Remember this?  The possibility of us packing up and moving on?  It’s been resolved.

Long story short: the resolution is that we’re staying put, which is both a good and bad thing.

Good because we’re comfortable here.

Good because we don’t have to mess with selling the house and hiring a mover and house-hunting all over again.

Good because we’re West coast, laid-back lifestyle kinda peeps, and we come from western states.  While our family isn’t here here, they’re within a day’s drive.  And more than anything else I would have missed spending every Thanksgiving and Christmas with my Grams and Gramps.

Good because we have our favorites here: favorite restaurants, favorite movie theater.  Favorite place to sit and sip a glass of wine while we watch the monsoon roll in from the mountains.

Good because we know the schools.  We know our neighbors.  We know not to expect the mail to be delivered before 2 pm.  Ever.

Good because we built this home and made it just so.  Oh and the desert sunsets.  Here in Arizona we’ve got the market cornered on sunsets.

The resolution, though, isn’t all good.  Good and bad, remember?

Bad because I was craving a new adventure.

Bad because we ohsoverybadly wanted to be close to the ocean again.

Bad because had the move worked out we’d have freed up vacation time and money to go somewhere other than Orlando.

Did I mention the potential move was to Orlando?

I don’t have to tell you how I feel about Orlando.  Well, not Orlando exactly.  It’s what’s in Orlando.

But alas.  There is no Orlando.

Here we are.  Here we stay.

{For now}.

If we’re not Facebook friends (why not, by the way?) you might have missed my post this weekend about our menu.  Your loss.  Because what a menu it was!  It included these:

I know.  Totally drool worthy right?

I can’t claim them.  They were foodnetwork.com finds.  And though I can’t claim them as my own, I can most certainly showcase them, right?

Here’s the recipe:

3 unpeeled sweet potatoes
kosher salt
2 teaspoons finely grated lime peel
pinch of cayenne pepper
1/4 cup canola oil (I used safflower instead)
freshly ground pepper
1/4 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro

Parcook the potatoes by placing scrubbed, unskinned potatoes into a large pot of boiling water and cooking them until they are fork tender.

After letting them cool, slice each potatoes lengthwise into eighths.

Mix 1 T. kosher salt, lime peel and cayenne in a small bowl.   Brush the wedges with oil and season with salt and pepper mixture.  Grill until golden brown on all sides (skin included) and just cooked through, about 1.5 minutes per side.  Transfer to a platter and season immediately with salt and cilantro.

Enjoy!

More often than not my oldest daughter comes home from school, only to find me exactly where I was when she left: at the kitchen sink, scrubbing away at the latest round of dishes.  She looks disgustingly at my yellow rubber gloves and ventures to ask, “so, how was your day?”

She knows already what I’ve spend my day doing.  She knows because when she goes into her bedroom there will be a pile of clean clothes, folded neatly and set at the edge of her bed.  She knows because she smells the scent of homemade wheat bread, wafting through the air.  She knows because the library books she asked me to return have been turned in, with nary a late fee in sight.

She knows precisely what I spend my days doing.  And, quite frankly, it bores her.

She has big dreams, this girl of mine.  Dreams far more ambitious than mine ever were.  Whereas I dreamed of being a mother, she dreams of a fancy career in marketing.  Whereas I knew in my heart of hearts that I was born to be someone’s mommy, she questions whether or not she wants to be a mom at all.

We’re so very alike in so very many ways.  Ask anyone; they’ll tell you.  If she’s not your clone, Darc, I don’t know who is… is what I’m told.  They mistake me for her and vice versa when one of us answers the phone.  She’s impatient and independent and just a tad too mature for her own good, just like her mother dearest.

But we’re different too.  In lots of ways.  And learning to accept some of those differences can be confusing.  Hard, at times.

Every once in awhile I read too much into those pitying eyes of hers.  Inwardly, I wonder how she can possibly overlook the significance of what I do.  I wilt, just a little.

But only a little because I know that one day she’ll look back and appreciate that her jeans were always clean and that her meals were always square.  She’ll go away to college, only to come home because she can’t possibly go asingledaymore without a steaming bowl of mom’s minestrone.  She’ll suffer a broken heart and miss having mom to come home to.

Only then will she get it.

For now, she questions why I’ve made the choices I have.

Little does she know that creating a soft spot in a world of sharp edges means more to me than the fattest of paychecks.  That quieting the constant static that exists outside these four walls gives me unspeakable joy.  Unmatched contentment.

The other day, she slaved in the kitchen baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies for her friend’s birthday.  The next morning, in a rush to get out the door, she grabbed a peanut butter cup from the pantry and asked:

Do you think it would be good if I sandwiched this between two cookies?

{turning up my nose} Um, no.  Why?

Haley always frosts and decorates cookies for other people’s birthdays.  Mine look plain.

Her face clouded at the thought.  But a quick check of the pantry left me beaming.

Ten minutes later I presented her with jazzed up cookie pops to take to her friend.  She turned to me, eyebrows raised, and very matter of factly said you’re amazing.  There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm, not a lick of satire.  She meant it.

And for the briefest of seconds, my heart fluttered.

She wonders why I’ve made the choices I’ve made.

The answer: moments like those.

Today marks a very important day: the unofficial start to summer.  I know, I know.  Summer doesn’t technically start until the summer solstice on June 21st, which is why I was very careful to label today as the unofficial start.  Everybody knows that June ushers in a new season, and with it, a new mindset.  Our minds wander to casual things, like cookouts and lemonade.  We daydream of lying on a white sand beach, tropical drink in one hand and a great summer read in the other.

Do you have a beach vacation planned?  If so, I think I can help out with the great summer read.  The Mailbox by Marybeth Whalen releases today.  It’s the perfect book to toss into your beach bag along with that tube of sunscreen.

The Mailbox is set in the charming North Carolina coastal town of Sunset Beach.  In a story that spans nineteen years, we meet Lindsey Adams, and her summer love, Campbell.  Campbell introduces Lindsey to a real-life symbol of folklore that has long been a part of the Sunset Beach community: the Kindred Spirit mailbox.  It’s a place where residents and tourists alike flock to, leaving behind heartfelt letters about their lives, love, and sometimes loss.  The identity of the Kindred Spirit is a mystery, but somehow visitors to the mailbox take comfort in knowing that someone–somewhere–not only reads the letters, but also lifts the letter writer up in prayer.

As summer loves often do, Lindsey and Cambpell’s fizzles and fades.  Both move on with their lives, eventually marrying and having children.  And when–some twenty years later–Lindsey returns to Sunset Beach as a soon-to-be divorcee, she sees firsthand the beauty of second chances.

The Mailbox is an uplifting, refreshing novel that explores the emotions of lost love and the desire–the hesitation–to trust again.  What I loved most about the book was that though it is Christian fiction, it sheds light on the struggles of divorce, without a pretentious air.  It’s honest and real–very relevant to today’s Christian woman.

Marybeth Whalen is a mother (of six!) and writer from Charlotte, North Carolina.  I had the pleasure of meeting her in the spring of 2008 during a blogging event at Walt Disney World.  I fell into easy conversation with Marybeth and immediately took a liking to her down-to-earth demeanor and subtle confidence.  She’s good peeps.  And her book, The Mailbox, is a reflection of that.

I’m giving away a copy of The Mailbox.  To win, leave a comment telling me what you would most like the postman to deliver to your mailbox today.  I will close entries on Monday, June 7 around 8 pm, Pacific time and will randomly choose a winner from all eligible entries received.

***UPDATE: Mandi #19 is the winner!***

One of the nicest things about having a little boy: he sneaks in like a little elf and leaves me flowers when I least expect them.  Like this morning, when I had turned my back to rinse something in the sink.  I went back to my breakfast-making post and saw the daintiest of little yellow flowers.  Just waiting.

I rode in an ambulance with him again on Wednesday night.  Croup.  Again.  He woke up bark-coughing–oh how I despise that sound–and it soon escalated.  No feeling is quite as helpless as watching your child struggle to breathe.  And not being able to do a damn thing about it.

There was 911.

There were paramedics.

The ambulance.

The hospital.  An all-nighter.

Breathing treatments.

But he’s okay.

Almost back to his old self.  Almost.

Two Christmases ago we bought Jayce the Fridge Phonics from Leapfrog.  We did so with good intentions, hoping that he’d learn to spell his name and various other CVC (consonant vowel consonant) words.

He loved the toy.  For about fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t long, though, until all of the magnets were relegated to a corner of the fridge, where they remained mostly untouched.

Until.

Until one day I stumbled to the kitchen first thing in the morning and went to the fridge in search of components for school lunches.  When what to my sleepy eyes did appear?

Aww.  He’s so sweet to me.  And no.  He doesn’t have any brothers.

The magnet love note remained for quite some time.

Until.

Until some snot-nosed-brat came along and basically pooed on my pocket full of sunshine.

Well howdie doodie to you too.  Punk.

And with that it was as if the flood waters let loose.  Everybody (or at least those who can spell) gets in on the action now.  Rarely, if ever, is there not a message spelled out across our refrigerator for all to see.

Some are practical:

Some are political:

Some have ulterior motives:

While others are motivational (in this case, motivating me to step away from the leftover cheesecake):

There is that on which my teen/tween daughters and I cannot agree:

And thus my added commentary:

Of course, there is also that on which we find common ground:

And perfectly explains the itch we get around this time every year:

*sometimes we have to take creative liberty with our spelling*

I’ve also been know to leave reminders for my dear daughter, who dabbles when she should be doing dishes:

But the most profound messages?  Those which put into simple terms that which weighs heavily on our minds:

If only God would post a reply via the fridge magnets.  Life would be much easier right about now…

I’ve required prescription eyeglasses since I was 16.

But then–a few years back–I got lasik.  I absolutely reveled in my 20/20 vision.  I gladly kissed my geeky eyewear goodbye.  I threw out my contact solution and did a happy dance.

Time passed.

And then one day, I woke up and realized I couldn’t see the alarm clock.  I made an optometrist appointment and there it was there that my worst fears were confirmed: my vision had reverted right back to where it had been pre-lasik.  Apparently, I can thank Jayce pregnancy hormones for that.

The bad news?

I’m not a candidate for a “fix-it” surgery because my corneas are too thin.  {Nevermind my patience}.

Back to square one for me.  Glasses.

These were the cutest I could find.

Watcha think?

When I was expecting my first  I worried about stretch marks

I worried about the sleepless nights.  The pain of a natural birth.

And then she came.  I looked into her eyes and I swore she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  I stayed up all night, though not because I was feeding or tending to her.  I stayed up because I couldn’t stop staring at her, wondering at how I’d managed to produce something–someone–so perfect.

There was a tilt-shift then.  A change in my life so profound that a whole new person existed where before she did not: a mother.

I went from worrying about how my child’s presence would affect me to how my shortcomings would scar her.

I was sixteen then.

Fresh in my mind were the typical teenage disagreements I’d had with my own mom.  Fresh were the ugly words I’d hurled at her in anger.  Stark was the realization of how bratty I’d been.  How selfish.

My new role brought with it a change in my relationship with my own mom.  A friendship, where before I can’t say there’d been one.

She watched as I doted on my baby–rocking and nursing and loving.  Though, in all honesty, I didn’t always greet 2 AM feedings with open arms and a cheery demeanor.

I’ve certainly had my moments, then and now.  The icky kind.  The raised-voice, impatient-toe-tapping, count-to-ten moments.  Moments in which mothering is not my strong suit.

My oldest is a guinea pig of sorts.  Together, we sail uncharted waters and brave new, unexplored frontiers.

I feel for her, as the oldest.  Having to endure experimental discipline, the strictest of expectations, the sternest disapproval.

Unfortunately for her, I don’t take this motherhood thing lightly.

I recognized early–at the age of 12–that above all else I wanted to be someone’s mom.  When others dreamed of careers in nursing or teaching or law, I dreamed of the little minds I’d help mold, the tiny souls I’d guide.

It’s everything I dreamed it would be.  Significantly more, in fact.  Some good, and some less so.

I still worry, though now the thoughts that keep me up nights aren’t self-centered.

I worry whether it’s enough: the blood, sweat and tears.  Oh.  And the prayers.  Countless prayers.

I know now that when I turned to my mom at 16–pregnant and scared–she wondered at the outcome.  She questioned–and rightfully so–how but a girl could have a baby.  How I would possibly fare.

Nearly 16 years later I dare say I’ve done okay.

That’s not to say that I don’t shoulder my fair share of sorrow.  That I don’t carry guilt.  That regret escapes me.

It most certainly does not.

There are ways I’ve failed these babies of mine.  Ways big and ways small.  Ways in which I’ve yet to learn.  Ways in which I may never know.

Still.  Dare I say I’ve done okay.

These I’ve learned about motherhood:

1. You can’t possibly fathom it until you’ve become one.
2. It’s underpaid.
3. You’ll never sleep the same again.
4. If you don’t have a relationship with God, it’s a good idea to start one.
5. Hindsight is 20/20.

We do our best.  We take these spongy souls and try to fill them with love and kindness and honesty and integrity and ambition and courage and faith and empathy and service and strength and compassion and sincerity and smarts and ohgoodlordwhatamImissing, amen.

We lose sleep, thinking that maybe selfishness or laziness or worse has taken root.

We beat ourselves up with what-ifs and why-nots.

We second guess.  We obsess.

And we fail.  Each of us does, in one way or another.

And that’s okay.

Because there is but one perfect parent.  And He ain’t exactly on diaper duty, if ya know what I mean.

The other day, while Jayce and I were out shopping, he saw a mother trying to console her unhappy newborn.  He looked up to me and said the most insightful thing.  He said, “that baby doesn’t have to cry because he has the right mommy.  Just like I have my right mommy, he has his right mommy.”

In my moments of unsurety, I take comfort in this: I’ve been entrusted with what I believe to be the most important job in all the world.  I’ve been entrusted with shaping these wee ones into little people and, eventually, beyond.

He entrusted me with mine and you with yours.  He entrusted my mom with me and yours with you.  And those before with those that came before.

The right mommies.  Indeed.

I recently stopped purchasing canned foods.  And–not to be bossy–but I think you should too.  Why?  Because most canned foods, as well as those packaged in various plastics, show traces of BPA.  What’s BPA, you ask?  It’s a chemical that has been restricted in Canada and some US states because it has been linked to a disturbing number of health effects including various cancers, reproductive abnormalities, heart disease, and diabetes.

You can read more about BPA and related issues here and here.

Considering I’ve always used canned beans and tomatoes, I was rather disturbed by this discovery.  I mean, is it just me or should this be a far more publicized fact?  Especially considering the amount of canned foods our nation consumes.

I think it’s appalling.  Which is why I’ve given up canned foods cold turkey.

We’ve since had to be slightly more creative with food choices.

Like moving from canned tomatoes, to these.

And ditching canned kidneys and pintos and cannellonis to the dry variety.  We’d previously switched over to organic canned beans, not because of the organic factor, but because those were the only kind I could find that didn’t have added sugar.

Added sugar.  In beans.  Who knew?

Dry beans are much, much cheaper anyway.  But they’re also much more time consuming to prepare.

Unless.  Unless you make good use of your slow cooker.  Like I did today.

I thought I’d share a recipe for non-refried refried beans with you.  Just in case you, too, want to preserve the health of your family by switching from canned beans to dry.

Imposter Refried Beans

3 c. dry pinto beans
2 cloves garlic (pressed or finely grated)
5 t. salt
1 small onion, quartered
1/2 t. cumin
Juice from 1 lime

Forgive the picture quality.  I had to use my cheapie camera because the battery on my good one was charging.  But even on my best photog day, Pioneer Woman I most certainly am not.  Moving right along…

You start by soaking your beans, overnight, in a pot large enough to cover the beans completely with water.

After a good 8 or so hour soak, the beans will be much softer.  I’ve also heard it said that soaking the beans releases some of the gas.  That’s all I have to say about that.

So then, you’re going to want to rinse your beans in a colander before dumping them into your Crock pot.  Or slow cooker, same thing.

Atop the beans, sprinkle the salt and cumin.  Add the garlic, onion, and lime juice.  Finish it off by adding enough water to cover the beans with about an inch of water.

Cook on high for 6-8 hours.

Once the beans have finished cooking, you may need to drain some of the water, depending upon how much water was soaked up during the cooking.  You just want the beans to move freely in the water, not swim in it.  Reserve the water in case you need to add it back in later.  One you’ve removed the excess water, mash the beans with a potato masher.  Turn the heat down to low and allow the beans to cook for another thirty minutes or so.  They’ll thicken slightly, especially if you toss in a handful of Monterey jack cheese.  When all is said and done, you’ll be left with a crock full of delicious, nutritious beans, perfect for stuffing burritos or as a side dish to enchiladas or tacos.

Here’s a picture.  But keep in mind that it’s really, really hard to make refried beans look appetizing.  M’kay?  But they were.  Appetizing, I mean.  You’ll just have to trust me on this one.

We spend a significant amount of money on groceries in our household.  It’s unavoidable really, considering the considerable size of our family.

Six, in case you lost count.

I’d venture to say that a disproportionate amount of our food budget goes toward produce.  Of the organic variety.

We eat very little meat.

Very, very little in fact.

Mostly because I’m sort of squeamish in that department.

The obligatory holiday turkey completely creeps me out.

As do whole chickens.

And fish.  Especially when scales (or worse yet: eyes!) are involved.  ICK.

So we rely heavily on earthly things like lettuce, and peppers, and tomatoes.

Sometime last winter Jeff got the itch to start a garden.

We couldn’t.  Because it was too cold.

But come spring, he was unstoppable.

We took a trip to Lowes, where we bought redwood and garden soil and a variety of seeds.

And he sawed and built and planted.

Six weeks later the promise of a future harvest has sprouted.  Each day we go out and peer into our little garden, marveling over each new leaf, every sign of growth.

Someday soon.  Someday soon we’ll yield enough homegrown vegetables to make a meal, saving a few bucks in the process.

What’s not to love about that?