How to Make Fancy New Year's Resolutions

It's my third day in a row at home on a rainy day with a little boy and his cold. The mountain we live on is currently being engulfed by a cloud and so visibility is somewhat low (as in, I'm starting to feel like Sam and I are the only people left on the planet). There's been what looks like a hostile takeover of my living room floor by Thomas the Train and his minions and I'm wondering if it's time to introduce Sam to Barney. Obviously this means that the isolation is getting to me, which means it's time to sit down, drink some tea and ponder life with you, dear readers.

I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.

I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:

1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.

And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.

I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.

I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.

In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.

So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.

In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:

-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.

-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.

-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.

-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.

Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.

And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.

I Want to Shoot the Sleeping Bunnies

It's Friday, one day after National Chocolate Day and I'm still celebrating with my trusty bag o' chocolate chips. Well, to be honest, I'm not really celebrating, I'm self-medicating. It's been one of those days and it's barely the afternoon. You know the kind of day (er, morning) I mean. I could sum it up for you but you really don't need me to because you've most likely had a similar morning if you have someone under the age of two in your house. OK, well, since I've got a little time, I'll fill you in on my day thus far and we can compare notes later.

For starters, the brain-numbing chorus of "Sleeping Bunnies" has been the background soundtrack in my head all morning, which I think registers as a twenty-five on the chocolate chip prescription scale. *wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies* That may or may not have just been a subtle cry for help.

To continue, there's been a lot of somewhat troubling snacking taking place this morning: i.e. fuzz from a q-tip (just to clarify, it was an unused q-tip), hair from my hairbrush, pages of children's books, stale Cheerios from the carpet, toilet paper (also, unused), rusted pieces of an old tag stapled under our fifty year old dining room table (why?), etc. You get the picture. You'd think I was keeping a very untidy house, but if you'll remember, I'm borderline obsessive compulsive, so our house is pretty neat by most standards. This means, as you may have surmised, that my sweet baby is having to be uber-creative in his acquisition of these unusual snack choices.

Moving on. This may in fact be the straw that eventually breaks the mama's back, whatever that may entail. Thomas the Train is considered the stuff of legend in our home and all things somehow come back around to this great beacon of railroading glory. We have toy trains that sound like Thomas and toy trains that can float in your bathtub and trains that can fit in your pocket for convenient portability on that quick trip to the Starbucks for a cup of sanity. We also have access to all sorts of Thomas footage on our streaming Netflix which means that at any given moment, someone is standing in front of the television pointing insistently while also repeating the two words that I hear in my deepest of deep sleeps: "CHOO CHOO." I estimate that I have heard those two words atleast 435 times this morning. It has almost pushed me to the edge. Luckily, naptime stepped in and saved us both.

Lastly, there is the insistence on doing every single thing that is NOT allowed rather than doing the plethora of things that ARE allowed. A list of what is allowed includes: playing with one's many, many toys; reading one's many, many books; eating the relatively nutritious snacks that have been set out for you; etc. A quick list of what is not allowed but is apparently loads more fun: climbing onto the toilet in order to reach daddy's razor, throwing mama's toiletries down the stairs just to see them bounce off of each step, eating the somewhat unclassifiable items one discovers mashed into the carpet, dumping out anything and everything that can be dumped out, turning over laundry baskets in order to stand on them and give dramatic oratories on "choo choos," attempting to skydive off the edge of the sofa into a small basket, digging through the bathroom wastebasket for treasures, ETC. And, this, my friends, is merely an abbreviated list of the limitless possibilities of "fun" as defined by Sam.

So, here I sit while the boy sleeps, typing this little post and wondering if I will survive the afternoon. It's possible I won't. But, if I do, it will only be by the grace of God and this bag of chocolate chips I have slowly but surely finished off.

The Late, Late, Late Show

It's late (11:24 pm) and by some miracle, I'm still awake. Maybe 11:24 pm doesn't sound like late to you, but to this mom-with-a-tornado-for-a-child, it is waaaaaay past bedtime. So, you may be asking the question, why are you still up? Well, to be honest, I'm not sure. It could have something to do with the few (understatement) handfuls of chocolate chips I've recently consumed (hello, caffeinated sugar bomb). But, I think it has more to do with the fact that my time alone is rare, like Humpback Whale rare, and I'm trying to stretch it out as long as I can. So, now I'm up past my bedtime perusing websites that feature elaborate handmade pillows and framed fabric swatches with pithy sayings crocheted on them. Oh, and I'm also doing laundry, but that's nothing new (see blog sub-title). Basically, I'm wasting time. But, the important part here is that I'm wasting time all by my lonesome.

The husband is snoozing upstairs and I imagine the little guy is dreaming about cookies and The Backyardigans and endless sippy cup-fulls of Juicy Juice right about now. And so the house is quiet except for the sound of the dryer tossing around my last load of laundry for the night.

The house is mine for the moment and I find that I'm not even sure how to be this alone anymore. It used to be the norm most evenings (before the boys upstairs showed up) and now I find that I'm pretty unfamiliar with my own company. It's a curious thing to look into the mirror some mornings and realize that I don't know the person looking back at me as well as I used to.

Seven years of lovely/terrible singleness after college afforded me lots and lots of time to ponder my self, my personal dramas and heartaches, my plans and my hopes and the plethora of things under the category "my." And now, most everything about me revolves around none of those things anymore. And, in most ways, that's a really good thing. I've filled whole (seriously dramatic) journals about silly boys, detailing inevitable break-ups that I was nonetheless stunned by. I've spent hours and hours on the phone with friends dissecting relationships and pondering my particularly unique (and yet not so much) path through life ad nauseam.

I miss some of that time to myself, searching out the intricacies of what it meant to be me. But, now that I look back, I realize that a lot of time got wasted on stuff that really didn't matter a whole lot. I could have saved a significant number of trees if I'd volunteered at a soup kitchen instead of chronicling my little romances in dozens (and I mean dozens) of leather-bound journals. Twenty-something angst was quite the fodder for journals I hope I have the good sense to burn before I die.

Now that my life is summed up by laundry and cheerios, I have to admit that, despite its severe lack of personal introspection, it turns out that it's fulfilling in a way that all those years of near total self-focus never could be.

I could probably use a little more time to myself for things like taking a shower that lasts long enough to include shampooing AND conditioning or maybe reading the magazine I bought back in October. But, all in all, I think that the time I'm not spending on myself these days is better spent than any of those self-indulgent hours of journaling my personal dramas or staring out a window wondering when my life would start.

I may have digressed a little here. Obviously, alone time isn't always a slippery slope of narcissism. It's definitely a necessary part of healthy self-awareness, but I think God was on to something when He said "It is not good for man to be alone." I'm pretty sure He knew that community would be the place where we could be our best selves, rather than holing up with a journal (or an iPhone) somewhere.

Pause. I think I hear my bed calling me.

Well, if you made it this far, you may feel that you've just wasted some of your own precious time and I might agree with you. Late night blog posts are usually something I'd suggest you avoid. Now that I've done my share of rambling, I suppose it's time to hit the hay. Only seven more hours until the whirling dervish wakes up and demands a sippy cup. Sigh.

Goodnight, quiet house.

Power to the Cookie

A few months ago, at my lovely friend Molly's house, Sam was introduced to The Cookie. These weren't your run-of-the-mill chocolate chip but were instead "smart cookies," which are good for you AND taste good. This obviously means you're a smart cookie for eating them instead of a package of high-fructose-corn-syrup-infused Oreos.

So, Molly shared her recipe with me and after a few practice batches, I managed to bake a superb batch of smart cookies and the Rieger household rejoiced. We now have these cookies at our fingertips atleast once a week. We are also gaining weight in places we would rather not. But, I keep making them despite our tight-fitting jeans because the Samster is crazy about them and we happen to be crazy about the Samster.

Three or four batches of smart cookies ago, Sam started pointing at things around the house and we were enthralled, because anything our one and only child does is pretty much amazing. Two or three batches ago, Sam started pointing toward a blue tupperware container housing cookies on our kitchen counter. He would sit in his high chair and point across the room, his pointer finger and thumb poised mid-air looking a little like a baby finger gun (this amuses me for some reason). Pretty soon, he was toddling into the kitchen to position himself in front of the counter and dramatically point up at the tupperware container of cookies. And soon after that, he started to "talk" as he pointed, letting us know that something on the counter was apparently in need of his attention. This behavior quickly escalated as the power of the smart cookie began to take hold.

A few days ago, I opened the container of cookies to get one out for Sam and heard him give a shout from behind me that sounded something akin to all his dreams coming true at the same time. I turned around and there he was with both arms in the air, staring at the cookie in my hand. He could hardly contain himself. The wild look in his eyes was one I had seen before: my reflection in the glass of a chocolate shop window.

In addition to all their other magical qualities, smart cookies have turned out to be the catalyst for my son's venture into the English language. Just the other night, Sam was, once again, pointing at the tupperware container and staring a hole in the side of it. I looked at him and said something very mom-like, "Eat your beans and you can have a cookie." Sam smiled and then said in a soft, breathy baby voice, "Cooh-keeh." Matt and I looked at each other in total awe. The First Word. I am seriously considering shellacking one of those cookies and placing it in a decorative shadow box.

Just last night, after a weekend of being sick with a high fever, Sam sat in his high chair eating a little chicken noodle soup I'd made. After a few bites of broth, he was done and because I give him anything he wants when he doesn't feel good (that's ok, right?), I pulled out a cookie from the tupperware and put it on his high chair tray. I watched as he picked it up, held it with a grin on his little face and said to himself "Cooh-Keeh." It felt a teensy bit like Gallum and his "My Precious," but I tried not to think about that.

So, smart cookies, with their whole wheat flour and applesauce, have given me cause to consider Sam's college fund and his scholarship chances. I'm also aware that we can't hoard the magic of the smart cookies any longer. The world needs this recipe, and so, with Molly's gracious permission, I give to you The Smart Cookie Recipe:

Smart Cookies:

Ingredients-
1/4 cup of applesauce
2 tbsp of butter
1/3 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup whole wheat flour (I usually add an additional 1/4 cup of flour to make them more fluffy)
1 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
3/4 cup oatmeal
3/4 cup chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugar and add other wet ingredients. Mix. Add dry ingredients. Place spoon-fulls of cookie on baking sheet. Bake 10-12 minutes. Makes around 18-20 cookies.

This just in: Local Woman Overdoses on Snow

Another snow day, which means another day of wondering if I'll ever see civilization again. Sigh. I realize this sounds dramatic, but I could use a little drama around here. Don't get me wrong, having 2.5 days with a husband at home has been pretty darn fun. AND it's meant that someone else has been here helping to wrangle the restless native also known as our son.

But, let's be honest, there's just something unnatural about a girl from Georgia waking up consecutive mornings to a winter wonderland at every window. There's also something unnatural about not being able to make a Target run if and when one feels the need.

Currently, my husband has just been picked up and driven to work by his fearless employer and the Samster is fast asleep in his longjohns upstairs, which leaves me in the kitchen having my first moment alone for approximately the last 106 hours. I don't mean to complain, I'm just saying. 106 hours, people.

So, I thought I'd take a moment to take a deep breath, drink my green tea and write a few sentences about how I may possibly explode if I don't make it off the mountain soon. I'm realizing that Matt's secret dream that we go to Sweden as missionaries is probably not ever going to happen. Atleast not unless I am well-stocked with Prozac and have my very own tanning bed for those long months of 4 hour days with little to no sunlight.

I will say that, despite my current spiral into claustrophobic cabin fever, I have to admit that the snow is more than a little beautiful and it has afforded me with some serious quality time with my two favorite people. I've baked cookies and flipped pancakes, read "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" (for the 4th time) with the aforementioned favorite people. I may have converted Matt into a fan of Kathie Lee and Hoda's morning show (he'll deny it if you ask him). We've made snow angels and hopped around the 8 inches of snow in our yard with our snow baby. In addition, there has been serious Sam snuggling, Netflix marathons, mugs of hot chocolate, pajamas until noon and time to look up random things on Wikipedia that I've been curious about (i.e. who is Vince Vaughn's baby mama? Has Howie Day been in jail the past few years? When was the last Ice Age? What did Snookie get for Christmas? How much did that soup pot I just bought at TJ Maxx retail for? and, etc.) So, that's been fun and, I must admit, only made possible by the buckets of snow in our yard.

Hm. So, that quiet I mentioned earlier is coming to an end as The Babe, who is more of a toddler now than a babe, is letting it be known that his nap is over. But before I rescue the little guy from his crib, I'm headed to the pantry for another handful of chocolate chips and hoping that the chocolate doesn't run out before the snow melts. If that happens, things could get ugly.

A Manifesto of Sorts

We've just gotten back from an afternoon at the pool which has only made me more aware that pale will never be cool. Nevertheless, sunscreen and I are on a first-name basis and at 32, I've given up on the dream of being tan.

Now that we're back in the land of air-conditioning, I'm still sitting in a wet bathing suit in our living room. (Try not to picture this). I don't normally sit around in my bathing suit, especially not when it's wet, but if I take the time to actually go change into normal, dry clothes, the babe will inevitably wake up and this tiny little window of time I have to write a bit will very quickly become a thing of the past.

Sam's snoozing in the next room, still in his carseat where he fell asleep on the way home. In the interest of dragging his nap out, I did a little driving around which also included some Sonic and a 64 cent cherry-limeade, a visit to Krystal and two mini-burgers, some talk radio and a call from Matt. Most of that was unnecessary information, but I feel like over-sharing today.

However, what I really want to address here in this post is something other than my random bathing suit-wearing afternoon visits to fast food restaurants. Instead, I feel like talking about how I have no response when someone casually asks me "So, what's been going on lately?" I usually pause and then look away, probably down at Sam, and then waste a little time by coughing unnecessarily while trying to drum up an answer. I mean, SURELY, I've done something interesting in the past 7 days that warrants sharing. But, after a little socially awkward silence, I come up with nothing. It's starting to make me wonder if I have Alzheimers or if I just genuinely have nothing going on.

But, I DO have stuff going on. It's just not the kind of stuff you talk about at parties or write about in your memoir. For starters, my days are usually ordered around Sam's naptime and bedtime. Everything in the schedule fits around those two things, come hell or high water, only a little less dramatic. Not to say that I'm not flexible, but if one of those two sleep events gets thrown off, it means lots of fussing (by Sam) and less sleep (for me). Those things together mean that I feel more stress, which means I eat more chocolate, which means I gain more weight, which means I get cranky, etc. So, as you can see, it's a slippery slope.

In addition to ordering things around Sam's sleep schedule, the rest of my time is devoted to laundry, cooking, running errands, occasional personal grooming (i.e. showers) and entertaining an almost 8 month old. I get lots done and I don't sit down much, but the only way you can really tell is that at the end of the day Sam is still alive and Matt has clothes to wear to work for tomorrow.

Basically, I'm pooped at the end of every day, but with not a lot to show for it. After all that energy spent, there are no works of art to be displayed, or film documentaries to wrap up, no music composed. I don't have a book to publish or even a magazine article to send to an editor. No awards are received, no time cards are punched. My portfolio and my resume have not benefited from the things I have accomplished. All in all, what I do each day goes largely unseen and the day after today I will do it all over again.

SIGH.

But, despite the lack of tangible expressions of my spent energy and the lack of an answer to "what's new with you?", I'm glad (and even proud) to be doing this thing called being a stay-at-home mom. No one sees these things I'm doing and Sam won't even remember all these days and weeks and months we've spent together.

But, I will.

I am logging hour after hour of memories of my little boy's life that I can never do over and never get back. And, no one else gets the privilege of doing this for him but me.

So, maybe I'm becoming a little dull at parties and I don't ever have much to update anybody on. OH WELL. I wouldn't trade these quiet, uneventful days with Sam for all the published books and all the jet-setting jobs and all the high fives in the world.

Now that I've written my stay-at-home mom manifesto, it's time to put on dry clothes and maybe even do some more laundry.

Spontaneous Baking

So, yesterday morning I noticed there were some over-ripened bananas on the counter and, as it turns out, some chocolate chips in the pantry. The obvious thing to do in this situation? Make some Chocolate Chip Banana Bread. After eating a third of the loaf myself, I'd say this is a recipe to be shared. So, here you go...

Miss Daisy's Banana Nut Bread (chocolate chips, optional)

1/3 c vegetable oil
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
2 medium ripe bananas
1 1/2 c whole wheat flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 c skim milk
1/2 c chopped pecans
*I added a handful or so of chocolate chips.

Assemble all ingredients and utensils. Preheat oven to 350.
Spray a 5x9 in loaf pan with nonstick cooking spray. In a large mixing bowl cream together oil, sugar, vanilla, egg and bananas with an electric mixer. In a separate bowl combine flour, baking powder, soda and cinnamon. Gradually add the dry ingredients to the banana mixture alternately with skim milk. Fold in the pecans. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes, until browned and tests done. Yields 1 loaf or 12 1/2 in thick slices.

calories sans chocolate chips: 184
fat: 10 g

Tomorrow's recipe? Tomato Aspic, also courtesy of Miss Daisy. So be sure to pick up your lemon-flavored gelatin and tomato juice at the store this afternoon.