San Diego

I remember the days of jumping time zones on a regular basis and rolling my eyes at the whiners droning on about their jet lag and what time it “really” was for their body and overanalyzing their sleep and meal schedules to cope. And the days of pulling all-nighters with a steady stream of cocktails and chips (or hard core studying -- I’m very responsible) without effect. Now, I fly a 3 hour time difference coming home from San Diego and can’t get to bed or wake up on time for a week. Laziness? Maybe. Age? More likely. Silly excuse for being useless all week? Probably, but I like “age”.

San Diego ~ Part 1: Getting there is 0% of the fun. (Skip if you do not care for my woes.)

I’ve traveled with D a lot – more times than I can count, including many many solo trips. I am not shy to call myself a well seasoned traveler with the baby and it fires me up that I can’t get in the expert traveler security line with the laptop crowd just because of my milk and stroller (six years of consulting travel and all these baby trips make me an EXPERT people...get out of my way). Despite this, I dreaded this flight for weeks for fear of what this 14-month old squirmy screaming (for joy) social butterfly would bring now that she’s walking. Finally I might learn what all these parents are on about as they groan about the torture that is travel with toddlers.

Armed with lowered expectations, her favorite toy, favorite book, favorite snacks, favorite hair to pull, bangles and big earrings to distract her (normally left in jewelry box for fear of losing my earlobes), and teething stuff, I stood ready for her to bring me her toddler best. I could take it. After all, I’m a bad ass EXPERT.

But I lost. My determination and bag of tricks were no match for her snotty-nose-induced-ear-pain and overly-large-new-teeth-for-such-a-tiny-mouth. I do not exaggerate when I say she wailed in pain for half the nearly six hour flight. We walked and snuggled, I allowed repeated hair-pulling, we locked ourselves in the bathroom, I shoved teething tablets and orajel into her mouth, I sang in public, and we walked some more. Some people offered to help with cookies and toys (very sweet, but if that worked, we’d be good by now – thanks), while others offered their stares. The flight attendant offered me wine, which I actually did not want unless I could give it to D, and I wasn’t ready for those kind of stares. Seriously, this sucked. And I got my period (TMI but necessary to share for emphasis. Sorry.).

The low point came when (not my finest moment) I started crying myself. Twice. Oh my, did I really? Yes, it could have been worse (like if I was pregnant with her twin baby brothers and had her big 3 year old sister in tow who decided to bite all the passengers). It doesn't matter -- this was enough. I tried hard, but the tears won. I can't believe that was ME.

Forty-five minutes before landing, a sympathetic former flight attendant gave up her seat so I could lay down with her for some horizontal hair pulling and snuggles. She had worn out, fell asleep, and the whole plane enjoyed some silence.

Off the plane, they all looked. I was (in)famous. The chatter about my drama continued onto the rental car bus. It was hard not to feel sorry for the frizzy-haired crying lady badly in need of make-up and some deoderant.

Part 2: Making up for Part 1 with a night out.
[Pictures purposely omitted.]

Part 3: Four girls with three babies means not getting anywhere before noon.
Aw, but look at 'em.

Happy 4th!

Part 4: Beach!

Part 5: Home.

Travels consisted of latte drinking, a bit more crying (this time just her), and ice-throwing (I mean, playing). Most importantly, at the end, there was a nice husband who texted "let me know when you're in the taxi so I can put the chicken burgers on the grill." Perfect.

P.S. If you find yourself in San Diego, I highly recommend Cowboy Star, Point Loma Seafoods, Prado at Balboa Park, and Miguel's Coronado (best free cheese dip ever, with my empty bowl to prove it). Your mouth will love you and your pants will hate you.

Bet you can't eat just one

If I had known three years ago when the summer kale influxes began that I could easily make CHIPS out of it, I'd have Popeye muscles. We put away a whole bag of leaves tonight. Even the 14-month old tore it up.

This is how EVERYONE should eat it.

(Thanks Lisa.)

1. Tear the kale into big pieces (no big stems).
2. Spray pan with olive oil.
3. Spread kale on it.
4. Spray kale with olive oil.
5. Sprinkle with salt.
6. Broil till crispy.

Damn good.

Memories of cuteness and wailing

I dug this picture up to show my friend whose doctor estimated she's having an 8+ lb baby (and therefore succeeded in sending her into hyperventilation about pushing the, as she decribes, "cat-sized thing" out of her hoohaa*) that an 8+ lb baby is so cute it could be worth it.


I'm a few months old and well over 8 lbs, but the point is, look at the cheeks. Awww. All three of us are adorable. That red thing on my eye is hemangioma. It faded, but not before ruining every last one of my pictures till age 3. What a location.

As pictured -- I, too, enjoyed pulling hair.

I also cried pretty hard when they made me go to the crib without snuggles in mommy's bed first. I remember one night vividly, screaming into the dark and wishing desperately they'd take me back into their bed. Don't believe me? I described my parents' room layout and bedspread to them (no photos to cheat from). When I was right, no one could argue. I boast a wicked long-term memory (at the expense of the short-term one...where's my cell phone?).

With this memory in mind, letting my own girl wail it out became even more disturbing. What if she remembers and is ruined forever? Or worse, what if she remembers how horribly the bedroom was decorated?

Despite being, as many opposers of crying-it-out say, "abandoned in the crib", I turned out fine (subjective and biased assessment, but I'm the writer). So, I stayed the course with D. It took a few nights of sweating, but tonight she cried for 2 seconds. TWO. We still suck at naps, but I'm not worried. And to avoid a jinx, I'm also not cocky. I fully realize she is just as likely to continue the 2-second fuss as she is to start a habit of 3am playtime.

Regardless, tonight's a good one and I wanted to share my picture.

*Yes, this is the highly technical term we will teach our children. Just kidding, we'll say vajayjay.

Eating the greens

Two weeks into the annual summer vegetable overload, I'm faring pretty well against the greens. In case you also find yourself with a fridge of leaves, here are two newly beloved uses.

Kale

I've eaten this both weeks so far, courtesy of Brianna who found it on some other person's blog who unfortunately gets no credit till she reminds me who it was.

Pasta with kale, ricotta, and raisins (yes, raisins)

1/2 box wheat pasta (I like the rotini)
1/2 small container lowfat ricotta
2-4 cloves garlic, depending on how much you're willing to stink (chopped)
bunch of kale, de-stemmed
big handful of raisins
smaller handful of pinenuts
smaller handful of grated parmesan
some salt and pepper

1. Boil the kale till it's cooked.
2. Get the pasta started.
3. Cook up the garlic in some olive oil.
4. In a blender, combine the ricotta, kale, garlic, salt, and pepper into a goopy consistency like dip.
5. After draining the pasta, stir the kale mixture into it.
6. Add the raisins and warm over low heat.
7. Toast some pinenuts and put them on top.
8. Put the parmesan on top too.

Brett says it's "OK". I say it's tasty.

Dill

I happily pulled this into my bag this week, because it meant attempting one of my favorite Indian dishes -- suwani bhagi. I have no idea how it is really spelled.

My mom wrote up the recipe for me, but I'm not sharing it because she's so experienced that she doesn't measure. Between that, and my screwing it up twice during the process (including some burning), I have little understanding how much of what actually went in.

But...look mom! I did it!


(It's 1/2 cup yellow dal, 1 bunch dill weed without stems, 3 cloves garlic, and unknown amounts of water, salt, chili powder, cumin seeds, cumin powder, turmeric, and dhana jeera. And it's still a little undercooked which I'm hoping to fix in the microwave tomorrow.)

Torture

Dilan cuddles to sleep. With a year of nursing and no door to shield us from the “crying it out” noise, that’s just how it has been. As much as I love the cuddles, I don’t love the hair pulling that comes with it. Is she trying to bring my head closer to hers? She needs a lovey, and while I’ve tried to introduce one, her lovey remains to be whatever full sized human happens to hold her.

And, as much as I love the cuddles, this girl has got to learn to sleep without them. We have a door now. This is where the pain begins.

I fail repeatedly.

I put her down. She cries. I shut the door. She screams. I watch the clock. I breathe deeply. She gasps for air through her sobs. I pace. I drink wine. She sounds like a sweating stuck pig being beaten with a stick. I cave. We snuggle. Thumb in mouth. Hand pulling at my roots. Sniffles. Sleep.

This is not sustainable. All parents do it, I know. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m a wimp.

Tonight, we try again. Tomorrow, I try again with the naps.

It’s not impossible. Despite the fact that she doesn’t always nap like daycare wants, she still naps. They don’t snuggle her to sleep. I could just ask for their help, but that means admitting to them that I actually don’t know how and they do.

A 2-coffee-a-day-week, it is.

Because there is still no place for our books

Why am I still up at 12:30 on a school night? Craigslist. I'm obsessed. The amount of furniture we need to make our palatial 750 square feet a home is overwhelming. And furniture is a pretty penny. I forgot this after five years sleeping atop Home Depot timber screwed into the wall and piling my belongings onto four random chairs that were only acquired because someone else didn't want to move them.

We're growing up now.

After a Father's Day trip to modular hell (Ikea), only brightened by the stomach-coating pupusas at the Redhook Ballfields nextdoor, we left with a lampshade, a light bulb, a wrong-sized shelf, and a headache.

I lust after these reclaimed wood numbers that lure me with their granola mission and clutter free, nice smelling showrooms. Then I vomit a bit in my mouth when I see the pricetag.

I'm determined to find at least half our stuff used so I can be a reuser like I preach and maybe excuse buying something new and outrageous. I'm picky though. And New Yorkers post a lot of stuff, making the Craigslist hunt an art, science, and daily timesuck.

This is a 2-coffee-a-day week.

Utilitarian

This is where I ended up.

My friend April used the word utilitarian when explaining why she chose some over others. It stuck...and then helped me weed out things like beads, rings, and wine. Although I do believe wine has utility.

Till now, I have never used the word utilitarian in a sentence. And now I will say it lots at our show and seem so artsy fartsy intellectual. Thanks girl.

Circles

Hello friends.

The final project for my photography class is to have six pictures that go together within some theme. I attempted a number of things and somehow ended up with a lot of circles, so here we are. Then, we'll have a little photo show Tuesday night with free wine to bribe our friends into looking at our novice work.

I need help picking my six (if you happen to read this and have time before Monday morning; if it wasn't last minute, it wouldn't be me).

Go to my rarely used Flickr page and make some comments with your opinions. Please :-).

Link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/7291071@N04/sets/72157620035308396/

This one's already in, so if you don't like, don't tell.

Color them happy

Now that we can wear short sleeves around these parts, D's been getting many compliments on her pink and purple tie-dye onesie. So it's very fitting that the creator (friend Lisa!) just got her site up and running on a place that tempts the money right out of my wallet -- Etsy.

I've mentioned it before, and now it's all at http://www.rememberlaughter.com/.

Shop away.

Summer share

Nope, not in the Hamptons. I’m back on the summer vegetable overload wagon and just committed to my share in this year’s CSA bounty, hoping I don't regret it when I'm up to my eyeballs in greens. After weeks of debating whether to subject myself to this level of produce management for yet another summer and even trying the farmer’s market with the equivalent cash allowance, I reluctantly accepted this is still the best value for the money.

Yes, it will stress me out with a tiring amount of salad spinning and racking my brain for creative ways to hide kale in Brett’s dinner. Yes, I will waste some food (but will deal with this guilt by composting). Yes, D’s poo will turn red when I feed her copious amounts of beets, and yes, I’ll gasp aloud when I see what I believe to be bloody stool before remembering I fed her these beets.

But, we’ll eat well and earn the inevitable carb gorging that winter brings.

This week's highlight...Farm fresh strawberries. They don't come this red from the store. It might be raining and 65 (for the next 5 days; my hair looks awesome), but at least it tastes like summer.