What Potty Training Looks Like at Our House

You are probably thinking that I invented some new type of waterboarding-related torture involving Lightning McQueen underwear, but you are wrong. This kid just has an irrational love for urinating in a diaper.

He is still cute, so that's something:

Walkies

I think it goes without saying that I live in the country. Duh. When I'm driving down my country lane, if I see someone I know (or don't know, actually), I wave to them and they invariably wave back. My dad actually waves at people with just his index finger, which is his way of saying, "I'm incredibly backwoods, are you?" On a given day he could receive any number of responses:

1. An open handed 5-finger wave (my personal choice) says "I'm not as old school as you but I appreciate your enthusiasm."
2. A return of the index finger salute says "Heck yes I'm backwoods, and there is a good chance we are related."
3. A rejection of your proffered wave usually means "I'm not paying attention to your wave because I'm checking out so-and-so's field of onions/sugar beets/alfalfa and I don't know why he doesn't have them weeded/doesn't leave them alone/doesn't bale that hay; it's been sitting there for a month." (It is our responsibility as country people to judge other people's farms and livestock.)
4. An extended middle finger (or "telling people they're number one," as my dad calls it) could have its own blog post, so varied are its motivations, which could range from "stop throwing rocks at my mailbox" to "your brother took the last package of cube steaks at Ridley's." Odds are, if someone tells you you're number one, you probably know why.

The exchange of waves grows even more nuanced if you are a pedestrian on a country road, and is an exchange I don't enjoy, which is why if I take a walk, it is usually in the early morning when passersby are scant:

I know, rad, right? Sadly, my dear home has become akin to Siberia of late and necessitates an unreasonable amount of bundling and some off-road scuttling, due to this:

Yes, for you curious ones, that is ice flowing menacingly over the road. Hint: although this ice is thick, and you fear falling through like George Bailey and becoming deaf in one ear, just walk on it. Because if you don't, this will happen:

Your foot will fall through the snow and into 6 inches of horrid, foul-smelling agricultural muck, the essence of which will likely never leave your Nike.

But...I digress, for the hundredth time today. Because, this post is actually supposed to be about this guy:

So cute, right? This dog belongs to one of our neighbors, and followed me around on my walk the other day. Remember those episodes of Lassie, where Lassie barks, and the humans miraculously understand the meanings of said barks? It must be a collie thing, because this dog is a fantastic communicator as well. Shortly after I snapped this photo, he said,

"Bark, bark." Translation: "Your bum smells fantastic."

During the taking of this photo, he was saying,

"Bark bark bark bark." Translation: "This photo will be blurry because I am about to put my paws all over your technical fleece."

And here we have:

"Bark bark bark bark bark." Translation: "I am now thinking of all the ways I've wronged and violated you during this walk. Now I will follow you home and poo on your grass."

Catch Up

How do you skip a year of blogging and then come back without drawing attention to the fact that it's been a year (*cough* 13 months), and you may be a bit of a loser? What is the virtual equivalent of not making eye contact? Perhaps a numerical list? Very well, here for your perusal is a numerical list which will simultaneously describe 2010 here in our household and render you completely numb to the fact that I'm a loser:

1. The year brought us two -- nay, three -- visits from my mother-in-law. We now know from a reliable source that 1) I don't know how to fry lumpia, 2) I look "old" with short hair, and that 3) I am now "skinny" when I used to be "fat" (hmmm...).

2. Our garden was unreasonably huge and neglected this year. I built my own huge tomato cages (11 of them) and got attacked by a feral cat while weeding one evening. Things to never grow again: corn, pole beans, onions, pumpkins.

3. Speaking of feral cats, we now are the proud owners of an outdoor vagabond cat that Cole named "Tunacat." Since none of us are experts on cat gender identification, we just call Tunacat "she." We give Tunacat food and she sleeps in a small cat bed on our front porch.

4. We received a poo-load of snow right before Christmas. The Asian and I may or may not have had a rather tense marital encounter when the van became precariously stuck in 16" of driveway snow. Gravel was spraying from under the tires, and saliva was spraying from the Asian's rage-distorted mouth. No more white Christmases, please.

5. The Boy turned three this year. He is perhaps the greatest three-year-old who ever lived. His talents include cutting up tomatoes with a butter knife, dancing (he has some sweet moves mostly involving extended index fingers), stacking things/lining things up, and singing (lately the Shaun the Sheep theme song is heavily featured).

6. I got new PJs.

Updated. Boom.

Memory Lane

Once upon a time, this girl:


met this guy:


(Paul Newman-ish, right?).

This girl and this guy fell in love and got married:


they lived here:


and then they had some kids:

After they had their final child, their family looked like this:


The New Girl, the one center front, is my mom. Here's another one with her and her parents:


Doesn't Granddad look smooth? Coolest guy ever. But this post isn't about him, or my mom. It's about this awesome lady:




...my grandma, who I always, always think about at this time of year. Everything related to Christmas, to me, is saturated with memories of her: snow, Christmas lights (particularly blue ones), and especially, ESPECIALLY Christmas cookies.

On one special Christmas holiday, in the mid-90's sometime, I drove over to Grandma's house, through the snow, in my Oldsmobile, to make Christmas cookies with her. Little did I know that our culinary tendencies differed wildly (apparently such things are not hereditary). My baking style is what you may call "Devil May Care," in which flour and sugar fly around in puffs and fourteen things are clinking and cracking and buzzing at once. Grandma's style was more methodical, and by that I mean that she laid out a sheet of waxed paper under the mixing bowl to catch any debris. Four hours, zero cookies, several lengths of soiled waxed paper, and three snowy trips to the grocery store later and I was on the phone begging my mom to come over and HELP ME OUT. She did, and all ended well, but my sugarplum visions of baking with Grandma had, sadly, evaporated.

In subsequent years, I have learned a valuable lesson from that experience. It really doesn't matter how you get the ingredients together, as long as the cookies are fantastic. Grandma's cookies were always the best. And that is my lead-in to this fool-proof holiday cookie recipe that originated with Grandma. It is one of the best recipes in my box. Whether you are a messy baker like me, or more the "Anal Retentive Chef" type, you'll have a hard time screwing these up.

Grandma Judd's Molasses Cookies

3/4 c. melted shortening, cooled*
1 c. sugar (plus extra for rolling)
1/4 c. molasses
1 egg
2 c. flour
1/2 t. ground cloves
1 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. ground ginger
1/2 t. salt

Heat oven to 375.

Combine shortening, sugar, molasses, and egg in large bowl. In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking soda, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and salt. Add flour mixture to wet ingredients, stirring just enough to combine. Chill dough for 30 minutes.

Form dough into 1" balls and roll in sugar. Place on lightly greased cookie sheet and mash slightly with your palm. Bake at 375 for 8-10 minutes (remove at 8 minutes for soft cookies, remove at 10 minutes for crispy ones).

*Okay, so shortening is gross. This recipe is old school. Just go with it.

And...now that I got the old photos out, I can't resist posting the following, which will anger some:


The surly teen in the pink frock on the right is my mom. Those of you who know her, enjoy.

Twosies

December 17 is a banner day in our household. On December 17, we commemorate the great and epic story of two people driving to the hospital (one a bloated hick in the throes of childbirth, the other an Asian trying to keep his cool) and then walking down a long and deserted hallway at five in the morning wondering what the heck they are doing. Twelve hours, a bag of Carl's Junior (for the Asian, mind you), one viewing of Bruce Almighty, and one blessed epidural later and here he was:


Frick, look how CUTE he was! I really, really loved him when he was that tiny baby, but I must say that my heart becomes more full of him every day. I am so in love with his sweetness, his cleverness, his sense of humor, and all the love he brings to our home. What a lucky break for us to have him. And now - sigh - he's two, and I can hardly believe it. Behold:


This indeed is my boy, having inherited from me a strong genetic predisposition for tongue rolling. I am so proud.


He also has some pretty serious musical skillz, which he has not inherited from me, but are fantastic nonetheless.


He also has a deep and abiding love for Nemo, a love which came to fruition last week when his uncle gave him this immense stuffed Nemo which has really spiced up my home decor. That is a peanut M&M in his hand, one of his favorite things.

Oh, boy wonder, how I love you and your wonderful ways. Here are a few FAQs about the little Asian:

Q: Does he know any letters?
A: Of course! He knows B, O, and W. His favorite is W, which he pronounces dub-buh-boo. He can spot a W from the car at about 50 yards.

Q: What about numbers?
A: One, two, fwee!

Q: What are his favorite movies?
A: Finding Nemo, The Incredibles (although Mommy skips over long segments of robot violence), Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit, and of course A&E's Pride and Prejudice. He LOVES Mr. Darcy. His favorite is when Darcy jumps in the water, or anytime he rides a horse. (I'm not making this up, he really loves P&P. Come over anytime and I'll show you. He knows most of the characters and the major plotlines). Next time you see him, ask him "what does Mr. Darcy do?" You will not be disappointed.

Q: Who are his favorite people?
A: Grandpa ("Kapa"), Grandma ("Gamma"), Lola ("Nona," the Asian's mom), Uncle Griff ("Giff"), Uncle Derek ("Dek"), Mommy, and OF COURSE, above all others, his polar star, the one and only (trumpets blow, and....drum roll....), Daddy (I tend to agree with him there).

Q: Favorite foods?
A: Bananas ("ba-NA-NAs"), beans ("beets"), red peppers ("peh-pehs"), noodles ("noods"), hummus ("putz"), cookies ("coo-keeee"), and oranges ("oats"). Oh, and scrambled eggs.

Q: Favorite expressions?
A:

• "Daddy's _______." (Fill in the blank with any noun: chair, car, bird, shoes, nipple. I've heard them all. Apparently everything belongs to Daddy.)
  
• "Wick." (Translation: "wink." He does this while squinting both eyes shut and pointing at one of his eyelids.)
  
• "Watch Darcy." (Translation: "I want to watch Pride and Prejudice." I hear this one about 50 times a day.)
• "No ways ball." (This one originated when he went for the ornaments on the Christmas tree one morning. I looked at him, very seriously, and said, "no way." Now he refers to any Christmas ball he sees hanging on any tree anywhere a "no ways ball."
• "Scary monster." (Translation: "Whatever creature I'm looking at is scaring me." Said in reference to skulls and crossbones, pirate-themed tattoos, dudes wearing eyeliner, and Santa.)

Q: Least favorite things?
A: Strangers, broccoli, Santa, church nursery. I am actually having a hard time with this one because this kid loves everything.

To sum up: I love this kid. So let it be written.

Sellout

I am a simple gal, mentally and otherwise. I like toast and jam for breakfast. I just cut my hair super short and I love it: no curling or straightening or other insipid timewastery. I have one eyeliner, one eyeshadow, one blush.

I also dislike too many gizmos. I prefer squeezing lemons with my little handheld lemon reamer (no electric juicer, please). I like books of the paper variety, that I can dog ear and underline (as opposed to that Kindle device Oprah keeps talking about, that the Asian always wants to buy me for my birthday). I like my tiny Nokia cell phone that has no features besides calling my mom to ask her if I can borrow her needlework book. Straightforward is my watchcry.

However, I have recently been seduced by a siren's song so seductive, so irresistibly alluring, that there is no turning back now: yesterday I got an iPhone. Usually when I get an electronic device, it is difficult for me to find it useful, and I eventually toss it aside and run off to eat some chocolate cake. But I must tell you that mobile Photoshop and white noise apps (I LOVE me some white noise) had me at hello.

Is it wrong for me to love an electronic device more than most of the people I know? My mind is telling me yes, yes it's WRONG! But from the strange, unplumbed depths of my gallbladder (or...what is the organ responsible for falling in love with machines?) comes the deafening answer, NO! It's not wrong! Love your iPhone! LOVE IT!

And here, my friends, is the crux of my lifetime quest for simplicity. Seven years ago, while I was on my mission, I ate melon slushee in a putrid open-air dwelling with a dirt floor and third-world dogs walking through the makeshift kitchen. The woman that served us that homemade slushee of questionable origin lived twenty feet from the ocean, with no bathroom, no walls, and several kids. Despite her life of trials, however, this woman lived fully and happily, her face filled with joy and quiet serenity.

I'm not really clear what my point is here, but I will tell you this much: if we are so abundantly blessed with time and means that we can sit for hours entertaining ourselves with movies, TV shows, or electronic devices, then I think we are missing out on the meat of life. I mean, don't get me wrong, I still feel strangely romantic toward my new iPhone. But the best things in life (walking outside in the fall, making my boy laugh so hard he can't breathe, kissing my sweetheart) are still, and will always be, FREE.

Early

Am I the only one who thinks there is really something to this whole "waking up early" phenomenon? The alarm goes off, and I think to myself, "this bed is really warm," or "sleeping is awesome," or other such nonsense, and frankly, most of the time, the nonsense wins out. But once in a while, I get up, and it's like I have the whole world all to myself. Everything is switched off, frozen. It seems weird that water comes out when I turn on the tap, as if there should be no water supply this early. And the toilet flushes, the closet light turns on, my car even starts. Amazing!

This morning I even had the whole gym to myself. I picked whatever elliptical machine I wanted, and stayed on as long as I wanted. I sweated unabashedly. I watched Saved by the Bell with the sound on high (two words: A.C. Slater). And on my car ride home, at 6:58, I drove slow without being tailgated, didn't use my blinker, and listened to talk radio, which, amazingly, is also happening early.

And now it's two hours later, and my little son still has yet to show his face. I can hear him snoring through the monitor, a sound that, although I fully appreciate its cuteness, can only mean "More Time for Me." So, I apologize, but you'll have to excuse me: I've got a birthday cake to bake, floors to clean, and a book to write. Good day, my friends.

Pumpkin

I never realized how littered with pumpkins the world is this time of year, but having a 22-month-old has brought it strikingly to my attention. Last year at this time, my boy was still bundled in his rear-facing car seat staring at the back seat, but now he rides perched like a little quail up in his big boy seat, spotting EVERYTHING. Water, doggy, car, tree, stoplight. The world is crammed with interesting objects. Number one on his current list is "pumpkin," which he pronounces "puck-um-uh."

The other day we went to my parents' pumpkin patch where the boy got to choose his very own tiny pumpkins to take home. He wandered around checking them all out, walking next to Grandpa, his hero. At one point he became ensnared in some wily vines, subsequently screaming with tears in his eyes until someone came and saved him.

All his difficulty was worth it, though, because we came home with a carload of pumpkins, a few of which we have placed on the mantle in our front room. Every day since, a couple of times a day, he asks to take the pumpkins down so he can organize them. This consists of moving them from one surface (the footstool, for instance) to another (the kitchen floor) and arranging them how he likes, then moving them to another surface (the windowsill) and rearranging them. I don't know what this little quiet activity means about his disposition, but whatever it is, I like it.

Rain

The greatest rainstorms I have ever witnessed happen on the island of Palau in the Pacific, where I lived for eight months doing missionary service. Now that was rain. Warm, relentless rain that fell in sheets and soaked through to your skin in the matter of one minute. It washed the whole island almost every day: flowers and leaves on trees gleamed, the streets and buildings winking at you with their sparkle. I loved the sound of the rain at night as it rat-tatted on the metal roof of our two-story apartment and spewed out our rain gutters to the concrete below. Even the faces of the people, those wild, exquisite faces, seemed shiny and scrubbed when the rain went away. Those wonderful rains seemed to wash away all the heat, and the tension, and the worries of our days and leave us renewed on the following morning, when the sun would return again.

I also used to live in Las Vegas, and I've got to say that rainstorms there are also worth your time. They are fairly infrequent and come in the form of flash floods. I was always surprised by the confusion and paralysis that came over the general populace of that city whenever bad weather hit. (I know that there will be some of my Las Vegas friends who read this, and to them I say, don't deny it. The Asian admits it.) The general drainage situation in Vegas is not what it could be, and rushing water two feet high would inevitably draw SUV drivers like bees to honey. Putting their vehicles into four wheel drive, they would ford the stream, and one or two of them would invariably become trapped in the current and need Las Vegas Metro Police to come rescue them, with life vests and rafts and whatnot. On the news that night, the anchor would show footage of the rescue and remind everyone NOT TO DRIVE INTO HIGH WATER, but sadly, a couple months later, the incident would repeat itself without fail.

Here in Idaho, land of potatoes, sage brush, and a pitiful excuse for rainfall, a typical rainstorm basically goes like this:

• 60 mph winds kick up clouds of dust
• four drops of rain somehow penetrate the cloud of wind and dust
• those four drops land on your newly washed car and multiply, miraculously coating 40% of your paint job and windshield
  
• you watch, helpless, from the front window of your house, your blood pressure rising dangerously

Thus your car is coated with an angina-inducing layer of dust and, once in a while, a few feathers or stray onion skins blown in from a nearby field. Not quite the cathartic experience I had in Palau, but rainy days in Idaho (like the one we're having today) do carry a certain charm, and a feeling I'm sure you have felt before. A lazy day feeling. Right now, for instance, I am having to physically restrain myself from throwing my laptop aside, running to the kitchen, and starting a pot of "cream-of-whatever's-in-the-fridge" soup. Also, I must have Audrey Hepburn movies. Several of them, and piles of blankets, sweatshirts, and socks. Hurry, everyone! You get the movies and I'll make the soup and supply the blankets! Mobilize! Go, go, go!

Oh, wait. The sun's coming out. Never mind. Sigh.

Overheard in the Sticks

Have you ever, as you are going about your day, overheard something so ridiculous, so strangely hilarious, that you can't stop saying it over and over for days afterward? That happened to me recently, and hopefully after I write it down here, I can stop thinking about it, because it's really been weighing on me.

There is a gopher inhabiting the ground under our lawn. You can tell you have a gopher, as most of you may know, because one day you look outside and see a small, fresh mound of dirt on your grass. When I was a young, husky lass of 10 or 11, my brother and I used to trap the gophers that would pop up on our parents' five acres, and the local county government would pay us. Nothing like a good redneck moneymaking scheme to put hair on your chest.

But, I digress. I found myself obligated to go to the local farm store to pick up a gopher trap. While I was there, I thought I'd browse through the garden clogs, and I inadvertently wandered past two countrified ladies who were looking at some handbags made from repurposed cowboy boots. They gushed back and forth: I like this one; look at that one. That is when I heard the phrase that would change my life.

"I like the one with the steer head on it."

And there it is. Enjoy.

New

Hello Friends,

I know, I know. People have been giving me a hard time about my last post, in which I feebly claimed to be back in the proverbial blogging saddle. My aunt Sharon even memorized the long-past date of said post, and used it to heckle me. And she's not the only one who heckled. People booed. They hissed and threw rotten fruit. 'Will the slander never end?' I asked myself. But I persevered, and you see before you the fruits of my perseverance.

I have spent some time remodeling this little corner of the world, and I daresay you've noticed: new refreshing banner, new coquettish photo of me, new brash promise of daily updates and (gasp!) an occasional giveaway of country-themed wares. I know what you're thinking: "I'll believe it when I see it." Oh, mark my words, Aunt Sharon; see it you will. :)

You'll notice that I've taken down all my old posts, also. Why, you ask? Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but I fancy myself as a bit of a wordsmith. You know, writing some poetry here and there, or a little story. Maybe a few moderately amusing blog posts about Elmo and poo. But things have changed for me recently. I have started writing a book. You know, a real book, with characters, and chapters, and, like, a plot. It's not much yet, but I'm pretty excited about it, and since I am now an aspiring author, I figure my blog is a good forum for showcasing samples of my work. Fewer photos of naked baby bums, more generally interesting tales of life in the country. Don't worry, all my normal cast of characters will still be here: the Asian, the little Asian, our dog. Still in the middle of nowhere. I'm just going to be working a little harder.