The Suburban Life

When I gave birth to my little guy I knew he would be a “binkie” baby.  How did I know this?  Because, I have absolutely no problem with a little bit of ‘forced’ attachment.  From the get-go, I stuck that plug in Jack’s mouth at the first sign of trouble.  He’d barely manage to squeak out a “Wa-” before that artificial nipple snuffed it out.  And, fortunately, my persistance won out because I managed to turn my child into a full-on addict.  Sure, I felt a little bit of guilt at being his “pusher” but mealtimes at the local Mexican restaurant were much more peaceful for everyone. 

But, really the joke was on me.  Unbeknownst to me, while that binkie was still firmly placed in his mouth, he was also forming an attachment to an entirely different inanimate object as if he knew the binkie would be short-lived and was preparing a replacement vice.  One in which I really had no vested interest at all.

His blanket.

I had been putting Jack to bed with this particular blanket because it was, quite frankly, a sweet little white cable-knit and it matched his room.  That was it.  And little did I know that he was cuddling up to this little blanket, building a relationship that would become first and foremost the most important part of his little life.

This blanket would one day be dubbed “Baby” and would be as present in his company as a box of Cheezits are in mine.  (I’m not proud of that but thought it would put things into perspective.)

Cute, yes (the blanket, not the Cheezits, obviously).  But I’d be remiss if I left out one important fact…”Baby” has not aged very well.  What was once a gleaming white cotton has now evolved into a dingy gray.  Her tight cable-knit now a much looser version of her former self (I can so relate with this.)  Granted, she’s been through some trials and tribulations.  She’s wiped many a snotty nose, soaked up remnants of dinner on dirty little hands and has been drug through the house at times carrying an 8-pound shih-tzu on her back.   Yes, “Baby” has seen better days.  But with the love of a hopelessly devoted romantic, Jack doesn’t notice.  She’s still as beautiful to him now as she was the day they met.

Much like a lover nuzzles his beloved’s neck, Jack sniffs his “Baby” with as much unabandon.  And here’s the thing about that…”Baby” has taken on a bit of a smell over the years.  Again, Jack doesn’t notice.

“Baby” lulls Jack to sleep and eases his anxiety.  She comforts him when he’s ill and stays by his side until he’s well.  And thank goodness for that.

Jack has been sick for the past few days and has been as-of-late hunkered down in our bedroom watching Spongebob Squarepants, his “Baby” placed under his arm like a pair of sweethearts at a drive-in movie. 

I checked on him periodically to make sure that he was still, in fact, sick and hadn’t decided to take an ample opportunity to pillage my bathroom cabinets. ( Need a reminder of that fiasco?  Here.)  Most of the time he was laying down, looking at the TV with that Spongebob Squarepants-induced open-mouthed stare.

On one of my rounds I walked into the bedroom expecting to find Jack in his familiar position staring at the television and was surprised to find him gazing lovingly at “Baby” and whispering what sounded to be “sweet nothings” in her ear.

“You know what, Baby?  I wuv you.  I do.  You know how much?”

Baby looked at him expectantly.

“I wuv you very much.  My favorite Baby.”

Awww…Baby is happy.

“And guess what, Baby?  You don’t stink.  I fink you smell real good.”  And then Jack proceeded to dive in for what must have been the 472nd sniff of the day.

What I witnessed here folks was an intimate moment between Jack and his First Love.  I should have guessed that his relationship with “Baby” would lead up to this moment but I don’t think a mother is ever truly ready to accept that she has some worthy competition.   It’s obvious that Jack prefers the bedraggled look and slightly funky smell and I am just too clean and Dove fresh for his taste.

Do I begrudge Jack his “special” relationship?  Nah.  That blanket has worked wonders at easing a fit and lulling an active child to sleep.  But, do I worry about that inevitable day when “Baby” goes missing and Jack loses the love of his life?  God, yes.

Happy Monday,

Mindy

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake is a gift straight out of Heaven?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake can brighten even the dreariest of days?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake causes cellulite?

I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes!” to all of the above (unfortunately, I answer the last question from experience.) 

In my early twenties, after a particularly difficult day at the office, I discovered a product at the grocery store which, over time, became a little bit of a guilty obsession.  It was sold in this tidy little white box, its buttery aroma evident even through its packaging and well, it completed me.  Okay, that might be a slight over-exaggeration but if this product unclogged toilets and killed bees I could possibly see myself marrying it.

The object of my adoration?

Entenmann’s Pound Cake.  The dirty devil.

My unhealthy obsession with this dessert not only increased my grocery budget but also increased my waist size.  Once my ’fat’ jeans began evolving into ‘everyday’ jeans I knew that my love affair with this delectable dessert would have to end.   I had to strike pound cake from every future grocery list and try to forget it ever existed.

And then I found this recipe.  And the monkey on my back reared its ugly little monkey head.  And I slapped the monkey upside the head and said, “Down boy.  It uses cake mix!  I’ll be fine.”  I mean, how good could it possibly be?  The recipe doesn’t even call for butter.

Oh, Lordy. 

It’s good.  Really good.  Yes, it has the Trifecta of sugar, oil and *ahem* cream cheese, but…it also has blueberries.  Did you know they are considered a “Super Food?”  So, I’m actually doing your heart a favor.  Yep.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, go ahead and give this recipe a try.   And, please do not neglect the Vanilla Glaze.  Forgoing it’s sugary sweetness would be like reading an amazing book and stopping just short of the last chapter, or patronizing the Thunder from Down Under and leaving before the encore.  It just wouldn’t make sense.

Enjoy!

Blueberry Pound Cake with Vanilla Glaze

• 1 (18.25 oz) Butter Yellow or French Vanilla cake mix
• 1/4 cup white sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, room temperature
• 1/2 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 pint blueberries, fresh or frozen (tossed in a little bit of flour to keep them from sinking)

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Spray 10 inch bundt pan liberally with Pam Baking Spray (or be all Betty Crocker and do the grease and flour bit.)
2. In a large bowl, stir together cake mix and sugar.  Form a well in the center of mixture and pour in eggs, oil and vanilla.  Begin beating on low speed, adding in cream cheese.  Scrape sides of bowl and continue beating at medium speed for 4 additional minutes.  Fold in blueberries.  Pour into bundt pan.
3. Bake in preheated oven for 45-55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.  Let cool in pan before turning out onto plate.
4. Pour glaze over cooled cake, recipe below.

Vanilla Glaze

• 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
• 2 1/2 Tbs. milk
• 1/8 tsp of salt
• 1/4 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 tsp. butter

1. Melt butter over medium-low heat and add the rest of the ingredients.  Whisk until smooth and cook until reaches desired consistency.

I made an interesting discovery a few days ago.  I detected a weakness, saw a challenge and then experienced a moment of resigned understanding. 

Allow me to explain…

This weekend I sat chatting with some other first-grade moms during Avery’s basketball game (by the way, still waiting for a basket…at her current rate of skillbuilding Avery should be primed to score her first “2 points” by about the fifth grade.  She’s a pretty cute little defender, though.) 

As usual, we were discussing our kids and comparing notes.  “Oh, Suzy has been counting by tens for months now.”  “Sally has already been invited to twelve birthday parties since the beginning of the school year.”  “What…is Avery the only one to have earned the nickname ’skanky mini-skirt wearer’ in the first grade?”  Yeah, I’m obviously over that.  And for the sake of anonymity “Suzy” and “Sally” are not their real names.  Given the growing trend for saddling your kids with originality I probably couldn’t spell their real names anyway.

Somehow our conversation veered towards “Firsts.”  As I listened to Suzy and Sally’s moms recount first teeth, steps, haircuts and poops I began to panic as I couldn’t for the life of me remember any dates.  Not a single one. 

“How about Avery?” Suzy’s mom asked.  “Was she an early walker?”

Umm…umm…er.  And then suddenly my mouth began spinning this little tale, spewing out fabricated discourse.  “Actually, she took her very first steps on her first birthday.” (Not really.)  “She saw a shiny little present in my hand and beat feet over to grab it. Shocked us all.  So, so cute.”  (Gawd…can these women tell I’m lying?  Are my hands shaking?)

The moms smiled and nodded their heads.  “Actually, that seems to happen a lot.  I’ve heard that same story quite a few times.”

Yeah, because other dialed-out moms like me fail to remember these milestones and therefore find themselves reinventing history.

And, as you can imagine, I had all sorts of cute little stories about Avery’s teeth, haircuts and first little poop.  Fortunately, Jack’s bowel history is recent enough I had actual facts for that story.

Later that night, after I had darted out of the gymnasium, paranoid that I would be branded with a scarlet L or grow a giant nose, I confessed to Jer that I have apparently blocked out the past and have unfortunately picked up a gift for lying.

“Mindy, you didn’t block out the past, and you’ve always been a good liar,” Jer said.

“Um, obviously I did block some stuff out, Jer.  I can’t remember a single dang date.  Those women were sitting there throwing out all kinds of dates about their four kids and I can’t pull out a single detail about my two kids.  That’s not normal, Jer.  And, thanks by the way.  You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

“Yeah, it’s called a bad memory.  I have one too.  If someone were to offer me a million dollars to tell them when Avery lost her first tooth I couldn’t pull that date out of my butt for nothing,” Jer said.

“Nice, Jer.  Try not to use the words “Avery” and “butt” in the same sentence, next time, please.  But I get your point.  Something is definitely wrong with us.  We need to start doing Sudoku puzzles,” I explained.  “We need help.”

“Okay, that wasn’t my point.  Add ‘obtuse’ to your list of skills.  Mindy, did it ever occur to you why those moms remembered those dates?”

“Because they’re better moms than I am, obviously.”  Thanks for the reminder there, hon.

“How do you know they weren’t making stuff up?”

Wait a minute. 

Nah.

Could it be?

Could these moms have been reinventing history themselves?

“Hmmm…now that you mention it, that is a distinct possibility,” I said.

“See?” 

“Alright, but just in case let’s bring out the crosswords.  I plan on being armed and ready for the next basketball game.”

So, how about you?  Do you have a mind like a steel trap or do you tend to reinvent history a little bit?

My conclusion is this:  while exact dates and times are nice and can be handy, the real magic is in the memory itself.  Do I remember where the milestones hit on the calendar?  No.  But do I distinctly remember the feeling I had watching my little girl teeter her way to a first step?  Most definitely. 

Mindy

My daughter recently discovered that frenzied panic experienced by a woman who has lost something that is oftentimes more important than her car keys, favorite lipstick or (gasp!) most comfortable bra. 

Her purse. 

I have made no apologies for my unnatural but ever-so-real infatuation with purses.  I always have to be carrying one and covet the contents of my purse with an adoration I should probably only be feeling for my husband and children.  It might have something to do with some…ahem…control issues I occasionally experience, but I love having my purse and all its options on my person.  Want some gum?  No problem.  Eyebrows a little too thick?  Got your solution.  Need a new pair of underpants (a growing problem in my household)?  Pick one.   

I had no idea that this obsession with having “my stuff” in its handy-dandy carryall would extend onto my daughter but I’ve seen first-hand that it’s most definitely beginning to have an impact.

A couple of days ago we were heading out to do some grocery shopping.  Avery, like usual, was lollygaggling her way out of her bedroom.

“Come on, Avery.  Time to get a move on,” I said.  The milk ain’t gonna hitchhike it’s way here.  Unfortunately.  But, wouldn’t that be handy? 

“Mom…I’m not ready yet.  I can’t find my purse,” she explained, biting her lip.

“Avery, you’re 7.  I think you’ll probably be just fine if you leave it home this time, hon.”

“No, I really need it.  I’ve got some important stuff in there,” she pleads. 

“Avery, we’ll have to find it when we get home, okay?  We need to get moving.” 

Her face fell.  “Okay.”  With one last resigned look around her she walked over to put her coat on.

At that moment I saw something very familiar.  I recognized a very real emotion.  The kid needed her purse.  And I completely understood that.  It didn’t matter so much what was in the purse.  What was important was that it mattered to her. 

So I helped her find it.

Doesn’t this purse just scream ‘burgeoning fashionista’?  And here’s what she was missing.

Yes, I can certainly see why she needed it so badly.  What if she got hot and needed some quick fanning?  Those grocery stores can be uncomfortably warm and a broken wooden fan would be the obvious choice. 

I have oftentimes been away from home and wished I had remembered my rubber frog.  My girl earns an A+ for preparedness. 

Wow.  This girl is prepared for anything. 

Frankly, this one doesn’t surprise me at all.  After the yo-yo heartbreak I experienced I think she’s attempting to support me and my one and only talent.

The fact of the situation is this.  While the contents of her purse will undoubtedly change as frequently as Jack changes his underpants (all too often…trust me) the reason for it stays the same.  Avery has discovered the freedom that accompanies carrying a purse.  She is beginning the uphill battle from little girl to little lady and has decided that it’ll be an easier fight with a stylish handbag at her side.

I couldn’t be more proud.

Happy Friday,

Mindy

As some of you may know, I recently went away for a night with my girlfriends, all of us in dire need of a little rest and relaxation.  So, naturally, after settling in to our hotel room,we headed out to the nearest casino!

I’m really not much of a gambler, in all honesty, but the thought of possibly hitting “the big one” I must admit was intriguing to me.  Therefore, I approached the casino doors fueled by excitement and a little hope.  (Plus, they were giving away a super-hot yellow Camaro.)

Arm in arm, we entered the casino, our senses immediately assaulted by clanging machines, dispensing money machines and….secondhand smoke.  Yep, we were definitely home.

First step was to facilitate a ‘complimentary fountain drink drive-by’.  All the elbow jabbing and high-fiving we did at our score, I’m fairly certain, put giant marks on our foreheads reading “Warning:  these girls obviously do not frequent gambling establishments.” 

Second step was to scope out the surrounding area, to see where the winning machines were located.  We turned around, backs to the fountain drinks dispenser, and perused our options.   As we sucked down our Cokes (after all, these were free drinks people) we spotted out our destination…the penny machines.  Strangely, there were very few people setting up camp at these machines which immediatley got me thinking, “Oh, yeah…there’s our money-makers.  This is going to be easy.”  Collectively, we nodded (after filling up our free drinks, again) and headed over to the slots.

Only a couple of us had planned to gamble (the real adventure-seekers in the group) so we sat down at two machines and plotted our course.  Like real pros, we pulled out our wallets and started counting out cash.  Now, I’ve heard a couple of theories around this whole gambling situation.  1) Never gamble with less than a $100…your odds are much better, 2) It’s not smart gambling to switch machines after only a few rounds, commit to your slots and 3) In case you don’t have a $100, settle on the $5-spot burnin’ in your wallet.

Obviously, I went with theory number three.

I fed my money into the machine and hunkered down to make a little magic. And I was on a real bender there for awhile.  I grew my measly 500 credits to an astonishing 1500!  You’ve got it.  I was up $10.00!  Thoughts of my winnings were flashing through my mind.  What could I do with my profits?  I could buy lunch, put 4 gallons of gas in my tank, go crazy at a the Dollar Tree.  It would be very practical to cash out my winnings and just walk away.

And the following proves how strong my resolve (and practicality) is. 

I kept gambling.  Like a fiend in a frenzy I kept pressing that “Spin” button, watching my winnings melt away with each misaligned ‘7′, in hopes that the ever-elusive jackpot would hit.

And, it didn’t.  There would be no lunch, no 4 gallons of gas and definitely no shopping spree at the local Dollar Tree.  And I most definitely would not be racing home in a bright yellow Camaro. 

Fortunately, I did have a single moment of clarity when I decided it would make sense to cash out when I was back down to my original $5.00.  Better to walk away dead-even than dead-broke.  Or so I’m told.

We ladies reconvened at the complimentary fountain drink bar and filled up our mini-cups one last time, surveying the casino.  Sure there were plenty of winning machines sounding off their joyous alarms but there were as many or more machines as dead as the ones we had been playing.  And sitting in front of those machines were people chasing the same dream as me.   I wondered if they took advice from theory number one and invested an entire Ben Franklin or were merely testing the waters as I had done. 

We decided to quit the casino and move on to a more free, albeit less exhilarating, location…the beach.  I’m sure I will be back to that casino someday to try my hand at that jackpot again. 

Only next time, I think I’ll increase my gamble a bit.  I might have a bit more luck with a ten-spot.  I’m not sure I’m quite ready to commit to more (unless there’s another Camaro-at-stake or lifetime passes to the Thunder from Down Under.)  Hey…everyone has their price.

Mindy