Caffeinated Love

On Veteran's Day

2011-11-11T13:54:00.001-06:00

I saw only the back of his head as he darted out of the room. I took a mental tally of what had been happening. I studied the faces of those he had been working with only to see smiles and the hum of productive conversation. It was odd. Something in the basement air twisted.

As quickly as he darted out, he was back. I saw the pink marks around his wide eyes. Hands in his pocket. He seemed smaller even as he towered above me. "Can I talk to you...outside?"

I followed him as he jagged out the door. "I have PTSD and I am triggered." His brown eyes were even wider. "I am not sure why." His skin was marbeling pink. I could sense his heart racing. I resisted the urge to hug him, to push back the fear. I listened instead.

On this Veteran's Day, I know the drill. I am to feel grateful. Thankful. And I am. Yet, this sits with anger. Young men and women are expected to sacrifice what they do not even know they are giving. And a lifetime is spent recovering, reflecting and attempting to move forward.

Blueberry Girl

2011-10-31T21:09:00.000-05:00

"Ladies of light and ladies of dark and ladies of never you mind--This is a prayer for a blueberry girl."

Nor and I have taken to reading and rereading and reading one more time for good measure Neil Gaimen's Blueberry Girl. It starts with a beautiful picture of a reclining redheaded woman, almost 9 months of babe in her belly. Nora points and says "Mama." I neglect to tell her that I looked more like the planet Mars with a small pimple of a head on top. And then she points to the belly and grins. "Nora."

"Keep her from spindles and sleeps at sixteen, let her stay waking and wise. Nightmares at three or bad husbands at thirty, these will not trouble her eyes."

I venture into asking her what she remembers about growing in my belly.
"Warm," she says plainly.

What was it like when you were born?
"I was really sad. I cried a lot. And then I had milk, strawberry milk."

"Words can be worrisome, people complex, motives and manners unclear....this is a prayer for a blueberry girl."

When I ask her if she is a blueberry girl, she tilts her head and grins with astonishment. "No! I have no costume." A strawberry girl? She just shakes her head. Silly mama.

Again?

Dinner Time

2011-10-25T21:55:00.000-05:00

This is the drill. I suddenly become aware of the time. Usually 30-40 minutes past the time I had intended to be on my way home from the gym. I shut off my computer screen, rush a student out of my office, and toss a few books that I intend to review at home. (And dutifully will return to my office the following morning still tucked in my bag.) I keep my head down as I speed walk to my car, so as to avoid eye contact with anyone that could derail my singular quest to make a delicious meal.

As I dart through side streets to get to my abode, I concoct recipes. I think through what we have in the house, briefly reflect on the food pyramid or food circle or food plate. I burst through the front door with visions of vegetable-based protein sources and delicious sauces. I settle on roasted pumpkin risotto with slivered almonds. I get to work.

Dave calls breathlessly from his race to pick up the kids with short updates on their days. If the lights at 32nd and Hiawatha cooperate, I have about 12 minutes to finish the meal before the kids shoot through the door and start poking in the kitchen. A bit of movie magic somehow happens and dinner is on the table, the kids hands are mostly washed, and we are about to eat.

Upon seeing the meal, Spencer just asks if he can have broccoli instead. Nora demands pasta. I want to bang my head on the table, but am wary that my red wine may spill. When I get gruff and muffle something like, "I worked really hard on this meal and this is what is for dinner," Spence asks to be excused. Nora starts wailing.

Just another dinner at the Snyders.

Pumpkins

2011-10-11T21:35:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I should be a bit embarrassed in admitting this.

I love pumpkins. Passionate about pumpkins. I want to hoard them. Pile them up on my front porch. Stash them on every stair on my case. I want to name them, cuddle them, comfort them from the inevitable knife that is waiting to slice into them.

When I was small, I would bathe them. More than once, in the sink like a wee baby. I would steal a laundry basket and turn it into a pumpkin crib. Name them. And weep when my mother mentioned carving into her. It was haunting to see the gourd start to decompose, despite my best efforts to hold back time.

And I would pine for the next October to do it all again.

I am a bit more grown up about it all now. I slyly wash the pumpkin, just once, and never with bubble bath. I am all business-like about the carving. And there are no pumpkin cribs.

So you can imagine my heart flutters when Nor decided to cuddle her baby pumpkin. Bring it into the bath and scrub it with her butterfly wash cloth. Sleep with it right next to her on her nightstand. Demand to take it to school and introduce her friends to her sweet little pumpkin.

And a new generation of pumpkin-lovers begins.

5772

2011-09-29T22:02:00.002-05:00

I am getting better at navigating Jewish holidays. I didn't have even one meltdown today as I got dressed for services. Not one tear was shed when I maneuvered through my closet of Target clearance buys and countless pairs of cords to unearth something suitable. Even though the usher refused to say hello, shrugged at my prayer book request, and sent me to the cheap seats, I think I totally belonged. Except for the Hebrew thing. And well really knowing what was happening throughout the 3 hour service. And still being stunned it was a 3 hour service.

Dave was asked to give the sermon today to kick off 5772. It was nothing short of amazing. I sobbed through most of it, in awe at the way he knit words, images, and actions together. It was a masterpiece.

Seven minutes in, I had to sneak a photo. I know, not Kosher.

I was (mostly) discrete. I just needed some documentation of the moment. And really, this photo pales in the face of Dave's words.

Soul Justice and The Faith of Isaac

I sat cross-legged, self-conscious and stiff, but enough at peace to slow my racing thoughts and enjoy my first meditation class as a young adult in Baltimore. The rain clattered against the roof and the wooden floors creaked against my settling and resettling hips and ankles. As I held my hereditary anxiety at bay for the duration of the class, I noticed that both my inner and outer worlds had grown quiet. I walked out of class and discovered the rain had frozen into the season’s first snow. The muddy light of streetlights, automobile headlamps, and neon storefront signs reflected off the snow and was lifted to fresh heights, and the sounds of the city were absorbed into the snow’s silent crystalline surfaces. A minor rebirth of self, within a minor rebirth of a city; this is my first offering to you, my Shir Tikvah family, on Rosh Hashanah.

I wish I could say I stuck with it, and developed my own meditative practice; but I didn’t. Then I joined the morning Minyan here at Shir Tikvah, and loved it deeply; but I let my busy-ness grow like weeds into that Thursday morning space where I’d prayed with a small, dear group of chaverim.

If I think about my most meaningful experiences in prayer, in meditation, or in spiritual practice, the common denominator is a sense of welcoming; a bone-deep feeling of being welcomed and celebrated and accepted and enfolded…; and a rising song of an answer in myself that celebrates the world and rededicates myself to its people. I notice my breathing; I notice the wind stirring tree branches. This happens a few times each year, if I’m lucky. Such a feeling may visit some of us in shul today, but for many of us, still shaking off the distractions and anxieties of our secular lives, it may not.

I’m afraid that many of us, myself included, spend a lot of time in the clutches of what some in the Buddhist tradition call the trance of unworthiness, which means we are telling ourselves, mostly below conscious awareness, that you don’t belong here, that you’re a fake, you don’t really know what you’re doing, you’ve earned only the misfortunes that have befallen you, while anything good in your life is the result of some cosmic or bureaucratic misunderstanding, and you better keep faking it so that “they” don’t figure you out and exile you from your home, your community, your school, your workplace, your shul. The writer Anne LaMott called it her very own subliminal radio station playing in her head.

I wonder if Isaac, the son of Abraham, felt any of the tension between these feelings of unworthiness and feelings of welcome, as he lay bound upon his father’s altar. We hear a lot about the test of Abraham’s faith, but what about the faith of Isaac? Was Isaac’s faith shaken as the bonds cut against his skin and his father readied his sacrificial blade? Was he calm as he readied himself to die? Or did he blame himself for the suffering he was about to endure, to make sense of the inexplicable fate that hurtled towards him? This figure of Isaac becomes achingly familiar across the millennia. Especially as children, but even as adults, we accept our suffering, and we twist our lives like vines slowly around the question, what must I have done to deserve this fate? She’ll find her away out of that bottle, she didn’t mean it when she hit me; he’s just a tough love boss, and how could I have made such a clumsy mistake anyway? Like vines slowly covering the contours of an altar, we endure domestic violence, poverty-wage jobs, school bullying, predatory lending and foreclosure, we twist our living, our thinking, our being into harmony with violence, and project the figure of Abraham onto our oppressor.

(Kristy here. It was at this point that all of the tension that I sometimes have about raising our kids Jewish evaporated. I mean, who wouldn't want their kids to be like this man that I get to be married to forever?)

None of us needs to perish upon these altars. This is the prophetic wisdom of Judaism that I believe in—that we are welcome in the radical abundance of God’s universe, and we are commanded to knit justice and radical openness to the stranger, the widow, the orphan, into the societies we create, and even, as Jeremiah reminds us, into the strange cities into which we are cast by chance or flight. And if we find we have to blind ourselves to this commandment in order to get through a single day in this society, may the Shofar blast illuminate a different path, even for a moment, like a lightning bolt in the depths of night.

At the intersection of prayer and power, of spirituality and the struggle for justice, I offer the question: who among us remembers we are welcome, and who twists upon the altar? Who has bound herself in the unforgiving coils of a self turned against itself, in exile from itself, and who is bound by injustice, prone on the altar of poverty and powerlessness? Who chokes on the false faith of Isaac? And when will we free ourselves from the altars of sacrifice that bind us; when will we unmask the false Abrahams that menace us, to refashion the world so all of us can revel in the same message of radical welcoming and celebration, that says, to all of us:

You can dwell here.

You can thrive here.

You can love and be loved here.

You can be different, or think different, or believe different, or love different, or look different, and you will still be recognized and welcomed here.

You can labor here, and you will reap an abundant reward, and so will your children.

Your children will be nurtured here, will be called to contribute their best, and will know that they belong here.

You can thrive here.

You are welcome here.

This is the message that I would place like a signpost to all travelers at the intersection of the path of prayer or spiritual practice, and the path of justice, of tzedek.

Now come with me, 1100 miles to the east, and around a decade into the past, into the blazing Baltimore heat that baked the blacktop soft against the slapping soles of my dress shoes, hurtling through rush hour traffic towards the inner harbor, towards the Convention Center, towards Phyllis, a veteran banquet server and shop steward, who was standing down her general manager, forbidden Union buttons clenched in her fist. I had been driving south on St Paul avenue a moment earlier with two fellow organizers, Leon and Alyson, before Phyllis called me from her cell phone, whispered a few frantic hushed words, they’re going to take me away right now, I started giving out the buttons and they caught me right away, get down here now! We were stuck in rush hour traffic, inching along towards the great convention center where convention guests were preparing for some tasty appetizers and where the GM was preparing to escort Phyllis off the premises… so I jumped out of the car, leaving Leon and Alyson with the keys, and our picket-signs stuffed in my trunk, and I ran down the street to give Phyllis some back-up.

Now Phyllis lived with her family in a pretty tough, run-down apartment complex in West Baltimore, but she looked sharp in her tuxedo attire, and in my opinion, the crowning touch was the Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees, HERE Local 7 button, a classy grey with navy letters, on her lapel. Convention Center management differed in their opinion, and threatened to fire any of the 120 or so workers who dared to wear a union button as our contract negotiations heated up that summer. So we planned to all ‘button up’ just before a big convention meal was to be served, and in case they tried to punish any of the workers wearing buttons, we prepared the whole group of workers to walk off work for an “unfair labor practices strike”—which meant they would have some extra legal protections from company retaliation.

So… I dashed past the security guards who, I would later learn had a mug shot of me and orders to kick me out if they saw me without a management escort, and I raced upstairs to join the confrontation between the HR director, the general manager, Phyllis, and a gathering throng of workers and befuddled convention goers. Ultimately, a little bit of justice was served that day. Phyllis and I stood our ground and so did the other workers, and they got to wear their union buttons without retaliation. They ended up getting a great contract with health insurance coverage and wage increases. That, and I’ll leave you with the image of Kenny, an older gentleman who worked in the back of the house, unfailingly courteous but too cautious to get caught up in union trouble, even to wear a button; Kenny, who came hesitantly out with the other workers to support Phyllis that day, silently; Kenny, who finally approached me on that day of raised voices and confrontation, and silently invited me to put a local 7 button into his open, deeply calloused hand. Something both concrete and inchoate, something objective, quantifiable, and something that cannot be safely entrusted to language, all of it clumsily filed under the word Justice, happened that day, and that summer, in the stifling heat of Baltimore.

Sometimes the angel of G-d tells Abraham, “do not lift your hand against your son, free him and be welcome on this earth”, and sometimes maybe G-d speaks to a woman named Phyllis, and tells her to overcome the false faith of Isaac in her oppressor, so she can rise up and call on her co-workers to wear a union button, risking their jobs to hold the line for economic justice, to free their families and the generation of their children and grandchildren from the altar of poverty and powerlessness, from a society that tells them that they don’t belong here, they have no right to dwell here, no right to thrive, to accumulate knowledge, a home, or other wealth to pass along to their children…

I challenge each of you, I call upon you, I implore you to hear within the raucous sounds of struggles like this one, and many others that go unreported today, the profound labor of rebuilding an economy—it cannot be built without you, and you cannot join in building it until you yourself are released from your own altar, until you dispel the sham Abraham that menaces you in a thousand forms. When it seems too hard, think of your children, and your children’s children, emerging from an economy of cruelty into a new world, like a world freshly adorned by the season’s first snow, a new economy that resonates not with a message of judgment, but instead with a message of welcome:

You can dwell here.

You can thrive here.

You can love and be loved here.

You can be different, or think different, or believe different, or love different, or look different, and you will still be recognized and welcomed here.

You can labor here, and you will reap an abundant reward, and so will your children.

Your children will be nurtured here, will be called to contribute their best, and will know they belong here.

You can thrive here.

You are welcome here.

(Me again. I did resist the urge to stand up and cheer. Or to raise a sign like Norma Rae...something like, "That's My Husband!" or "Revolution Now." But, it did dawn on me that Dave might need to become a rabbi. And that I might really be okay with that.)

The Perilousness of MPR in the Morning

2011-09-18T08:11:00.002-05:00

I woke up this morning to this. I had not yet even had a sip of coffee. Incredibly bad timing.

I have now had about 8 large gulps of cold press and I am recovered. Mostly.

I had never thought about the other relatives of my donor. His parents, his siblings. My donor grandparents, my donor aunts and uncles. It was a subtle ache.

And then I started to read the comment sections. Something I should recommit to never doing. I don't understand folks that try to narrow identity down to one thing. I am not sure why in questioning the use of anonymous sperm and yearning to know more someone might comment that your life could be taken away if you are not grateful.

I suppose, if I am being honest, that if a letter arrived at my door with the information about my donor I would not hesitate to open it. I do want to know. I want to know what he looked like, if his eyes are green or hazel or brown, if his amygdala is as active as my own. It is a question of identity. Because time is precious and scarce, I cannot devote my time to this effort.

But, I am still curious.

24

2011-09-14T08:48:00.000-05:00

If my grief from my mother's death bore a child, she would be 24. She could be in her third year teaching. It is all quite overwhelming.

Ah, Summer.

2011-08-15T23:03:00.001-05:00

Suppressing Super Heroes.

2011-08-07T12:58:00.002-05:00

Introducing Spence to super heroes was fairly intentional. After too many nights were interrupted with terrifying nightmares, I decided that it would a little super hero support might be needed. Yes, a bad guy might be lurking around the corner of your bed, but Iron Man is on the job with a new machine to thwart him.

Soon his room was littered with Batmans, Iron Mans, Spider Mans, Wolverines, Green Lanterns, Captain Americas....and of course, Flash. The list is endless. Plastic action figures are fairly easy to find at the neighborhood garage sale. It seemed to help with the nightmares. Slightly. Well, that and the sweet smelling air freshener that we said monsters were allergic to. Another lie.

I wish I could say that I had thought ahead. Perhaps it was my white privilege that let me turn a blind eye. (Perhaps? Even now I cannot escape the protective language. It was.) But, suddenly I looked up and saw my son surrounded by white action figures with a token white Wonder Woman thrown in for good measure. White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy. And then I stumbled upon this article by a dear friend who was an originating force for the White Noise group that I am apart of.

Commitment to anti-racist work does not prevent embarrassing backsliding.

Tucked in to another long road trip, I decided to broach the subject. "Spence, do you ever think about who is not made into a super hero?" The question was clumsy. His response led to a discussion on how he desperately wished to be a super hero.

I tried again. "I think it is strange that you only have super heroes that have white skin." This led to an extended response on how *actually* the Incredible Hulk has green skin. Silly me.

And again: "Where are all the super heroes with brown skin or black skin? I just don't think it makes sense that there would only be super heroes with white skin." Spence was thoughtful. Then pointed out Hawkman, who indeed does have brown skin. He has learned well from popular media. However, tokenism does not lead to societal transformation. I kept pushing.

Once more, with feeling: "That's true. I still wonder why there are so many people in the world with black and brown skin, but you can only name one super hero with brown skin. I am curious about that. It doesn't seem right or fair." Another thoughtful pause.

"Maybe it's because their white skin gives them their powers. Like their costumes."

This is where I wanted to jump in and police his emerging racial understandings. After all, these thoughts become a representation of me. Suddenly, there was so much more at stake. Part of me wished that I would never have followed him down the rabbit hole. Perhaps if I wouldn't have pushed we could have never arrived here. I could have lived comfortably under the veil of colorblindness. Was it my pushing that brought him to this thought or would it always existed but hidden from view?

I suppressed my overbearing policing voice and just said, "Can you say more about that?" I let him try this thinking out before Nora interrupted him with her shrieking for inclusion. I asked him if we could continue the discussion later on because I wasn't convinced that the powers were because of the white skin. I asked him to keep thinking about it. He readily agreed.

I wish this were the movies and I could report a Hollywood ending. But, we are talking about it. And I have been researching and finding new narratives that have been hidden from my view. Stepping up my game and not letting the Target shelves dictate his exposure to super heroes. Like the new Spiderman. And as he wields his Lasso of Truth, I keep posing the questions and sharing my own critical analysis.

Is there any other way?

Somewhere in Middle America.

2011-08-02T08:54:00.000-05:00

We must have listened to this song for about 1/5 of the time we were in the car. Yup, about 3 hours. Kickin' it middle school style...

Big Eyes

2011-07-08T15:52:00.000-05:00

The problem with these big eyed ponies? Not only are they creepy, but they will get glaucoma. And I would be hate to be the person that has to tend to all of these big-eyed, glaucoma-infected ponies. Especially the one with wings.

I know this because I went to the eye doctor today. And I have larger than normal corneas. Yes, the average cornea is 11 (insert appropriate eye measurement here). Mine is 13. One needs no crystal ball to see glaucoma in my future. Unless there is too much fluid there....

But, that is not all. I noticed that the doctor was rolling out all sorts of tests I had never 'seen' before. And after each one, Dr. Mike would rub his hands together. With a mix of worry and glee. The kind of glee you see in a professional who gets an unusual case. It was more than a bit disconcerting. In all fairness, I had mentioned that I have been having some visual perception issues. You see, sometimes when I am walking on flat surfaces and the color shifts quickly, I stumble. I have to stop to catch my balance. I look ridiculous and I generally cover it up with a joke. Apparently, this is not good.

In the end, I failed all of those newfangled tests. I have no depth perception. My brain has been shutting down any ability to merge the two images headed its way and instead picks an image. This accounts for that nasty bike accident that broke my front tooth and the pesky walking on flat surfaces problem. His eyes were wide (although appropriately sized), when he told me that my case was "most unusual" and may require "training" my brain.

Sigh.

Love, Laws & Marriage

2011-06-25T14:32:00.000-05:00

When the word came in last night about the vote, I ran into the bathroom to tell Dave. Breathless, I whispered excitedly, "It passed!" Spence was still up. He has perfected a stalling strategy that involves brushing teeth, snack, brushing teeth, creative potty use (this is for another post), books, monster spray and as of late, conversations about God.

Spence was intrigued. "What passed, Mama?" I had intentionally whispered, as I know that any chance to stall was immediately pounced on. I wanted to brush it off, but who am to deny Spence his "where were you when..." moment?

I launched into an explanation that said that the laws in most states prevent some people who love each other from getting married. "That's silly, Mama," he said plainly. And that in the state of New York, the legislators voted to make sure that any two people who love each other can get married. "That's good, Mama."

I went on to explain that Minnesota is one of those states that do not let two people who love each other marry. And that there is a law that wants to further legalize what is already illegal.

"Why, Mama?"

I was at a loss to explain why we are being forced to vote on something that is already illegal. And why we don't get a chance to vote on ending discrimination instead.

"We have a lot of work to do to change that law, Spence."

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-19T22:10:00.001-05:00

Walking to the new Turtle Bread...

The Kissing Papa Game.

The other Iron Man...

The crumbs of a wonderful breakfast.

A quick call to Bubbeh with a "phone."

Creating lairs for Iron Man and Captain America.

It's The End of the World As We Know It...

2011-05-21T08:43:00.000-05:00

And I feel fine.

Dave tells me not to feel so smug. Rapture is coming at 6 p.m. But, it's 6 p.m. somewhere....right? And if the rapture did already come, at least my family is together to face whatever may come. We have been eating pancakes and cuddling and watching Word World, so I suppose it could be really awful outside the gaze of our windows. And if it is the end of times, Dave assured me he could negotiate.

Or we could go outside and find a few 'wish flowers' and make some wishes to enter heaven. Currently, Nor has been using her 'wish flowers' to wish for 'peace, food, happiness for the children all over the world." Spence has been using his for, well take a peek below:

Files from the Courtship

2011-05-16T00:19:00.000-05:00

When I was in third grade (or was it fourth?), I desperately wanted a Swatch watch. It was deep in the Swatch watch craze and there was nothing more that I wanted but one (maybe two or three) Swatches. Particularly, I wanted one with the flags of the world on it. I think we had been talking more about different countries of the world in social studies. (Does that date me? I used to have social studies classes in my K-12 schooling.) My young mind was convinced that this worldly watch was the ticket to my place with the cool kids.

When I broached it with my mom, she told me subtly that she did not think I could tell time without numbers. I begged. I pleaded. I told her I would learn. She insisted on the numbers. I carefully composed my letter to Santa with clear directives.

On Christmas Eve, my Aunt Cathi and Uncle Johny gave me a Swatch watch with large numbers on it. I hated that damn watch.

I told that story to Dave during our courtship. He chased down the watch and presented me with this poem. Isn't he grand?

Ode to a Swatch

by Dave Snyder

I'm wound up tight,

If you pay too much attention to me,

You will be too.

I catch what files with my hands,

but always toss it back.

I'm in a band,

but make no noise.

My ancestors are stone,

Worshiped the sun,

But worked with shadow.

It was only after I opened the box that I realized the flags were not of the world. Rather, they were of the boating world. Yachting flags. And for the record, I can tell time on it.

Sweetbitter

2011-05-08T16:22:00.002-05:00

I suppose you never outgrow being a daughter.

I keep expecting this to get easier. It doesn't. Or perhaps I could grow a little more self aware. I don't. About 36 hours before Mothers Day, a flip switches and the weepy bitch arrives. And I can mostly tamp her down, but there are moments when she seizes control and warps every interaction.

Mostly with Dave.

He's beaming with news of "the best Mothers Day present" and I am pissed before I even open the box. Furious, as NOTHING can replace my mother. I understand this is not what he is aiming to do. I feel like I am not being listened to, ignored, forgotten. And I don't even want to open the box.

He cannot win. And I cuddle into Spence who has proclaimed, "I hate Mother's Day." Good boy.

There are always moments of goodness...because life is bittersweet or really, sweetbitter. Eating my favorite breakfast ever with those I love. Chasing after a beaming Nora with her babies and a superhero whose main methods of saving people are webs and water. Holding hands with Dave. Breathing.

It's just still hard to stay in the moment of mother, which still feels deliciously surreal, instead of daughter on a day such as this.

Life is Sweet?

2011-05-08T15:08:00.001-05:00

Peep Show

2011-04-27T21:39:00.003-05:00

It was a lack luster dinner. Veggie fried rice from TJ with tidbits of tofu. Mixed vegetables for Spence, cheese for Nora.

The rice was rejected.

In the end, Nora only ate shredded cheese and five bites of raw tofu. Spence was the champ--"I only want to eat mixed vegetables." And he did. Approximately 8 ounces of 'em. He then tore into the raw tofu.

I admit. Part of me was so disgusted by what they ate (Seriously? Is that even a meal?) and felt guilty that they were eating components of foodstuffs rather than a proper recipe. Boring food eaters. The least I could do for the one kid that ate enough to approximate a complete meal was to offer a piece of Easter candy.

A Peep. A pink Peep bunny.

I set Nor up in the other room counting her four pennies and called Spence back to the table. "Look on your plate!" I was anticipating cries of joy.

He looked down at the lifeless peep. He kind of poked out it. "What is it?"

"A Peep. Well, a marshmallow. Covered in pink sugar?" I actually am not sure what a Peep is exactly.

"Candy? Candy? I only eat healthy food." He left the Peep on the plate and ran off.

A few seconds later, he darted back into the kitchen. "I have an idea of what I can do with that unhealthy food, Mom." He picked up the Peep and unceremoniously plucked it in the trash can.

2011-04-17T09:13:00.000-05:00

I have become quite obsessed. In a quiet way. I stare and stare at my children and wonder if they look like my donor dad. And wonder if there are traits that did not show up in me (or my sister?) that might be showing up in them. The question of nature vs. nurture shifts when you don't know half of of your genetic makeup.

I have been seeking memoirs of people that are in my situation. I have only been able uncover the perspective of late teen, early twenties girlfolk that have been living with their knowledge of their 'donor dad' and 'social dad' for some time. It's different when you have kids. It's different when you are older and the process was much more hidden. I suppose that many people who are like me might not realize that we are so alike.

Happy Birthday, Spence!

2011-03-26T13:51:00.002-05:00

Things I Did on Spring Break

2011-03-24T07:23:00.001-05:00

* Painted the kids' room--one coat of Serene Sky (yuck!) and one coat of Island Blue (perfect!)
* Procured, painted, and was part of a large team to assemble the Kura bed. (All lies that it takes about 3 hours...by the time Eric and Katie arrived, we were on hour 18.)
* Visited Ikea. Many times.
* Got my car broken into and radio stolen. (I suppose that doesn't count as my action, but I did get to spend 2+ hours and dropped 200 bucks on a new passenger side window.)
* Lots and lots of errands to prepare for a 4 year old's birthday party.
* Spent some time at Maxfield Elementary watching my developing teachers work with some amazing kids on their Public Achievement Projects.
* Did some paperwork for my work study student.
* Canceled my hair cut appointment. No time.
* Hung out at Sojourner Truth Academy with some kids passionately working to change their school lunch. It apparently causes many kids to vomit regularly. (Their coach had erroneously thought we did not meet during Spring Break. Silly woman.)
* Watched an episode or two of the "Unusuals" on Netflix streaming. Why did they cancel that show?
* Observed my future teachers at Andersen United trying out some new ideas to engage and empower students there while taking on issues such as immigration, drug use, vandalism, and recess.
* Took an amazing student out to Vietnamese food. She'll graduate soon and I am already in mourning for missing her. In many ways, I see myself as team teaching with her.
* Grocery shopped.
* Saw "The Kings Speech." The Academy was not wrong.
* Lunched at Muffaleta while cuddling with my husband in the corner booth.
* Shopped: Unique Thrift, Old Navy, Joann's
* Baked a mammoth cake that Carin deemed "the Scottish countryside" and covered it with superhero cake toppers and chocolate chips. The most important thing were those cake toppers. Narrowly averted a meltdown when Spence initially saw the cake without the toppers. "I just (loud sob) thought (gulp of air) there would be (screaming) CAKE TOPPERS!"
* Cleaned.
* Decorated for the 4 year old party
* Party! Party! Party! Party! (7 kids! + parents)

Can I have another break now please?

Wall Street Stole Your Radio

2011-03-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

A broken metal file, scissors bent to a perpendicular angle and a handle of a screw driver. These were the tools leftover from a job well done. One that left the passenger window shattered and our broke-ass radio disappeared.

It's not like this has not happened to me before. There was a time when I asked if there was a punch card at Safelite Auto Glass in Baltimore. (There wasn't.) But, that was years ago. Radio theft now seems like an old school crime. Dave even joked that we should have left a manual on identity theft so that the would-be "crooks" could have made off with some real money.

I chose to deny the gaping hole and go forth with my errands for the day. When peopled gaped at me in the strip mall, I rolled out my surprise/anger look to act as if I was just discovering it for the first time. Brushed a bit of the broken glass onto the parking lot and carried on my way. It was really only the rain that put a damper in my denial.

But, I could not deny the unsettled feeling of being violated. When you are the victim of a crime, you feel it to your core. You want the police to notice you, to break out the finger printing kit and send the prints off to the lab. You stew. You imagine facing the person in court and ask why. Your cells crave justice.

I wonder if the response to Wall Street would have been different if they would have stolen everyone's radio. Or invaded your home for a television set. Would regulators broke out the fingerprint kits? Would we see more bankers behind bars? Would there be more clear demands for justice?

The Beauty of Illusion

2011-03-13T23:18:00.000-05:00

The social construct of time has hit again! And for once, it was in my favor. Yes, we lost an hour. But, the mind trick of telling myself I slept in until 8:45 am this morning made my body feel drunk with sleep.

Even if it was just an illusion.

And a hard fought one...all four of us were enjoying the 4-5 a.m. hour...(or was it the 3-4 hour?)...fighting hard to get everyone back in their beds with eyes closed. ("Just close your eyes. Just try it. Close them. Close them...")

Even if we will all suffer tomorrow morning. Particularly because I am still up. Teeth unbrushed. Contacts in. And it is almost midnight.

(Happy Birthday, Em!)

Thinking of Kakuda

2011-03-12T07:29:00.001-06:00

It was in Kakuda, Japan that the family I stayed with taught me to make sushi and other delicacies. I remarked on how much I loved the tea and cup that she served me. The pink cherry blossom tea cup that I was drinking out of sits in my cupboard now. She insisted I take it with me.

Probably the other four tea cups that remained in Kakuda are all in shards now. Buried under water. Kakuda sits right on the sea, close to the epicenter of the earthquake. A 23 foot wave washed ashore last night.

Mouth agape, feeling helpless, sending love.

ETA: Pictures of Sendai
This is where I chatted with future teachers, bought beautiful paper at the mall and discovered "popcorn" tea.

For the Twos...

2011-02-27T15:09:00.000-06:00

All this two year old talk has made me think about my mom. And this picture. This is her 2 year old birthday. I wish I knew about her party. Did she sit in her mom's lap, overwhelmed by all of the kids playing with her toys? Somehow I doubt it.

It's really tough building a bridge from my mom to my children. I want her to be a part of our lives. And yet stories of impromptu banana splits and roller skating in the house just falls short. I only have so many memories and they seem to fade more than I want to admit. The stories are interrupted with questions about death that I cannot answer. There is also the inevitable subtext of mom's dying. Perhaps I am overly zealous, but I worry that they'll worry about me dying. And I worry about that too.

Happy Birthday, Nor!

2011-02-26T21:57:00.001-06:00

Two Years

2011-02-23T22:34:00.001-06:00

Two years ago, I was in labor. Back breaking, bone crushing labor. Dave grabbed the phone and threatened an ambulance ride. Ready the warm towels, I thought the baby boy would be born right there on our bathroom floor.

We made it to the hospital. Through a few red lights. In time to have another five hours of can't access the English language labor.

She was finally born. Right after midnight on February 24.

Nora Charlotte turns 2 tomorrow.

Nightmares

2011-01-10T20:54:00.003-06:00

There is a small band of plastic superheros guarding Spence's door tonight from the dinosaurs with long wiggly arms. The cinnamon spray that those particular dinosaurs are allergic to seemed to be waning in its power. I left him still wide awake cuddling his wobbly gobbly.

I have tried many different approaches to helping Spence with his fears. Encourage him to learn more about the dinosaurs. Asking him to describe them a bit more. Walking him through guided visualizations where he is his own hero. Affirming our love and protection. And yes, using cinnamon spray and toys.

I wish the plastic toys worked for adults. I could line up little plastic dolls outside my own door. Perhaps use a little lavender spray. Or at the very least, my nightmares could be delegated to just my sleeping hours.

My uncle is having surgery on Wednesday. Serious surgery. Hours and hours of surgery.

I don't want to know more. And I don't want to describe my fears to you. I just want to line up toys made in China, spray a little scent, and have all the nightmares go away.

2010-11-28T19:03:00.004-06:00

It's time for a script change.

I am thinking of embracing the notion that my donor dad is it. Wouldn't that be the ultimate mind trick? Poof. With a little wordsmithing, I could eradicate that whole pesky legacy of my "father" rejecting me. I could just be a kid who had a mom who found some sperm and had a baby. She had a husband and when she died, she let that man take care of her babies for a while until they wised up and left.

Even writing that last sentence sets me in a different frame of mind.

2010-09-19T21:34:00.002-05:00

I didn't recognize his voice.

I was frying up some falafel and cooking a pot of black beans and roasting an obscene amount of butternut squash and doing everything I could to make it seem like this call was no big deal. He picked up on the second ring.

It was awkward. How much information do I need to provide to a father to jog his memory that he has a daughter? "This is Kristy. Your daughter. You know?" I stopped myself from describing myself physically...red hair, green eyes, freckles. To be fair, I wasn't exactly sure it was him when he picked up the phone. There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition. I proceeded.

I decided not to beat around the bush. Small talk seems hollow when you haven't spoken for many years. I wouldn't even know how to do it. Everything would need a few pages of end notes. Even weather was not safe. He doesn't know where I live.

"SoAuntCarolyntoldmethatyouandmomusedaspermdonorandIwashopingyoucouldtellmesomemoreabout that."

I guess I expected a dramatic pause or at least some uncomfortable tension. But, it was as if that was our small talk. "I was wondering when you would find out about that."

His voice sounded tinny and round. As he recounted the story, I found myself lost in his voice. Sentences would pass over my ears and I would have to remind myself to pay attention. His accent was so unique...a bizarre combination Southern (not deep South, closer to the Mason Dixon line) and Minnesotan? His words seemed to be formed from a being that could not be traced to a space. It was as if I was hearing his voice for the first time.

I intentionally "life dropped" to see if he'd ask follow up questions. He didn't. Was he totally uninterested in learning more about his two grandchildren? Or was he just afraid I would dart if he asked about my beloved husband? I guess I am not sure.

He searched the recesses of his mind for details of this process and came back blank. Palo Alto and a vague connection to Stanford was all he could muster. He did say that the doctor tried to match the donor's looks to the father's. Sperm was collected from "anywhere they could find--mostly the university and the surrounding area." It took me a few moments to realize that he was willing to go out of his way to find something out for me. He repeated his offer--he'd call up Kaiser and dig around to find the name of doctors, request medical files and report back to me.

In the fuzz of the offer, I asked him why he never told me. "I never thought it was important." Even when things were stressful? "No." In seven words, he shot down all of the different theories I had concocted about why he could just turn away from me and never look back. In my own moments of parenthood, I find myself trying to put myself in my father's shoes and fail. I would turn myself inside out if it meant I could stay connected in some capacity to my kids. But to attempt nothing? I lack the imagination.

I fumbled and halted and returned to the details of clinics, doctors and sperm. He assumed that I was uncomfortable sharing my own contact information and offered up my stepmother's email address. She instructed him to tell me to "not forget" to email so they could follow up with information. He said it would be a while--they were at their vacation home for the next month.

We both started the dance to get off the phone. "Well, we're out in the garden..." was met with "I suppose I should get back to making dinner..." and then goodbye.

I took out the pan of squash and stirred the beans. I could only think about how his voice was so different from the earthy and sharp voice he uses in my head.

Making The Call

2010-07-25T22:54:00.000-05:00

"If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't have had children."

"It's just a matter of time until everyone finds out how truly evil you really are."

These were a few of my father's greatest hits of my childhood. It wasn't exactly the sort of childhood that is captured by Norman Rockwell.

My dad and I are not in touch. I haven't spent more than an hour with him since 1994. He doesn't know that I have two kiddos. Or that I live in Minnesota. Or that I am even married.

I don't intend on telling him these gems when I call him. I have taken to staring at my cell phone a lot lately. I imagine dialing the last known digits, but I am stuck on how to broach the fact that I know about the donor dad. Worried that my voice will fail me.

Do I start with the quick and dirty? "Hey Dave (cruel irony that his name is also Dave), so I know. What's the deal with the sperm donor?"

Or do I ease into it? "Howdy Dave, how's my evil stepmother? Gonna retire soon? Great. How'd you pick my donor dad?"

Or should I be gentle in hopes that he'll be true? "Hi Dave. How's it going? Oh, I am great. So, AC finally let me in on the secret. I am hoping you can share a bit about what you know..."

And yet, part of me is just grateful to him. I am still struck that he never told me. A man that did not mince words of his unbridled disgust for me never slipped up. He could have slayed me in high school. He either didn't tell or held back my stepmom from spewing the secret. I was already so beaten down, I think it could have pushed me into territories I am surprised I didn't explore.

Or maybe this knowledge would have untied my perverted allegiance to a father who seemed to find peace in torturing me. Maybe I wouldn't have spent years fearing the evil that didn't lurk inside.

Stop staring. Pick up the phone.

Uh oh....This Might Get Messy

2010-07-06T23:10:00.004-05:00

Stanford?

As with any web of lies, many are dragged into the sticky mess. When things went down with my dad and I moved in with the H family, my AC unloaded the Secret on an unsuspecting mama. She was sworn to secrecy. After the big reveal, she let me know that AC had told her the donor dad was a Stanford student. This juicy tidbit had still been shrouded in secrecy for me.

Stanford?

For some reason, this locates him in space. My space. Yes, I am very self-centered...I am referring to the world as "my space." (Another product of the 'me generation,' I know.) Could I have crossed paths with him? Could I have seen him on that strange Lutheran Youth event at Stanford in high school? Silly, he must have left by then.

Stanford?

If he was an undergraduate, he could be as young as 53 or 54. Do you think he looks like me? Do you think he reads the New York Times on Sunday from front to cover or just lingers over the Styles section? Ugh. These questions. They were bound to come. You probably knew that. I did not.

Stanford?

I am not even going to ponder the nature vs. nurture question. I cannot go there. I routinely try to avoid it when I see gendered things happening with my boychild and girlchild. And now, this? My cousin dared to blurt out "I guess that is why you are so smart" upon hearing of the Secret. Or another remarked that it explains why I was a bit of a misfit.

Stanford?

I cannot think about this. I am not going to ponder. And I most certainly will avoid The Kids are All Right. For now, I am just going to focus on this funky picture of Nora.

Stanford.

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-23T16:26:00.002-05:00

All drama is best punctuated with a pause for a cigarette.

Or at least that it was I learned from my countless hours of watching Days of Our Lives. When AC got up abruptly from the table, I thought that she was just going for the Oscar. I looked pensively at my cousin Pam. "What does that mean? Is my father not my dad? What do you know?" I gazed out on the patio and saw the red embers glow.

Pam just looked at me. "I don't know, but I think you better find out."

When confronted with questionable paternity, I imagine the appropriate response would be confusion, denial, anger? I was simply giddy with the possibility. Delighted. I had spent many hours trying to put the pieces together in such a way that would lead to my father not being my dad. After a rogue internet quiz to determine my unborn son's eye color, I was met with an error message. It was impossible that I would have green eyes with two blue eyed parents, so saith the free internet geneticists. Did my mom have an affair? That would mean that it would have been a lengthy affair--my sister and I are undeniably related. Two peas in a pod. Adopted? I had seen pictures of my mom glowing in pregnancy. I was stumped.

AC came back in from the patio. She looked worn. "So, what do you know?"

What do I know? What do I know? I had popped off with a "When are you going to tell me my dad is not my dad?" in response to the latest tally of family secrets that had been revealed in the past year. I didn't imagine that I would be face to face with my own great reveal. Where were the video cameras?

AC started the tale, haltingly. After trying for a while, my mother went to a fertility doctor. This I knew. I remember her telling me how she had taken her temperature, the disappointments. I knew I was I wanted to child. I just didn't know that it wasn't her with the 'issue.' It was my dad. They decided to use a donor. I had no idea how wanted I was.

It was always to be a secret. As my family rolls with the secrets, only a few people were even told and were sworn to secrecy. AC started crying. She felt like she was betraying her sister.

I realized that the big reveal was all that I would know. AC apparently was not privy to any details about my "donor dad." I guess at some point, I will have to bite the bullet and call my dad.

On her way out to light another cigarette, she asked if Dave would be okay with the news. I giggled (wasn't I the one who she should worry about?) and she retreated to the patio. I watched the red dot glow, my head spinning to make sense of it all. I wondered if I should have joined her.

A Note from Spence

2010-03-15T09:13:00.003-05:00

o,HOpmn;ln;lnl;nl;nn;nl;mnm;n,l;n,l;,l;nl;mb,;lh;lhjh;ljhj;,gl,l bhvj,

(Translation: I love you Mama's mama. I hope you feel better.)

Out of the blue. Sigh.

Mama's Mama

2009-12-27T21:23:00.004-06:00

I don't always think things through.

In my head, I thought we'd just jet over to the cemetery, leave some lilies, and have a few quiet moments in my head with my mom while the kids were distracted by Dave. I have a 2 and a half year old. This was not to be.

It had been a tough trek to California. (Trust me, once my thoughts are even a bit formed, I will dish.) My heart was a bit raw. I miss my mom all the time, but with the birth of a daughter it is sometimes unbearable. I was trying to push back the tears into their rightful ducts before Dave pointed to the cemetery and asked, "Is that a synagogue?"

Spence had asked repeatedly where we were going. I was at a loss. I finally stuttered out, "To go see Mama's Mama." I want to lie here and say that I had mentioned something about the fact that my mom was no longer living. But, it would be a lie. How do you mention death to a 2 and a half year old? Instead, I sidestep. I talk about my mom, but distract when the inevitable question arises.

When we parked between the two trees (one evergreen, the other deciduous), I bolted out of the car and started to attend to the graves. I brushed aside the bit of crabgrass that had started to cover the date of my mom's death. I tried not to remember how my grandfather would carefully take out polish and shine the grave. As if, as long as the grave looked new, time would not have really passed.

I finally relented to the cries of Spence. I nodded to Dave and he released Nora from the car seat, as I got him.

He held my hand. It was about a minute before he started repeating in increasing louder decibels, "But I don't see her. Where is she? Where is Mama's Mama?" I was stricken. I searched my brain for something that made sense. She's buried? She's no longer here? She's in heaven?

I murffled out something about heaven. About it being high in the sky. I might have thrown in a few paradise-type images, I honestly don't remember.

"I want to go to heaven right now. I want to see mama's mama. I want to go to heaven RIGHT NOW." He must have woken up and pressed his repeat button. I just wanted to hit pause. Just a moment to think. To come up with some sort of response and still have time to release the tears from my ducts.

"Me too, Spence. I want to see mama's mama right now. Me too," I paused. "Should we go get some ice cream?"

Happy Hanukkah...In Aprons.

2009-12-10T22:23:00.007-06:00

For Sam

For Emma

For Jack

For Caroline

Unsettled Spence

2009-10-10T20:54:00.002-05:00

"I'm worried, Mama."

It was 8:00 p.m. and I was worried too. Worried that his bedtime was coming later and later.

I picked him up and cuddled him in my arms. "What are you thinking about, Spence?"

With that prompt, he pulled out his nuk. His words came quickly one after another.

"Then I couldn't see because it was too dark and I couldn't get out of bed and then Nora was crying and then..."

"To help Nora? Papa is with Nora. She was crying, but she is safe with Papa now. You don't have to worry," I counseled. "Is there anything else you are worried about?"

"And then...and then there was blood and the swing and..."

"Are you thinking about when you fell down at the playground? Are you scared about bonking?"

"Uh huh. And then when Henry was mad about putting his coat on and his papa told him to put his coat on and then...."

I stopped him. "Are you worried about Henry?"

"Uh huh. Henry was really, really frustrated. And then, the cold. It was really, really cold at the Farmer's Market and then..."

And his worries just kept bubbling out one after another and then surfaced again. Things that happened over a week ago made their way back into Spence's brain so he could worry about them. I tried to reassure him that his parents were always right here and loved him deeply. And that sometimes bonks happen, but that his parents will be there to love him up.

I just kept holding him. I ticked his face. He giggled and ticked my face.

Just another one of the countless times in the day that I don't have an answer.

And she crawls.

2009-10-09T20:17:00.001-05:00

Tot Shabbot: Special Sukkot Edition.

2009-10-03T13:31:00.004-05:00

When we signed up for the oneg, I had clearly been in a delusional state. Rather than dwelling anywhere close to reality, I routinely choose the fantasy. (Or the comfortable state of denial.) We have never actually arrived on time to a Tot Shabbot service on time. I had thought by October 2, we would have mastered the ability to get out of the house in less than four hours. I imagined that we could arrive to the thirty minute Tot Shabbot service on time. I also presumed that our financial state would have dramatically improved and coming up with cheese and crackers for 30 families wouldn't have phased me.

Silly Kristy.

The kids awoke at almost 6. I am sticking to the script that Nora is about to hit a milestone (crawling, right?) and that is why she woke up every two hours like clockwork. Nevertheless, we stumbled at of bed and attempted to organize the team to get out the door "on time."

It's Saturday, so pancakes had to be made. Clothes had to be uncovered from the bottom of clothing piles, inspected and perhaps de-wrinkled with a hair dryer. Parades occurred through the kitchen and up the stairs. And the constant cries of "Come on, Team! Let's get it together!" from me.

Oh, and the oneg. We actually didn't have the cash to swing by and pick up cheese and crackers. Daycare has been snacking on our bottom line and we are back to recessionista cooking. I had thrown together some pizza dough the night before and decided I would roll it out to cracker consistency. I riffled through the fridge to find some stuff to put on it. We did buy a block of sharp cheddar, so there was that at least.

Here's what I came up to top the "crackers"...
* Butternut squash puree with goat cheese.
* Refried beans with salsa and sharp cheddar.
* Roasted garlic tomato sauce and sharp cheese.

And yet, I felt sheepish. They were clear that it was supposed to be "cheese and crackers." My internal monologue turned in circles. "What if everyone gets angry because I didn't follow directions? What if everyone thinks that I was trying to one up everyone? What if they all start pointing and laughing, "Stupid Christian!" Dave waltzed in to say something to ease my pain, but my anxiety only twisted it into a barb that hurt me further.

We got in the car right as the service was to start and arrived in time to enjoy the last 15 minutes. Perhaps it was a victory just to get there?

Dave and I actually decided to do dueling blog posts this morning. Take a peek on his take of the morning at High Impact Papa.

Denial.

2009-10-02T20:30:00.003-05:00

A wise woman told me once that you should estimate your work load and double it. This helps to humanely budget your life. Makes sense, eh?

I routinely, however, estimate how much time something will take me and cut it in half. Take a full time job as a faculty member at MCTC? I act as if I am on "Name that Tune"...I can complete that job in 30 hours. I have a few hours to kill. Why not sign up to work 20 hours a week at Anishinabe Academy? I am sure I could be super efficient and getter done in 10. That pesky PhD? I am sure I could pound out my written exams in a week over Winter Break.

Oh, and the fact that I never get an uninterrupted night of sleep? Just deny that it is happening.

This philosophy has actually been quite effective. Back when I was single and didn't notice that I was actually just multi-tasking the hours in front of the TV or with pals at the City Cafe. I was able to collect enough experiences to get more opportunities. Opportunities that I could not possibly turn down. Every year, I just exponentially increased my work load.

Life has changed. My thinking hasn't. It's time for an intervention. Unfortunately, this one will not be filmed by video cameras and I won't receive a new wardrobe and a smart haircut. Probably just more time with my absolutely fabulous family and friends. Infinitely better.

Now, I just need to wait until we can afford me to quit and the semester ends. Whichever comes first.

I'm Happy When I am Hiking?

2009-09-27T20:38:00.006-05:00

Spence loves hiking.

We attempted to do the said activity today, despite our inner voices telling us that this was decidedly a bad idea. The clouds looked ominous. Spence's proclamation of "no rain, mama" did not chase away the dark skies. He also has grown strangely attached to these Dora slippers and happily announced he would wear the girls hiking.

Eight minutes into the car ride to Hyland Park, Spence started freaking out. The snippets of sunlight that were in the sky were daggers in his eyes. His Hot Wheel sunglasses did nothing. Nor did the repeated requests to "just close your eyes." He demanded Nora's nuk.

Dave and I glanced at each other and made a silent pact (silent because we could not talk over the screaming) to continue on. However shortly upon leaving the freeway, the orange cones spelled disaster. I swerved to miss a bike rider and suddenly saw 20 more. We had driven into a bike race. And not just a bike race, a triathlon. The park was closed to the non-racing humans.

We regrouped. We stopped at Target and picked up a nuk. We steered to the Minnesota Valley National Wildlife Reserve. Most people might think that the low flying planes would be a distraction. In our case, it saved the day.

Shortly into the walk, we stumbled upon a frog....

Then a snail. Then a baby turtle (who apparently was searching for his mama.) Then a grasshopper.

Damn grasshopper.

Upon seeing the grasshopper hop, Spence decided he was no longer a hiker. Rather a boy that would enjoy being held by his mama who was hiking. And he hated animals.

But Nora...Nora loves hiking...

Down By The River

2009-09-18T20:38:00.003-05:00

"Ready to go on Spencer's big adventure?" I was cuddling with Spence in his toddler-sized bed with the lights out. The sun had already gone to sleep.

He nodded. "Who should go on this adventure tonight?"

"Henry."

"Can Mama come along?" This was met with ambivalence. I decided not to nose my way in on the fun. "Do you want to go hiking or play at the park?"

"Hiking by the river!" he proclaimed. (I can't lie...I love when Spence picks the outdoor adventures. It foretells a future of forcing Papa to go camping. He will be out voted.)

"So you and Henry hike down to see the Mississippi. Oh wow, Spence! Do you see that? What is it?"

"A boat! A big boat! A big, blue boat!"

"What's it doing?"

"It's coming to us. And a rope! And I pull the rope to get the boat." He starts to pull an imaginary rope. "Oh no!"

"What happened, Spence?" We cuddle in closer.

"Henry fell into the river!"

"Do you want to jump in to get him or do you want me to?"

"Mama does it." So I jump in the water to retrieve a bobbing Henry. Immediately, Henry starts to help out with the ropes and boat. Soon, however it is snack time and the adventure ends.

His eyes are heavy. I give him a kiss and try to creep out of the too small bed without being detected. Good night.

September 13

2009-07-16T20:25:00.005-05:00

I never can tell how this day will hit me.

Last night, I predicted an easy day. I have felt pretty connected with her lately. Giving birth to a girlbaby and naming her after my mom made me feel even closer to her spirit. I kind of felt like I had been mourning a bit each day. In a healing way. If that even makes sense.

I woke up and knew immediately I was wrong. My eyes didn't want to open. My body begged me to stay in bed. Those calls would go unheeded. Dave had to go to work. I needed to muster up my mamaenergy. I snipped and snapped at Dave before I finally wrangled the kids into the car.

I decided to seek out jasmine. I have such fragrant memories of the jasmine plants that flanked our house growing up. I wanted to kind of lose myself in the scent and do a little time traveling. I packed up the kids and headed off to the Arboretum.

We didn't find the jasmine. But, we found a lot of laughter (and a snake.) I just wish their Grandma NJ could have been there to giggle along.
On the way back to the car, the kids made a mama sandwich and I wondered how she experienced motherhood. I wish I could have known.

The kids are now asleep and the tears keep blurring my vision. I can't wait for tomorrow to come.

New Videos

2009-06-10T08:41:00.001-05:00

Please take note of the new videos on Snydervision. Especially "Twinkle Twinkle" and "Nora giggles."

2009-06-01T18:45:00.001-05:00

Night.

2009-05-25T15:44:00.003-05:00

With the exception of my mom, I have lived with Byron the longest of anyone in my life. And my mom beat Byron by just four months.

We said goodbye to Byron on Saturday. In the two days that I have lived without him, I can't believe how often he dominates my thoughts in a day. Little things...taking note of the sun filtering through the window and knowing he should be there sunning himself or making sure the basement door was open so he could sneak away from the kiddos. I probably thought about him without thinking 50 times a day.

It was a decision to put him to sleep. He was diagnosed with diabetes after Nora was born and we lived in denial for a long time. Dave and I knew as the veterinarian spoke the words that we would be unable to live up to the commitment to the extensive treatment. But, we remained silent. When we could barely get Nora her antibiotics three times a day, we passed sorrowful glances. When we sat down to attempt another budget, we crunched the numbers with a giant question mark hanging in the room. His pronounced gait got even more rigid. He fell. The boundaries of his litter box expanded. We knew that denial was not working.

We just didn't want it to be. I know others would make a different decision. We agonized and came out on this side of the decision. I thought the grief wouldn't be as pronounced when you make a conscious choice. I was wrong. I just miss him.

And again!

2009-05-22T21:36:00.001-05:00

I watched her wiggle her little body into a roll. Awe. I am in awe.

Roll Over!

2009-05-21T21:29:00.003-05:00

Nora was up to her old tricks. A bit of tummy time usually leads to a nervous nap. Nervous on my part, restful on hers.

Today, she sneakily fell asleep. I did my normal running between her sleepingself and some chore activity. I heard her stir and immediately ran into the room to see a grinning girl on her back.

She looked a bit stunned, but mostly just pleased as punch.

Good job, little girl!

For Nora?

2009-04-30T21:24:00.005-05:00

I was flying solo tonight. Dave was busy being interviewed by some TV reporter about his anti-foreclosure work and dining out for AIDS and meeting with the Shir Tikvah social action committee and some other activist-y things.

The Spence pick-up did not go smoothly. Nora goat-cried for the 20 minutes it took to get home in the car. (Damn you light at Hiawatha & 26th!) Spence was on the verge of empathy crying. He looked at me with these pitiful eyes that beseeched me to "DO SOMETHING! HELP HER!" I tried not to break into tears myself as I explained that I could do nothing.

To release some of the stress of the car ride, Spence and I went out into the backyard to play a little t-ball and chant "Hey Batter-Batter!" But Nora needed a bit of comfort, snuggled in and wanted to nurse. Spence was left to play t-ball while I chanted "Sssswiiing Batter-Batter!" from the steps.

It got too cold, so we all agreed to go inside. I put Nora on the playmat. Spence and I set out to make a bit of dinner. Nora seemed content, so Spence and I sat down to dinner and chatted about his day. We giggled over milk as we made funny faces at each other. We finished up the meal with a little chocolate pudding. He was pleased with himself that he finished the whole thing.

Instead of watching Calliou (which was not yet on), Spence and I decided we would go make letters with shaving cream in the bath. I carried Nora up in her buzzing white chair as we tried to decide what letters to make. M for mama? P for papa? N for Nora? S for Spence? We decided one of each and an extra M for mama. Nora cooed. We then decided to blow some bubbles. Spence noticed the bubbles that floated up towards the ceiling. "Bubbles high!" he grinned.

He then smiled over at his sister. "For Nora?" I blew bubbles in her direction. She seemed pleasantly confused. Spence, however, was delighted. His smile was electric.

For Nora.

A Week Measured in Love & Laundry

2009-04-22T10:20:00.011-05:00

I used to be the laundry person in our relationship. I had organized our laundry baskets into a "light" and "dark." I would lug the dirty clothes down the stairs once the colors co-mingled and littered the floor.

And then I got pregnant with Spencer. And we lived in the house of precarious stairs. Suddenly, Dave became key laundry person. I have never taken back this responsibility. Nor have I really picked up another. I have nurtured a bit of guilt, but I have never vocalized it. My guilt has grown as our family has doubled and the laundry monster requires almost daily attention. Still, I remain mute.

I do fold and put away. Sometimes.

If you look right, you can see a photo-montage of Nora's outfits for the seventh week of her life. 18 pictures, but really 20 outfits. And that is just one kid, the one that does not count the dirt pile in the backyard as a favorite toy. (We won't even mention the number of shirts that I "milk through" in a night.) That's a whole lot of laundry.

Luckily, Dave rarely reads my blog. My guilt can remain a secret between me and you.

Nuk Sharing

2009-04-08T22:14:00.004-05:00

Leaving a fun place is never easy with a toddler.
Leaving the Minnesota Zoo with Addie still there is even harder. (Yes, her parents were with her.)

Nora was snug in the mei tai sleeping through the screaming scene Spencer was sharing with anyone near(or far)by. After Katie and I wrestled him into the stroller, Team Snyder (sans the birthday boy) made our way to the exit.

All my usual tricks failed to ease his tantrum.
"I know it is sad to leave a friend and a fun place" only led to more painful yelps.
"Whoa! Look! A leopard" was met with shrieks and squirms.
"Remember when the goat licked your hand?" was greeted with a vigorous shake of the head and more tears.
"Shall we greet the people? Let's wave to the people" did indeed get a twist of the wrist but the crying continued without vocal interruption.

He then started chanting, "Nuk! Nuk! NUUUUUUUUK!"

Finally, I broke the taboo that I had established to eventually wean Spence off his nuk. I wrenched the nuk from the sleeping girl's lips and inserted it into his mouth. He immediately stopped screaming and relaxed into the stroller. Nora miraculously stayed asleep.

We made it through the Russian Coast before Nora awoke and wailed. I started to do a bit of parental calculations. Which child was entitled to the serenity the nuk provided? Which child had a better set of lungs? Whose screams could I tolerate for the twelve minutes it still would take to get to our car and the second nuk?

"Spencer, can Nora have her nuk back?" I just knew this wouldn't work. Was I setting myself up for an even bigger meltdown when he rebuffed me?

He nodded. I leaned down and tenuously removed the nuk from his mouth and put it in Nora's. I listened for my punishment and was greeted with silence.

"You are such a good big brother."

He nodded.

(Happy Birthday Dave!)

Mobile Love.

2009-04-06T14:30:00.004-05:00

There are many good reasons why we have a mobile attached to our bed. When I woke up at 2 am and came face to face with a psychedelic cow, I was less certain of what those reasons were.

Nora, of course, was still sleeping. My breasts were not. They were ready to shake their milk makers and give this babe some food. As per normal these days, I am either awakened right before a milk gush or shortly after. My eyes opened and came face to snout with the plush cow hanging from my bed. I stifled a scream. It is still unclear to me why this mobile would be comforting to any living creature. And the atonal Bach was not even playing.

The mobile is attached to our bed frame for sibling harmony. Spence had forgotten how much he loved his mobile. He spent many hours in his own babyhood delighted by the turquoise cow, fuchsia donkey and lime green horse. When we dragged it out from the basement, I was unprepared for his nostalgic trip down babylane. We needed to put the mobile in a place where both kids could be delighted by its magic.

I had been taking the mobile down each night. There is just something kind of wrong about being an adult with a husband and two children who sleeps below a mobile. But, I grew lazy and tired of Spence using it in the mornings as a spear of sorts. So now you know. I am 33 and sleep below a mobile.

Tacos & Tofu

2009-03-30T21:22:00.004-05:00

Spence's favorite word (right now) is yes.
When we chat about his day at school, it is yes, yes, yes...

"What did you do today?"
He nods.
"Did you go outside?"
"Yes."
"Did you read stories?"
"Yes."
"What did you read about today?"
He nods.

A few days a week, I lug Nora into school to pick up Spence. Today, he spied her, ran up to her carseat and peered in to say hi. We put on his coat, grabbed his nuk (I know, I know) and held hands as we left the door. I took a mental note of the day's events so I could ask about his day.

After both kiddos were secure in the car, I started to engage Spence about his day. He chirped his "yes" for each question. Until I reached the food portion.

"What did you have for lunch today?"
"Tacos."
Tacos? Tacos? Did he really just answer my question with actual information?

Where is the line to record that in his baby book?
First time he actually answered a question with events that occurred a few hours prior? Tacos for lunch.

I started cheering. I was just so damn excited. And I am not one to hold back.

After a few more questions that elicited only yes responses, I dared to ask what he'd like for dinner.
"Foo-Foo."
Foo-Foo? Foo-Foo? Did he just give me a decoder ring to figure out what he'd actually ingest? The level of excitement was the same as if Ed McMahon had arrived on my doorstep with a giant check.

"Tofu it is." And with that, there was a lot of chanting and song-making (on my part) about tofu until the tofu was served. For the record, he gobbled up five slabs of golden brown tofu.

The Birthday Boy

2009-03-16T13:29:00.005-05:00

Meet Nora.

2009-02-27T11:14:00.003-06:00

Still Incubating.

2009-02-22T13:32:00.003-06:00

In case you feel like the fact that my voicemail box being full is an indication that I gave birth, it is not.

This babe is still high up in my rib cage and delighted to be there.

I am glad that he or she enjoys being in the womb and that I provided a comfy environment for all of these months. But, my mind is rapidly turning into Swiss cheese and I have no desire to work or do a thing. I should really work up until delivery and am feeling stressed that I cannot even put words together any more.

At least the appearance of a babe would let me off the hook for work.

Still Pregnant.

2009-02-20T21:10:00.000-06:00

The due date came and went with just a solo trip to the movies. No action to really speak of.

I don't have an intuition as to when this babe will come. I know some mamas are perhaps more in touch with their baby within, but I just don't know his or her time schedule. It has yet to be revealed.

Last time, I at least got to experience three nights of labor starting on my "due date." This time, really nothing. And more nothing.

I have felt a few contractions, but when I grin in response, they dissipate.

I know that it could all start at any moment and the waiting game will have been in vain. I just hope I deliver before February is up.

Poop in the Potty.

2009-02-15T19:26:00.004-06:00

Dave just trounced down the stairs triumphantly holding the Baby Bjorn potty above his head. He nodded with a glint in his eye.

"Did he just poop in the potty?" I asked.

No words. Just a grin.

"Really? He pooped in the potty? What happened?" I am not sure why I asked that last question. Dave launched into a story that started with "practice grunts" and ended with a "good sized poop."

"And you brought the potty down so I could inspect the poop?"

He looked a bit uncomfortable. A look passed across his face as if it was the first time he realized that this might be a bit strange. In my pregnant state, I can barely stay in the room if their is a trace of toot. Not that if I wasn't pregnant, I would want to pass judgment on the scat. He quickly retreated into the kitchen with the pooped in potty.

The kitchen?

I eventually followed to size up the scene. I found Dave tying up the poop in a Target bag and setting it in our kitchen trash.

"Um...you could have just dumped it into the toilet."

Another sheepish look crossed his face. "I didn't think of that."

Gender Predictions: State 'Em.

2009-02-12T19:26:00.002-06:00

Barring a Middlesex incident, we are days away (or optimistically hours away???) from welcoming a baby girl or boy. Dave is feeling girl. I am feeling boy. Now is your chance to record your prediction...you will be reserving your right to say, "I knew it!"

I Heart Online Grocery Shopping.

2009-02-09T19:41:00.002-06:00

I took the leap into the wonderful world of online grocery shopping.

Yesterday, I laid on the couch with a bunch of cookbooks and devised a shopping list. Today, the CobornsDelivers service dropped off all of our desired goods in tubs with dry ice to keep the groceries cold until I got home. The ice cream was still so frozen that it was hard to get my spoon into it!

I even used a promo code to get 25 bucks off!

I Still Love My Husband.

2009-02-08T21:22:00.002-06:00

"Hi, sweetheart. I know that you have the stomach flu, but Spence and I are stranded in Longfellow Park. I know it is ridiculous...I mean we are just two blocks away, but can you pick us up?"

That was the first message in a string of messages left on Saturday. After a mama-son bagel extravaganza, we decided to take advantage of the balmy 38 degree weather and take a stroll on over to the park. The first half a block went off without a hitch. We were holding hands and avoiding the mushy-mushy parts.

Then we turned the corner. And the sidewalks had turned into sheets of ice. Spence fell on his bottom and scooted a bit on the ice. I smiled and tried to make it a game. A smarter mother might have taken note of the conditions, remembered she was 9 months pregnant, and turned around. Not me. We persevered.

"Dave, you need to wake up and come get us. I am in a lot of pain here. Things are not going well." Second message.

A half of a block later, Spence was demanding to be carried. I picked him up and started to maneuver on the icy sidewalks. "Park, park, park," Spence chanted. My right foot slid precariously, but we---really "I"--carried (him) on. My back started to spasm and I had an uncomfortable feeling in my belly, but I chose my favorite coping strategy. Denial.

"I know that your phone can't possibly be on silent. I mean, I am in striking distance of delivery..." Message 3.

We made it to the park. Spence delightfully walked on the swinging suspension bridge and climbed up to the slide and slid all the way down. He radiated with happiness. My mind started to wonder if these were Braxton-Hicks contractions or the real deal.

"Spence, should we walk back home and find papa? We can walk through the mushy-mushy!" His brow furrowed. He shook his head. He punctuated it with a "No!" to make sure he was clearly being heard. We headed over to the swings.

Message 4 really shouldn't be archived. There were a lot of words that started with "f" and "a."

My back threatened to paralyze the lower half of my body. I picked Spence up and told him that we had to go find papa. Spence started to kick and scream. Tears rolled down his rosy cheeks. "No...no...no...no!" He kicked all the way home. He ripped the button off my last pair of maternity pants that still feel comfortable.

We made it home and woke up my sleeping husband. I crawled into bed and tried to disown the lower half of my body. The contractions and vomiting came later. Lasted all night.

Needless to say, Dave has made sure his phone is permanently on loud and vibrate and even dances an Irish jig.

and March...

2009-02-02T07:51:00.002-06:00

After a quick (and perhaps deflating) look at the calendar, I realized that the birth window actually extends into March. We could be looking at two March babes after all.

February

2009-01-31T22:51:00.002-06:00

If I could stay up any later, I would. I want to welcome in February with eyes wide open. Toast to the month with a glass of red, red wine that our new baby will be born.

Due month is here.

The kiddo is doing a twist and shout in my womb to celebrate. The midwife predicted that this kid will be about 8 pounds. Or rather is now about 8 pounds. (As if they know these things.) But, the kid is dancing away, swaying from the right to the left side of my belly and jumping up and down on my bladder for good measure.
We are looking at 18 days until d-day. I am just hoping to keep the kid in until then. We have a serious to-do list staring at us in the face.

Brooke Shields

2009-01-19T20:20:00.002-06:00

On the surface, it might appear that I don't have a lot in common with Brooke Shields. And for the most part, you'd be right.

There is the obvious...I have not appeared nude in a movie. Indeed, I have not appeared in any movie. Nor have I starred in a TV show.

I did not attend an Ivy League university, but a Jesuit one. I did not major in French literature, but squeezed out a double major in history and philosophy.

Whereas nothing came between her and her Calvin Kleins, mostly the price and my predilection for shopping at Target come between me and any pair of Calvins.

You might think that she outshines me.
But, I one-upped her.
Always the over-achiever, I got my postpartum depression early.

My hormones have taken me for a ride this pregnancy. Not a pleasant one. My midwife assures me that this is normal...1 in 5 women do experience depression during pregnancy. In most cases, it doesn't mean that postpartum depression is imminent. Usually, depression just works itself out as the new babylove exits the birth canal.

Just like Brooke, I want you to know it happens. And that is why I haven't returned your calls in weeks and weeks.

Please don't go all Tom Cruise on my tail.

Fish Ladders

2009-01-18T10:41:00.002-06:00

I am trying not to turn this into a dream blog. But, this one was too good to pass up.

Last night, I dreamed that my Dave was on an ecological tour of some rivers on the Eastern Shore of Maryland (yes, the Maryland reference did not escape me) with my doula. While there, he decided to deconstruct some old humidifiers and make ladders so that the fish could easily spawn in their desired location. He fashioned some bolt cutters out of regular scissors and proudly pioneered a design that would enable to the fish to jump off at different parts and not feel too constrained. The ladders were actually double ladders...the center part was open and free so that fish could easily maneuver within it all.

I cannot lie. I don't really enjoy being the fish in this scenario. But, the unconscious sense of trust that I feel for Dave is deep and secure. I love that.

Let's just hope that birth is not too imminent.

Under (Name) Pressure

2009-01-11T19:26:00.004-06:00

I have one son. His name is Spencer Emmanuel.

Yet, I have had more than one dream where his name is Andy. Andy wasn't even on the short list of names. Heck, it wasn't even on the long list of names. Yet, it is the name that comes out of my lips when I see my son.

Name remorse?

Perhaps. But, my waking self is quite content with his name. Early on, there was a bit of me that wished we had used his Hebrew name (Lior) for his English name, but whatever. It was a fleeting thought.

But with this babe in the womb, the name pressure is on. We don't know the gender of this kiddo. I am feeling boy. Dave is feeling girl. We have decided this will (most likely) be the our last kid. So, I am feeling like this is my chance to name my child after my mom.

Norma Jean.

If it is a girl, we'll probably name her Nora. I don't think I could deal with the same name. Too close. But, Nora is a nice compromise. There are other options as well, but Nora seems the clear front runner. I am not so concerned about the middle name for some reason. We have a few ideas, but I guess because I am feeling boy, I am not so worried.

But, the flood gates of worry burst open when I think of boy names. Norman is out. Who wants a son to one day experience the glory of the sitcom Cheers throughout his life? And yes, while a beloved cousin pointed out that old names are coming back, Norman will not be included in our family tree. Because the closest name to Norma is ruled out, I have settled on the idea that the boy will share her initials...either N.J. or the inverted J.N.

Nash? Nolan? Nuri? Neville? Noah?
Josiah? Jasper? Jeremiah? Jericho?

We could also do place names. Emory was the street I grew on. But, is that really a tribute? Or we could go with the meaning of Norma. "North man; Norseman." Yeah, right.

My dear husband is not worried. (Again, he's feeling girl.) But, I am. We have sat in front of the gazillion of baby name websites culling through J and N names. Trying to put them together. It's not really gelling.

"We'll figure it out when 'he's' here."

Yes, I am sure the fact that we have no names even written down on a list will make name picking postpartum so easy.

So before we hire a baby name consultant, I turn to you. Ideas?

Thank you, Annalise.

2009-01-04T22:47:00.002-06:00

For better or worse, Annalise strongly suggested that I pick up the blog again in 2009. So, here goes a quick post, just to squeak out some of the rust in my knuckles.

My husband is walking around in his underwear that I think he has had since we started dating and a wool hat. I know that he has lots of theories about how simply wearing a hat keeps you warm, but I don't think a hat overrides wearing pants. But, what do I know? He also didn't bring a winter coat to our New Year's Eve festivities in Duluth. Do I need to mention that we haven't hit freezing since early December? And that we are pretty darn conservative with the heat register? (And that we do not have curtains in a majority of our windows?)

And I am full of baby. I discovered a new stretch mark today that dangles from my flattening belly button. If the baby arrives on time, I still have seven weeks to work on a symmetrical stretch marks to create a sun around my belly button. Wish me luck. Maybe I will just get a tattoo to make me look like a bad ass mom and disguise the marks.

Alrighty, here's to brand new posts in 2009.

Mer-Family

2008-08-16T17:29:00.002-05:00

Last night, I dreamed that I lived in a FEMA trailer. Actually two that were loosely connected. Spence slept in one, Dave and I in the other. In the middle of the night, I heard him stirring and went to him.

As I rocked him back to sleep, the FEMA custodian and his children walked through Spence's room.

"He's up again?" he asked me. Again? I'm thinking. Who is this guy? But, I nod as if this is normal that a random stranger with his children would be walking through my son's FEMA trailer after midnight.

"I usually do this" he says as he proceeds to rub his back in this new-fangled way. Spence immediately went to sleep. Great, he knows my son better than I do.

I was about to ask him just who exactly he was and how often he puts my son to sleep when the trailer started moving. Quickly. I ran to the window to look out and notice that this trailer and one other were hooked up to circus trucks.

We were being abducted by circus masters. I started to silently pray that Dave was in the other trailer. Maybe he'd know how to escape from the circus.

The FEMA trailer picked up steam as we were headed down these steep hills. I was bracing myself against the wall. Spence was still sleeping soundly.

Suddenly the trailer stopped and we were ushered out in the middle of San Francisco. Some faceless circus people threatened us and I felt like I was totally under their control. They informed us that we were to go shopping to get some winter clothes, as we would be leaving shortly for colder climates. I looked over and saw Spence shivering.

I hatched a plan to pretend that my credit card was having some issues (not so far fetched) and ask to use the phone to verify some information. It worked and I was able to get a hold of Dave.

He was there in a flash. We made brief eye-contact and knew our next move. I ran into a specialty swimming store and bought this suit for Spence for cold waters. I threw it on him. Dave and I joined hands and dove into the ocean as the circus people chased us.

Upon hitting the waves, Dave and I became mer-people. Yes, we grew tails. We carefully cradled Spence in his protective suit as we undulated further under water. I knew he would eventually grow a tail, as his parents were both mer-people. But, he had been reared on land and it would take some time. Hence, the special suit.

We were free.

What do you do when you vomit on the street?

2008-07-29T13:06:00.002-05:00

Seriously, what is the etiquette? Are you obligated to find a few spare napkins and attempt to sop it up? Or if you were able to aim mostly on the median grassy area, can you feel free to just keep walking?

Let me be clear...I didn't know that I was going to vomit until about 5 seconds before it happened. We were out in a walk in a potential neighborhood that we are scouting for future homeowning. (Great impression, I realize). Far from the car.

I chose to keep walking and prayed that the sullen couple approaching with two miniature poodles were not witnesses to my vomit. Dave supported me. Spence was in the stroller and hardly took note of the tell tale hacking cough.

No, I was not drunk. Just pregnant. Again. And with a vicious case of all day sickness that even medicine cannot totally keep at bay.

Spence's Words

2008-07-23T08:04:00.003-05:00

Truck (although it sounds more like "guk!"), bus, car.
Despite my best efforts, it appears that gender can flex in different ways. For Spence, perhaps its flexing more traditional "boy." For now.

Squirrel. Nice. Sometimes kitty.

Cook.

Ears, eyes, nose.

Milk.

He's also shaping up to be quite the listener. (Just like Papa.) When Eleanor started babbling at the pool, Spence turned to her to sign and say "more." She smilingly obliged. Multiple times.

Dave. (Clearly a sign that I need to cut back on my hollering after my husband for this or that...)

And yes, mama and papa.

Dipping.

2008-07-10T14:43:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I introduced BBQ sauce to the boy.

It's my #1 favorite condiment of all times. Truly, my only condiment of choice. Unless chocolate sauce counts. Any son of mine has got to dig the stuff. I have fantastic memories of my mom and I making ribs and drenching them in the heavenly sauce. We could replicate...except for the ribs part.

I carefully cut up his boiled tofu pup and squirted a bit of KC's Masterpiece into one portion of his plate. I then modeled how the tastiness is done. He looked skeptical.

I dipped for him and handed the pup part. Normally, it is deadly to make eye contact with the boy while eating or hand any food directly to him. It will promptly end up on the floor for later hoovering. This time, the novelty of the dipping won him over.

He crinkled his nose. Shook his head. Then tried it himself. The tofu pup was scarfed with ample BBQ sauce in a matter of minutes.

Soon he was pointing to the Craisins. Then the watermelon. He dipped them in the ambrosia like a champ.

Like mama, like son.

Before 9:30

2008-05-31T10:02:00.003-05:00

In the pre-Spence days, I would not even have left my bed before 9:30 a.m. on a lazy Saturday morning. These days are quite different. So far this morn, I have...

proclaimed, "I am too tired I cannot even form words."
pretended that the boy was still asleep and not kicking my rib.
consumed large quantities of iced toddy coffee. (Have you not all made the switch?)
made pancakes, ate, and kind of cleaned up.
fed the boy.
made the boy a strawberry shake which he promptly threw on the floor.
mopped the kitchen floor.
danced with the boy.
bathed the boy.
listened to the boy say "fish."
changed two poopie diapers.
vacuumed.
mowed the lawn (after 8 a.m., of course).
got pooped on by a bird.
mopped the bathroom floor.
had two relatively lengthy phone conversations.
put the boy down for a nap.
showered.
got dressed.
checked my email.

This is more than I accomplished in most weekends before the boy. Kids really kick you into gear. What have you done before 9:30?

Weeds.

2008-05-28T23:38:00.004-05:00

Calla lilies are not weeds.

After an afternoon discovering and picking cala lilies in our backyard, much like Columbus discovered America, I was sat down and told that the cala lilies were not weeds. They don't just happen unexpectedly. But, they were planned, planted and nurtured by my mother's care.

She was a gardener. I was just 10.

On this the day of her birth, I decided to go out and whip our decidedly not-cala lily weeds into shape. Spence was otherwise occupied kicking our stolen red kickball. So I grabbed the tiny gardening implements and hit the "flower" boxes.

A full three minutes into the adventure, a decidedly prickly plant pierced my skin. Yes, I should have been wearing gloves, but I hate feeling confined. It was a bit tingly, but I actively practiced denial and surrendered to the gloves.

Now five minutes into the "gardening," I brushed my forearm against the prickly weed. Another minute passed and the tingly became an annoying burning. Spence dodged out of view and I quickly helicoptered over to him. By the time I returned to the task at hand, my forearms had erupted into puss-filled pillows. I grabbed the boy and went inside.

He kicked and screamed at the thought of leaving the outdoors. I glanced down and actually watched the pillows inflating. I searched for something to take. No luck. A flooding sensation of sedation started to overtake my body. I flopped on the couch and called Dave. No answer.

"Allergic to plant. Swelling," I texted him. He called within moments.

I burst into tears and started slurring my words. He threatened to call 911. He was home within minutes, loaded me into the car and spilled me into the Northeast Clinic despite my active protests peppered with more tears.

An antihistamine under my doctor's watchful eye and I started to feel even more drowsy, but less drugged.

I guess I am less of a gardener.

The Coffee Jar.

2008-05-21T22:24:00.007-05:00

With all this drama about BPA, I humbly propose The Coffee Jar. Now, it is not my idea...I gleaned it from some other source which has now flown out of my brain. But, it really is perfect for you iced coffee drinkers, which with the weather warming up, you all should be.

I do have the pricey SIGG water bottle for the boy and a lovely Thermos contraption that I stole from my father-in-law. And my dear Resident Teachers just gifted me a fancy dancy coffee mug so that I would no longer have to lug a jar around. But for this moment in time, I cannot get enough of The Coffee Jar.

Oh Coffee Jar, how I love thee! Let me list the ways...

1) If you lose it, it was just a jar. No feelings of expensive coffee carriers lost. You can just smile and imagine someone recycled it.

2) It seals completely. It easily tucks into your bag.

3) No BPA.

4) Very large. With this boy in my life, I consume a lot more coffee. With The Coffee Jar, you can pick your size. I choose 24 ounces.

5) It's a conversation starter. You know people will ask you about The Coffee Jar on the bus.

Go ahead, try The Coffee Jar then share your favorite reason for using it.

Time Warp.

2008-05-21T21:53:00.005-05:00

I never did go to the Rocky Horror Picture show dressed in lingerie. But, I did do my fair share of pelvic thrusts while singing the "Time Warp" in high school.

"It's just a jump to the left
And then a step to the right
With your hands on your hips
You bring your knees in tight
But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you insane,
Let's do the Time Warp again!"

To be honest, I am not exactly sure what the song is about and less sure what the movie was really about. But, there are objects that I run across that seem to interrupt time and force me into a new timespace.

Like, the green-starred cylinder at the Central Library. Today, I started off here...

and Time Warped back here.

7 hours.

2008-05-15T09:29:00.002-05:00

The clock is ticking. The boy is sleeping. What is holding me back?

In little more than 7 hours, I will need to not only hand over a finished paper, but also present it. Take questions. Act as if this was a labor of love. As if writing was pleasurable. As if my ideas will really contribute to the betterment of the world.

A performance of a lifetime. On 2.5 hours of sleep.

Accepted!

2008-05-12T15:22:00.002-05:00

The news just came in over the net...

My abstract was accepted! Spain is in the horizon!

Now I have to figure out how to pay for it...

Happy Mothers' Day.

2008-05-11T21:59:00.006-05:00

Today, traditionally, has not been a very good day for me. It's been 21 years since I got to celebrate with my mom. 20 years of terrible, no good, very bad Mothers' Days. With the babylove, Mothers' Day has started to look up.

This one started off rough. Modern Love tortured me a bit. I usually shed a few tears when I read it, but today I was a sprinkler system by paragraph 2.

Red eyed and sniffly, I helped my malformed husband get into the car, while carrying our son and all appropriate baggage. Dave sat down on the kitchen floor yesterday to play with Spence and stood up crooked. Literally. He can no longer walk (really) and sort of shuffles along on his tip toes. There was no "Honey, you sleep in. It's Mothers' Day." Not even a routine day, as Dave is vital to the whole operation. Today was a taste of single motherhood with a hunched husband in tow.

We had a lovely brunch with my mother in law before we set out for Urgent Care. It should have been Fathers' Day. Dave loves the special attention of Urgent Care and it could have been a treat. But, it was decidedly not his day. And this was no treat for me. Spence and I got to spend a few hours destroying Barnes and Noble and pooping a lot (Spence, not me) while Dave waited to be seen.

We picked up his narcotics, drove by the house we're coveting, and headed home. My mother in law made another appearance to spend a little QT with the boy while I took a power nap, grocery shopped and make sloppy joes and kale for dinner.

Every day with Spence is unusually great. Even this one.

It doesn't mean that the hole in me that yearns for my mom is filled. It's as big as ever.

From the Borderlands: Navigating Communities in the Induction Phase of Teaching

2008-05-07T22:21:00.002-05:00

Not done with the paper. Not even with the outline. But, here's the abstract I just submitted for a conference in Spain. Ole!

Teachers in their induction phase often find themselves navigating from the borders of many different cultures in order to find success in teaching, yet lack a literacy for navigating these communities. Lave and Wenger’s (1991) theory of legitimate peripheral participation (LPP) does not capture the complexity of communities converging on educators in their first year of teaching, as they imagine a singular notion of community. Pushing on LPP with Anzaldua’s borderland consciousnesses, this case study of two teachers in a structured induction program explores how they attempted to build teachers’ literacy in negotiating multiple communities in a bounded school site. The paper analyzes situations where the new teachers used literacy practices to read competing and conflicting communities at the school site: classroom, school, teaching, district and racial communities. These teachers negotiated entry not from a legitimate peripheral position of participation, but from the deeply vulnerable position of Anzaldua’s borderlands. Implications are drawn for constructing opportunities for new teachers to be mentored in gaining fluency in negotiating multiple communities at a school site.

Gloria.

2008-05-06T14:15:00.005-05:00

I had been struggling and chewing on a paper I have due soon. I couldn't even articulate what I wanted to say. Researching, reading and then researching some more. But last night as I was headed to bed, I had a little light fall into my life. I figured out what I could say and who could help me say it. Gloria Anzaldua.

I rode lightrail with a purpose this morning. Re-reading sections. Dog-earing others. Starting to figure out how this paper might actually get written. Energized, I sneaked out of work a bit early. I made it to the coffee shop and pulled out my computer to work.

I made it. Gloria didn't. She is somewhere riding a lightrail train to the Mall of America. Hopefully, someone will be able to get inspired by her wisdom. It just won't be me.

No More Drama

2008-05-05T19:45:00.002-05:00

After dreaming endlessly about Star Tribune headlines "Kristy Snyder Single-Handedly Denies School of Funding," I woke up early and scurried for the bus. As my lightrail train approached the school, I took note that there was only one car in the parking lot. And it wasn't a Jaguar.

The school was empty, save for the hard working custodial staff. My crafty plan to meet up with the principal at 7:45 to figure out this debacle really didn't pan out. I was there. He was not.

In the end, he was right. No drama. Just a calm phone call that made an exception for our school. Tests will be picked up tomorrow.

Dropping the Ball.

2008-05-03T07:35:00.003-05:00

There are many reified truths about you that you could tick off without thinking: for instance, I believe in a Sunday morning ritual that involves the New York Times and the same brunch spot....I take strange comfort wandering through the aisles of the local Target. And, if given the choice between calling someone and figuring something out on the internet, I always choose the road of least social contact.

So when it came time to contact the agency that picks up THE STATE TEST and I was confronted with a web address and a phone number, I quickly logged on, entered our information, attempted to change the contact information from the test coordinator out on paternity leave to me, and logged off feeling satisfied. I am not the test coordinator, nor have I been to any informational meetings on how to "do" this test administration, nor am I even an employee of the school district, but nevertheless I found myself responsible for counting, bubbling, organizing and boxing up the test materials for my school.

My stomach has been at odds with this responsibility for the past few weeks. Gurgles of acid whispered worries that I bubbled things in wrong or stacked the piles incorrectly while putting them in the boxes or even that the testing pick-up scheduled for the last day possible for tests to be collected would go awry.

I mustered up my mild social anxiety and called K2Logistics. The words "no record of the school" and "we sent an email to the testing coordinator" and "too late to schedule pick up now" spilled into my ear.

All thoughts of social anxiety evaporated and new fears of Star Tribune exposes about the woman who single-handedly destroyed a school took up new residence in my head. I started calling any and everyone in the district's testing office, the principal, teachers, the secretaries...anyone. But, it was 4 p.m. on a dismal Friday afternoon. No one was answering.

Our fearless principal finally did call me back and attempted to ease me out of my frenzied state with promises that we'd work it out on Monday. "There has to be a way."

I just don't think he gets it.

Rusty

2008-04-25T20:58:00.002-05:00

I am 32 years old and I have an ear infection. It's no excuse for not keeping my blog updated (I was diagnosed yesterday), but I do have a whole laundry list of other excuses.

We went to Mexico. So fun traveling with a babe. Dare I say more fun that traveling without?

We are selling our house. Those of you that have been here will absolutely not recognize it. Not one bit. We have been working like dogs. (Not that dogs that I know ever really work that hard....maybe working like ants?)

I have been working on grants, bogged down with school, Spence has been sick repeatedly, and he's still choosing to get up in the middle of the night (many times) for some tender lovin' care. And I am BEHIND in life. So many emails to return, voice mail messages to listen to and thank you cards to write.

And I got out of the habit of writing. So, now I am trying to work out the rust in my fingers and get crack-a-lackin'.

"Brown Bear, Brown Bear"

2008-03-21T16:11:00.004-05:00

I am sure I can probably do this memory...

"Brown bear, Brown bear
What do you see?
I see a red bird looking at me.

Red bird, Red bird,
What do you see?
I see a yellow duck looking at me.

Yellow duck, Yellow duck,
What do you see?"

You get the gist. Every animal is classified by "color" and "being."

Until you get to the White teacher. And then she is just "Teacher." Similarly, the multi-colored children on the following page are just "children." Spence starts to giggle right when the White teacher shows her goofy face and doesn't stop until the children are gone.

Perhaps he gets the joke. Bill Martin and Eric Carle are attempting to socialize little Spence to the impossible. There is no color-blind society. Whites often pretend that the world is colorblind, as if that is possible or even desirable. We point out the people of color as if white is not a color.

So when I get to the bespeckled teacher, I modify.

"White teacher, White teacher,
What do you see?"

Happy Birthday!

2008-03-21T16:03:00.004-05:00

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!
Oh, how much Spencer blooms.
It's been one year since he left the womb.
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!

(March 15, 2008)

Early to Bed...Part II

2008-03-07T22:40:00.003-06:00

Benjamin Franklin had it right all of those years ago. I wonder how he would have weighed in on the ol' 'never wake a sleeping babe' advice.

I thought of Ben when I was chopping spinach into teeny tiny pieces to hide in Spence's scrambled eggs. At 4 a.m. He was kicking his little legs and banging a wooden spoon against the tile floor. Bright eyed, he didn't seem to notice that the sun was still hidden from the sky. For many, many more hours.

After a failed dinner at 10:30 p.m. last night and some fitful hours of sleep, the boy made it clear that 4 a.m was breakfast time. A quick game of paper-rock-scissors with my snoring husband sent me down the precarious stairs to try to wrestle up something to toss down the boy's mouth.

At about 7 a.m., I kicked Dave out of bed and snuggled under our down comforter for at least 45 minutes of uninterrupted sleep.

Steppin' Out

2008-03-06T20:50:00.003-06:00

I purposefully left my camera at home. I thought to myself, "Live in the moment. Be there. Not behind the lens."

And I was.

Spence did his tail-wagging super-charged crawl all around the "Habitot," playing close attention to the spinning fish and (always) the window peering at the giant fish hanging from the ceiling. He gave some kisses to the boy in the mirror.

Then we ventured downstairs to the land of the miniature walkers. Kids were darting around in postal uniforms delivering mail. Others were running into the music studio. Spence immediately sensed the "genre" and demanded to rise to two legs. He clung to my hands for dear life as we traversed from the clinic to the world market.

And then we passed the post office box. Spence had one hand on the box and the other wrapped around my fingers. I pried my hand free and backed away. And before he could think, he took two steps towards me.

He walked.

I didn't have my camera, but my sense of absolute awe snapped an indelible image in my mamasoul.

Waiting. Like Idiot-Parents.

2008-03-04T21:17:00.002-06:00

The boy is sleeping. Soundly. For many hours.

Time to rejoice?

Nope. He crashed at 5 p.m. Without dinner. The boy was having too much fun to take a longer nap today and when the fussing began, his mouth slammed shut. Not a stellar parenting move.

We are screwed.

So now it is 10 p.m. and we are waiting for him to stir. We're sitting on our orange couch wondering why we didn't wake him up hours ago. Stupid parents. Now, he'll undoubtedly demand a 3 a.m. dance party.

All that advice..."Never wake a sleeping babe"...paralyzed us. And now, it is 10:12 p.m. and we've been debating whether to wake him for about 4 hours. No adult conversation. No adult fun. Just debating the "to be or not to be" question of babes that went to bed too early.

Pray he wakes soon. Or not?

Next to the Famous

2008-03-03T21:51:00.001-06:00

Watch this....

Environmental Degradation in China

Yeah, my sister in law made it. She's 15. What have you done today to change the world?

Broccoli in Bed

2008-02-09T13:31:00.000-06:00

"Quick, get the broccoli."

These are words I didn't expect to hear at 2 in the morning. Not even from my broccoli-obsessed husband. Yet, here they were hanging in the air, expecting a response of some sort.

I figured I had a few options, as I groggily attended to our fourth night-waking event.

A) Scream hysterically at him. "Broccoli? At 2 in the morning? Are you mad?"

B) Roll over and pretend I didn't hear him or the shrieking babe.

C) Dutifully go produce some broccoli for my husband and child.

I attempted all three...the first two to stave off the trek downstairs. But, it eventually became evident that Dave's request for frozen broccoli at now 2:45 a.m. wasn't going away. It seemed as if he believed that this would lessen Spence's teething pain.

The frozen broccoli materialized somehow and was quickly thrown under the bed, where I think it still lives.

Let it be known that broccoli will not be the Windex of this family--it is not a cure all.

Are you homeless?

2008-02-06T21:17:00.000-06:00

I was reading my incomprehensible text while standing downtown and waiting for bus, knees knocking from the cold.

"Are you homeless?" The question invaded my space.

I looked up. I smiled at the man and shook my head.

"Oh, okay," he said and crossed the street.

I immediately did a body check. What was I wearing? How was I carrying myself?

And then it hit me. He was brilliant. With one question, he completely forced me to challenge my stereotypes and assumptions about homeless people. He interrupted my binary between us and them. I was forced to move beyond.

Now, I am getting up the courage to follow in his footsteps.
Except my question...Are you white?

Feel a Little Poke Coming Through...

2008-02-02T12:38:00.000-06:00

Okay, grab your calculators. Here's a little math problem to get your minds working.

Question:
If two parents have one child with five teeth that are busting through on top (we are too tired to even consider the bottom jaw) and said child wakes up every hour for approximately fifteen minutes, how much sleep is the family getting?

Answer:
I am lucky that I am still able to string together sentences, let alone figure out the math problem.
Please don't post your answers. I am still attempting to live in denial.

Take note of the pearly white crescents poking through. Pray they make a full appearance soon.

Hoovering

2008-01-29T21:00:00.000-06:00

I turned my back for a minute and the boy's face was sucking on the ground.

Hoovering.

After I detached him from the floor, I spied a mashed craisin that he had been trying to maneuver into his mouth. His eagle eyes, wiggly little crawl, and fierce independence have morphed him into a lean, mean hoovering machine. That smidge of sweet potato tucked into the kitchen corner? He's on it.

You must know that pre-motherhood, I was a bit...how shall I frame it?...dirty. Not Christina Aguilea diiirty. Messy. Slobby. Post-motherhood? Let's just say I have not yet bought into the 1950s war on germs, but I do vacuum most every day.

Spence is just a hoovering pack rat. He squirrels away food in his crevices and hides them for future hoovering expeditions. Today I watched him lean over his booster seat and stick a few peas under his seat for a mid-afternoon snack.

Crafty little hoover.

Almost.

2008-01-23T21:48:00.000-06:00

Just when we thought we could name the boy "healed," the phone rang.

Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.

By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')

Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?

By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.

Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.

Flu Watch: Day 6

2008-01-20T16:31:00.000-06:00

Spence is still sick.

(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)

Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.

Vomity

2008-01-14T20:00:00.001-06:00

Do you count vomit by the actual times you heave?
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?

If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.

More...much more followed all throughout the day.

Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.

He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"

It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.

Hairs Cut!

2008-01-05T17:50:00.001-06:00

"Are you ready for a bald baby?" I hazily remember my midwife John asking in the final stages of pushing. "Just get the kid out," was all I could muster. A bald baby was not the fruit of my labor.

Fast forward 9+ months.

He's gives Shaggy from Scooby Doo a run for the Scooby snacks. So we gathered Spence up on this balmy 32 degree day and took him to get his hair cut. He was a squirmy Spence, so we left a little cockeyed, but de-shagged.

Luckily, a visit to Grandma resulted in his second haircut of the day which straightened up the tilty cut. Somehow, it is still a big shaggy...

Ouija Magic: Babystyle

2008-01-05T17:06:00.000-06:00

Tiffany Wong was one of my best friends in high school. She taught me a trick or two in riding the waves of teenage girl in-fighting, like always make a copy of your notes. A paper trail would provide ample evidence of the insanity of your "friends." Not surprisingly, she didn't do so well in the "Beverly Hills 90210"-esque drama of Acalanes High School in the early nineties. Whereas my family piled on the punishments, hers whisked her away to a new life in Maui at her request. Not for a visit. To live there.

Before she abandoned me, Tiffany introduced me to the magic of the Ouija board. She spun many eerie tales of the truth-revealing power of the Ouija....beloved boys who had routinely ignored us suddenly were revealed to be nurturing hidden crushes on us. I know she would never have moved the little truth-telling gadget. It was magical. I really should get one to aid in my day-to-day decision making.

Which leads me to this new truth-telling gadget...your necklace. I love this stuff. Before I tell you how to do it, you must know that I mostly read the Babycenter.com March 2007 birth board as a sociological thing. But, I discovered this little gem and it is all worth my while. Please do this immediately and post your results. It will foretell your offspring.

I made Dave do it too...we are having a boy (Spence)-girl-boy.

Direct from the source (colored text, conversational text and all):

So I want to see if this form of sex prediction works for everyone. So far, it is working for me and a few others that have tried it. I haven't heard anyone say it doesn't work. It will tell you, in order, what sex and how many kids you have had/will have, including miscarriages and deaths.

What you need:

A pendant on a chain(heart, cross, etc)

Two hands

What you do:

Hold the chain with your right hand with the pendant hanging down. Hold it very steady over your left palm. It will start to swing in either a circle or back and forth. Between children, it will come to a stop and start moving again on its own. When it stops completely, it's done. It will even predict future children so don't stop even if you think your done having kids, cuz it might predict differently.

Circular motion means girl.

Back and forth means boy.

What'd you get?

French Potage with Pistou

2008-01-03T12:06:00.000-06:00

I am a lover of the Vegetarian Times. I made their French Potage with Pistou last night and have not stopped eating it since. It is damn good. And it gets better the next day.

Here's the recipe.

Potage
2 Tbs butter
2 medium leeks (white and pale green parts chopped up to equal about 4 cups)
1/4 c. white wine (I naturally added a bit more)
4 cloves garlic (Again, I am a bit heavy handed with the garlic)
1 large russet potato, peeled and diced (I used the russet, but I am tempted to use a sweet potato next time...)
4 medium carrots, chopped
4 sprigs fresh thyme (I used dried...it's winter and herbs are pricey)
1 bay leaf
4 cups veggie broth

Pistou--this is the topping...optional, but yummy.
1 cup firmly backed basil leaves
1/4 c. toasted walnuts
1 clove garlic
1/4 c. olive oil

1. To make the Portage: Melt butter in large saucepan over medium heat. Add leeks and pinch of salt; cover and cook 5 to 7 minutes, or until leeks are softened, stirring often. Stir in wine and garlic and cook, uncovered, 1 to 2 minutes, or until most liquid has evaporated.
2. Add potato, carrots, thyme, bay leaf, broth and 2 cups of water. Season with salt and pepper; cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer 30 minutes, or until potato and carrots are soft.
3. Remove the thyme sprigs and bay leaf. Puree soup until smooth.
4. To make the Pistou: Place basil, walnuts and garlic in blender. Pulse to combine. Pour in oil, and blend until smooth. Add water if necessary to form smooth paste. Serve dollop on top of Portage.

FYI: This soup was in the section on healing soups...apparently it is typically served in hospitals throughout France. I didn't actually think that was a motivating factor to make this soup, but hey at least you know.

Let me know what you thought...

Stomach Flu Spence

2008-01-03T12:04:00.001-06:00

Scratch that last entry.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.