ultrametabolism

 I think I am addicted to olive oil.  That's what I said the other night at dinner to which my husband laughed and said that was the weirdest thing he had ever heard.  Is it weird to like olive oil so much? I started really consuming it after reading Ultrametabolism.  Now I am not looking to be on a diet, although I do want to shed all of the remaining baby pounds. I just wanted to read the book since it was talked of rather highly by my sister in law. So I read it while nursing my baby in the middle of the night. And I liked what Dr. Hyman had to say about food and eating.  I agree that we should eat "real" food and not waste calories or money on food with low to no nutritional value.  The only thing that would really make his plan better would be to focus more on locally grown foods. For instance, coconut and coconut milk is a staple in his recipes, but you are hard pressed to find those produced in Wisconsin.

Another reason I have made 4 or more recipes out of Ultrametabolism is that I liked what he had to say about metabolism and the human body- I finally understand how the body works and why when I eat a lot of sugar I want to eat more sugar and then I feel badly. Does understanding lead to something here?

Anyway, I have given up dairy due to my baby's eczema issues and GI troubles. Without dairy in my diet I actually feel better- more full while eating less for example.  I have accidentally and completely intentionally consumed dairy over the last month and swear I saw spots pop up on Annika's adorable face. I can't say that dairy definitely caused the first round of horrible eczema but it cleared up as soon as I stopped eating lots of cheese, yogurt, milk, ice cream, and butter. I love dairy so this is really a sacrifice of sorts! Without butter I needed some sort of bread smear, and Dr. Hyman encourages the use of olive oil for its healthy benefits. So while my daughter was spreading butter on her daddy's homemade Italian loaf, I was dipping my slices in a bowl of olive oil- and licking my fingers clean. It's really the best when my hubby makes garlic bread now. He pours the olive oil on and shakes copious amounts of garlic salt and powder. So good.

Now I am wondering what Dr. Hyman would say if he knew we grasped onto the olive oil gravy train while also eating white bread. To me homemade Italian loaf isn't white bread, but it is made from processed wheat. There is no whole grain in those chunky loaves. We should be eating whole grains and breads that you can't squeeze with your fingers at least according to the doctor. I just don't know if I could really give it up. But then I think of this really fantastic dense rye that my hubby made and I think it could work. Olive oil would taste just as yummy drizzled on a slice of that bread is it does on the Italian loaf.

I made The Best Brownie recipe from Ultrametabolism just this afternoon. They are good. Not too sweet (no sugar in these bad boys!) and have a nice dark chocolate taste to them. The only troubling aspect is the texture; the ground pecans make for a rough feel. Still, they are a very reasonable and much healthier replacement for "real" brownies. When I think about gorging myself on sweets these days I actually have more of a steely resistance. I had some birthday cake for my daughter's birthday and on the following days until it was finally gone from our fridge and I felt just awful. I think my body was happier without the high sugar doses and dairy content. Hmm.

But really, how much can one nursing mama give up?  Dairy (butter, yogurt, cheese, ice cream)-check, check, check, check. Lots of sugar-check. Chocolate with less than 70% cacao- check.  If I ever have to give up olive oil I will be in big trouble. I can't get enough!

Addiction

          A funny thing happened to me the other night while I was sleeping.  I woke up in the dark of the night and as my senses were hurriedly soaking up where, when, and why for my confused brain to process, my sense of touch found my clammy but warm thumb.  “Oh my God! Was I sucking my thumb?” When I answered myself, “No, I couldn’t have been; I am 31 years old,” I realized I had been sleeping with my left thumb clenched between my pointer and middle fingers and my entire hand had been shoved under my backside for safe keeping. The bed was warm enough to cause sweating especially in skin-on-skin situations such as my hand and thumb provided. It’s laughable now and even a bit embarrassing, but it is also interesting how powerful an old habit can be.  It has been over 15 years since I have worried about what my thumbs were up to in the middle of the night, but like they say- once an addict, always an addict.

          One of the most vivid memories relating to my thumbs was when I was about 9 years old and my family was visiting relatives in California. We were doing the whole California vacation complete with daily trips to the pool, a Yosemite trip, camping, and of course, trips to Disneyland and Magic Mountain. My uncle’s brother had a condo down in Los Angeles so we were staying there while visiting the famous Anaheim amusement parks. It was a crowded house with my parents, brother, Aunt Jan and Uncle Al and their two boys, Grandma H., and our gracious host, Uncle Paul, camping out in the two-bedroom unit.  Sleeping arrangements were carefully considered and everyone was happy except, apparently, for Grandma.

          I was minding my own business, quietly climbing up the stairs to get ready for bed, and Grandma and Auntie were in the second bedroom making the bed on the hide-away sleeper couch where Grandma and I were to be bunking up. As I neared the top of the stairs I heard my name from behind the partially closed door. Suffering like many people from the fear of being talked about behind my back and really wanting to know exactly what they were saying I quickly stole to the adjacent bathroom to eaves drop.

          “I don’t want to sleep with her. That girl is nine years old and she still sucks her thumb. It will keep me awake,” Grandma complained. That’s me, I thought.  Since I was the only girl in the house I couldn’t pretend that they were talking about anyone else. Plus, I knew I was destined to be Grandma’s sleeping buddy.

          “It’s not that bad. Most kids suck their thumbs. Be glad she doesn’t wet the bed,” hushed Auntie.

          My ears were ringing so loudly and my heart beating so rapidly I could not focus on what else they said, and I stood in the bathroom doorway for what felt like ages. My grandmother’s words were spinning round and round in my head; I was reeling.  My secret was out and my grandmother despised me for it! I felt sick to my stomach. Grandmothers are supposed to spoil you and love you no matter what. I was so upset by this notion that I wasn’t even happy that Auntie had come to my rescue; bed wetting is far worse. My world was tumbling down around me.  It was all I could do to close the bathroom door and brush my teeth. All the while I was imagining the horrors of what was going to happen when I fell asleep.

          When I went into the bedroom I showed no signs of having heard their conversation. I said goodnight and crawled into bed. As I lay curled on my side with my back to my grandmother I made sure that my thumbs were securely locked into my fists, my left fist crammed between my knees and my right fist hidden under my pillow. I alternately prayed that my thumbs would not betray me and cursed them for having started the habit in the first place.

          Sometime in the night I awoke to loud snoring and felt my childish rage swell inside me. How dare she complain about a little thumb sucking when she could wake the entire house with her snores?  I almost unleashed my thumbs and let the sucking commence, but in the end I covered my ears, too.  In the light of the morning I congratulated myself for having survived the night with no signs of any thumb sucking to be found. I was saved the added embarrassment of having proven Grandma right, but I still had the disturbing knowledge that other people knew about my little thumb trouble. I could not even make myself feel better by telling anyone that I hated the habit and despised myself, too. There was too much of a risk of enlightening people who actually did not know; that would be the epitome of needless embarrassing scenarios. I would just have to deal with my dirty little semi-secret on my own.

          I do not know what started my thumb sucking to begin with.  I pondered the question from time to time since it was possible that the answer to quitting lay in the past.  Did my addiction start in utero? Did it start later as a baby when I needed to soothe myself to sleep?  Did my parents find it endearing and encourage me?  Did my thumbs taste like chocolate as I remember my grandfather jokingly asking me?   The origin became less important over the years, enlightenment never occurring, as I focused on how to reach the end.     Somewhere between the beginning and that fateful night in L.A. I realized that I was a thumb sucker and that I wanted to quit. Cold turkey. No last night indulgences or one-more-before-the-end sucks. That’s when I started tucking my thumbs into my fists and hiding my hands under my pillow or palms-down beneath my butt while chanting, “I will not suck my thumb. I will not suck my thumb,” in my head while my lips mouthed the words. It probably looked like some sort of strange sleep ritual or meditation.  The result was that I stopped sucking on my right thumb. Well, I stopped sucking on only my right thumb. Now it could be either thumb at any time.  The problem was worse.

          I would wake in the night and, finding my hands and thumbs free from their stowed away positions, check for stray saliva or the telltale teeth marks in the tops of either thumb. I was like a crime scene investigator working in the dim light of my room. Inevitably the proof would be found (nights of abstinence were frustratingly few and far between), and I would be consumed with shame and intense aggravation. What else could I do besides enclose my thumbs yet again in their finger prisons and hide them away beneath the bedclothes?  Eventually I would temporarily experience Nirvana when I thought that covering my hands with socks would solve all my problems. Of course, I was wrong and the enlightenment hastily turned to disappointment.  I would wake up the next morning and find the socks twisted in with the sheets, partial evidence that I had indulged myself in the night. Most likely there would be the stale thumb taste lingering in my mouth or the still-warm and moist offending digit resting nearby. Like so many wasted cigarette butts or empty bottles and dirty glasses. Evidence of the shame spiral.

During the waking hours I imagined the puppet shows that would ensue while I dreamt the night away oblivious to the performance.  It may have gone something like this, in slow motion and black and white of course: my mouth opening and shutting like a trap door, daring my thumbs to get too close. My left thumb trying to reach my lips but the sock getting in the way. As the left hand wrestles with the sock, my right hand creeps in from the side, the thumb frantically trying to find its way out of the tube. The left sees the right and shoves it aside, which exposes the right thumb. Now time moves in slow motion as the left hand is shocked into temporary inaction (fingers splayed up and out inside the cloth), and the right thumb finds its place in my mouth, which closes down and begins to suck. Realizing defeat, the left hand and thumb fold over and fall to the bed with a light thump. A small smile crosses my face and the scene ends.  I could have charged admission!

          Except that the thought of someone seeing me would give me the cold sweats and have me dreading things like sleepovers.  Spending the night with a bunch of girls was always fun, but it was like a nightmare trying to figure out how to sleep incognito, just in case I had to have a middle of the night thumb suck. What if my friends saw me?  It was a terrifying thought so I hardly slept because of the worry. It was the worst during my early teen years not because of frequency but because I was in Junior High. (Yes, my curse stayed with me even this far; my grandmother would have been just as mortified as I was. The incidents were, however, becoming more spaced out for various potential reasons.)  In the world of low self-esteem, peer pressure, fitting in with the popular crowd, silly sleepover games (like putting water on someone’s sleeping bag and telling her she wet the bed or putting a girl’s bra in the freezer), and crushes on the cutest boy, thumb sucking would have turned into a character bashing free-for-all the likes of which Olson Junior High never saw before.  Goodbye induction into the popular crowd and possible romance with the cutest boy and hello peer isolation, humiliation and sitting at the nerd table at lunch.  Never!

          As I struggled with my curse into Junior High it had me seriously concerned that I would never break the habit.  During this time of hormonal changes and independence I vowed that my habit would not follow me to young adulthood so I renewed me efforts to finish it for good, much like getting rid of babyish books or toys and embracing a new body and more freedom. The nightly chanting and frequent appendage checks certainly disrupted my sleep, but I slept more soundly in between those awakenings if I knew my thumbs were obeying me. Slowly but surely the habit was being kicked.  Relapses would occur, as the dried saliva around my thumb and mouth would prove, but I was willing it away.  To be completely honest my habit followed me into high school, but by then it was more of a worry that the once-in-a-great-while episodes would turn into a full-blown outbreak of thumb sucking frenzies.

          It would have been interesting to have followed my stress levels and nightly thumb capers. There was probably a pattern. High stress during the day followed by some serious sucking at night, which would lead to more stress the next day. I would worry myself sick with questions like: would I graduate high school with my thumb in my mouth?  Or major in thumb sucking in college? Or how could I hide it from my husband when I got married?  Or, even worse, are there support groups for people like me?              

Thumb sucking, like most addictions, can have ramifications far-reaching from the comforts of a private bedroom or house. Mental health instabilities aside, there were the physical consequences to contend with.  From a very early age I was the girl with the overly large front teeth that stuck out because I sucked my thumbs and was a chronic tongue-thruster, i.e., pushed at the backs of my teeth with my tongue. They weren’t quite buckteeth, but they were close. My other teeth were in no great shape either; they had all come in crooked. You can imagine why I suffered from low self-esteem and a fear of being picked on.  Thankfully my parents agreed that I needed to have my mouth all fixed-up, and they found an orthodontist. **Are there such things as suckingdontists?**  The retainers he fitted me with may have helped discourage sucking my thumbs; one of the types had dull spikes hanging down from the center to keep my tongue in the back of my mouth. It did not feel good to bring those down on an unsuspecting thumb.  By the middle of seventh grade my teeth were entirely cured even if my habit was not.  Incidentally, my new, big, bright smile did nothing to help me until I was much older.

          I find it highly amusing that my mind could have brought up such a series of events that I had been trying for many years to forget.  Perhaps it is because my husband and I are watching our 5-month old daughter soothe herself to sleep with the pacifier or sometimes her thumbs or fingers. Perhaps it was that my dreams had pushed me there; maybe I was dreaming about my grandma, junior high or even chocolate.  Regardless I laugh when I think of the face my husband would make if I ever asked him, “Honey, was I sucking my thumb last night?”

6 days late...

...and everyone is healthy and happy!
     Annika Marie is a beautiful bundle that I thank God for every day. And then every night I wonder what the hell I got myself into.
     Every time I nurse her she falls asleep! The advice from the nurse at the hospital and then her doctor via the PA is the same as the advice in the books I have at home: tickle her toes, put her skin-to-skin with your belly, use a cool wash cloth on her back, burp her, change her.  I can do all of those things but the only sure fire way to get her to wake up and want to keep eating is to lay her down to sleep. Swaddle her, lay her down, say good night and walk away. Boom- she's up and hungry. Well, sometimes I have to also lay down and start to drift to sleep.  So I have to wonder, is it just me?  What are the secret tricks that no one wants to share?  Why does this have to happen every single time?
     At least I am worrying less about her getting enough to eat. She gained 4 ounces in 2 days bringing her closer to her birth weight.  But according to the literature, she should be eating 15-20 minutes per side at every feeding. It's almost laughable. And I am laughing- my Buddhism for Mothers book recommends this strategy for dealing with life's suffering. It is only the end of week 1 but so far I am handling the middle of the night frustrations better than with Emma.
      I have set myself up better this time around, though. I am armed every night in the guest room with the following: small lamp burning relatively bright, hand-held Tetris game, Buddhism for Mothers, record sheets from the hospital for recording times and duration of feedings (plus wet and dirty diaper tallies), pen, burp cloths, pillows, changing table close by, and the list of topics for the nature center preschool program lessons I am writing.  The benefits for this set up are numerous. The most important being that I am able to be more awake and not having to stare at my cozy bed for the entire 40-50 event wishing that I was asleep and thinking dreadful, selfish thoughts about how long the process is taking. The other distractions are a nice way to keep my mind in a pleasant state. I should be practicing mindful awareness but I have some months to get to that point. The list of topics has actually been very worthwhile. I had no idea I could be so creative at 3 in the morning!  I have a lot of ideas and have almost made it half-way through the fall lessons in just a few days.
  Now that I have it all written out, it doesn't sound so bad does it? Maybe the night times really aren't hellish after all...

Cranky Mama

Oh boy. So today is the due date for baby. Aside from some random contractions that started yesterday evening and lasted until around 1 am, there is nothing happening today that I can tell. NO one likes a complainer but I have to say that I have had enough!  My belly has gotten so big that even going to the bathroom is hard and uncomfortable to do. Sleeping is a drag. Leg cramps, my right hip muscles ache constantly and turning over is like actual work that results in painful stomach twangs. So I cried in the shower this morning and am as despondent as the cloudy skies outside my window.

Emma was 11 days early the morning after my water broke. That was such a nice, easy and straightforward beginning and ending to labor and delivery. I fear that once things actually get going with this baby, it will be anything but easy or straightforward. I shouldn't be fretting or anxious because I doubt that helps with the progression of things but I can't help it. Blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

The real funny thing is that a few weeks ago people were already saying, oh it looks like you are ready to go! You won't make it to August. Are you having twins? When I would tell someone my due date that would look at me like I was crazy and say, wow you have a ways to go. Why would I lie about the due date? I would happily have said July something if only that would have made it true.

The waiting isn't just hard on me. Emma is really struggling. Her behavior has been completely out of control at times and the level of sass would have some teenagers taking notes. The other day I told her calmly (for once I kept my cool) that I didn't like her attitude to which she responded, I don't like your attitude. I swear she tilted her head to one side, stuck out the opposite hip and seriously looked 13. I almost laughed.

We have tried recreating what we did the night Emma was born with no luck. I had a doctor's appointment on Wednesday the 8th. There was nothing happening so we had the talk about how long the doc would make we wait for the baby to come. I believe I said, how long will you allow me to stay like this? The doctor said she won't let me go past 42 weeks but that she starts to get nervous around week 41. When she measured my belly (I think it was 43!) she said, yep, baby is done and can come out. Great- make that happen please!  Going all-natural in terms of the beginning of labor tends to be better overall than being induced. So waiting is the better option in general. However, if by next Wednesday there is still no baby, we will pick the date to be induced and also set up some baby monitoring sessions (baby might not be coming out but that doesn't mean baby is happy in my belly). If the monitoring is fine, we wait until the chosen induction date. If baby shows signs of distress, we induce earlier. Now I am all for letting nature do it's thing- in a timely manner!  Come on already.   So I didn't really cry after that appointment but I did talk to a best friend (half of the Emma requirements were satisified by late morning). For dinner we had lemon chicken and veggie fried rice from the Chinese place down the road. That night while laying in bed I willed my water to break to no avail.

The week before on Saturday I think we went to the Olive Garden for dinner. Olive Garden salad dressing has supposedly worked for my sister-in-law and countless women according to her online research. I ate all the drenched lettuce leaves at the bottom of the bowl and that night was hopeful that something magical would happen before I fell asleep. Nothing.

I haven' been very good at walking as a remedy. My feet and ankles are always at least slightly swollen and the only shoes I can fit my fat feet into are flip flops. They do not provide very good support. So I suppose I should stop complaining and start doing something. I just need to get out of this funk! I feel so blue even though I am wearing my favorite green sweater with green earrings and brightly colored glass pendant. Work your magic, green!

Pity Party

So much for being green because today I feel blue. I know that is cheesy- but I am desperate here!  My husband has been traveling every Monday through Thursday for several weeks now. My belly keeps getting bigger making me more uncomfortable and the morning nausea is more debilitating than ever!  Our 4 year old hasn't been getting enough sleep and is not handling all of the changes very well. She oscillates between little devil, cry baby, and clingy mama's girl- all within minutes!  It doesn't help that when I feel crappy I am also cranky; I don't handle her changes very well either. We are not a great combination these days! So when my hubby calls to check in at the end of the day I feel like I need to decompress, but Emma has other ideas. Pulling the dog's ears, strangling the dog, asking me questions repeatedly, doing what I just said no to, etc- in other words she makes completely poor choices as soon as I start talking to her daddy. So much so that I can hardly have a conversation. I could just scream! But instead I firmly tell her after we get off the phone why her behavior is not okay. I thought she was going to cry.
After saying goodnight I came downstairs and balled. While washing the dishes. I tried to avoid dripping snot into the dishwater; I took lots of mini breaks to blow my nose (and wash my hands) in the bathroom.  I just feel so overwhelmed. After bed time my feet are aching and I am spent.  But the 3 days worth of dishes need to be done. The garden needs to be watered. (The rain barrel water smells icky, which makes me cringe. But the outside faucet that just got fixed yesterday is turned off so tightly I can't turn the damn thing on!)  The projects that are usually fun for me require energy I just can't muster.  And then I cried harder when I remembered how much I wanted ice cream for dessert. I stupidly told Emma about my craving during dinner, and she promptly lost the privilege with poor table manners and behavior, including pinching my arm when she got mad at me. Oy! So I checked the status of cocoa powder thinking a chocolate overdose in the form of brownies would be in order- no such luck. So now I am tear-stained and emotionally drained with no sugary mental fix in sight. And there is no one around to join this party! No one to bring me a soft serve cone. No one to sit on my couch while I go devour a brownie sundae. I have no friends. I have no sweets. How is that for feeling sorry for myself?

Painting Party

            People usually don't get a baby shower for their second (or third or...) child. Although I didn't have a traditional baby shower for baby-on-the-way (number two), I had an awesome ladies-only party to celebrate my huge belly.  And I have my best friend, Emily, to thank!  She got the whole ball rolling by asking my other best friend about baby shower protocol. It morphed into a small get together of girl friends around lunch, followed by a creative outlet of play-room-painting. I don't know if anyone else had a good time, but I had a blast!  All the ladies brought delicious foods and we stuffed ourselves and chatted for an hour or so.
               In the basement it took a little bit of encouragement to get everyone to grab a paintbrush and a pot pf paint, but then they all did their own thing- beautifully! The play room walls are looking really awesome!  Darcy and I filled in spaces with 5-petaled flowers. Holly created curvy flowers and butterflies.  Chenoa did large yellow flowers and filled in a lot of the grass, stems and leaves.  Emily painted two squirrels and a caterpillar on one wall and a few flowers I think.  Last night I had the jolting thought that the shelves might hide the caterpillar. Unless I rearrange the room...
            The funny thing about the squirrels is that in high school Emily, Chenoa, and I painted a surreal window scene on a teacher's classroom wall (with his permission and instigation). It was a lot of fun. Emily, a squirrel fan, tried painting one cloud to sort of look like a squirrel and ended up painting a rather large squirrel-shaped cloud. It took a lot of effort to discguise the squirrel.  So when my husband got wind of our painting plan he made a joke about not letting Emily paint any squirrely flowers. Well, she showed us all!  Those squirrels are stinking cute and fit right in!

Even Emma and a friend's daughter got a chance to paint a little. Emma did a "group of roses" that Chenoa added some detail to using her artistic talents. (I will add an after shot at some point!)

I know that Emma will love sharing the space with her new sibling. I might even hang out in the underground garden! The best part is that every time I look at the flowers and butterflies I think of each of my friends. This "shower" was the best gift I could have ever asked for. (I did end up getting a couple of gifts on top of the party that Emily coordinated. Chenoa brought a backpack for Emma that had a new kids music CD plus a couple of toys that Emma can show the baby how to play with (a recycled plastic boat and rings). Plus, Chenoa gifted us with a brag book, a Sandra Boynton book, and an adorable duckie outfit.  Holly brought a gorgeous sunflower and rose hip arrangement. Darcy brought her car seat and base.) Thank you friends! 

Nostalgic Tastebuds

My favorite restaurant of all time was called Warsaw Inn of McHenry. It was the kind of place that I loved so much I didn't want to eat there all the time. I saved it for special occasions. These occasions started when I was just a kid. We ate there with my grandparents, my grandma's sister, my visiting aunts, uncles and cousins from California. My dad and I went there for some special bonding time before I graduated from high school; I finally got to hear intimate details about his football injury that ultimately left him with one leg shorter than the other. When I said special I guess I didn't always mean rosy, happy special. In college the first time my love came home to visit the folks we went to Warsaw Inn. Steve ate so much at the all-you-can-eat buffet that he got seriously sick to his stomach. My parents found it embarrassingly humorouse. I just tried not to say, I told you so.

Warsaw Inn was a Polish-American smorgasbord. As a child I filled my plate with pudding (chocolate only) and red jello; sometimes cottage cheese and canned fruit; sweet cheese pierogies; and maybe a small chunk of polish sausage; I always finished with kolachkies and other desserts. As I got older I fine tuned my selections to focus on three main food groups- cheese pierogies, polish sausage, and kolachky's.

Since Grandma H's family came from Poland and she spoke Polish, I grew up with some Polish traditions in the kitchen. Pierogies were one of them. In order to make them, the entire family had to help. Lots of fingers were needed to pinch the dough crescents securely around the filling. Grandma and my parents always had sauerkraut filling and potato and maybe meat plus the sweet cheese. I remember that the older I got, the harder it was to find the correct type of cheese. It just wasn't in demand anymore. Galumpkies (spelling?) were another regular menu item at Grandma and Grandpa Helwig's. The memory brings back the nauseating smell of cooked cabbage and red sauce, with a hint of meat. Ugh! I hated galumpkies! Sauerkraut and Kluski noodles popped up now and again, although, thankfully we didn't have to eat it! I have a vague memory of Aunt Sophie (Grandma's sister) helping Grandma make dumplings of some sort, perhaps plum.  But other than those dishes I only have the memories of stories my dad told me about what he used to eat growing up, and those are for another time.

I know it sounds ridiculous so maybe I need to paint a clearer picture of what this place means to me. Without meaning to sound like the beginning of titanic...
I can still smell the stale cigarette smoke and the musty dark wooded furniture. The dim lighting hid the fact that the plants were all fake but highlighted the buffet tucked up against the far wall. The meat of choice was ready to be carved by a waiting attendant and awash in red-tinted lights from the heat lamp. I always avoided eye contact and scurried away as fast as possible; I did not like that kind of meat.  I can still taste the buttery "sauce" and the tender, plump sweet cheese pierogies. I won't admit this to my family, but I prefer Warsaw Inn's pierogies to Grandma H's homemade ones. I think it is because of the buttery vat that they soak in while waiting to be scooped and devoured. The polish sausage had just the right spices and melt in your mouth texture. Meat has never been a favorite food choice; Warsaw Inn polish sausage is it's own separate category. And lastly, the infamous cookies- kolatchky's. I actually preferred our homemade versions to Warsaw Inn, but the meal would not feel complete without them.  At home we used a round glass to cut out the tender cream cheese dough. At Warsaw Inn two sides of a rectangle were folded over in the middle to make a neat looking crescent shape. They were always a little too browned for my taste. Oh the homemade ones were so tender, flaky and perfect. Apricot filling, in either scenario, were always my favorite. back before we yanked up our California roots and headed east, we came to Illinois for a visit and to scout out potential new-home areas. We made it a point to stop at Warsaw Inn. Steve controlled himself and avoided a massive belly-ache. When the cashier heard we were from California but had to eat there, they gave us a whole take-out box filled with kolachkys! 

This pregnancy has left me disliking food even more than normal. Somedays there isn't anything that sounds good. So one day Steve and I started plotting a trip to Warsaw Inn. It is located across the state line and over 2 hours away. Getting there from Madison had never been done because of the logistics involved in the process. It had been a few years since we had been there and my mouth was watering something fierce as we talked about options.  Steve sat down at the computer and looked it up to double check the hours and days of operation.  I knew something was wrong when I heard him gasp and tentatively start to say, "Uh, Tara?"  I almost cried when he told me that Warsaw Inn had closed it's doors- almost 2 years prior! They had become a catering-only operation. No more smorgasboard. No more crazy plan to gorge ourselves senseless. No taking Emma and sharing the tradition with her. No more succulent pierogies. No more Warsaw Inn! I was crushed. I am crushed.  I still can't believe that we missed our last chance. I guess we better start practicing the art of making our own pierogies. And I wonder who has the kolachky recipe?

12 years

This anniversary is supposed to be linen or silk depending on whether you follow the traditional or modern gifting route.  My hubby and I have never followed either route. We usually don't even give each other gifts. Sometimes we buy a joint gift or go out for a date night. Before kids we used to spend every Memorial day weekend camping in a different area of California. We attempted to do the same thing when we moved to Wisconsin, but the rain (thunderstorms!) and usually lousy weather kept it from becoming a tradition. Well, our daughter also came around not that long after and adding a baby to the equation was not an option!
This year we had an awesome weekend just hanging out at home. It probably helped that we had been missing each other due to Steve's Cedar Rapids work-week traveling, a normal and weekly routine until fall. We went to the Farmer's Market and bought some amazing polish sausage and meatballs from a favorite meat farm. As a treat for our anniversary we came home with a gorgeous mixed-flower hanging arrangement; it is hanging off the deck where we can see it from the kitchen window and the back room. I made a joke about ignoring any metaphorical symbolism at the end of the summer when the flowers die.
On Sunday it was roasting hot outside so we had an afternoon matinee showing of The Muppet Movie (the newly released one) while eating popcorn and oatmeal (chocolate chip, cranberry, cherry) cookies.  It was delightful! And Emma seemed to enjoy herself, too.
On Monday we went to the Memorial Day parade in Monona for the very first time. It was also Emma's first ever parade. We parked at the nature center and walked up and over the hill, through a wooded city park, with our lawn chairs down to the end of the parade route. We had a grand time and came home with a sack for candy and gum. It turns out that I should avoid the Quench gun even though I really like it; it has aspartame, an ingredient suspect for pregnant women.  Steve grilled the polish sausage that evening and made a simple yummy pasta dish to go with it. It stormed while we ate, which was another highlight.
It was just an awesome weekend! We looked through our wedding album and reminisced about the day. One dozen years is not a long time in the grand scheme of things. A couple at our church just celebrated their 50th anniversary. But it feels like a milestone. Maybe that is just the pregnancy hormones talking this year I don't know.  But the important thing is that we are still celebrating us and looking into our future. Steve is the best husband and an awesome person and I am grateful every day that we have each other. To the happy couple!

Singing to the Moon

Wings of Slumber just might be your next favorite CD! I added it to my library hold list two weeks ago while creating a wish list for my preschool EE job. I ended up with two wish lists; 1 for my job and 1 for my life. Wings of Slumber is on my personal wish list, but I am going to spread the word to my place of employment in any way I can.

My daughter has rarely chosen another CD for nap and bed times. One afternoon we listened to a few of her favorite songs just for fun. She loves the part about the coyote singing to the moon (from "Singing to the Moon").  I read the booklet and fell in love with the Banana Slug String Band and this album. It makes me yearn for my childhood days of being completely absorbed by nature. It has also inspired me to keep teaching the preschoolers and my daughter so that they might one day experience the same nostalgic feelings. I so wish I could unlock some secret talent for song writing!

Before you buy this CD, although I really don't think it is necessary, check out snippets of the songs:
Song previews.
You could then choose to buy the MP3s right there!

To read more about Banana Slug String Band and the wonderful things they have going on, visit their website.
http://www.bananaslugstringband.com/    I can't wait to listen to their other albums!

Set your mind to wonder...and soon you'll be singing to the moon!

Odd Jobs

A number of years ago my husband and I were talking about life, jobs, and writing interesting stories. It led us to make a list of the jobs I have had since I entered the work force at age 14. My plan is to slowly write about my experiences and how they intertwined in my life to make me who I am today. What is still with me from all of these jobs?

Here is the list. Any feedback on the one or two (or few) that you find most interesting would be great! Are there any you want to know more about?

In no particular order:
1)Agra Quest (greenhouse worker- seed planting, repotting, germination strategies)
2)Veterinarian Clinic in my home town (clean, observe animals, run autoclave, assisted in one emergency surgery, XRay assistant)
3)Dog Groomer (private show dogs- Cocker Spaniels)
4)Dog washer (public, local dog grooming facility; included emptying anal glands)
5)Red Barn Farm Market (cashier and stocker; sold Christmas trees; assisted in Halloween festitivities such as face painting, taking tickets for the maze and haunted house)
6)Coffee maker (local coffee shop at the train station)
7) Frito Lay (shelf stocker at specific stores near hometown)
8) babysitting in hometown (went on one weekend adventure with a family to the northwoods)
9) Student Farm in UCD (farm worker; drove a tractor)
10) UCD Arboretum nursery (cleaned pots, propagated plants (research style), repotted seedlings)
11) Elderly woman's Assistant (Carol had me clean, make lunch, do her hair, drive her places)
12) Babysitter for two girls in Davis (this was a tough job!)
13) Courtesy Clerk (Lucky's grocery store)
14) Assistant Soccer Coach (for under 11 girls team)
15) Substitute Teacher in Davis and Kenosha
16) Classroom Teacher (1/2 year 8th grade science, full year 7th grade math)
17) Yard Duty (for Davis elementary school)
18) Yolo Basin Foundation (environmental educator as intern and volunteer; taught school groups about wetlands)
19)Picking Seeds?
20) USDA Forest Service (hectar plot mapping in Kings Canyon National Forest at Teakettle research area)
21) Eagle in hometown (was hired but never worked even an hour)
22) Davis Bed and Breakfast (cleaned rooms, started recycling program)
23) Wood Duck Project (checked wood duck nest boxes)
24) traced mountain lion paw prints
25) Stay-at-home mom
26) Naturalist at Aldo Leopold Nature Center
27) House Painter (helped at one job in Davis, did in-laws house for money)

Echo, echo, echo

We had the 22 week fetal echocardiogram on Thursday and everything came back fine. Yahoo! Yippee! But, wait, good news really isn't good news. Our overall risk may just have decreased some since no markers were found at the 20 week ultrasound and the baby's heart appears completely fine. I almost cried with joy until the doctor continued.  We (pediatric cardiologists) can miss minor defects in the heart folds/flaps and there is always a chance that the heart will not develop normally once the baby is born. So wipe those smug looks off your faces!Still, there are always these risks with any pregnancy and baby. And even if the baby is born completely healthy, who's to say that somewhere down the road a major (or minor) health issue won't pop up?  Take me for example. I am a healthy person relatively speaking. But the hole in my heart does not fit nicely into the healthy and normal category. Can I live a normal life? Probably, as I have been doing. (This question will really be answered after D-day when we meet with a cardiologist.) And I know at least two other families that had totally fine and no risk pregnancies only to have to deal with epilepsy or brain tumors 9 months to a year later.  When I think about that it puts this whole 9 month journey into perspective. You never know what life will throw you or when the tables could turn. Sounds scary with all of these hormones cruising around! But it is also encouraging to know that we will be able to handle anything that comes our way.

Baby Blues and Pinks

Believe it or not I was very excited after I peed on a stick! On December 11, 2011, I peed on a pregnancy stick and it was positive. We were going to have a baby!  It was really hard not to tell people right away. So hard in fact that I did tell my two best friends a couple of weeks later. Here ends the rosy pink part of the story. It all went spectacularly to pieces after that. This may be an exaggeration, we're looking into it.Over Christmas break I woke up with something strange happening in my right eye. Turns out that the blind spot is affectionately know by ophthalmologists as cotton wool spots in people generally 20 years my senior. Most likely a clot from somewhere else in my body traveled to my eye and clogged up the works in a fairly large portion of my retina tissue.  Pregnancy can be a cause of cotton wool spots, though usually concurrently with gestational diabetes and high blood pressure. I did not (and do not) suffer from either of those symptoms.  I was tested for a whole range of things, which all turned out fine. So we were confident that a pregnancy fluke caused the blind spot. But would they leave well enough alone? Of course not. This time I had to go in for an echocardiogram and a carotid doppler, AKA ultrasounds of my heart and neck arteries.  When the echo was inconclusive (ugh) I went back for another echo but this time with the added bonus of some shaken saline solution, an IV, and lots of stress.  Their suspicions were confirmed- I have a tiny hole in the septum of my heart that is obvious when I "bear down" and not so present when I breathe normally. Perinatalogist here we come! The perinatalogist may say I am fine and just to push when the time comes and stop being a baby. (really, it isn't me, mam.) They may say, "stop! don't push. Let's cut you open and yank the baby out through your tummy instead." Or they may say, "keep coming to see us and we'll see." Which would you choose?
Thrown in the mix of all of this roller coaster ride was the fact that I turned 35 years old 1.5 months after peeing on the stick. Suddenly I got pushed into the high(er) risk category and subjected to more tests. The first trimester screening left us with the same risk as a 45 year old woman or in other words, 1 in 21 chance of having a baby with down syndrome. The NF was 3.2 mm; anything under 3.0 is considered normal. All my proteins came back fine, though.  So more to worry about.
The 20 week ultrasound happened after it felt like an eternity. and (drum roll), they found no markers for down syndrome. Are you excited? Well, don't be.  It doesn't change our risk and the baby still has a 50% chance of popping out with a disability. I am fighting off feeling completely happy that the baby appears normal. I don't want to come crashing down off a high on D-day or in two weeks at the fetal echo. What is a fetal echo you ask? Due to the first trimester screening we also have to have an ultrasound done of the baby's heart. 20 weeks is too early so back we go. Babies with down syndrome tend to have heart issues, too, which is why they check for that as well.
There is just too much power, technology and knowledge these days. If I had known better or trusted my instinct that it would be better to not know until D-day, we would have passed on the screening. If we had just gone in today for the 20 week ultrasound we'd be sitting pretty. Because the thing is this, we still don't know jack. We won't do an amniocentesis so we won't know jack until D-day. Even if we did know for sure, we couldn't really prepare for it. We can't really prepare for anything anyway.
Denial is our best medicine right now, as long as we don't forget that even good news isn't really good news. And Jack is starting to sound like a decent name for a boy.

Rosette Rolls

My grandma inadvertently sort of offended me the other day when I asked if we could bring anything for Easter and she said, "Steve could make some rolls." As if I don't know how to make anything!  The truth of the matter is that cooking and baking are somewhat annoying and make me green around the gills- thanks to the bun in the oven. Most likely Grandma was just trying to make things easy for me. We have gotten a lot of mileage out of the scenario, though.
So today I whipped up the dough that has eggs, butter, and milk plus a little sugar. The most fun was making snakes, tying a knot and tucking the ends in to make a nice rosette. They were so pretty! The smell they made while cooking was so horrible! Steve hardly understood since to him they smelled delicious. It really clouded my appetite and made all food seem like an impossibility. What a shame.
When the rolls were neatly lined up on the wire rack, Steve said, "Grandma is really going to be impressed with the rolls I made."  We all split one to taste-test and found it moist, tender and oh so good. Grandma will be proud!

Road Rage

So the other day I was dragged down into the aggressive spiral of road rage when I should have maintained the higher ground and ignored the impatient A-hole behind me. Hindsight is always 20-20.
So I was driving down Milwaukee Street, heading slightly up-hill on the way to our subdivision. I noticed that the minivan behind me was a bit closer than most people would consider safe (or polite). This sort of registered as a warning but I did not heed it. I was also traveling the speed limit of 35 mph so I was confident that I should not feel threatened by the tailgater.  As I approached the school zone located part way up the hill, I slowed down using my brakes to the posted 20 mph. Almost immediately the women driver behind me began laying on the horn. I don't mean a honking staccato but an aggressive, blaring of the horn. When I looked in my rear view mirror I could see her angry face and almost smell the stale cigarette breath through the layers of glass. She was pissed. And here is where I started to be dragged down. I held up my fingers. Not in an offensive gesture, but to show the numbers two and zero while mouthing school zone.  As I approached the end of the zone, I began to accelerate. Now, since the hill is steeper at this point and since I value the money I spend on gas as well as the environment I did not floor it; I started to accelerate at a steady, albeit, too slow pace apparently. The woman started signing "three" and "five" and shouting. I started to see the vein popping out of her head. So as I got close to my right hand turn, I slowed down again, rolled down my window and saw red. Yep, I was angry by this point. "It's 20 in a school zone!" I kept shouting. She pulled along side of me so I screamed, "Roll your window down!"  "I can't!" I heard through her window. So I tried again, "It's 20 in a school zone!" but my admonition went unheard. She was gesturing and yelling something about a mailbox. I didn't bother to look because I was thinking, does she want me to pull over past this intersection so she can get out of her minivan and kick my a##?  I made the right hand turn and heard her peel away.
I was so angry that she got angry at me- for abiding by the law!  Today I looked down the road towards this mysterious mailbox she may have been suggesting as the place of my physical demise and that's where I saw the 35 mph sign.
I wish that she would have noticed or cared one tiny bit for the clearly posted 20 mph signs "when children are present" located on both sides of the school zone. And if she travels that road even just once per day she has the opportunity to see the signs on both sides of the road. Depending on the time of day she will also notice that a crossing guard magically appears during the rush before and after school. This guard places small cones and more signs advertising the school zone. (It is appalling how many people still drive 35 through that area while children are walking to and from school.)  Furthermore, the police have made efforts throughout the school year to post-up around the school zone- during off-peak school day hours. They will pull over people who insist on going 35 through the 20 zone, even if it is not during the before or after school rushes. Finally, a speed limit detector marquee has also been placed at the beginning edges of the school zone for the duration of entire school days. It flashes your speed in red if you are going above 30 mph. It flashes yellow for speeds between 20 and 30 (I think those are the right numbers), and it shows your speed for anything 20 or under. 
I know that this woman is just one of many people who blatantly ignore the school zone. Perhaps some of the problem comes from not understanding what the sign means. However, ignorance is no excuse. And like I explained in exhausting detail above, you really have to be completely clueless or annoyingly arrogant to not see the clues and trust that they apply to you too.
I regret having gotten just as angry at that impatient woman. But I stand by my correctness and law abiding sensibilities. I was right damn it! I only wish that an officer of the law had been around to tell her that as well, with a big fat ticket.