Day 5: The Perfect Dinner

I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Fall.

And today was the epitome of a fantastic Fall day.

I look forward to this time of year, after the craziness of Summer weekends are over, and we spend time at home. 

Of course, much of that time for Mr. KK is blowing leaves, cleaning the yard, and shoveling – yes, shoveling – acorns. 

Much of that time, for me, is cooking.

My house smells amazing right now, having just pulled dinner out of the oven.

There's something about a warm kitchen, fragrant air filled with the aroma of dinner, and a glass of red wine. 

Heaven.

On tonight's menu: Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken.

And perfect, it was.

Stuffed with garlic, thyme and lemon, this chicken lived up to its name.

Crispy and golden on the outside. Juicy and delicious on the inside. And underneath? The most amazing caramelized vegetables.

I paired it with roasted potatoes and a fruity red wine.

Thanks again, Ina, for a fantastic meal. You never disappoint.

Day 4: The Night My Kid Outted Me

Setting: a Friday night. It's just me and Max, and he's in his chair eating dinner.

I go over to the wine fridge, take out a bottle of red, and put it on the counter to open it.

Max points at me and gleefully exclaims in between mouthfuls: "Mommy's baba!"

Touché, kid.

Day 3: When Did I Get to Be So Jaded?

Is it just me, or does the world these days make it hard to think good human thoughts?

When I lived in Boston, I remember a homeless person who spent his days hanging out on the Common, asking morning commuters cutting through the park for money. He was always dressed impeccably, though you still knew he spent his nights anywhere but a warm house. He smiled and chatted with everyone who walked by. Morning regulars gave him gifts on his birthday. He could always start up a conversation about the previous night's Sox game. He always told the ladies how pretty they looked. All in all, he seemed to make a good living. I admired him. I even gave him money a time or two.

Then, down the street a bit, in Downtown Crossing, was a homeless woman. She used to sit on a milk crate, torn clothes, with two accessories: a sign telling the city that she desperately needed money to feed her 7 children, and an oxygen tank. Every day she'd sit there, not talking to anyone, hooked up to her tank, holding her cardboard sign. She had a prime spot on a busy street filled with an equal number of business people and tourists. One day when I was walking home from work, I saw a red pick up truck stop in front of her. I watched her get up, toss her oxygen talk into the back of the truck, toss in her sign, and hop into the passenger seat and speed away.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. I was getting gas on the highway on my way home from work. It was dark and rainy and cold, and I was in a rush to get home to my family. A woman approached me. She was dressed completely normally, in a jacket and scarf, and she was clutching an iPhone.

"Excuse me?" she said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but my name is Marcia and I work at the VA Hospital. My daughter took my wallet out of my bag and never put it back, I could kill her! Because of that I'm short $36.57. Can you help me out? I can mail you a check when I get home." 

Oh, yeah? So I just give you my name and address...

If I were an un-jaded good human, I would have felt sympathy towards this woman. Instead, I felt anger. For two reasons: 1. because I knew she was lying to me and 2. because my first thought was that she was lying to me. 

"I don't carry cash," I told her (truth). But she stood there, waiting. And in the silence, all I could think about were those stories you hear about people pulling over to help a stranger change a flat tire, and it turns out the stranded person is a celebrity. 

The rational part of me said: do not trust this person. But the emotional part of me argued: what if this person really needs help? And the female side of me said: give her some cash so she goes away.

Finally, I scrounged up a a few dollars out of my console. "Here," I told her, "it's all I have."

She looked down – rather disappointed I might add – then went over to an SUV where someone was waiting in the driver's seat, where I presume she handed over the crumpled bills.

Then she turned around and headed back out to gas pumps, looking for someone else to harass. 

Two days later, I was telling this story to a friend, who proceeded to tell me that the same thing happened to her, 25 miles from where I was, at another gas station, with the same exact story.

And I no longer felt bad. I wanted my $2 back!

When it's time to teach my son life lessons, what do I tell him? 

That everyone lies? 

That he shouldn't trust anyone? 

That everything is a scam?

Because there IS good out there. 

You just don't always see it.

Psst...You Should Have Another Kid!

I have never felt such pressure to have a second baby.

Not from my parents.

Not from my inlaws.

Not from my friends.

Not even from Max asking for a baby sister or brother.

Nope.

My baby pressure is coming from none other than my old friend the red bullseye.

Damn you, Target, and your unfair marketing.

Do you think I'm made of stone???

How can I resist an email like this:

The nautical color palette. 
The rustic shiplap wall. 
The cozy sleeping nook.
That damn adorable fox pillow.

You're not playing fair, Target.

You didn't get me this time.

But I'm on to you.

(Any chance that crib skirt comes in a King?)

Next Year, We're Going to Nail It

PS: it's NaBloPoMo Day 1, y'all!

I'm just going to say it: this year goes down in the books as a Halloween fail.

But not how you think.

Somehow, amidst planning a toddler birthday party, working crazy hours and debating my national blogging month participation, I embraced Halloween like it was my JOB.

First, I became Pinterest-obsessed. I was secretly one of those Moms, looking for Pinspiration (ugh, listen to me!) during every spare second I had.

It started with the snacks for the daycare Halloween party. "I signed us up for cheese sticks," Mr. KK told me one night.

But there was NO WAY I was bringing just cheese sticks. 

Nope. I was bringing ghost sticks. (And stickers!)

And when we were invited to a Halloween party, I didn't want to bring just any old appetizer. I brought Frankenguac (can someone trademark that, please?)

And finally, in my best Mom Moment yet, I decided to make my Boo Boo's costume.

And it was frickin' awesome.

My child is infatuated with tractors. So, in what I can only describe as a ploy to get my Toddler to think I was the coolest Mom on the planet, I decided to make him a John Deere costume.

There was cutting! There was spray painting! There was gluing! 

There were working headlights!

And he LOVED it. For days, all we heard was: "My tractor! My tractor!" as he pointed excitedly at it.

And then we tried to put it on him. And we were met with a resounding: "No!"

He wouldn't wear it. Refused to put it on his body. (Unless you could the 5 minutes he put it on at daycare for the Halloween parade. Of course he put it on for his teachers.)

Look at that costume. It's a thing of beauty, if I do say so myself.

So instead of wearing Mommy's handmade costume, we practiced going outside in our overalls and plaid shirt, and knocking on Grandma's door, yelling "Trick or Treat!", and picking out candy. And he was really good at it. 

So while this year was a fail, we're ready for next year, and hopefully we'll do it wearing a costume.

As for me, I'm hanging up my Pinterest boards.

And thinking we should start on the whole Santa thing sooner rather than later.

Even My Guilt Has Guilt

Mom guilt.

Work guilt.

Wife guilt.

Me guilt.

Guilt guilt.

Guilt comes in many gut-wrenching shapes and sizes. And it’s always lurking and hovering, like a horrible threatening rain cloud on a bright, sunny day.

And I know I don’t suffer alone.

Guilt ruins your day. It gets in the way of productivity. It causes you to obsess over things (mostly) beyond your control.

In a nutshell: guilt sucks.

And yet, here we are, dealing with guilt on a daily basis.

Here’s what my personal guilt looks like:

I had to work late and I missed seeing my little Boo Boo before his bedtime.

Guilt: I chose work over quality snuggle time with my child. I am a horrible mother.

I dropped off a hysterically-crying child at daycare.

Guilt: If I didn’t work, this wouldn’t happen.

When the hubs and I finally get to spend some child-free time together, I sit down on the couch and…fall asleep.

Guilt: I let fatigue get the best of me. I should be stronger than the urge to sleep! Wake up, woman!

Sometimes I just want to spend an hour in a store without my 2-year-old personal shopper in tow.

Guilt: I should want to spend time with my child. I am a selfish person.

It’s finally the weekend and I get to spend time with my Boo Boo! I take him to the grocery store and Target, because we need food and because, well, Target.

Guilt: I’m dragging him on errands when I should be taking him to the park, or doing some Pinteresty kid craft with paper plates, pine cones and paint. (Double Guilt for making fun of those Pinterest mothers. I’m just jealous!)

I want to take a nap.

Guilt.

I just want an hour to speed read the stack of magazines that are piling up on the kitchen counter, begging to be opened.

You guessed it: Guilt!

While I know the guilt isn’t ever going to end any time soon, I’m hoping I will one day be at peace with it.

Because I haven’t won the lottery yet, so I can’t quit my job.

And, let’s be real, I’ll always want to selfishly spend beautiful fall afternoons sipping wine by an outdoor fire. Reading a magazine while shopping online. Right before my nap.

You want me to put that thermometer WHERE?

Somehow, miraculously, we made it through the first 15 months of Max's life with only a case of the sniffles, right around his first birthday.

So – in what can only be described as two parents playing Russian Roulette with their child's health – we enrolled Max in daycare.

I know.

Having only been in his grandmother's care, it was time for him to branch out and be with other kids; learn to share and play nicely with others. Plus, it was time to give his grandmothers a little bit of a break. 

He was scheduled to go two days a week. And that's all it took for him to get sick.

It started with a lovely gastrointestinal "issue" that thankfully did NOT include vomiting. (But seriously, I didn't know poop could be that color!)

Then it was the runny nose and the cough.

And on Sunday night, my worst nightmare came true. Max was burning up – heat was literally radiating from his head – and we had to take his temperature. With a real thermometer, not just the 'lips to the forehead' reading I'd been doing up until now. And we had to do it rectally.

Even the word makes me clench my cheeks.

How could this still be the most effective way to get a temperature from a toddler? Who didn't want to sit sit still while I shoved something up his ass?

Isn't there a way yet to hold my phone up to his head to get a reading??? 

Can someone please invent this???

We started out by apologizing to Max, who was pretty much flailing and screaming because he was uncomfortable, running a fever, and his bumbling parents were bending him into weird positions.

Somehow – I've pretty much blocked it out – we took his temperature. I was terrified we would insert the thermometer too far, rupture an important piece of equipment back there and cause more damage.

Max officially and his first temperature, coming in at 102.3

A few days later his fever broke. And I noticed a few red dots on his hands and his face. So I called the doctor and talked to the nurse.

The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "He woke up with red dots on his hands and face."
Nurse:  "Ahh. Is he in daycare?"
Me:  "Well, he was for his first 2 days last week."
Nurse:  "Sounds like coxsackie: hand, foot and mouth disease. It runs rampant in daycare centers."

And that was that. After only 2 days in daycare, Max had contracted a GI bug, a cold, and a disease that caused horrible sores on his hands, feet, mouth and – let's not forget this awesomeness – his behind.

And could it have a worse-sounding name? Hand, foot and mouth disease? Really?

Me:  "What can we do to treat this?"
Nurse:  "Nothing. You just have to wait it out. Though they should call it Hand, Foot, Mouth and Buttocks disease, because that's where it ends up."

Oh, I'd say so.

Being the socially-conscious person that I am, I called the daycare the day the nurse diagnosed him over the phone to let them know Max wouldn't be at daycare that week.

I also told her about his over-the-phone diagnosis of Coxsackie. I asked if it was going around, and told her to be on the lookout for other kids.

And she had the NERVE to get defensive! 

First of all, I was NOT blaming her or daycare for Max's illness. I was just trying to be responsible and let her know what might be going around.

And second, while I would never say it, I know for a FACT that Max got sick from daycare. This kid has lived in a bubble for the last 15 months without so much as a cold. He's exposed to other kids for 2 days and he's a walking germ fest (complete with bodily sores!)

Am I upset that we put him in daycare?

Nope.

As far as I'm concerned, he needs to build up his immune system. 

What I did find helpful was that the doctor let us know that while Coxsackie is catchy, it barely affects adults and we'd most likely experience a day of malaise and that's it.

Doctor:  "But watch out," she began. "You'll have diarrhea in March. It's called Rotovirus."

Um...thanks?

Something to look forward to.