We have a tradition of sorts, around these parts.  That is: come weekend mornings, we ditch our boring weekday breakfast routine of oatmeal or yogurt and indulge in something far more caloric.  And tasty, too.  This morning, we woke to found that someone had finished off the milk with chocolate chip cookies last night, so waffles or pancakes or muffins were out.  Instead, I whipped up a twist on a recipe I saw on a food network show recently.  Egg nests.  They were easy as could be, with very light clean-up (which is always a plus!).

Egg Nests

Ingredients:
4-5 organic russet potatoes
4 T. unsalted butter, melted
6 eggs
sliced or grated cheese (we used Swiss, but provolone, Gruyere, or cheddar would be tasty, too)

Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350°.  Spray six ramekins with cooking spray.  Set aside.

Peel potatoes and then use the grate blade of your food processor to shred them (think traditional hash browns).  Gather grated potatoes in a clean dish towel or cheesecloth and wring the liquid out.  Transfer them to a large bowl and stir in the melted butter.  Season well with salt, pepper (and maybe a dash of garlic powder if you’re adventurous).  Press the grated potatoes evenly into the prepared ramekins, being sure the potatoes go up the sides and a thin layer and covers the bottom. Bake until the top edges turn light golden brown and the potatoes are cooked through, about 35 to 40 minutes.

Remove the potatoes from the oven and gently crack an egg into each cup. Bake until the egg whites set but the yolk remains runny, about 6 to 8 minutes.

Remove from the oven and set the oven to broil. Top the eggs with grated cheese. Broil until cheese melts.  We served ours with warmed green salsa.  Yum!

SOURCE: Food Network

At the beginning of the month my Grams drove up from her winter home in Yuma to celebrate Kennedy’s birthday with us.  While she was here, she caught a little glimpse of my interactions with Cassidy.  Or, in other words,  Cassidy’s general refusal to listen.  Always trying to help, Grams pulled Cassidy aside and told her that instead of disobeying, she should politely say, “yes, Mom,” when she is asked to do something.  Come bedtime that evening, I told Cass to go get her pajamas on and brush her teeth.  Almost instantly Cass started in on the feet dragging and whining I’ve come to expect, but Gram would have none of it.

“Cassidy,” she said, “what did I tell you to say when Mom asks you to do something?”

Knowing she’d been caught, Cassidy offered up a sheepish, “yes, Mom,” before turning on her heels and heading down the hall.

Not able to produce a response like that on my own, I promptly begged Grams to stay the whole weekend.  The month.  Forever, even.  But alas, her visit came to an end in the blink of an eye.  Still, I clung tightly to the novelty of Grams’ method for as long as it lasted.

Which, as it turned out, wasn’t long.

But just as the effect was wearing off, lo and behold Cassidy received an envelope in the mail.  Inside?

Tee hee.

Isn’t Grams the cutest thing ever?

I think so, too.

And yes, I’m totally keeping that little Mickey says card in my back pocket.

Last week, after I posted the behavior contract, a very keen reader noticed and pointed out that the words I penned back in 2007 suspiciously skirted the topics of sex and dating.  While that may seem like a heinous oversight, rest assured that it wasn’t.  While I omitted that stuff from the ink, I certainly didn’t omit it from the discussion.  I will gladly tell you my reasoning, but first I have to give you a hint of background about the day that set this whole thing in motion.

Without going into detail, let me just say that on that day, I found something that shot like an arrow through my heart.  I read words that instantly grieved me because how could so treasured a child see herself without value?  {I apologize for the vagueness.  It’s necessary.}

And so, with the precipice of high school looming, I set out to drive home a message so important that missing it could make all the difference in the world.

Don’t mistake me for a moron; I knew full well that the existence of such a contract would not really bind anybody to anything.  What is was to do, though, was explain–in no uncertain terms–my expectations.  Too many times in this parenthood I’ve been handed the excuse of not knowing.  With my expectations listed and signed off on, the not knowing becomes a much tougher sell.

Still, in spite of having voiced squirm-worthy sex’ish words all the days leading up to this one, putting them on paper was a step I wasn’t willing to take.  Partly because I felt that by writing them down and making them off-limits, I was somehow posing a dare.  And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

When we sat across the table from one another, reading over this contract, there was much discussion.  Unlike the heart-to-hearts we’d had before, this one was far more formal.  Quite purposefully.  I’d meant for it to feel very business-like.  If the truths of my heart poured out in the past had fallen on forgetful ears, perhaps this signing on the dotted line would stick.

I wanted the words–the expectations on that paper–to convey a message.  That is: you matter.  The choices you make today will shape tomorrow.  Your choices matter.  You will have a curfew; you will contribute; you will be respectful.  You matter.  If the going gets tough I will not look the other way; I will press harder.  You matter.  I will not give up on you because you matter.  I expect a lot from you and I know you can rise to the occasion.  You matter more than you’ll ever know.

I hoped that that truth would permeate and that, in turn, she would value herself enough to make responsible choices with boys based on self-worth rather than a directive on some piece of paper her mom made her sign.  We talked then–and talk still-about what I expect of her in the dating department, but it’s easily one of the slipperiest slopes I’ve ever had to parent down.  On one hand I want her to know that sex isn’t okay right now, but on the other hand I need her to know that if she chooses otherwise, she can come to me, without repercussion.  How can you convey both without sending a mixed message?

I don’t know the answer to that.  All I know is that I’m doing my best.

Parenting has been hard since that very first contraction.  Seasons of hard.  The physical exhaustion slowly gives way to a weary one, and second-guessing comes battering like a downed tree at the heavy door of perseverance.  All I know for sure is that while I could be better, I’m doing my best.

I’ve got an eighth grader waiting in the wings; the behavior contract is about to make a second appearance.  With revisions, of course.  Because when you know better, you do better.

I can only hope–and pray without end–that my best is good enough.

Quite some time ago I wrote and ran a teen pregnancy series that touched on various aspects on topic, all written from my first-hand experience.  Within the Lives Less Broken post (the second in the series), I mentioned the behavior contract I created when my oldest child was starting high school.  I had a number of requests to write a separate post on that behavior contract and I fully intended to do so in a timely manner.  Oh, but the best laid plans…

Here we are, five months later and I am, finally, bringing that post to fruition.  So, without further ado, here is a scan of the original contract I wrote in 2007.

I fully intend to implement this same procedure when my next one starts high school this coming July.  There will be some revisions, of course.  For instance, not ALL social media sites are against the rules.  Also, I’ve done away with the poker chip reward.  It was too tedious a system to maintain.  In its place, I take the older girls to movies, lunch, or out shopping every so often, just the three of us.  In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t included that portion in the contract.  Not because I want to skimp on rewards, but because the behavior contract was meant to be a reference, not a dangling carrot.  It was meant to clearly and concisely state my expectations.  Any subsequent rewards are to be icing on the cake, not expected compensation.

I showed you mine; now tell me yours.  What bullet points would be added or omitted from your versions?

Every year I make Jeff a different treat for his birthday.  This year, it was a Bundt cake.  A lemon-cranberry Bundt cake to be precise.  And a very well received one at that.  This was one of the rare treats that pleased every palate in the house.  The cake itself is very fresh and tart, while the (sugared) cranberry filling adds the perfect sweet balance.  Once it’s topped with a drizzle of lemon icing, well, let’s just say we have ourselves a winner.  I made the cake again this week as dessert for a birthday luncheon I hosted.  The bright side, of course, is that when you eat such a hefty lunch, the guests have little room for dessert.  My family was rather pleased that there was plenty of cake left over :)

Lemon Cranberry Bundt Cake

Ingredients:

For the cake:
3 1/4 sticks unsalted butter, cubed and at room temperature
3 cups sifted cake flour
1 12-oz. bag of cranberries
2 1/2 c. sugar
6 T. whole milk
4 large eggs, plus 2 egg yolks
2 t. vanilla extract
2 T. finely grated lemon zest
1 1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt

For the syrup and glaze:
1/4 c. sugar
1/2 c. plus 2 T. lemon juice
1 1/2 c. powdered sugar

Directions:

SOURCE: FOOD NETWORK MAGAZINE

Most people I know have a certain number in the back of their minds–the age at which he or she becomes officially old.  For me, that particular birthday has already come and gone.  It occurred on October 21, 2007.  It was the day I turned twenty-ten.  At least, that’s the only way I could bring myself to say it then.  I’m more comfortable here in the land of thirties now.  But I do recall feeling as though I’d crossed a significant mile marker then.  The bright side of that, of course, is that future numbers don’t scare me because, well, I’m already old.  Ish.

Oh I kid.  Sort of.  I do realize that thirty isn’t old.  I do.  But for me, the number was daunting.  Because of the way my birthday falls I was always one of the youngest people in my class.  And, having given birth at sixteen, I was always practically guaranteed to be the youngest mom in any given group.  It’s just the way that I’d come identify myself: youthful.  The turning of that thirty-corner signified an end to that, at least in my mind.

Oh, if only I’d known.  It only gets better.

There are lists of things I wish I’d known then.  Lists of them.  Things that would have eased the months that led up to that October day.  Tidbits of wisdom that I probably wouldn’t have understood then, without the luxury of hindsight.

I’m choosing six today.  And even as I sit here considering them, a knowing smile reaches me.  These are but a few of the things I wish I’d known as I approached thirty:

6.  Wrinkles aren’t like a tax deadline.  Nor are they subcutaneous cougars waiting to pounce the second the clock strikes midnight.  They’re gradual.  Oh and pee ess, there are definitely worse things.  Perpetually-surprised Botox face, anyone?  See what I mean.

5. Not being the youngest one in any given group will feel all wrong at first.  The fit will be something like that new pair of flats that you have to wear around for a bit before they get comfortable.   But, just like the wrinkles, you’ll find comfort in your own skin.  You’ll discover a wisdom all your own and you’ll be able to connect with other moms on a whole new level.

4. Workouts get harder.  But there will be a shift somewhere–metabolism or something–and it means that you won’t be able to eat like you used to.  Regular exercise will be all the more important.  Though, admittedly, not any more enjoyable.

3. Gone are the days when you could hop up on the counter to reach the top cupboard shelf and then jump back down with ease.  In spite of the continued exercise, your body doesn’t cooperate like it used to.  Joints creak.  Feet ache.  Muscles protest.

2. Relationships evolve.  All of them–spiritual and earthly.  They strengthen and deepen with perspective.  It’s eye-opening and awkward and scary and full and beautiful all at once.

1. You’ll find an even more meaningful appreciation for all with which you’ve been blessed.

In a nutshell, you will find joy.  You will come to view the people and mistakes of your past through more experienced eyes and you will proceed accordingly.  You will forgive ever so slightly quicker and breathe easier.  Whereas once you thought you knew it all, you will realize that you’ll never stop learning.  There will be confidence rooted in that which matters as opposed to that which so quickly passes away.  So, too, will there be hardship.  Heartbreak.  Letdowns.  But all of it will be easier to accept because your faith has been strengthened through it all.  You will fully grasp that nothing is permanent.  You will appreciate today while planning for tomorrow.  You will savor more, dwell less.  And possibly, above all, you will face future birthdays not with gritted teeth and clenched fists, but with quiet anticipation and barely-concealed hope.

It’s a crazy-beautiful trip.  Enjoy the ride.

*Happy birthday, Stephanie!  Something tells me you will face this year every bit as gracefully as you’ve welcomed the ones that have come before it.  I hope that this post, as well as Dayna’s, will bring a smile to your day*

We went around the table for bests and worsts.  Between mashed potato bites, our highs and lows and even a few in-betweens showed up for dinner.  Kennedy’s babysitting charge cried when she left–her best for sure.  That there was no school.  No early waking.

The junior girls got together to make shirts for the spirit assembly.  Unanimously they decided red tees with white puff paint letters: Oh. My. God.  Seniors, look @ our butts! Only Torri’s shirt stood out among the rest.  The oh and the my were the same but then came gosh and I called it my best at dinner.  Because wow! to stand out–to stand up–at seventeen.  Heart flutters.

School holiday or not there was no rest for the weary.  Come late afternoon, out the window I see him jumping off the rocks, his blanket cape blowing behind.  And I drop what I’m doing because who can say whether this will be the last time he ties a sloppy knot and goes flying?

i griped the other day about the snippet of time I have to accomplish the day before it falls right through my fingers.  And Jeff slipped: it’ll be nice next year when Jayce is in school all day.  I could see how he might think so.  But only because he’s not here for reading chapter books in the cozy brown chair.  and the subsequent rocking.  the tickles and toy story yahtzee and mommy, will you make me some tea?

He doesn’t know.

oh but i do.  i do.

*this is me again, linking up with just write.

I know.  I know.  It’s only January.  So why, you ask, is there a Valentines-themed cookie bouquet adorning this blog post?  I’m glad you asked.

After posting photos of the Halloween and Thanksgiving sugar cookies I made, I was asked if I’d consider filling an order for some Valentine cookies.  But being one of those pesky perfectionist types, I did it one further and created this super cute–even if I do say so myself–cookie bouquet.  This was my first attempt and, honestly, I wish I’d doubled the batch so that I could have practiced a few other decorating ideas.  That said, I suppose this practice batch turned out pretty well, considering.

As for why I decided to post it?  I figured that since I’m already going to be filling a couple of orders for these, I might as well throw it out as an option on the ol’ blog and see if there’s any further interest.  My cookie bouquets include five 4″ from-scratch sugar cookie “pops”, baked using all natural ingredients, including real vanilla bean.  Sometimes cutesy sweets aren’t as tasty as they are pleasing to the eye, but these cookies are an exception; they are absolutely divine.  I’m pricing the bouquets at $35 each and will be accepting orders until February 10th.  If you’re local and you’d like one, send an email to me at, Darcie {at} suchthespot {dot} {com} .  Orders will be available for pick-up on Feb. 13th or 14th at either Raytheon or the Fry’s at Rita and Houghton.

Exciting, right?!

Anyway, pardon this interruption.  Now back to my regularly-scheduled posting ;)

The upright of morning finds me with a fault line just behind my eyes, the contour of which quakes with tremors ranging from faint to seismic.  Rest was elusive.  Left over in my foggy head are suspicions of the sneaky clock at my bedside: the games it plays when the lights go off.  My eyes are jet-puffed and oh thank goodness I bought cucumbers last week.

Night is more kind to my mister.  Rest wraps its heavy arms around him and leaves his breaths deep.  Even.  He sleeps at me and it feels like taunting.  I erect a downy fortress between us, hopeful that within her I’ll finally go blank.

i drift down a rabbit hole of angst, not shedding but absorbing

words that fit at the time ring back too sharp in my ears

betrayals assault every bit as much as a punch in the gut and hope of a future bright goes fluttering just out of reach

Dawn brings the crash crash woosh of the garbage truck, clamoring up our cul-de-sac with a vengeance.  I skip working out to instead run the car in for diagnostics.  If only we all could be hooked up for a tidy little printout of just what is misfiring…how to fix it.  And even after twenty full minutes of wandering room to room asking aloud sheesh, where is that football? Jayce still can’t find it.  I’m way past due for a haircut and the split of my ends have crept through my hair down into the roots and the heart of me.

Tucked into the tiny corner of the auto shop I sit elbow to elbow with an age-ed, perpetualy smiling man whose cane rests beside him.  Across from me there is a wilted old woman, her eyes defiantly bright.  Mindless on my iPhone, my own eyes droopy and still jet-puffed, no time for cucumber rounds.  What is this thing called tweeting? the man asks and I set the phone aside.

I tell him it’s when you only have a few characters–just a short phrase–to say something.  I s’pose that’s why they don’t want people doing it while they drive then, eh? And then he tells me and the woman his story of last week at the doctor there was a young grandmother and she was watching a movie on her little device and her toes were painted sparkly purple.  Twinkle toes, he thought.  I guess that’s how the new generation communicates.

Honest to Pete! the lady says and then stares at something over my head, lost in a memory maybe.

I slip the phone into my purse, unsure that where we’ve come to is an improvement over where we used to be.

{linking up for the first time ever with Just Write}

3612 Dayton Street.  A town nobody could pronounce in a state known for it’s peaches and boiled peanuts and confederate die-hards.  30815.  I lived in a house that backed up to a pine forest–trees bigger than I dared to dream. The three babies under my feet left me worn and weary with their squeaky but mommy and how come? and but I’m not tired yet. I was a young Army wife, so many crooked lines from home that I probably couldn’t have found my way if I’d tried.  All alone in a place where the drawl of my neighbors sometimes pricked like an insult and something as light and airy as hope hung like an anvil around my neck.  I was tired.  So, so tired.

And then the years passed and the babies grew and the squeak in their voices gave way to eyes that rolled and doors that slammed before I could raise my hand to knock.

and I tell you the truth when I say that last week we bought my baby a car all her own.

There is a different kind of tired, here.  In this place.  One that sneaks in under the cover of time and steals away with dreams I’ve yet to dream because the canvas of sleep won’t come.  One that piles like a quarry in my stomach and fills up the space so much so that even hunger pangs go unnoticed.  Hungry and tired.  Lost and heartbroken.  And empty.  And maybe just hollow, it’s hard to say.

Tired that seeps into my pores and melts inside of me and turns to liquid and spills out my tear ducts until they dry up.  Tired that berates  and scolds and points a blaming finger.  Tired that threatens never to leave.  Never to relent.

In a part of me that doesn’t want to admit it, I maybe once have wondered how differently my life’s minutes might pass if never a child passed through me.  If never a life came from mine.

but because I’m nothing at all if not her mother and her mother and her mother and his I know I would grieve the loss of every single exhausted moment.  Each missed sigh.  And maybe only then would I really really know hollow.

There aren’t any trees out the back windows anymore.  Just dust and desert.

Nowhere to go but up, up.

And away.