And Then She Got Old...

It's Thursday afternoon and I've just consumed more than my fair share of Nutella Chocolate Chip Cookies (you can find that recipe here: vivagood.wordpress.com). And after this poor dietary choice (the quantity, not the quality), I found myself perusing People magazine's exhaustive list of 2011's "Hottest Twenty-Five Year Olds." This is the sort of thing that happens when Sam goes down for a nap and I am suddenly left alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. I usually spend approximately three minutes considering what sort of productive things I could do while Sam snoozes and then thirty minutes later I look up from People.com and wonder where the last half hour of my life went. I realize you're probably questioning my ability to make good decisions right now. And you should be.

Anyhoo, back to those twenty-five year old freaks of nature with their zero percent body fat and creamy complexions. I'm fine with them being so beautiful. Really, I am. I applaud them for their perfect genetic makeups, but I must admit that it irks me that they were awkward middle-schoolers (read: 14 years old) when I was busy graduating from college. You may be asking, Why does it even matter? Well, it doesn't. But, for the first time in my life I'm suddenly a bit skittish about an impending birthday and it's making me a teensy bit envious of all those twenty-somethings out there. I realize this means that I am jealous of a number. I want to be twenty-five again. Is that so wrong?

Hm. This is turning into a bit of an embarrassing confessional post here and I'm a little ashamed that it's come to this. I mean, I should leave the overly personal revelations to people who frequent Twitter, but, I currently need an outlet for my thirty-something angst and so, I apologize for any awkwardness you might be feeling for me right about now.

Thirty-three. It looms. It haunts my dreams. It laughs at me when I remember how I used to think that age was no big deal. Who cares that I'm thirty? It's no big thing. I still look twenty eight. Right? But, then along came THIRTY THREE with it's crows' feet and post baby stretch marks (I realize how TMI this is and I'll ask for forgiveness later). Thirty three is mid-thirties for crying out loud. MID-THIRTIES.

Sigh. Another bite of a cookie. Sighhhhhhh.

OK. I feel a little better. However, you probably don't. And so, as an apology for dumping on you like that, I'll leave you with this, a product of my thirties...

Ode to Florence Nightingale

A mere forty-eight hours ago, Matt called to let me know he was on his way home from work (early) and he didn't sound so hot. In fact, he sounded like he might be feeling a teensy bit nauseated. My heart began to beat a little faster, but I tried to stay calm. If you know me you know that, not only am I a bit OCD, I'm also a card-carrying, Purell-lovin', certified germophobe. So, you can imagine my concern when I hear that a potentially infectious disease might be making it's way to my house harbored by my dearly beloved husband.

Soon after the foreboding phone call, he came in and quickly ducked into the laundry room bathroom just inside the back door. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, the plague had just entered my house. (ominous music score here).

May I point out a couple of milestones before we go on? Firstly, I have never known my husband to (ahem) lose his lunch since we've been been together. Secondly, we're almost never sick at the same time, which has meant that someone has always been there to take care of the other or take care of the little guy. Thirdly, I haven't tossed my cookies since I was SEVEN YEARS OLD. You may not have known this because a. I don't usually discuss these things and b. I never say this out loud for fear that I'll jinx my good luck.

The husband was promptly sent to bed with the computer and a copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel (not only is he handsome, he's literary too). I proceeded to have a small freak out and then decided to lysol (yes, it's a verb) everything. I didn't make it far before I too was feeling a little odd. However, due to a long and colorful history of hypochondria, I dismissed the minor stomach cramps and pounding headache.

One hour later and I was desperately calling for back-up (i.e. mom/grandma/florence nightingale).

While waiting for said back-up, I laid on the couch while my husband languished upstairs and Sam went from standing in front of the Veggie Tales I'd managed to turn on and back over to the couch to pat my head (seriously, how sweet is that?).

And then, after poor Sam had been put to bed with only milk for dinner and still in his playclothes and Matt and I laid on either end of the couch watching a movie we were less than interested in, our very own personal superhero arrived bearing two flavors of powerade and some major get-well know how. Huzzah!

Despite the unfortunate catalyst for our little family slumber party, the last twenty-four hours have managed to be a pretty darn good time: John Wayne movies, fun times with Sam (who hasn't caught the plague yet and we're PRAYING that he doesn't), cookie-baking (only after all nausea had passed), chatting over hot tea, etc.

And so, it turns out that the very best medicine of all is a rescue visit from MOM (imagine this word bedazzled). It was almost worth the getting sick part...almost.

Now that mom/grandma/florence nightingale/superhero is on her way back to where she swooped in from, I'm off to make up for all those calories I lost over the past two days. Hello, half-full bag of chocolate chips. Let's reacquaint ourselves.

Wonder Woman Was My Hero

Wonder Woman was my hero when Trapper Keepers, Hypercolor clothing and Kirk Cameron were all the rage. I would sit in Mrs. Palmer's fluorescently lit classroom imagining myself being dramatically transformed into that perfectly (38-20-37 if you're wondering)-figured Amazon superhero complete with the Lasso of Truth and those classy yet indestructible bracelets on each wrist. This was a regular daydream during my elementary years when my rather plain little self stared very hard into the mirror every morning looking for a tiny glimmer of Lynda Carter's beauty hidden away in there somewhere.

Flash forward twenty-five years (give or take) and I'm a stay-at-home mom, doing mom things, wearing yoga pants instead of a flashy red, white and blue leotard and a crime-fighting tiara (bet you didn't know it doubled as a weapon). My life is pretty mundane and if we're being honest, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that it's not superhero material. In fact, not to be dramatic, but there are days when it's easy to feel like mom-world is a bit of a black hole, a place moms disappear into and are never heard from again.

In light of this disappearing act I feel like I'm performing on a regular basis, I find myself conjuring up ways to reappear. For instance: become a big movie star and turn that stardom into a seriously addictive reality television show. This idea has been shot down. The Wonder Woman daydream occasionally crosses my mind, but let's be honest, it's a little difficult to come by a good pair of indestructible bracelets. But, the truth is, I find myself honing in on one little old dream most of the time. And that dream is (dramatic drumroll here) writing The Great American Novel. Those of you who know me well may be aware of the romantic, period piece, evangelical dramas I wrote in my early years (i.e. 8th and 9th grade). So, this dream is obviously well-worn and yet I keep coming back to it year after year.

I read something intriguing about Howard Stern the other day in an article Focus on the Family's president had written and then emailed me (and 724,000 other people). Basically, the article discussed Howard Stern's recent admission of a serious, neurosis-level need for personal approval and affirmation from others. FoF's president Jim Daly's response to Howard Stern's confession was to quote the one and only Dr. Tim Keller from his book Counterfeit Gods:

The human heart’s desire for a particular valuable object (human affirmation) may be conquered, but its need to have some such object is unconquerable. How can we break our heart’s fixation on doing “some great thing” in order to heal ourselves of our sense of inadequacy, in order to give our lives meaning? Only when we see what Jesus, our great Suffering Servant, has done for us will we finally understand why God’s salvation does not require us to do “some great thing.” We don’t have to do it, because Jesus has.

I find myself in the same camp as Howard, desiring affirmation and, essentially, just really wanting to matter. Looking back, I see how daydreams of turning into Wonder Woman during a particularly bad hair day are pretty closely related to my big-girl dreams of writing a bestselling book at some point in my quiet little mom-life. Doing "some great thing" whether it's morphing into an Amazonian superhero and saving the world or giving the Twilight books lady a run for her money, is an empty hope that will never make me feel the way I want to feel.

Being a mom and getting to stay at home with Sam happens to be a dream that came true and I am totally confident that I am doing exactly the thing I was meant to do at this juncture in my life. However, the sense that the world is passing me by as I change those millions of diapers and do that endless pile of laundry is, at times, enough to make me despair a little. And so I daydream. I make plans. I plot how I'm going to do that "great thing" and somehow make everyone take notice. But, to be honest, deep down I know that no superhero skills or devastating beauty or mind-blowing wordsmithing is ever going to satisfy my need to matter or be approved of.

With brilliant simplicity, Tim Keller explains the deepest of truths and reminds me that it's not up to me to make sure that I matter, which is a really good thing because I'm not sure how to get my hands on a Lasso of Truth. Ebay's totally out and Amazon's charging more than I think they're worth.

Reading: A Love Story

I've got a few things on my mind today and since none of you are here to sit and chat with me about them, I thought I'd do a little blogging instead. Presently, Sam's in dreamland, laundry is in the wash which means the smell of Mountain Fresh Gain is in the air, and a batch of just-baked cookies is cooling on the counter. I bet you wish you were here. And, well, I wish you were because I could use the company, but then I'm still in my pajamas and haven't brushed my teeth yet, so, on second thought, it's probably better that you're not here.

Anyhoo, I'm currently pondering this blog post on The Monica Bird. The post is called "Date A Girl Who Reads":

http://themonicabird.com/post/3273155431/date-a-girl-who-reads-date-a-girl-who-spends-her

And now, I'm going to quote a little of it for you in case you don't make it over there to read it yourself...

I like this quote:

"It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does."

And this one:

"She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots."

And this one, too:

"Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads."

What a lovely way to describe those of us who wear corrective lenses because we've spent years with our eyes trained on small type under bedcovers with flashlights long past our bedtimes. I'm also a fan of the romanticizing of those of us who prefer the smell of old musty bookstores to espresso-scented Barnes and Nobles and feel our spines tingle when we stumble into hole-in-the-wall used bookstores and then subsequently lose ourselves there for hours upon hours.

So, I'm pondering these things and wishing that I had more time to read, wishing I was more disciplined about reading, and wishing I read what mattered rather than celebrity sightings, coupon blogs, and JCrew magazines (I realize these don't really classify as "reading"). I'm also lamenting the time I waste looking for deals online, checking email, and wandering around on Facebook when I could be using the very limited quiet time I have to read something that has real value.

I'm wondering how to get back to being a "girl who reads." The precious couple hours I have a day while Sam snoozes are so quickly swallowed up by the taking of showers (somewhat important), the picking up of toys (something of an effort of futility), the Facebook stalking (I just scrolled through all your vacation pictures from 2006). Seriously, I could be reading things that have weight and value and make me someone you want to chat with at parties. But, more than wanting a little intellectual stimulation and a few interesting ideas to bandy about at a dinner party, I want "the world and the worlds beyond it." I want the escape hatch that Narnia and Avonlea offer, the invitation to imagine and believe and wonder.

I've been settling for television and Facebook and magazines. I'd like to hope that I'll be "reciting Keats under my breath" in my old age rather than Michael Scott from "The Office."

Thanks, Monica Bird, whoever you are, for reminding me to read. I needed that.

Suburban Outlaw

So, perhaps you've been wondering what I'm up to lately on this mountain where we live. And, perhaps you've had other, more-relevant-to-your-life things on your mind. Well, regardless of your thinking of me or not thinking of me, here's a little of what we're doing these days.

Today included laundry (obviously), diaper changes (obviously) and a run-in with the law (less obvious). On my way to the post office to drop off a Netflix I happened to be the unlucky driver of the day who was awarded the blue light special. It was unexpected and I must say that when I pulled over, I wasn't really pulling over. I was merely parking at our local post office, minding my own business, and then there they were, rotating blue lights in my rearview mirror. Shoot. It's been about, oh, 11years since I've been pulled over for speeding. And that time, oddly enough, found me traveling at around the same speed I was going today, which was: 44. Part of me kind of wishes that if I'm going to get caught speeding, I could atleast be going somewhere above 65. Oh well. I don't aspire to be Steve McQueen.

Once I realized that there was an officer pulling in behind me, I turned to look back at Sam and wondered what the lasting impact of my 1 year old seeing his mother being interrogated (i.e. asked a few questions regarding speed limits and such) by the po-po would be. The officer made his way to my window and politely asked if I knew how fast I was going. I guessed 40. But, I was, in fact, going 44 speedy miles a hour. However, in a 25 mph zone, this is 1 mile away from "reckless driving," which obviously means I live on the edge of danger or obliviousness.

I glanced back to see what Sam was doing, hoping this little incident wasn't scarring him for life, imagining him remembering me later as a hardened criminal, a suburban outlaw who drove fast in school zones and texted while driving with her knees (this doesn't really happen). Instead, Sam had a big, toothy (all 8 of them) smile on his face and was waving excitedly at the officer at my window. This may have won me some points with the sergeant.

After handing over all the information pertaining to my right to drive, I was left to think about what I'd done. And then he was back from his patrol car, letting me know that I was off the hook, for today, that is. Sigh.of.relief. I think a combination of being new in town and Sam being so darn friendly gave me a getoutofjailfree card.

So, what I'm hoping now is that Sam doesn't remember this little incident when he's 16 and getting a license to drive. Odds are, he won't. But, it definitely makes you think when you find yourself on the wrong side of the law (exaggeration here) with your child watching in their carseat behind you. I can't help but wonder how much he's taking in of my bad behavior (eg: that cowboy word I said under my breath the other day when I pinched my finger in the drawer, the 5 cookies I had for lunch, the 2 hours of television we watched today instead of cleaning up the kitchen, etc.) and where that might show up later. Hm. Obviously, these aren't jail-worthy, but I can't help but think about what Sam might be learning from me when I'm not paying attention...

Well, that's about it. Other than my finishing off a jar of Nutella by myself and Sam having just discovered that being outside is way more fun than being inside, that's all the news we've got. Tune in next time for "Renegade Moms Who Run With Scissors" and other cautionary tales of mothers who speed in their spare time.

Baby Feats of Strength and Other Hobbies

It's raining here. And cold. And drearier than a Charles Dickens' novel. So, because I'm attempting to stave off a serious case of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I thought I'd jot down a few items of interest regarding Sam and his recent doings.

I thought you might be wondering what sort of hobbies 14 month old Sam is picking up these days. I figured I'd list them for you in case you want to suggest them to your favorite child or perhaps even try them out for yourself.

The first baby hobby I'd like to present to you is:
"Baby Feats of Strength"
Sam's just recently picked this one up and so we're still discovering what all this particular hobby entails. Basically, Baby Feats of Strength involves picking up objects that are either a. awkward for you to carry b. as big and/or tall as you are c. unnecessary to move d. obviously too heavy for you to pick up. For reference, here's a short list of items that Sam enjoys lifting and/or carrying from one place to another:

a. brooms/swiffers (often at the same time)
b. Matt's size 11 shoes
d. toys that are meant to stay in one place (eg: a toy piano, a music table)
e. a Sam-sized bag of blocks
d. the vacuum cleaner
e. the baby gate

Baby Feats of Strengths are usually accompanied by loud baby grunts as Sam huffs and puffs around the room carrying his unusually large item from chair to sofa to mama and back. It's a good time all around and I'm only slightly concerned that this may translate later into WWF-related hobbies and possibly excessive amounts of time at the gym. But, let's hope not. So far, Baby Feats of Strength is quite the crowd pleaser. It's also a big hit at parties.

The second baby hobby I thought you might be interested in is:
"Baby Prank Call"
This hobby is one that we keep pretty tight reins on, but occasionally, when we get desperate on a long trip with three wet diaper stops, we give in and pass our phones over to Sam. Technology is obviously the new pacifier. Tears instantly dry when the colorful light of a Samsung screen lights up inside a dark car.

Basically, Baby Prank Call is somewhat unplanned, and can happen without any warning so that you may not know it's even happened for days or maybe ever. For example, a recent Baby Prank Call took place on a trip much like the aforementioned one (i.e. full of baby angst) and a bout of gully-washing tears was stilled by the calming glow of Matt's flip phone. This was tossed over the side of the newly purchased front-facing carseat/throne that Sam now occupies. So, my phone with it's fascinating touch screen was hesitatingly passed into cheerio-scented little hands. It too found itself tossed overboard within minutes and we were back to the monsoon of tears and ear-piercing yells. And so we proceeded to give Sam a rousing acapella concert that included the following songs:

The Animal Fair
John the Rabbit
The Moose Juice Song
The Wheels on the Bus
Father Abraham
Blackjack Baby
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Old Macdonald

And the list goes on, and on, and on. But, then we ran out of songs. And Sam got antsy. And then Sam got loud. So, without thinking, I found myself belting out "God Bless America" and then "The Star Spangled Banner" and then...we were home. Crisis averted.

The next morning, I found a text on my phone that asked if I was feeling patriotic. I've never been asked that before, but I do, in fact, feel patriotic on occasion. I called my friend to ask what the text meant. As it turns out, Baby Prank Call had struck. Sam's innocent tossing of the phone over the side of his carseat had apparently also included pressing a few choice buttons before the tossing. And, our patriotic concert had been recorded in it's entirety on my friend's voicemail. Lovely.

Baby Prank Call may be a hobby you choose not to share with your little one. We're working on replacing this hobby with a few others that are a little less socially awkward. However, if you get an unusual text or a voicemail that seems a little out of character from Matt or me, chalk it up to Sam's hobby and try not to judge us too harshly.

Other hobbies will have to discussed later due to Sam's nap having come to an end. Tune in next time for: "Baby Streaking" and "Baby Trash the Joint."

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.