larger view larger view larger view larger view

I can't really say how it all started but somehow over the last few years I have developed an absolute fetish to the world of baking.  And not just cookies and muffins.  I mean out of this world, seven hour long projects, that cost a near fortune to create. 

I do remember the tipping of the scale.  Hmmm...that sentence brought up a whole different issue about sweets after it came out, but what I was referring to was the pushing-over point with my obsession for creating delectable goodies.  It was two years ago this month and I was sitting in my car waiting for a friend to join me at a restaurant for lunch.  I had picked up my latest edition of Bon Appetit magazine and it had a cake on the cover that made my heart pitter patter.  I became so engrossed in the recipe and the pictures, that before I knew it, my friend was knocking on my car window asking me if I was looking at a dirty magazine from the happy and glazed over expression on my face. 

I  made that cake and I have been on a mission ever since.  The mission is to perfect my baking skills and create my own recipes.  This is, of course, all working towards my retirement plan of opening my own bakery.  I've set on a course of making one dessert a week.  My problem?  My hips don't need it.  My husband's waist doesn't need it either.  We feel compelled to eat the spoils since they're just sitting in the refrigerator.  I'm looking for volunteers who would be willing to take half of my creations.  This week will be a lattice top sour cherry pie, courtesy of Bon Appetit magazine. 

Also, I would love to start baking goodies for special occasions. If you buy the ingredients, I'll give you a WOW dessert.  Of course, you have to like it sweet.  That's the only way I do it!

Take a gander at four of my creations in the slide show!

I have been experimenting with gas conservation...namely, driving slowly.  Paying special attention to not accelerating like a bull out of the gate at every stop, has really helped conserve fuel.  But, today, I was honked at.  I knew it would happen eventually, but under the actual circumstances, I wouldn't have figured it. 

I was coming to a red light, the gentleman who honked at me was over eighty, had a handicap placard hanging from the rear view mirror of his boat...er, I mean his Lincoln Towncar circa 1988, and was trying to get around me to make the left hand turn lane which currently had a green light.  But, the beauty of it, the sheer comedy of it all, was when he eventually sped up around me to make his green light, he came to a full stop and then made his left turn.

Yeah, that sort of destroyed the idea he was in that much of a hurry. 

Super cool and amazing tiny pieces of plastic junk are now available in every McDonald's Happy Meal!  My son added the first couple of adjectives and I bet you can guess who added the last.  I have to hand it to McDonald's in the cars they hand out in their happy meals each summer; they do make the little boys go wild.  Thus, my son does all within his power to be a perfect little angel so I deem it worthwhile to drive over to McDonald's and buy him a happy meal. 

It took a full minute for my son to jam the torpedo shooter, which catapults from the grill, in the wrong way and render it useless.  But, I would not take defeat so easily.  I had driven all the way to McDonald's to get that toy, spent over three bucks for ancillary food to get that toy, and listened to the baby scream through all of it to get that toy.  It wasn't going to break on me now.

I rumaged through all my husband's tools to find something to wedge the torpedo out, while my son followed me around the house asking if I could open up his apple dippers for him.  "Forget the food! I'm trying to fix the toy."  I said in frustration.  Did that actually come out of my mouth?  I put the toy down, helped him with his apple dippers, took a deep breath, found a flat head screwdriver and slid the torpedo out. 

Then my son jammed the torpedo in the wrong way again.  Where did it all go wrong?

I thought with the addition of the third male in the house, and me being the only female, our second bathroom needed an overhaul to make it less feminine.   So, I wholeheartedly meant it when I asked the whole family to go with me to the store and help pick out colors and patterns.  But then, I saw it.  The shower curtain of my dreams.

I couldn't contain myself.  I had to make it mine.  My husband tried to steer me towards shower curtains that were striped and not too different in style from most of the shirts he wears.  I poo poo'd them all.  I just had to have that shower curtain; almost as if my self-identity was interwoven in its majestic silky threads and Bohemic style embroidery. 

My husband reminded me the reason we were redecorating in the first place was to find something less frilly, not more frilly, since the boys will be primarily using the bathroom.  "But our guests use that bathroom too!"  I cried out with my fingers crinkling the silk curtain in a panic.  "I don't want our guests to think my tastes are defined by anything other than this shower curtain." 

"What about the boys?"  He asked. 

"One is too young to care and the other one just picked out a plastic curtain with dancing monkeys on it!"  I replied.

"What about what I want?"  He asked.

And though I was desperately trying to not throw out the gender card, I did.  "Between all the burping and farting and wrestling and dirty clothes thrown all over the house, I feel so outnumbered!  Please let me have this." 

He finally succumbed.  Later, when I was putting up my shower curtain, my eldest was patiently watching me, cheering on my good tastes.  When I thanked him for his support, he simply responded, "Yeah, because I know I want dinner."

I was touched.  They get it when they're young and somehow...it just disappears. 

Is it wrong that when I was waiting at a red light on the corner of Coffee and Hageman today, watching a Shell Gas employee change the regular unleaded price from $3.99 to $4.09, I wanted to slew 'your momma' comments at him at minimum, and throw him down to the ground and jump on him at max? 

Of course, I didn't.  I know it's not his fault.  But man...he was brave doing that in broad daylight during the lunch rush.  I guess that explains why he was persistently looking over his shoulder with a mild look of fear and panic. 

My baby has to visit a physical therapist every other week for some neck stretches, and he has the most wonderful therapist.  She and her husband run the therapy center and are an adorable couple.  They, as of yet, have no children.  The first time I brought little Aidan to her, she made a point of telling me that she was going to use my child to show off to her husband how cute babies are, and convince him that it was time to have one of their own.  He was very smitten over my son.  My son never cried, never squawked, and simply looked like a wee little angel.  The therapist felt she had made some advances in her strategy. 

Unfortunately, the next time I went to the therapy session, I had my four year old son with me.  Let me assure you that without a doubt, without a hesitation, and without a remant or shred of hope left, my four year old completely reversed any progress made the previous time.  So, while the baby provides an incentive of cuteness to procreate, most four year old boys are better than birth control. 

I just feel so darn guilty.  It is all of our responsibilities to hide our toddlers and preschoolers away from those who have yet to step into parenthood.  Just show them the babies and rave how wonderful being a parent is.  The love, the moments, the joy (all before the first word is uttered.) We need to trick them into parenthood so we no longer have to be jealous of them when they can still afford to go out to lunch every day and have the opportunity to see a movie that isn't animated or has a talking chipmunk in it. 

I'll have to leave the older one with a sitter next time.

We were out camping and something odd happened one night.  We were at the RV park's pool (I know...not camping) when two gentleman came into the pool area, smiled and said hello. 

I gave a half smirk back because I was too busy trying to figure out what their angle was in approaching me and being so pleasant.  Were they going to kill me, rape me, take my young?  They were just too friendly and it put me off because, quite frankly, not many people are these days.  Naturally, I figured they were up to something. 

However, a few minutes later their wives joined them and they also gave me a warm greeting.  When they actually spoke to me in a full sentence, I was finally able to pick up the foreign accent.  Coupled with the few words of German I picked up in their speech, I realized they were German tourists RVing through America. 

They played in the pool with my son and husband and were wholeheartedly kind and gracious.  Needless to say, I was quite ashamed that my first reaction to their kindness was to prepare myself for the commission of a crime.  But, it made me think what this poor country  has come to.  It isn't the state of our guardedness that bothers me, because we need to be guarded these days.  Thus, what bothers me is the necessity to be guarded.  How many of us would truly feel comfortable with two middle aged men in speedos playing with their four year old son in a pool if those were American men? 

Because as far as this mommy is concerned, if it wasn't for the European accent, the situation would have been completely anomalous to the American norm and I would have been right in assuming something could be afoot. 

Maybe I watch too many crime dramas on TV, maybe God has put me on high alert to prevent something horrible from happening in the future, and maybe it's a combination of the two. 

Oh happy day!  Two and a half months after his birth, Aidan has reached his first milestone...the eight hour stretch at night.  I must say, though, it is more a milestone for me.  I can actually sleep six hours without interruption.  Well, as long as I don't count the four year old kneeing me in the chest as he climbs over me to get to the middle of my bed each night. 

Having to get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby these last two months has turned me, more or less, into a zombie.  So, no more precious pictures with the baby when my eyes are too puffy to open fully and with those big black circles underneath.  No amount of make-up could hide those!  Sure, the barn still needs painting on a daily basis, but I can start cutting back on the amount of primer I was using. 

And no more driving at the pace of a snail.  I often found myself driving twenty miles an hour on city streets because my brain was just too tired to tell my foot to press down harder on the gas pedal.  Of course, I did learn a valuable lesson from the glacial receding type driving...I conserved a lot more gas!  I think, then, that I'll be speeding up to thirty miles an hour.

No more leaving my keys on the front lawn, no more driving away from the house without shoes on, and no more dirty underwear for the rest of the household.  (Of  course I am the only one with a month's supply...laundry that doesn't get done only ends well for she who takes advantage of Victoria's Secret five for twenty-five panty sale!)

So, Mrs. Ijames finally has her zzzz's.  But alas, only until  someone gets sick, or the baby starts teething, or I get suckered into voting a hundred times for my favorite American Idol.  I'll take what I can. 

It was a tough day.  One calamity after another, begot one breakdown after another.  Near the end of the day,  I walked in the door to our house and saw a note left by my husband: I haven’t collected the sample yet. You’ll have to do it.

What sample you ask? A stool sample from Ethan. He had been having stomach problems over the last week and the doctor ordered a stool sample. I had picked up the kit from the lab the previous day and was praying that Ethan’s crowning moment of the day (no pun intended) would occur on Daddy’s watch, not mine. But alas, today was my tough day. In anticipation of this eventual moment, I tried to pontificate, how does one collect a stool sample? I mean, there have been times in my past where my own doctors have requested a stool sample from me; specifically, the time I came back from Mexico still feeling ill after I ate an uncharacteristically warm mango on a stick from a beach vendor when I was in my early twenties. What can I say? When you’re young and your metabolism is still fast enough to wear an itsy bitsy bikini, you don’t worry about much, least alone what you put in your body. At any rate, my doctor asked for a stool sample but the sheer thought of fishing in the toilet for my own poopy made me want to take my chances of getting better without knowing exactly why I was sick to begin with. 

But, as all parents already know, what we won’t do for ourselves, we will do for our children if the need arises. So, back to the sample. It was nearing two o’clock and I had finally come up with my best idea on how to receive Ethan’s not so tiny turds. A paper plate held in the bowl by yours truly while Ethan did his business. At exactly 4:07 p.m., Ethan ran up to me and said he had to go poop. As I positioned the plate in the toilet and told Ethan to sit on the seat and go, he said, “I don’t want to poop on a plate! We eat on plates! I’m not hungry!” 

“Do it!” I commanded. “This is not for food, it’s for the doctor.” He was a trooper and laid what he called “a snake” on the plate and I quickly ushered him out of the bathroom and locked the door behind him. I didn’t want him to witness mommy playing with a plate of poop and giving him a whole new set of ideas of what can be done with his feces. I put on an industrially thick face mask to block the smell and started to open the containers the lab gave me to store the samples in. Thinking the mask would protect me from the smell, I accidentally got too close to the plate o’ poopy during collection and got a good whiff of Ethan’s “snake”. I quickly stood up straight and saw my eyes starting to water in my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Yup, crap still manages to smell like crap, even with a mask on. 

Now, with my face a good distance away from the plate, I began to divide the sample between three different containers. Each container was sealed with a lid that had a miniature spork attached to the bottom of it. That’s right, a spork. And it was when I was staring at that little poop smeared spork, I figured my day couldn’t get any worse. To know that the powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, have decided a spork was the perfect instrument for school lunches and stool samples alike, and that I, myself, was seeing the rational behind providing sporks for this very purpose, I realized I was engulfed in a world I didn’t want to know anything about and had finally given up on my day getting any better.

But, God’s grace can sometimes be found in His humor. As I was driving down to the lab to drop off the sample, I miraculously began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Yeah, my day had gotten the best of me but the thought of the lab staff handling the sample after I dropped it off made me smile. As an attorney by trade I definitely have to peddle a lot of crap during the day but, at least, I don’t actually have to sift through it for a living. And with that realization, I could end my day on a higher note. I had passed the poop forward. 

We have been praying over my oldest son since he was born, and also before each of our meals since he started eating.  It was such a joy to hear him say his first prayer over six months ago.  It's an even bigger joy that when I pick him up from his pre-school, I often see his name under the assigned Prayer Leader for the day.  What an honor!  I'd ask why he gets to do it so much over the other children in class, but presumably, I already know the answer to that question.  He always wants to do it, and well, he's right down hilarious when he prays. 

Therefore, I thought I'd share some of my son's sweet little prayers.  For example, when I asked him what he prayed for in class today, he responded quickly, "For my three baby pumas and two pet sharks.  And, that I would get chicken nuggets and ketchup for dinner every night of my life."

Another one that got me going was when he and I were having a tough day with him calling me names.  We were driving home and I had finally had it and lost my patience with him.  He responded by praying, "Dear Lord, please help me not to call any more names, and to be a nice and good boy for my stinky mommy.  Amen."  I didn't know whether I wanted to spank him or laugh my tail off.  I figured, hey, at least he's praying! 

Before he prays for meals, he asks for the dogs to not smell like corn chips, for the pool to be hot in winter, and for the Teenage Mutant Turtles to come out of the TV and train him ninja style.  He's prayed for Jesus to pop out of his heart and smash the monsters that live in his room and then to pop back in and make him stronger.  This is all as our warm dinners are cooling rapidly.  But, how can you not encourage it? 

The best, though, the best when he prayed over his little brother when we brought him home from the hospital that first day.  "Dear Jesus, I pray that you would help me protect my baby brother from harm or danger.  But, I also pray that I would never have to hear him cry.  Because that stuff bothers me.  Amen."

Endearing to the heart, and yet, still entertaining.  That's my little praying man. 

 My twelve year old nephew visited for a week, and for the first time, I understood the future of education. It’s all on the internet. My nephew was doing his math homework and came into my office asking for help every three minutes.

I finally figured out he was doing this because when he asked me a question that I just couldn’t remember from junior high, I quickly navigated to Google, typed in his question and gave him an immediate answer. No thought involved at all. In fact, no need to even retain the information because if he forgets how many pints are in a quart, he can re-Google it. 

Did you know that you can even type in a mathematical problem (given your aptitude to find the appropriate symbols on your computer) and the answer will be there in front of you without you even having to think about it?

I do love the Internet, but at least I learned how to independently think and solve problems before the Internet became so widely used. Yet another pitfall we have to watch out for with our young children. But, I guess that’s the way our parents felt about us using calculators when we were in school.