that was filled with water and put it on my nightstand. In the morning, without fail, the tooth would be gone and in its place would be a couple quarters or a 50 cent piece.

When my kids pulled their teeth, it usually took about 3 days for the busy, busy tooth fairy to finally get to our house. By that time, the Mom Fail guilt from a string of morning cries because "the Tooth Fairy forgot" had hit and a five dollar bill would miraculously appear under the pillow--for one tooth. At that rate of return, I'm surprised the kids weren't pull them left and right and gumming their food. Five bucks for one little molar! Geesh!

The Easter Bunny was only slightly better. The furry guy never forgot to leave a basket, but there was that one mishap when he left a trail of jelly beans. The kids never saw the trail, but the dog did. Cleaning up rainbow colored dog vomit isn't as fun as you might think.

If I had had to care for that creepy creature, I'm sure that at some point, the stress of adding one more Big Holiday Bribe/Threat would have shredded my last bit of sanity and the inevitable would have happened. Yes, the torturous treatment of the devilish elf. Buzz Lightyear to the Rescue, folks!

Here's the thing I don't get. I know folks with no little kids who are inviting this eerie little elf into their homes. Sometimes, when we don't have the sweet souls of three-year-olds to reign us in, the humor goes right down the toilet pretty fast. Just ask my brother-in-law whose youngest is 21. His day to take care of "Clyde" resulted in an ugly, ugly trip to the crapper.

So maybe I can think of something creepier than bribing our toddlers with mischievous, stalking doll.

Adults, Grown Up People, Parents of Teens and Older Children Everywhere, hear me roar: You are off the hook! You do not need to shelve your elves. It's your turn to smile and smirk at the tired parents of toddlers who awaken on Christmas morning after only 30 minutes of sleep and 10 hours of constructing playhouses and forts and train tracks and weeks of creatively displaying Clyde.  Kick up your heels, sit down and relax, celebrate. You've earned it.

If I Can Do It...My Journey Into Homemade Salsa

It's 10:00 on a Friday. I'm making homemade salsa. Of course. What else would I be doing with my life?

Here's the thing--I don't really make salsa. Making salsa is falls under "cooking". I bake. I don't cook.

But there's that turning over a new healthy leaf thing, so when I felt the urge to turn my kitchen into a a Roaring Mom version of the Keebler Elves Treehouse workshop, I stopped myself. I've been doing pretty good on this health kick thing. It's all about breaking old bad habits and replacing them with new healthy ones.

I pulled out my Fixate (21 Day Fix Approved) Cookbook and searched for a healthy replacement. I've actually always wanted to find a good homemade salsa recipe because we go through the stuff here like it's water.

There are 2 steps in this recipe:                                                        
     
1. Combine jalapeno, tomatoes, and salt in a bowl and mix well.
2. Add garlic, onion and cilantro and mix well.

YES! Even I can do that...but wait!

The ingredients list says roasted jalapeno. How the heck does one roast a jalapeno? I roast a roast in a crock pot. I'm not much of a chef, but even I know that won't work. So I Google it.

Apparently I need gloves to handle the jalapeno. I don't have jalapeno-handling gloves. Hmm... A plastic bag will work, right?

It is gonna have to. I am not going to the store (for probably the third time that day) just for jalapeno-handling gloves.

So back to this jalapeno roasting thing. First, I have to cut the peppers (while carefully holding them with my plastic bag). Then I have to take out the seeds. Seeds are tricky little boogers to pick out with a shopping bag on your hand. Next I place them in the oven on a broiler pan. (I may or may not have Googled what a broiler pan is.) Guess what? I do, in fact, have a broiler pan. Who knew, right?!

Who knew, also, that the peppers still aren't ready for salsa inclusion after they are broiled...er...uh...roasted...whatever...and cooled? They also must be peeled. How does one peel a roasted, broiled, blackened, jalapeno?

Google was busy that night.

Place the jalapenos in a sealed paper bag for fifteen minutes and the skins should peel right off. Only, I don't have paper bags. I have only plastic. You know, in case I have to handle jalapenos. I can also place the peppers on a plate and cover them with a bowl.

Meanwhile, I have some cilantro to chop. I'm not exactly sure cilantro can be chopped. It's wet and sticks to your hands and kind of tears or smashes. It doesn't really chop. I remove the bag/glove and tear the cilantro. Done.

Eventually, everything else is chopped, too--even the roasted, broasted, broiled, steamed, peeled jalapenos.

But wait! There is a recipe "tip"! I could have just pulverized it all in a blender for a less chunky version.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I have to try it. I like less chunky salsa. And I've come this far, anyway.

Well, it smelled great, but resembled a bowl of vomit.

Luckily, I had saved back a bit of the colorful, chunky, guilt-free, homemade, 21 Day Fix approved salsa. It tastes like accomplishment...and jalapenos!